LADY LUCK (1946)

Directed by the very busy Edwin Marin, this light comedy will probably not elicit a second viewing, especially at a whopping ninety-seven minutes. The film has an unremarkable music score by Leigh Harline to back up an original story by the nearly unknown Herbert Clyde Lewis. Released by RKO Radio Pictures, this low-budget movie does have its humorous moments, thanks to those with comedic chops. The individually brief opening segments are fun, suggesting a screwball comedy. These historical flashbacks concern the ancestors of Frank Morgan, each with their own bad gambling decisions from the eighteenth to the early twentieth centuries. His granddaughter, in all three historical settings, is Barbara Hale. She and Robert Young are good here, but neither is funny by nature. At times, their dialogue only includes potentially funny quips. With all the clichéd anger over misunderstandings between these two, the supporting cast is the film’s saving grace on the comedy front.

It all starts with third-billed Morgan, playing a soft-hearted, gambling-distracted grandfather, a persona not far removed from the great Oz. Further down the cast is James Gleason, again playing a savvy character doling out wisdom or deadpan quips with barely a lip moving. Others help carry the comedic load like rotund Lloyd Corrigan, Don Rice, Harry Davenport and the man with the electric performance, Teddy Hart. Once again, he nearly steals another movie as a two-dollar bettor—and winning—to the slow agony of the room. Hart’s first scene sets up the tedious bulk of the movie, and this is how it happened. 

Young is a professional gambler who has done well, here and there. On the other hand, Morgan gambles habitually. The lovable old coot will bet on anything. Hale hates the odds against his “investments.” Her desire is to keep “Gramps” preoccupied before temptation is acted upon. Young places a horse racing bet with Morgan, which in turn introduces him to Hale. She gambles on him upon their first encounter. Smitten by one moonlit night, Young vows to stop gambling to Hale’s delight and skepticism. Quickly married after only their second screen appearance together, he awaits her return from shopping. Something he will have to get used to. To pass the time, he watches Hart’s timid bets, and to speed things along, volunteers to roll the dice multiple times on his behalf. As if he can control how the dice bounce. He loses Hart’s money. Young continues to gamble only to repay Hart’s deficit. Which he does. Then walks away. Hale sees Young at the table and immaturely jumps to a conclusion. Surely, only Hollywood screenwriters think like this. She refuses to hear Young’s explanation, rather than listen to reason, and takes the easy way out. Divorce. Thus begins the middle of the film, which is a bit too predictable and seems to take a fortnight to get through. By the end of the film, Hale, now a gambling whiz, has a totally new perspective on gambling to Young’s displeasure. But the ending is a positive one, thanks to Morgan and the supporting cast. For a final chuckle, Teddy “beside himself” Hart shows up at the end as a wealthy, “patron saint of gambling.” 

Note: Apparently, Hollywood thinks everyone gambles. I am always lost in gambling—dice or cards—movies. Ironically, both stars did their own personal gambling. Young was nearing his film peak here. He was always well-prepared but never possessed the charisma of some of his film colleagues. Still, he did well despite never having a contract with any studio! His perfect fame came in the form of a very successful career on television, however. The very pretty Hale also gambled on television, which paid off nicely, opposite Raymond Burr.

THE CHASE (1946)

Michel Michelet's opening Cuban “piano concerto” for this film noir seems to fit crashing waves along an ocean shore. A place the female lead longs to be. It is befitting a passionate love story, too, but passion is in short supply during its eighty-six-minute run. He got plenty of mileage out of his score, doubling as a spinning record tune and for badly faked piano playing for this United Artists release. The score beyond this does not seem noticeably necessary. On the camera front, there are a few slow transitional shots that may try your patience. In particular, one long pause of the female lead as she stares out a ship's porthole window.

Robert Cummings plays a penniless Navy veteran with a small prescription bottle. His easy-going acting style made him friendly to audiences. His vocal tone is comforting and trustworthy. Just a nice young man. He is every bit that in this film. On the opposite scale is Steve Cochran, a ruthless Miami gangster with an accountant-assassin, Peter Lorre, who eliminates any competition by death. In another signature role, Lorre is always concerned about Cochran's expenses. Renowned French-born actress, Michèle Morgan, is Cochran’s property wife of three years. Cochran's rather brief screen time ignites the film, unlike Morgan's extended film time.

The film opens with a light moment as we witness Cummings salivating outside a diner window as a cook flips pancakes and turns bacon. In resignation, he departs, stepping on a loaded wallet. After his breakfast, he returns the wallet and remaining cash to Cochran at his ostentatious mansion. Their first meeting is a gem. Being uncomfortable in his surroundings and fending off many questions, Cummings shyly admits he returned the wallet, probably because he is just a sucker. This elicits a singular chuckle out of deadpan Lorre. Given his own lifestyle, Cochran is amazed that anyone would do this. He likes Cummings' unassuming nature and honesty. He is immediately hired as the new chauffeur while the current one is fired. Perhaps fired upon.

Cochran certainly has a screw loose upstairs. His menacing glare makes one wonder what is turning inside his head. He may also have a death wish of sorts. He has access to an additional accelerator and brake pedals at the floorboard from the rear seat. He can override the chauffeur anytime he wants. He is quite amused by it, though Lorre seems bored with it all. All the driver can do is steer. It brings a whole new dimension to driving dynamics. He surprises Cummings with his toy by going over one hundred miles per hour to beat an approaching train. Cochran applies the brakes just in time, only skidding about fifteen feet. A testament to the amazing stopping power of skinny, radial tires, drum brakes of the era, and the audience's gullibility.

Morgan came into Cochran's life with nothing and now wants to be let go the same way. Who better to arrange a getaway trip than a chauffeur? Thus begins a tedious, forty-minute middle section, which is simply used to lead the audience on a fantasy journey by way of two subtle transitional film scenes. One may wonder why Cummings makes some clichéd decisions in the face of danger. Illogically, he leaves his meek persona behind to become a debonair risk-taker. Once he awakes in a cold sweat, your first words might be, “You have got to be kidding!” Cummings suffers from “anxiety neurosis” due to combat shock, which explains the prescription bottle he carries. In hindsight, though established better in other films, the dream excursion adds the only real excitement beyond Cochran's backseat driving. Too bad it never happened.

The recurrence of amnesia sends Cummings back to the Navy hospital to consult with his former Commander and current doctor, Jack Holt. In the back of his memory, Cummings seems to think he is supposed to be somewhere and constantly watches the time. To help take his mind off things, Holt takes him to a nightclub, the same haunt of Cochran. What are the odds? They sit on opposite sides of a partition. Intense. After taking a phone call, Holt is spotted by Cochran, who was briefly a patient after his own discharge. Considering Cochran’s behavior, he should re-establish those appointments. Predictably, before Holt returns, Cumming's memory kicks in, and he leaves to get Morgan off to Havana.

Near the film’s beginning, “Fats,” played by the famous announcer, Don Wilson, spotted Cochran’s new chauffeur buying tickets for Havana. Assuming they were for him and his wife, he mentions this during the aforementioned club scene. Awkward. The two gangsters are in extremely hot pursuit of his lousy, stinking, dishonest chauffeur. The ending scale model train/car chase is quite obvious, but good movie-making. Still, the old sedan going one hundred ten miles per hour around thirty-mile-per-hour curves is a bit much. Lorre, never a fan of Cochran’s pedal toy in the back seat, only hopes he and his rear-seated boss can again make the rail crossing before the train. Perhaps an alternate meaning behind the movie's title.

FLIGHT TO NOWHERE (1946)

When the Golden Gate Pictures trademark logo appeared on the screen, my knuckles started to sweat in anticipation. Directed by William Rowland and distributed by Screen Guild Productions, this seventy-nine-minute film starts at a fast pace but soon settles into a talky, mundane script, stifling interest. An overabundance of abrupt edits from Gregg Tallas may give you whiplash, as few scenes never seem to finish a thought before cutting to another character’s scene and then back to where the whirlwind began. Carl Hoefle's music score accompanies one scene and then abruptly cuts to another without music. One scene may be at a bar, then a restaurant. They are outside with martinis. Inside with martinis. Flights of confusion from Los Angeles to Death Valley and Las Vegas. Marcel LePicard's camera filters make it difficult to distinguish night from day. 

There are very few actors who might be recognized by die-hard B-movie fans. Jack Holt, the famous early Western star, plays an FBI agent out to retrieve a map containing the location of uranium deposits, which was stolen from a Korean national and subsequently murdered after leaving a dinner party. This is the first studio film to deal with an atomic bomb angle. Certain guests at the party are suspects, and Holt arranges to have his trusted pilot and former FBI agent, Alan Curtis, tail them. Curtis was a frequent player during this era and does his best Clark Gable impression at times. Their washroom scene provides some well-delivered witty lines by Curtis. The scene simply supplies the background of their espionage days during World War II. Holt pops up throughout the film to keep the viewer and Curtis abreast as the story drags on. Curtis’ witty comments are the only spark to an otherwise droll script to nowhere. He gets hit over the head more than the average charter pilot, each time accounting for his loss of a secret map. If the map gets stolen, there is a music cue by a harp to confirm it. 

Women seem attracted to Curtis, and one gets the feeling he is not surprised. First up is dinner guest and supposed countess, Micheline Cheirel, who hires him to fly her to Death Valley along with her party of four. Fans of the low-budget films of the Forties and Fifties will be familiar with Evelyn Ankers. She and Cheirel are in an atomic hat war upon their screen entrances. Cheirel’s headwear gives her an “MST3000” Crow T. Robot look while Ankers went with a breakfast-themed, fifteen-inch, ten-dollar pancake. Adding to the overall confusion is a secret letter about one of the passengers, which gets stolen five times in a matter of minutes. Numerous characters bounce from scene to scene in a disjointed fashion, so why not add another? Inez Cooper, playing Curtis’ ex-wife, arrives to complete the character maze, which includes Ankers’ brother, two other male suspects, plus a few other males that muddy the story. Cooper’s purpose in the film appears to highlight her trade secret, that of a professional pickpocket. This might explain Curtis's divorce. She is so good that a large, valuable ring disappears from Ankers’s finger, who is none the wiser. Cooper steals Curtis's (sabotaged) plane, and the subsequent crash removes her from the script. The ending in Las Vegas is precisely nineteen minutes later than it should have been, as all the atomic secrets are secured after a few suspects either die or get arrested. While in Vegas, Curtis takes the plunge at a nearby chapel. That amazing pancake hat on Anker's head was simply irresistible.

Note: This project may be most notable for bringing Hoot Gibson out of his retirement...er...element. All the filming was done on location in Chatsworth, California, and Iverson Ranch, reflecting a budget reminiscent of the films that made Gibson famous. His minuscule appearance as the sheriff is notable for his cowboy hat and a cue-perfect entrance. 

THE DARK CORNER (1946)

It is hard to find flaws in this quintessential film-noir directed by Henry Hathaway. The opening theme may sound familiar. "Manhattan Melody" was used for many New York films of the Forties. Hats off to the sometimes witty and sharp, cutting dialogue by screenwriters Schoenfeld and Dratler, based on a story in Good Housekeeping by Leo Rosten. The cinematography by Joseph MacDonald is a textbook example of film noir. He puts the noir in film noir. A clever example is when we see William Bendix, in a white suit, juxtaposed with Mark Stevens' dark silhouette in an adjoining room, as if in a split-screen or a positive-negative effect. It also suggests that men who wear white are not necessarily the good guys. Not a big success during its first run but it has gained high praise in hindsight.

As a private investigator, Mark Stevens is a falsely accused ex-con trying to run a legitimate private investigator business. His character is on edge most of the film, disgruntled by an undeserved prison term. It is easy to figure out Stevens’ career potential, here billed as "the new tough guy." He is not a fan of compromising when he should be and he delivers a strong performance. He was on everyone’s radar after this film, catapulting him from "under the radar" roles at Warner Bros. Fred MacMurray, originally set to star, would not have pulled off the pint-up anger and edginess of Stevens, also in hindsight. Yet Stevens never made the A-list. Lucille Ball is somewhat the female equivalent in films. She is his newly hired secretary and best ally. They hit it off right from the start. Ball got lost at Twentieth Century Fox during this period competing with similar actresses with not enough uniqueness to draw attention. The new medium of television was around another corner where she will completely obliterate these roles and never look back.

Stevens is being tailed by William Bendix. After a brutal confrontation, Bendix falsely confesses he is working for Kurt Krueger, Stevens’ former partner and corrupt lawyer who set him up for prison. Stevens, with Ball’s help, attempts to uncover what appears to be Krueger setting up Stevens for another fall. But Bendix is in cahoots with Clifton Webb, a wealthy art gallery owner. Webb knows his pretty wife prefers the younger Krueger and his possessive nature will not let him share any of his valuable works of art. Whether inanimate or not.

Webb suggests that Bendix plan an unannounced visit at Stevens' office and also talks Krueger into seeing Stevens the same night. After a brief struggle, Bendix gives Stevens his ether handkerchief, then murders the next person expected through the door, Krueger. The frame is set for the unconscious Stevens. Rather than pay off Bendix, Webb dispenses with him for his screen finale. It would appear Webb has tied up all the loose ends. Stevens starts putting two and three together and confronts Webb at his gallery. The condescending Webb is in for a big surprise.

Note: The film ends on a lighter note. While Stevens is being cleared of any wrongdoing at the gallery, two Brooklyn cops contemplate a Donatello statue. Not a word from either for quite a while until the first officer wonders, “Imagine anyone in their right mind ever buying a piece of junk like that?” His partner, lacking any sophistication replies in a Brooklyn gravel voice, “Shoeuh they do. That is ahht.”