The Hunters (1958)

This film is an adaptation of The Hunters, the first novel by Air Force veteran James Salter in 1957. The film strays from the original story most notably by incorporating a self-destructive fighter pilot. Mr. Salter was not pleased and not consulted. It was directed and produced competently by Dick Powell, with a screenplay by Wendell Mayes. The 108-minute film was distributed by Twentieth Century Fox. Paul Sawtell's powerful music score during the escape of three downed American pilots in Communist occupied territory is worth noting. Without a doubt, the CinemaScope aerial sequences by cinematographer Charles G. Clarke, A.S.C. are the highlight of the movie. Because the well-acted drama is another "war picture" with personal conflicts, studio cockpit "flying", and hitting the speed brake switch during a love tryst going nowhere. A film that might have stood the test of time instead lost money. Not too surprising after viewing the first quarter of the film.

The film stars Robert Mitchum, Robert Wagner, Lee Philips, May Britt, and Richard Egan. Hard to argue with this line-up, though Britt seems a bit anemic. Yet it probably is written into the script, "your character is supposed to be anemic." You can believe that if you want. Mitchum plays an experienced WWII combat ace. On the opposite end of the spectrum is a young lieutenant, a hep-talking, ego-centric new recruit, Wagner. He is quite good in the role and improves the film from his very first scene with his legendary exuberant delivery and good looks. The two do not see eye-to-eye on taking orders. Mitchum wants him out of his flight unit, but the Colonel, Egan, overrides his desire. It turns out to be fortuitous.

Philips is worth singling out with a difficult emotional role as the invented character outside the novel. He plays a promising combat pilot who has only found frustration with his inability to make a mark for himself. His escape is to drown his fears and self-loathing in alcohol consumption. Aware of Mitchum's legendary status, Philips is quite defensive about his lack of confidence (above). But Mitchum has little sympathy for the thirty-year-old and, upon meeting his wife, Britt, senses that she is on the proverbial fence over her husband's evasive maneuvers. Mitch and Britt are joined at the lips on several occasions. Philips suspects as much.

On one hunting mission, Philips is caught trying to outmaneuver a top Communist pilot when his plane is hit. He ejects, landing in a tree badly injured. Mitchum takes out the enemy plane, spots Philips' chute after a few passes, then finds a clearing to do a risky belly landing. His duty is to rescue his fellow pilot. Wagner was given an order to return to the base, but disobeying is second nature. He spots Chinese military vehicles approaching and hits the deck to strafe the convoy. But his plane is hit by anti-aircraft fire while climbing away. He has to bail. The three make a valiant effort to stay alive in Powell's action-filled climax, making good use of the term. A passing UN convoy saves their lives. Mitchum actually had enough fuel to get back to base. By deliberately destroying his aircraft, a court-martial is a likely outcome. Common sense wins, and after a light reprimand, Egan dismisses the incident.

The trio is transferred to a military hospital stateside, where Mitchum recovers from a wounded arm, and Philips improves daily. The latter indicates sincere remorse to Britt and vows to be the husband he had intended to be. She seems skeptical. The unscathed Wagner finishes his scenes humorously and with a genuine respect for "his elders."

Notes: The air combat scenes are exciting as North American F-86 Sabre Jets (above) encounter Chinese/North Korean Mig 15s. Except the Migs are gray Republic F-84 Thunderstreaks with the red Chinese stars appropriately placed. The sequence of a one-on-one dogfight is exciting, as are the beautiful rows of contrails from a multi-ship formation of Sabres at altitude. 

As is so often the case in films where relationships take precedence over aircraft continuity, famous stock footage of a North American F-100 Super Sabre crashing substitutes for a pilot's F-86. Rather than editing in this obvious out-of-place clip, let the onlooking cast convey the inevitable crash in facial horror with the provided script. Not sure Powell saw the rushes.

THE WILD BLUE YONDER (1952)

Directed by Allan Dwan with a questionable screenplay by Richard Tregaskis, this ninety-eight-minute film, subtitled Story of the B-29 Superfortress, centers around the introduction of the Boeing bomber during World War 2 that authentically plays its part better than some of the supporting cast. The film opens in 1943, the year the bomber was rushed into service, meaning that many teething problems had to be corrected while in service. There were B-29s lost over Japan, and the film addresses this as some combat crews never make it back to base. When the bomber is not featured, the film is a sleep-inducing, clichéd soap opera. 

Wendall Corey plays an experienced combat pilot but is unfamiliar with the new bomber. His instructor is played by Forrest Tucker, who is still guilt-ridden and chided about a failed raid in the European theater he tried to cover up. Tucker's low-volume delivery during his opening scenes is so underplayed that he seems to be under a sedative. Both pilots are vying for the affection of Vera Ralston, a nurse. One will instantly wonder why she is even in this picture, so far from home. Perhaps she followed her first love, Tucker, from Europe. Her own version of English seems out of place in Kansas or the islands of the Pacific Ocean. As the old adage goes, "It's not what, but who you know." The former Czech ice-skating star had just become the bride of Herbert J. Yates, founder and President of Republic Pictures. He used her in many film flops, with her amateurish acting helping shoot down all but two.

There are three thankless appearances by Walter Brennan as a Major in the Army Air Force. Familiar second-string faces are on hand. Of note are Harry Carey, Jr., Wally Cassell, Richard Erdman, and Ruth Donnelly, who have extended screen time along with Phil Harris. He is on tap to pour on his lady charms and perform a musical ditty following an abrupt edit at the airfield cantina. This brings the film's credibility down faster than an unopened parachute. Also on hand for a high register, anemic vocal delivery is William Witney (who?) as General Curtis E. LeMay, who was also not an actor. In this regard, Witney seems to have captured the General's monotone delivery. Thanks to a tobacco pipe prop, he somewhat channels LeMay. This is likely the only WW2 story that includes uncredited roles for two Lone Ranger stars, Jay Silverheels and John Hart, the one-season masked ranger.

FOR THE AVIATION HISTORIAN

As expected from a low-budget production, parts of the film use repeated combat stock footage. An obvious case of "willy-nilly" editing was when P-51 Mustangs suddenly transition to ancient P-39 Airacobras. The Japanese "Zeros" appear to be portrayed by 1930's scale models with non-retracting landing gear.

The Superfortress was underpowered, and the first filmed takeoff somewhat indicates this, as one crew member thinks they will not get airborne by the end of the runway. Two B-29s (Silverplate) had to be lightened, the engines tweaked for more power, and the bomb bay modified to house the atomic bomb that ended the war with Japan. The film, Above and Beyond (1952), is a first-class film about the Enola Gay, the Silverplate B-29 piloted by Col. Paul Tibbets of the 509th Bomb Squadron, which dropped the first atomic bomb. 

There are a lot of 1944 superlatives of the plane thrown about in the screenplay. Those accolades would soon triple four years later for the enormous and overpowered Convair B-36. A multi-ship flyby of the planes is used at the very end of this film, signaling the future of strategic bombing. Though the B-29 made the B-17 seem small, the Superfortress was literally dwarfed by the Convair giant. When this film was released, the B-29 was being phased out of front-line service, yet it played a role in the Korean War's night bombing campaign.

The film is scripted to open at Smoky Hill Army Airfield, near Salina, Kansas, an actual training base for the B-29. However, there were at least four airfields where the actual 1951 filming took place. One airfield of significance was Roswell Army Air Field (Walker AFB by 1948). The 509th Composite Group, pictured in stock footage, relocated to Roswell after pulling out of Tinian Island. Walker soon became one of the largest bases to house and service the B-36.

The music score for this film is by Victor Young, who incorporates sections of the official Air Force song by Robert Crawford. Young would be much more committed to providing a dynamic score to Strategic Air Command (1955), the only Hollywood film to feature the Convair B-36, accurate for a 1953 assessment. Hugo Friedhofer wrote a consistently powerful score for Above and Beyond as well. 

CANDADIAN PACIFIC (1949)

There are several Westerns that have dealt with the railroad's progress to the West Coast during the nineteenth century. Few center on Canada's railroad venture, however. This, then, is the film's only unique element. It opens with current footage of a Canadian Pacific train and voiceover narration about what is to unfold with the findings of a surveyor. Told in flashback, the ninety-five-minute film is directed by Edwin Marin and produced by the prolific Western genre producer, Nat Holt Productions, of film and television fame. Jack DeWitt and Kenneth Gamet wrote the screenplay. The unmistakable sound of small cannon shots when revolvers are fired could only come from 20th Century Fox. The great Dimitri Tiomkin was snagged for the music score, but it nearly vanishes during the film. Expect gunfire, explosions, a fist-fight or two, greedy villains, and a provoked Indian attack. And a lot of green color. In the end, justice prevails for a happy ending to an otherwise routine Western.

If there is a single disappointing element concerning this film, it is the two-color processing known as Cinecolor, a less expensive alternative to Technicolor for independent producers, like Holt. The slightly fuzzy appearance is perhaps the result of the color being "out of register."  The majestic Canadian Rockies never looked more pathetic. The waffling of green and brown outdoors, albeit with hints of orange and faded blue sky, assaults your eyes. Blacks and grays are nonexistent. The color of most interior scenes is reasonably accurate. It appears to be the worst black-and-white colorization attempt until the more recent, cheap digital app conversions. Cinecolor was used superbly for Albuquerque (1948), another Western with Randolph Scott, produced by the successful team of Pine-Thomas Productions. See the notes below.

The film's lead is a no-nonsense, dependable surveyor, Scott. He is again provided a script with a few witty and charming quips and comebacks. Totally removed from his stoic persona, particularly funny is his hilarious, scooped greeting surprise from a top bunk, “Hey… looo,” to a passing Jane Wyatt below, one of two railroad crew doctors. Though she is on the same page romantically, her unyielding pacifist beliefs—choosing negotiation over bullets—are not the “railroad ties” that bind. She refuses to understand that evil must be eliminated, and it usually does not provide opportunities for negotiation. Launching her film debut is Nancy Olson, Scott's first love. She accounts for herself vividly in her film debut at the start of a busy “under-the-radar” career.

A bit bizarre is the real-life thirty-year age difference between Scott and Olsen. A sizable age gap was typical during Hollywood's Golden Age, but this film may have set some sort of record. There is no attempt to suggest she is older than twenty-one. The lead's other love interest, Wyatt, is just under forty, making her the more logical match for growing old in sync.

Scott's nemesis is a myopic villain, Victor Jory, whose saboteurs cause numerous construction delays and the deaths of workers. In true Jory fashion, he delights in his destructive plans. Scott's long-time friend and the railroad's dynamite expert for clearing land is J. Carroll Naish. In a gravitating role, he is a bit over-the-top with his "old man" character and has his share of humorous lines. 

Notes: In 1948, Eastman and Ansco/Agfa introduced improved color film stocks in America, allowing Cinecolor to refine its limited two-component system and achieve more realistic color reproduction. The Albuquerque film benefited from careful studio and costume design that compensated for these limitations, resulting in a "technicolor-like" palette than that of this film. They worked in a lot of orange and turquoise in sets and costumes, colors Cinecolor was known to enhance anyway.

Several scenes were filmed in the studio with a blurred background scenery projection. The filming in the red rocks of Sedona, Arizona, also worked well with the color process. The dull, brownish tones of this film may be the result of the producer, Holt, finding it difficult to handle the overwhelming full color spectrum of Canada's natural scenery. 

Speaking of bizarre, to facilitate Naish's escape from a few attacking Indians, he offers each "dynamite cigars," knowing their cliched craving for tobacco. The preoccupied Indians, inhaling the unlit ends of the sticks, do not see him ride off, but the explosions verify a gruesome outcome. Not that this was ever a reality, the filming faux pas is certain to anger those without any common sense. The scene would have been written out of the script if the producer understood that absurdity has no place in any turn-of-the-century Western tale.

BATTLE TAXI (1955)

Directed by Herbert Strock, with a screenplay by Malvin Wald, this black-and-white aviation film was distributed by United Artists. The production company was Ivan Tors Productions. Between footage of slow-moving helicopters, interspersed with some cliched human interaction on the ground, this is not an edge-of-your-seat combat film. Blurry, stock Korean War footage is inserted, signaling a low-budget, spliced-together effort. It is well-acted, and that saves it from being a total loss of eighty-two minutes. That, and filming the aircraft of the era. Historical aviation buffs will get their blood flowing with the high-speed flyovers of the North American F-86 Sabre Jets and F-51s, plus stock footage of F-80s, SA-16A Albatross, an RB-45 Tornado, and the Boeing SB-29 air-sea rescue aircraft. The Sikorsky H-19 Chickasaw helicopters are the lifeblood of the film. All of which gives authenticity to a film lacking any thrilling action. Perhaps determining which would sell more tickets, a fighter jet or a helicopter, the art director chose the former for the above poster. Once again, misleading a potential audience.

The film's most famous actor is Sterling Hayden, followed by the competent Arthur Franz and Marshall Thompson. The script allows for the occasional subtle humor between these three, and that helps. Hayden is the no-nonsense commander of an Air Rescue helicopter team during the Far East conflict. He is a thorn in the side of Franz, a hot-shot fighter pilot who has been thrust into piloting a cumbersome "air taxi" due to a shortage of rescue pilots. Ignoring direct orders, he takes it upon himself to delay a North Korean tank from pounding soldiers on his first mission. His co-pilot, Thompson, is not comfortable with the surprises that await him. Franz circles the tank twice as Thompson drops smoke bombs to hinder the enemy's visibility. Though the unauthorized maneuver does help the situation, distancing the soldiers from the tank, sparks fly when Hayden comes down hard on Franz for multiple reasons.

Angry with Hayden's by-the-book approach, Franz begs to be transferred to a fighter squadron where he can better use his skills. Instead, with everything he can muster, Hayden will drive home the importance of air rescue until he champions its cause. Not yet willing to accept his “whirlybird” limitations on a subsequent mission, Franz dangerously goes after a pilot stranded in enemy territory with low fuel reserves. The rescue is aborted after the downed pilot is gunned down while being hoisted up. He risks everything, confidently announcing they will find fuel along the way. A disabled military truck provides some extra fuel. But Franz is seriously wounded as they depart, leaving Thompson to fly back to base. Burning gasoline damages the engine, and his H-19 will take extra hours to fix.

Rather than pinning Franz to the wall verbally, Hayden volunteers him to speak to the fighter jockeys if or when they might need rescuing. The H-19 is at their service and the rescue team's top priority. Though awkward for him, it is a turning point in Franz's perspective.

There is a rather nifty sequence to divert a small band of North Korean troops away from the Americans. Piloting his "battle taxi," Hayden's co-pilot sets off a smoke flare that suggests the Korean's have struck the aircraft's engine. A bit of authentically faked maneuvering, he sets down the H-19 in an open field and opens the engine compartment. Aware that the enemy is running in his direction, he closes the engine compartment once shots ring out. The helicopter quickly rises and disappears, moving the enemy further away for safety.

Note: There was stiff war movie competition during the same year as this B-movie. It was arguably Raoul Walsh's Battle Cry that gained the most attention. Other combat films of note were To Hell and Back, Blood Alley, Mister Roberts, and the British production of The Dam Busters. Battle Taxi has therefore become a film to chronicle Hayden's career. The film is a pretty good effort as an “also-ran.”

FILM BRAKE: Syndicated Assignment

The spy series, Dangerous Assignment, aired on the NBC radio network in the summer of 1949 and finished its run in 1953. The American special agent, Steve Mitchell, aka Brian Donlevy, had assignments of international intrigue in pursuit of some nefarious spy or to rescue an operative in danger. He is sent to foreign locales, most of which he admittedly cannot pronounce, but they are all spelled the same: TROUBLE. With Donlevy's popularity, and acting as both the narrator and advocate, the show's suspense was high. Of course, radio had no shortage of suspense or private detective shows, and Donlevy's series was not unique.

Each program has Mitchell being summoned to the office of the Commissioner, played by Herb Butterfield, the regional head of an unnamed government agency created to address international unrest as it affects American interests. He will vaguely spell out the assignment, but give Mitchell a contact who will provide more specifics. Initially reluctant, Mitchell always dives in. He frequently poses as a foreign correspondent or newspaper reporter, sometimes encountering females who need his help or need to be turned over to the authorities.

The popularity of the radio show did not carry over as well for television's initial run. There was originality for these 1951-52 episodes to introduce the show by showing Mitchell, in a nineteenth-century top hat and overcoat, walking down a street near a foggy harbor on a chilly night. A momentary pause at a corner also includes a knife embedding itself into the wooden post he is standing by. Cue the same radio theme by Von Dexter. The producers might also dispense with the Commissioner's comments and simply place Mitchell in the midst of the action. The character's narration kept viewers abreast of his every thought, not unlike the radio version.

The Donlevy Development Inc. produced thirty-nine episodes with its own money and sold them to individual stations nationwide. NBC-TV Film Syndicate took charge of the promotion to entice local stations to sponsor the show, suggesting that Donlevy's popularity and the show's excitement could sell toothpaste in Toledo, beans in Boston, or some-such product in numerous broadcasting markets. Television writer and editor, Robert Ryf, wrote most of the scripts. The slightly “over-stocky” Donlevy appears to be a well-dressed brick with a hat when not wearing jungle attire. He often finds himself nursing a sore jaw or a bump on the head. Episodes conclude with Mitchell still alive, the conflict resolved, and sometimes with a humorous scene or quip.

What may have hurt the television version the most was taking the imagination of radio out of the equation. After the opening title scene, if one closed their eyes, it sounded nearly identical to the aforementioned radio format, complete with a suspenseful music cue for a sponsor's break. With the co-stars and scenery visualized and the radio series having conceivably run its course, the television version could hardly be called scintillating. But very little thought was given to adapting a radio format to the burgeoning field of television in 1950. It would take another eight years for this to happen successfully with Have Gun, Will Travel, running concurrently on radio and television for a while. Its radio format was completely reinvented with a unique, intelligent opening and a music theme unlike anything heard before for a Western. Casting the charismatic Richard Boone as Paladin was a huge factor over radio's John Dehner.

Notes: The State Department may have arranged a special discount if Mitchell only flew “TWA all the way.” For the purpose of continuity and budget constraints, his flights overseas featured promotional footage of the graceful Lockheed Constellation, taking off, cruising over Manhattan Island, or landing. This would not go over nearly as vividly on the radio.

The show had a popular extension through reruns, with initial interest running high. A 1957 chapter in The News Manual, TV and Radio Basics, indicates solid viewership, with women preferring the show slightly more than men. With the exception of the adult Western, many male-centered shows were generally favored by females during the era.

THE SNIPER (1952)

Distributed by Columbia Pictures and produced by Stanley Kramer, this thriller was directed by Edward Dmytryk. It is based on the Oscar-nominated story by Edna and Edward Anhalt and concerns mental illness and the authorities arguing how best to deal with a serial killer in San Francisco. Why he kills is rather quickly explained in cliched form, but finding him is the difficult part. The film opens with descriptive text against a black screen to explain the serious subject matter that will unfold.

Beginning at the very end of the Forties, Arthur Franz had the distinction of never being uncredited. The versatile, under-the-radar actor had numerous supporting and lead film roles to his credit, despite being cast in some "poverty row" productions. But it may be his frequent exposure on television that most remember him as "what's his name." He does a fine job here as a nervously sweating and sensitive individual who is an uncomfortable liar. He owns this movie. He is desperate to have someone help stop his obsession with killing women. A few do treat him badly, or he is irritated by the flirty type. He apparently does not want to get caught, though, because he has opportunities to surrender himself but does not. Hence, the eighty-eight-minute running time.

Heading up the investigation are Adolphe Menjou, surely not far from retirement, and radio's Gerald Mohr. They have a certain on-screen chemistry that helps support the film. Mohr's low-key performance is a welcome change from his typical smirking characters. Richard Kiley is excellent in his second film as a psychology professor. For such a tall actress, Marie Windsor has probably her shortest role ever. After making his delivery, she asks Franz to take a favorite dress back to the dry cleaners. When it is ready for delivery the next day, she will not be able to ever wear it again. This is the first incident where he might have given himself up by taking the delivery to the police, then getting the help he needs. Instead, he shreds the dress in anger.

In an effort to punish himself for his despicable acts, Franz holds his hand on a circular, electric oven burner. The doctors know he did not accidentally do this, considering the severity of the burn. One suggests they keep him there for observation. But a series of emergencies delays those plans. Franz is upset that he was released so quickly. He will only get attention after making the headlines again. Kiley suggests to a “myopic four” confronting the mayor that these people should be locked up—if you can find them—on their first offense to keep them off the streets or to get the mental help they need. If only everyone were in support. The arrogant dunderheads in the room disagree and take the easy route by blaming the police for doing nothing.

Leading up to the climax, Franz is on a rooftop and about to shoot another brunette. He breaks down instead. Spotted by a painter high up on an industrial chimney, he tries to get people street-level to notice the shooter. He even tosses a gallon of white paint, “exploding” it on the street below. No one sued the paint company for getting a spot of paint on their shoes. I digress. Franz cannot understand why he is being harassed. His "angry rifle" turns to the soon-to-be slumping painter. He runs back to his apartment, wanting to get caught on his own terms. Alive. It is a calm ending as police enter his apartment to find Franz hugging his rifle vertically as the camera slowly zooms in on his face and a weeping eye.

Note: During fake phone call pauses, listening to the "other side," almost everyone says, "What?" at some point. Not very realistic, yet often done, with apparently a bad connection or the person should see a hearing specialist. Another item of note is the silly filler scene in a precinct lineup in an effort to identify the serial killer. The detective questioning the suspects seemed to enjoy humiliating them to the humorous delight of the officers in attendance. There are lots of familiar B-movie faces in this film, many in uncredited roles. One such is Byron Foulger, the perennial jittery weasel, one of those questioned.

NIGHT TRAIN TO MUNICH (1940)

This British thriller is directed by Sir Carol Reed and distributed by 20th Century Fox, opening in America at the end of 1940. The screenplay was written by Sidney Gilliat and Frank Launder, based briefly on a Gordon Wellesley short story. The film centers on the Nazis in occupied Prague prior to the Second World War. It stars Margaret Lockwood, Rex Harrison in a dual role, and Paul Henreid. Reprising their railway roles from The Lady Vanishes two years prior, are Naunton Wayne and Basil Radford as the same characters, Caldicott and Charters—insatiable cricket fans. The film's comparison to the 1938 Hitchcock film, at nearly the same length, is rather obvious, though Lockwood plays a different character.

The ninety-five-minute film is full of sophisticated British suspense, starting with the kidnapping of Lockwood on her way to join her father, an invaluable industrial designer, for their escape by plane back to England. She befriends a fellow concentration camp prisoner, Henreid. This sets up the first of two twists in the film as they escape to England in darkness while a German officer cuts the power to the prison's searchlight. How convenient. After settling in, Henreid visits an optometrist who asks him to read an eye test chart. He reads the large letters wrong, twice, to confirm their Nazi contact code. They salute and poke each other in the eye.

Lockwood does not know the whereabouts of her father. She receives a call and is told where to meet her contact, Harrison, posing as a side-show vendor trying to sell his songwriting abilities by singing his tunes. With Harrison's introduction, the film not only improves but cranks up the suspense. It rarely subsides. His rapid-fire speech rolls off his tongue effortlessly. He seems delightfully fond of himself. The second twist is that he, thankfully, is not a singer as Lockwood later chides him about, but an undercover British agent who helped arrange her father's return to England. But Lockwood and her father are duped by Henreid and kidnapped aboard a German U-boat. Her opinion of Henreid is forever altered.

Harrison springs into action posing as a German Major, who convinces the German officials that his “past relationship” with Lockwood will convince her to get her father's co-operation. There are some humorous deliveries between them as the "happy couple" appear set for matrimony. Henreid's suspicions during this charade are realized, and arresting Harrison in Munich is his directive. Caldicott & Charters to the rescue.

While inadvertently listening on a party line, Charters discovers Henreid's plan and contacts Harrison, whom Caldicott finally is convinced it is, in fact, his British friend. They become part of Harrison's altered plan, subduing two Nazi officers (off camera), though feeling quite conspicuous in their uniforms. They become Harrison's escorts to get them, Lockwood, and her father to freedom in Switzerland. Though expertly done for the era, there are numerous miniatures used throughout the film, the mountaintop tramway climax being the last. Trust your suspension of disbelief for the endless supply of bullets from the revolvers of Harrison and Henreid. The escape above a deep chasm peaks the film at the right moment and instantly closes the film. In fact, the film fades to black before the characters exit the scene.

Note: The Australian poster above indicates that Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer released the film as well.

I LOVE TROUBLE (1948)

I did not love the trouble of trying to follow the complicated, overlapping female characters in this B-movie film noir. One lady is responsible for all the confusion by assuming three different names. Not helping are three actresses who look similar. One female ends up dead, but it is not either of the other two. But it looks like one of them. I have made the screenplay less confusing by not including everyone who enters a scene and concentrating only on the females. With only a single viewing, your brain may still hurt. There are brief roles for the well-known John Ireland, Raymond Burr, and Eduardo Ciannelli. Leaving them out in this assessment simply provides more clarity.

Produced and directed by S. Sylvan Simon with a comedic and maybe too sophisticated screenplay by Roy Huggins, based on his novel, The Double Take. This ninety-five-minute Columbia Pictures release starts off light, breezy, and intriguing, but it is a long way to the end. I had to do a double-take with his twisty maze of characters. Huggins' typical mix of humor, action, and suspense was appreciated, however. I was so focused on the lead actor and the intertwined characters that I completely blocked out the innocuous score by George Duning.

With his novel, Huggins creates the character of Stuart Bailey, made famous later on the hit television show, 77 Sunset Strip. Ephrem Zimbalist Jr. played the character on the small screen, while Franchot Tone launched the private detective here. If this film is underappreciated, it is not Tone's fault. He excels in the Huggins tradition with a laconic behavior that would rather avoid a fistfight, yet cannot entirely escape it when abducted and knocked around during questioning. He is likable with an easy charm and ready smile. His glib remarks and tongue-in-cheek teasing give Dick Powell's Richard Diamond a run for the money. In a more serious film, Tone played an equally cool assistant D.A. in Jigsaw a year later. A huge benefit here is his savvy girl Friday, Glenda Farrell, who delivers a number of rapid-fire verbal zingers and astute observations. In the early going, there is a brief, effective car chase that indicates the Bailey character knows the capability of his Ford sedan, yanking on the rear parking brake to do a ninety-degree slide. This evasive maneuver allows him to switch places with the convertible following him.

Tom Powers hires Tone to locate his wife of seven years, played by Lynn Merrick. The detective's two brief encounters in the early part of the film are the last time he sees her alive. Merrick adopted the identity of another dancer at a nightclub, actress Janis Carter, and stole forty grand from a nightclub run by husband number one. Her complex web of deception is the crux of the film.

Enter Janet Blair (above), who seeks the detective's help in finding another missing person, her sister. As he approaches his office, her eyes follow him. He notices. He turns to face her from a distance, scrunches up one cheek, and sends her a hilariously obvious wink. I imagine she blushed at his “advancement.” This guy has a sense of humor. After she courageously enters his office, he quickly spots evidence that she is not telling the whole truth. After they exchange barbs, then clear the air, she invites him to dinner at her apartment. He places a photographic print of Merrick on an end table. He thinks it might be her sister. She does not recognize the person. The two grow romantically involved while his investigation turns up two murders, culminating in the revelation that the self-centered Powers planned the elaborate scheme to frame the detective. Merrick's multiple identities shock Powers and surprise everyone else. Carter drops her fake foreign accent once Tone figures out she really is the lost sister. Whew!

Note: One scene in the film is the funniest, and it concerns a cafe waitress, played brilliantly by the consistently uncredited 1940s actress Roseanne Murray, in her last film. Her Bronx accent is nearly incoherent, and she strangely (expertly) expels a puff of air before certain words. Murray's delivery is an art form. Tone's potential questions are delayed due to her personal affronts about her name. She is using the uniform of a former waitress, Millie. Tone addresses her by that name, and he is abruptly corrected. Her friends call her Fannie, but she hates it when people call her that. Setting him straight, her friends call her “Jee-ackie.” Then he addresses her by that name, and she curtly makes herself clear that he is not a friend. To him, she is Miss Phipps. She suggests he should learn how to “gita lawng” with people.

THE LINEUP (1958)

The Lineup was an American police drama airing on CBS television from 1954 to 1960. The top 20 Nielsen ratings hit was first on CBS radio (1950-1953). Warner Anderson plays Detective Lieutenant Ben Guthrie, with Tom Tully as Inspector Matt Grebb. The show was produced with the cooperation of the San Francisco Police Department. The popularity hinged on the realism of location shooting, hard-hitting content, and the dogged determination of Guthrie. Near its peak, it was decided to adapt the winning formula into a feature film. If one recalls the series, this B-movie will seem quite familiar, like a two-part episode edited into a longer one. It is perhaps the main thing keeping it from being a classic. Doing the film before the series may have helped garner more than “been there, done that” admonishment. The wonder of speculation.

Directed by Don Siegel with a screenplay by Stirling Silliphant, the eighty-seven-minute film was distributed by Columbia Pictures in 1958. The cinematography by Hal Mohr excels. This is a well-executed film for Siegel, who returns to the “City by the Bay” famously in 1971. Away from the small screen, the film relies on the versatile Eli Wallach as a theater draw and the assumed star. For those who have a history with San Francisco, there are famous historical locations that may bring back a memory. On more general terms, the vehicles in the film will satisfy the historical transportation buff.

Anderson is teamed this time with Emile Meyer (at the wheel, above). Tom Tully does not reprise his role. I suspect he was filming Ten North Frederick, released a month before this film in 1958. The serious countenance of Anderson and his one-dimensional speech indicate he is unfamiliar with smiling. Somewhat expected, considering a few of his other serious roles. He is disgusted by criminals. The extended procedural filming was better received on the intimacy of television, including the obligatory lineup from the series.

The film starts with a bang as a speeding taxi screeches curbside near a shipping dock, and a guy throws a suitcase through its open window. The cab driver speeds away before slamming into a semi truck. No expensive plastic parts to be replaced. Just bang out the bends in the steel. He reverses and speeds away. But a policeman's bullet permanently stops the driver, and the car crashes into a barrier. Quickly arriving on the scene are Anderson and Meyer in a black 1957 Dodge with white wall tires. Not a city beat's ride. The film takes a turn after discovering the cab driver was a heroin addict, which might also explain his poor driving skills. His connection leads to an international heroin-smuggling racket. Entering the film on a United Airlines DC-4 are Wallach and his mentor, Robert Keith, whose assignment is to collect the contraband from several tourists arriving from Asia. Meeting them at a rental house, Richard Jaeckel (pronounced “Yekal”) offers his services as an expert driver with a “souped up” 1957 Plymouth. Keith is not amused by the cocky young pup. He is not aware he even needed a car.

The drug duo's contact, radio's most famous “Johnny Dollar,” is Robert Bailey. Not to be confused with Raymond Bailey, also in this film. But I digress. He informs Wallach they must make the drop for "The Man," played chillingly by Vaughn Taylor (above, bottom), at an exact time. Two tourists—a mother and her young daughter—had unknowingly disposed of the heroin by white-coating a Japanese doll's face. The ever-calm Keith is extremely agitated. Because of two other botched retrievals, the duo is already coming up short for the heroin delivery. The mother and daughter are in for the ride of their lives as kidnapped passengers. The inexperienced, short-fused Wallach decides it best to meet face-to-face with Taylor to explain the shortage. Taylor wonders why he is talking, but remains silent through his babbling. His mistake was that no one ever lays eyes on “The Man.” Seething, he tells him, “You're dead.” Taylor then slaps Wallach across the face with the lighter-than-expected satchel of heroin. Enraged, Wallach pushes Taylor in his wheelchair off a second-story balcony.

The stunt driving goes all-out (and drawn out) during the exciting climax. The late Fifties Mopars are oozing around corners at high speeds, tires folding under the strain. Jaeckel has a knack for evading the pursuing police until the script tells him to turn onto the incomplete Embarcadero Freeway (above). Unfinished freeways are often used in car chases to allow creative freedom and no traffic to corden off. This crew seemed to have every police car going in the same direction despite ramps for driving in the opposite direction. Jaeckel comes to a screeching halt, unable to proceed. Wallach's maniacal killing spree continues after exiting the sedan. The police are trained to shoot murderers, and he becomes a stuffed, stunt Wallach bouncing off freeway overpasses below.

Note: Jaeckel's Plymouth comes to a stop by a curving vanishing point between steel traffic barriers. It is quite bizarre to allow traffic to access this section of engineering ineptitude. At any rate, from a different camera perspective (above), the “single file” ramp-to-nowhere appears only for motorcycles. 

PORTLAND EXPOSÉ (1957)

Allied Artists released this low-budget crime film. It was directed by Harold Schuster from a screenplay by Jack DeWitt. The jazz combo blast is Paul Dunlap's opening. The film was inspired by crime boss Jim Elkins and the McClellan Committee's investigation into Portland's underground criminal ventures for a decade after 1940. The "travelogue" opening narration encapsulates the city's beauty and surrounding scenery. A great place to call home. But the town has unseen problems: mobsters running amok. The film is pretty routine outside some hard-hitting and sleazy operatives taking over businesses, specifically the tavern, soon to be opened by Edward Binns and his wife, Virginia Gregg. A teenage daughter and younger son complete the family. A salesman pressures Binns into installing a pinball vending machine, arguing that it will make more money than a jukebox. Expect soap opera moments with Binns and Gregg as they wonder what they are getting into, using dull dialogue fit for a television episode.

A syndicate boss, Russ Conway, wants to infiltrate the labor unions. It will be no surprise to see the ever-present and versatile Lawrence Dobkin (sans toupee below) as Conway's right-hand man. Binns' tavern is targeted as it is near some blue-collar industrial plants. Conway enlists thugs, the unknown Joe Marr and up and up-and-coming star Frank Gorshin to convince Binns to install their machines. The multiple "sinball" machines end up making the tavern not exactly Cracker Barrel-friendly. Marr is just awful (maybe an actual thug) while Gorshin makes an impression here, near the beginning of his career, often cast in gangster or hoodlum parts. Speaking of impressions, for those old enough to remember his stellar caricature impersonations of famous actors, it is pretty funny watching Gorshin "method-act" his way through.

Binns catches the pedophilic Gorshin assaulting his daughter, and he is left horizontal and bloodied. Co-captain of the pinball team, actor Rusty Lane, arrives late that night in Conway's late model Thunderbird to meet Marr at a railroad warehouse. It is always a warehouse. Gorshin, still half unconscious in the back of Marr's sedan, is a skinny squealer by nature. Lane is not taking that chance. Gorshin's demise is—by all accounts—gruesome. And it is not even the halfway point of the film.

With assistance from the police, Binns is able to go undercover wearing a wiretap that doubles as a "hearing aid." The recorder is the size of a DVR under his suit. Conway and a skeptical Dobkin accept Binns into his racketeering business, with the former spilling the beans about his bigger operations. The pinball wizard handles everything like an experienced private detective—taking a beating and keeps on ticking. At one point, Jeanne Carmen (above) thrust herself on him. Her acting is so obvious, running neck-and-neck with Mr. Marr in the acting accolades. Note the sarcastic dialogue between Dobkin and Carmen, however. The prostitute is suspicious of Binns' hearing loss and informs her boss.

Knowing Binns has suddenly regained his hearing, he is transported to the obligatory warehouse where he is (naturally) beaten to a pulp. Binns is smirking most of the time until they threaten to blind his daughter with acid. He reveals where he has hidden the tapes. The thugs untie Binns from the "torture chair," but he springs to action, dispensing with some heavies, after hiding his daughter behind some crates. He strangely disappears from the film, leaving his daughter and the audience to wonder if he is still alive. A bit of strange directing. An arriving taxi—with no paying fares—leads two cars full of a rival union. They all casually step from the car as if it were movie night and appear rather reluctant to enter the warehouse with only their fists. A very brief, highly staged, and humorous rumble ensues. An upbeat closing narration closes the film to issue an "all clear" message. The citizens can breathe easy. 

Note: Many who lived near or in Portland, Oregon in the 1940s and 1950s knew or their children have found out the history of the veritable cesspool it was. Still a high-crime area today in the city's center, it has nothing to do with pinball machines. 

SLEEPERS WEST (1941)

Distributed by Twentieth Century Fox, this seventy-four-minute mystery sets a brisk pace with an energetic, Irish-tinted opening theme by Cyril Mockridge. It is adapted from the novel, Sleepers East (1933), and the 1934 film, about a ten-hour train trip from the Midwest to New York, not to be confused with Sleepers, Awake, a Lutheran hymn by Philipp Nicolai, made famous by Johann Sebastian Bach in 1731. But I digress. The screenplay is full of dialogue: suspenseful, sometimes tedious, and amusing. Although the climax speeds things up, there is only an attempt at action for this entry.

Lloyd Nolan plays Michael Shayne, the fictional private detective created in the late 1930s by Brett Halliday. He rolls along as a cool, confident detective with a witty delivery in his occasional New England accent. Nolan is certainly likeable in the role. A character who would prefer to calm things down before things get violent. This is the second of seven Shayne mysteries for Nolan and perhaps the most enjoyable.

Before boarding The Comanche from Denver to San Francisco, Nolan bumps into his ex-fiancė, Denver newspaper reporter Lynn Bari. Their repartee and zingers are fun. Discovering that she will be on the same train, he gets excited, "It'll be like old times, travelling around together!" "Oh no," says Bari, "Travelling with you, I always wound up alone." The fun ends when both recall who left who at the altar. His assignment is to protect a surprise trial witness, Mary Beth Hughes, who sneaks aboard as a medical patient and serves as his cue to reestablish contact.

Hughes' testimony will free an innocent man accused of murder and throttle the chances of an unethical politician's advancement. The screenplay initiates an inconsequential subplot between her and Jean Louis Heydt. Hughes eventually feels comfortable enough to share her slow, detailed backstory of why she is on the train. After dozing, I discover he is abandoning his family to "find himself" by himself in South America. He proposes they get away together so she will not need to testify. 

Bari's unethical fiancė, a lawyer and associate of the crooked politician, suggests she might have a big scoop if she locates the witness by using Nolan. Under his cabin door, Bari slips a note suggesting Hughes needs to see him immediately. Noting the distinct handwriting, he knows who wrote it. He leads Bari on. She finds him in the train's drawing room, where he is assumed to be hiding Hughes. He says she may be looking for a woman he saw with "fuller brush eyelashes." Their clichéd 

Banter does provide Nolan with some zingers, but Bari tries to make the scene funnier than written. 

Known for his comedic chops, Edward Brophy (above with cup) adds periodic comic relief as a railroad detective, dashing at the last moment to get on board. Self-conscious, he does his classic puzzled double-takes with a wrinkled brow when he feels his appearance or character is subtly being insulted. He is having difficulty discovering who he is assigned to follow. To add embarrassment, he receives a telegram near the end of the film stating that the agency accidentally booked him on the wrong train. 

In a shocking, unexpected scene, the passenger train hits a scale model fuel truck, igniting its fuel inside the cab, killing the engineer, and disabling the locomotive. Nolan needs a vehicle or someone to take him to Ogden. Character actor George Chandler is your man. He brags about his Ford Model-T, open-air automobile, in great mechanical detail. But Nolan just needs to get going. Bari overhears their conversation. Nolan momentarily steps away, and she, Hughes, and Heydt are now Chandler's passengers, leaving Nolan to fend for himself. By himself. The home of a kindly Eastern European lady provides the trio with shelter because Chandler's beloved car has stalled. He cannot understand how this could happen. Nolan arrives in time to tell the whole truth about Hughes, and Bari's underhanded kindness is just for headlines. Hughes convinces Heydt to return to his family, and they "forever-do-part."

The film ends on a happy note at a diner where Hughes is now a waitress. Bari broke her engagement with her duplicitous, self-serving fiancė somewhere through Nevada. Nolan wants to rekindle his romance with Bari and vows to put a ring on her finger again. Putting him at bay, she orders a sandwich with lots of onions, and he protests multiple times. Relenting, she changes the order. Garlic instead. The sandwich killed their future. She never reprised her role in the series. Hughes, on the other hand, returned, each time as a different character.

Note: Ben Carter provides laughs as a porter welcoming Heydt aboard the train. Carter mathematically explains how long it will take to arrive at the next town, with eyes looking upward in thought and a confusing mixture of addition and subtraction. Heydt had transferred his cash to his suitcase. Carter later enters his cabin to straighten things, but he accidentally drops the suitcase to reveal the contents. He is dazzled by the nine or ten thousand dollars, then quickly says, "Get behind me, Satan, and tie my hands!" He embellishes the amount to another porter, Mantan Moreland, who then raises the amount. In the end, the last porter raises the amount to five hundred grand!