STARK FEAR (1962)

Over the decades, Hollywood's Golden Age classic films have nearly been pulverized to dust by exhaustive, glowing critiques. Allow me to pulverize this unknown low-budget thriller-ette distributed by Ellis Films. Who? Ned Hockman was given the directing duties but he abandoned the project over conflicts with the cast. Actor Skip Homeier took over. I imagine he was never more relieved to not be credited. One hopes this psychological exploitation film would be about sixty minutes due to the score alone. Unfortunately, the viewer is stuck for an unbearable extra eleven minutes of soapy opera. One might dismiss the sleazy screenplay by Dwight Swain, but dismissing the music score by Lawrence Fisher is impossible. It is the single worst element of this film. The music supporting an oil derrick pounding away in the opening is totally misplaced for an intense drama. There are sections that flit from an Oklahoma hoedown to an early Hal Roach film, to schizophrenic terror, each with stark transitions. The score can be defined as the worst example of leitmotifs. Added annoyance is a sound quality suggesting the score surely was lifted from a decades-old source played by amateur musicians. In an unabashed attempt to copy Bernard Herrman's Psycho score, frantic, dissonant strings accompany an over-the-shoulder camera closeup of Beverly Garland driving a 1960 Buick. Competent performances aside, the film is an ugly account even without a score.

The aforementioned Homeier plays a sadistic—something of an adult role distinction—a husband who mentally tortures his wife, Garland. Despicable he. His dead mother fixation explains a lot about the psychotic character inspired by a blockbuster two years prior. When a man loathes a woman—apologies to the Percy Sledge hit—there is little he will not do to impose his hatred upon her. The fuming husband is seen throwing bottles at her mantle picture, breaking its glass before falling to the floor. The Buick floats into the driveway. Ah, “home sweet home.” It is her husband's birthday. There is a cake to help celebrate. She adds a single candle—like the one-year-old he is—and puts a romantic album on the Hi-Fi. He views this simply as a ploy to divert her “affair” with her boss. After viciously verbally abusing her, Homeier has a bipolar moment as they romantically embrace on the couch. While the record spins, oddly superimposed—fading in and out—is footage of an abstract painting on their wall. One may look at an abstract painting and wonder what is the point. So goes their marriage.

Kenneth Tobey—the boss—is up to his knees in Oklahoma crude. A former business rival of Homeier, they have had a long-standing hate relationship. The single, cryptic opening voice-over does not quite divulge this. Tobey is empathetic to Garland's marriage and has come to her aide on more than one occasion. Jealousy runs deep in Homeier's veins and he demands she stop working for Tobey. Never mind that he is on the verge of being fired and currently bringing in little income. Garland tries to stick with her disturbed husband which few moviegoers can figure. She feels it is her wifely duty to find him nevertheless. But she cannot. The script salaciously places her into some unlikely, personally dangerous and spooky situations in her discovery. Even coming upon a nighttime Comanche celebration dance that could not have been anticipated by her or the audience. Hitting a low point, the script has her raped by a drunken slob—hired by the demented Homeier.

The future of Homeier is of little interest to the moviegoer—indeed it is never revealed. Viewers can take comfort in the fact that his marriage is dissolved. She and Tobey enjoy an exhaustive weekend walking tour of Eureka Springs, Arkansas—through overlapping scenes of the happy couple accompanied by Fisher's goofy “1930s serial” music. Garland returns to work for Tobey. He seems to be the right man but he harbor's a stark secret.

LOOPHOLE (1954)

Distributed by Allied Artists Pictures, this eighty-minute film was produced by Lindsley Parsons and directed by Harold Schuster. The movie is a forgotten good one though the premise by Warren Douglas offers few surprises. Paul Dunlap stepped away from his many westerns to score this movie. The second-tier studio production falls into the noir slot because an ordinary guy attempts to get himself out of a loophole. Once again, the poster is misleading—one could say dishonest—which suggests Barry Sullivan is the film's criminal.

Honestly, you just want McGraw hit by an iron Buick while jay-walking. 

The kind with the big toothy chrome grille.

Nearly six minutes of voice-over sets up the opening premise and reminds the viewer this is an ordinary Friday and the incident that unfolds could happen to you. Assuming you are a bank teller. Sullivan heads up a competent cast with Dorothy Malone, looking quite vibrant and balanced in her natural hair color, Charles McGraw and Don Haggerty. In another of his apprehensive, swindler roles, Don Beddoe is responsible for said loophole as the phony, second bank examiner, stealing fifty grand while his accomplice, Mary Beth Hughes, distracts Sullivan at his teller window. Sullivan makes a judgment error by not reporting the major shortfall until after the weekend. The bank’s bonding agent sends in their investigator, former police detective “McGruff McGraw” who assumes everyone is a liar. A guy who hates life in general. He will not consider Sullivan might be on the level. He tails him everywhere hoping for a slip-up. Pretty excruciating to sit through his obstinate character.

Everyone at the Hollywood precinct has Sullivan guilty until proven innocent. And this was the mid-Twentieth century. Many things never change. They question Sullivan’s wife, Malone, in the hopes she will reveal any tidbit with which they can “hang” her husband. Their barrage of questions is designed to humiliate them—albeit in a private office and not leaked to the press. It is soon confirmed there is never a second bank examiner during the annual review. A lie detector test provides a ray of hope and Haggerty believes Sullivan. McGraw growls. He thinks the machine is faulty. A waste of time. Sullivan obviously had an accomplice, probably a girl. The suspect is sent home then fired the next day at work. McGraw spreads lies about Sullivan’s “embezzlement” to his new bosses in an effort to keep him from being hired. Their house has to be put on the market.

Really, you just want McGraw hit by a bus. 

Perhaps a smaller city transit bus.

At about the forty-five-minute mark, things start to rev up for Sullivan, now a taxi driver. His next fare is an irate Hughes with sugar daddy Beddoe. How this age-disparate couple ever got together might be worth a sub-plot. While taking a call from dispatch outside the cab, they recognize Sullivan's photo ID and hightail it. Sullivan suddenly recalls his fare’s voice. It is the first of too many contrived close calls.

At a different bank, Malone approaches the teller window and on the other side is none other than Beddoe. Returning to the car, she fails to grab her purse which Sullivan volunteers to retrieve. He and Beddoe lock eyes. Dunlap’s score cranks up the excitement. Beddoe is forced to his apartment and follow through with Sullivan's “deal.” The moviegoer not clear what point Sullivan's trying to make. What is clear, Hughes is the mastermind of the duo. Her constant verbal abuse has beaten the courage out of Beddoe and he cannot pull the trigger.

The film ends with a “travelogue-style” voice-over as we see Sullivan, now assistant bank manager, welcoming Haggerty. Outside, peering in, stands granite-faced McGraw, still on “The Sullivan Case.” They both laugh knowing he has lost all credibility.

Note: Burly Richard Reeves has a couple of good turns as the taxi business owner. The best is nearer the end at the apartment of Beddoe. Sullivan asked for Reeves’s help and to meet him there. The ever-present McGraw arrives there first, however, after the “Hughes-Beddoe Gang” escapes. He finds Sullivan waking from a knock on the head. When Reeves and taxi pal show, they stop McGraw from pounding on Sullivan then do not let him leave the room to pursue him. Reeves insists. One solid punch and McGraw turns all limp. “Keep forgettin’ my own strength,” he confesses.

QUIET PLEASE, MURDER (1942)

George Sanders’ character is another prime example of his trademarked, egotistic roles playing a cool, malevolent criminal. He not only steals the film but also a priceless Shakespeare manuscript. Having admired the work for some time, he half-jokingly asks the museum guard if he could take it home. "Over my dead body!" The request is granted. Of note is Sanders’ minuscule twitch of his upper lip as he fires. I imagine this little detail never originated on the director's suggestion. Working in tandem is Gail Patrick, who sells his forged copies to unsuspecting collectors while posing as a legitimate expert. One wonders how long this “partnership” will last. They appear to tolerate each other only for the monetary rewards of deception. An example is when Patrick enters his study and he senses she is in a mood, as he calls it. "Hello, Lady Dracula. How many butterflies have you tortured since lunch hoping one would turn on you?" A criminal psychologist would have a field day studying their askew occupations.

Unknown to Patrick, her latest sale went to a Nazi agent, Sydney Blackmer. She is flippant about this detail but Sanders is livid knowing his reputation. Blackmer will recognize the forgery and the transaction used Nazi funds. Words get around. Enter Richard Denning, a detective with a witty script. He is dandy in the role. Confident, handsome, and charming, nothing phases him. He is on his self-evident trail of Patrick, who equally pours on the charm. Denning welcomes that part but also suspects a double standard.

At this point it gets a bit confusing for everyone involved, including the audience, with its character shell game screenplay. Patrick sets Denning up for a rendezvous with Sanders at a library. Within earshot of Denning, he passes himself off as a homicide detective. Keep in mind Sanders would not recognize Blackmer or Denning if he stumbled over them in the card catalog department. Blackmer gets a tip that Denning is Sanders and demands his money back. Sanders’ henchman, mistakenly assuming Blackmer is Denning, murders him and the library is locked down on Sanders’ instruction. He is there to steal rare, valuable books and the wrong murder is not going to waver his plan. Feel free to read this paragraph twice.

Sanders arranged for his operatives to pose as police investigators and they let no one in or out. He improvises like the conniving pro he is and suggests the priceless books should be sent to “headquarters” for safekeeping with one librarian offering him a valuable Thomas Jefferson document as well. By all means. Patrick informs Denning of Sanders’s real identity in her self-serving way. In a desperate need to do something, Denning escapes through a library window. He is quickly brought back inside. He supposedly went out for the correct time. Denning marches down the hall and in mock revelation, “Ah, I’ve been here before!” Both Patrick and Sanders suspect some disloyalty is afoot due to the unraveling events.

An air raid blackout provides a bit of suspense. Still pressing Denning for the whereabouts of the priceless books, Sanders, assuming he and Patrick are an item, will inflict pain on her unless he talks. The arrogant thief then philosophizes about him and her thriving on pain and the adrenaline rush of possibly getting caught. Denning is more than happy to oblige on the pain front. The blackout is cut short by the detective's double-cross on Sanders, the books are discovered where Patrick hid them, and Denning gives her a verbal lesson about the dangers of ice in her veins. The film wraps with Sanders in handcuffs and Patrick fearing that another of Blackmer’s henchmen will find her.

This Twentieth Century Fox project was first released at the very end of 1942 in New York City with a nationwide distribution a few months later. It was directed by John Larkin, who also penned the screenplay. The film noir vacillates between serious and humorous making it a pretty fast seventy minutes yet do not expect it to escape the clutches of a routine detective mystery. Not routine is that the movie is predominantly confined inside a library. This accounts for the “Agatha Christie” tongue in cheek title. The location provides plenty of doors to open and close and dark aisles to go down creating some bad press for a library’s quiet spookiness, especially alone on the third floor. After sunset. To convince the viewer they are actually in a library, nearly every pistol is equipped with Hollywood’s phony “silencer.” The film holds its own as wartime encouragement. Things might have gone terribly wrong with a less competent lead cast or a different director.

Notes: The character actor, Byron Foulger, in an uncredited role, plays the persnickety library manager with a considerable amount of humorous anxiety. Especially as the air raid warden for the library. He is in total command and the rules must be followed to the letter. He tells everyone to remain calm and not run as he sprints frantically, arms flailing, into action to retrieve his helmet. Another character of note is the bald mute aide-assassin in Blackmer’s service, played by Kurt Katch, who communicates through sign language and carries a rope that can accommodate several neck sizes. Apparently, Peter Lorre did not get a casting call. A special note about Lynne Roberts, the helpful librarian to Denning. She stands out as the most genuine person in the movie, waiting for her guy to return from the war front.

FORGOTTEN FILMS: TV TRANSITION

Though typically overshadowed by Hollywood's A-list, there were respectable performances by numerous actors and actresses who never became major film stars. A common career shift was to the new medium of television. These periodic posts offer insight into their transition.

Harry Lauter: Herman Arthur Lauter (1914-1990)

Character actor Harry Lauter seemed destined for television. His many uncredited film roles began a career in which he was better known as “what’s his name” or “that guy.” Though the western villain made up a big chunk of his career, he had bit parts in modern settings like White Heat (1949) or a radio officer in Twelve O’Clock High (1949). He received billing for a small role in Experiment Alcatraz (1950), as a wheelchair-bound veteran. Lauter had uncredited roles in the film noir Roadblock (1951) and as a platoon leader in The Day The Earth Stood Still (1951). He was also uncredited in two notable crime films, Crime Wave (1953) and The Big Heat (1953). His network appearances on the small screen eased him away from the uncredited roles. But never entirely.

Lauter kept busy with several appearances on The Lone Ranger (1949), The Range Rider (1951) and The Adventures of Kit Carson (1951). Lauter guest-starred in one of the twenty-six episodes of Biff Baker, U.S.A. (1952). He played Atlasander on eleven episodes of the serial, Rocky Jones, Space Ranger (1954). He neared stardom in Tales of the Texas Rangers (1955) playing Ranger Clay Morgan for three seasons. Part of the popularity was its twist on the typical western. Each week Willard Parker, as Ranger Jace Pearson, and Lauter played Rangers from different points in history.

Lauter certainly hit his stride on many popular shows during the Fifties. When he was not riding horseback, one might find him in such comedies as The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet or My Favorite Martian. Strictly as a straight man of course. As the Sixties came to a close, Lauter made several appearances on Gunsmoke and Death Valley Days during the western’s waning years. The Seventies cast him often as a sheriff or detective. However, small the role he was a dependable actor.

Note: Before retiring in 1979, there was the occasional bit part in a few forgettable films but television is where he made a name for himself as Harry...somebody or other. He devoted much of his energy late in life to his own painting and running an art gallery.