SHAKEDOWN (1950)

Howard Duff plays an over-confident, womanizing con man with a camera who despises the low income of society, of which he is currently a part. The opening beating he takes sets the tone for his well-known lack of character. Among other things, the love of money is the root of all evil, and he will use anyone as a stepping stone for financial gain. A newspaper photo editor, Peggy Dow, falls for Duff's smooth, charming manner and ambition, then vouches for him to the editor-in-chief, Bruce Bennett. With a nose for news, honesty, and integrity, he does not like Duff from the outset—something rotten is developing. Nevertheless, due to her persistence, he is hired. In time, his uncanny ability to be in the exact spot to capture a newsworthy happening suspiciously lacks authenticity. Like the time Duff happens upon an apartment fire and spots a lady breaking a third-story window for escape. He tells her to pause,  then yells, "Now jump." Click! I assume there were firemen to catch her. Not an issue for Duff.

Duff surviving until the end of this film seems highly unlikely. His cocky, yet naïveté get him involved with organized crime. He is well paid for his darkroom skills, going to work for a racketeer, Brian Donlevy, who provides him with inside information about a rival's activity. Duff just "happens" to be in downtown San Francisco to capture Lawrence Tierney during the bank robbery. Duff later approaches Tierney to offer him a deal—he will keep the negative in safekeeping for a substantial fee. If that is not enough, he later hides in a parking garage to capture him in the act of installing an after-market accessory to Donlevy's limo: a bomb. The unscrupulous shutterbug now has the blackmail image of his dreams. Duff is free to swoop in for Donlevy's widow, Anne Vernon.

During the rapid climax at a high society formal event, Duff's true colors are revealed to Vernon, and Tierney suggests that he was responsible for her husband's death. But those negatives, hidden within a picture frame at Dow's apartment, will prove otherwise. Duff's frantic call proves fruitless. She is fed up with his fabrications and hangs up on him. Duff is a marked man. After being shot three times, he still manages to squeeze the shutter release cable hanging from his tripod to photograph Tierney firing the fatal bullet.

Duff lived for a “shot” at immortality. His photographic evidence brings the mobsters to justice. Yet the newspaper staff knew he was a "skunk of the first odor" all along.

Note: The eighty-minute film was released by Universal Pictures and directed by Joseph Pevney. It is a better-than-average B-movie noir. Fine performances all around. The powerful scores are from a stock library by several well-known composers. Duff effortlessly delivers numerous sarcastic, witty quips throughout—like a guy who memorized the excellent screenplay by Martin Goldsmith and Alfred Lewis Levitt. Ignore the poster. At no time did Donlevy attempt to punch out Duff. The viewers, on the other hand....

There is at least one gullible moment in the film. Duff desperately wants that image few could capture. As a taxi fare, he notices the car in front is weaving left and right and thinks it might lead to something. The erratic car does plunge into shallow water, balanced precariously on its side—the driver in a panic. Rather than help the driver, Duff tells him to stick his head out the side window and then stretch out his arms in a show of desperation. Why the driver would comply with these commands is difficult to fathom. 

D.O.A. (1950)

 

This film is hardly unknown to any film buff, and there are countless reviews of its groundbreaking premise. It is one of the great films in cinema, regardless of the budget. I have elected to focus only on some memorable elements that stand out. Few movies ever opened with this level of intrigue. First up is the captivating opening sequence under opening credits. The innovative behind-the-back view of Edmond O'Brien—under a driving Dimitri Tiomkin score—as the viewer follows his brisk walking down the hallway of a police station—is always on pace with O'Brien's gait. If a director is saddled with a routine script, just hire Tiomkin to better the film. To his surprise, the police have been trying to locate him. To their surprise, O'Brien is there to report his own murder. If there was ever a film needing a big flashback, this is it.

The story and screenplay, written by Russell Rouse and Clarence Greene, of intertwining characters, need the moviegoer's full attention. Probably a tad long at eighty-four minutes, it is directed by Rudolph Maté and produced by Leo C. Popkin. The cinematography by Ernest Laszlo is as powerful as Tiomkin's score. This "mystery murder" has indeed become a classic.

O'Brien's performances are rarely subtle. Here, he possesses all the pent-up rage of an accountant and notary public who is not dead yet. His backstory ramps up while on vacation. The director includes a laughable and silly slide whistle sound effect numerous times whenever O'Brien spots a female, which would seem to indicate his main reason for a vacation. A noisy sales convention party in the adjoining suite gets his attention. The salesman and their locally acquired female companions want to paint the town, and the accountant is invited. It is a bad omen for O'Brien, whose drink is unknowingly switched at the bar. 

Later, feeling ill, he visits a hospital that sets up a second powerful sequence about the physicality of O'Brien. After getting the doctor's diagnosis from swallowing a deadly luminous toxin, he bolts from the office in wide-eyed panic. I have always been impressed with actors of this era running full bore in Florsheim dress shoes on pavement. Forrest Gump has nothing on Frank Bigelow. The thirty-five-year-old fluidly descends down the hospital's long set of outdoor steps—feet are two blurs. I like to assume this was done in one take. He sprints down crowded sidewalks and across mid-town traffic, setting a new notary speed record with pedestrians unaware that a film is in progress. At the point of exhaustion, he momentarily pauses in front of a newsstand beside a display of LIFE magazines. He then begins a slow walk, gradually picking up determination as Tiomkin's score accelerates with O'Brien's pace. His anger propels him to solve his murder in under forty-eight hours. His secretary, Pamela Britton—hopelessly in love with her boss—is frustrated with his vague answers over the phone. He spares her the bad news, but has no time to chat. The film then settles into a rather routine and somewhat confusing mystery of characters disconnected from the viewer.

Britton provides an early lead about a bill of sale for the toxin, something her boss notarized. In the pursuit of truth, the accountant discovers others have died under mysterious circumstances, all continually intersecting with characters under police investigation. They all filter down to the guy who knows too much, O'Brien. The final confrontation between the murderer and the murdered ends the flashback. O'Brien, in one final laugh-out-loud moment, leans over to speak Paula's name to the police chief, the ever-present Roy Engle, then quickly pushes himself sideways and instantly disappears behind the desk.

Note: There is an indelible performance by Neville “Chester” Brand, the ever-so psychopathic henchman hired to kill O'Brien more rapidly. Before ushering him into a waiting sedan, Brand pokes his gun hard into O'Brien's stomach, who doubles over in pain. Delighted by the pain inflicted, the smirking Brand informs him, “You're soft in the belly!” Chester's expressions and crazed, side-eye views of O'Brien while "driving" the studio car are priceless.

LIPPERT PICTURES SERIES

Robert L. Lippert controlled a successful low-budget American film production and distribution company from 1948 to 1956, producing short, fast-paced westerns and crime films with a penchant for obligatory humor and the occasional jarring edits. This is my final review of seven Lippert films.

MOTOR PATROL (1950)

This hour-long film opens in an obviously low-budget fashion, yet as an honorable tribute to the motorcycle patrol officers of Los Angeles. I felt like standing to salute during the opening score by Ozzie Caswell—reminiscent of a college marching band or a football newsreel—as motorcycles leave the station in parade fashion. This main theme returns to close out the film. Later, during overlapping scenes of night patrols, he uses a couple of bars of situational comedy music. Certainly worthy of issuing a ticket. There is some location shooting, but expect a lot of back-screen projected scenery during the studio motorcycle “chase” segments. The speedy, climactic cycle chase is especially funny as the hero's fedora is surely stapled to his forehead. Motor Patrol is produced by Robert L. Lippert and Barney A. Sarecky and directed again by Sam Newfield. Fast pacing was a Lippert signature, yet this movie definitely played better in the mid-twentieth century. Other signatures are the occasional abrupt editing.

As each motorcycle peels off from the "parade" to its intended patrol area, the film quickly shifts to the Los Angeles Police Academy's firing range. First up are the female traffic cops aiming at parking meter silhouettes. You can believe that if you want. The male officers only get a tiny dot on a board. The location provides the perfect opportunity to introduce the main cast, Officers William Henry and Don Castle, plus Detective Reed Hadley. Richard Travis innocuously appears later as another detective. Yes, Lippert regular, Sid Melton, does his shtick as a bar owner where everyone knows his name: Omar. The leads work well enough in this dialogue-heavy screenplay by Maurice Tombragel and Orville Hampton, but expect some amateurs in the supporting cast.

Once Officer Henry's character is established, one gets the distinct feeling his days on the force are numbered. The apparent hit-and-run accident he was investigating was simply a cover for an automobile theft racket. Henry pays the price for getting too well-informed. Castle, engaged to Henry's sister, is asked to infiltrate the gang of pre-owned vehicles. The gang employs a tow truck driver—a familiar face from his Warner Bros. days—Frank Jenks, who is suspicious of the new guy. Things really heat up during the final aforementioned motorcycle pursuit. 

LIPPERT PICTURES SERIES

Robert L. Lippert controlled a successful low-budget American film production and distribution company from 1948 to 1956, producing short, fast-paced westerns and crime films with a penchant for obligatory humor and the occasional jarring edits. This is my sixth of seven Lippert films.

WESTERN PACIFIC AGENT (1950)

This sixty-five-minute, Sigmund Neufeld Productions crime drama was directed by Sam Newfield, a frequent partner with Lippert Pictures. It was written by Fred Myton, based on a story by Milton Raison, and stars Kent Taylor, Sheila Ryan, and the less familiar Mickey Knox. The film opens with title credits over Western Pacific train footage. Told in flashback by one informed passenger to another, it centers on railroad detectives during “The West Coast Kid” case. It suspiciously appears like a Western Pacific promotional film. After the film's climax, they return to close the film. At any rate, their encapsulated synopsis offers the benefit of shortening the crux of the film. I was impressed overall with how efficiently this one has been pulled together with its element of potential danger and intrigue—a mechanical drawbridge plays a key role at both ends of this film.

Mickey Knox's one-dimensional hate performance is something a lot of actors can pull off, so I was not that impressed. The psychopathic killer intercepts a big cash payroll by raising a drawbridge, halting a rail agent's progress. Two murders later, he is stuck with bags of traceable bills. Money that is intended for his father's general store. When he tries to warm up to his father in hopes of a handout, the father knows his lying son too well. Knox angrily storms off, hops the next freight, and sits in on a couple of homeless camps to hide. But word gets around quickly within a loyal band of hobos.

A Lippert levity regular, Sid Melton plays a nervous simpleton who absorbs information literally, not clearly processing what he hears. Some might suggest Melton's character has no place in this film, but that is shortsighted. Similar characters have become common in a number of modern, team-oriented adventure films—like the socially awkward computer geek. Melton had a natural delivery for such a character, and it may be Lippert's best use of the comedian. His first scenes with Taylor are the funniest. I suspect his dry, deadpan delivery is a problem for most Millennials. Deadpan is hard to recognize on social media.

Melton is the first to come in contact with the marked bills and Knox. Taylor becomes increasingly perturbed with having to clarify things to Melton over and over. So it seems to make little sense for Taylor to ask him to tag along to help with identification. But Melton's assistance pays off. Taylor and law enforcement, including a ballooned sheriff, Dick Elliott—right out of a Warner Bros cartoon—corner Knox in a shack. During the shootout, he yells back at the police in true comedic parody form, "Come and get me, copper!" Knox's father approaches the shack, but he is wounded in more ways than one. Knox escapes, taking with him a bullet in the leg to the harbor drawbridge. But the bridge is ascending. The music score accelerates the climax to an exciting level. The futility of Knox's escape is no secret to the audience. What goes up must come down.

Note: American railroads peaked in the Thirties with the colorful streamlined passenger trains being the epitome of first-class travel in their effort to woo passengers away from the increasing popularity of the airline industry. Finally, as a general rule, the always-open boxcar door's invitation to hop a freight was common for decades. By the end of the Sixties, most railroads cracked down on boxcar hitchhikers.

THE FLYING SAUCER (1950)

This American, independently made Soviet spy drama was written, produced, directed, and starred the average-looking Mikel Conrad, not Comrade. So, most of the blame falls on his shoulders. In truth, he does a decent job of capturing his character, but he is never in Micky Spillane territory. Occasionally, one person in charge of all aspects of a film can make an impact. Allen Baron is a great example with his 1961 crime film, Blast of Silence. The result here is lackluster filmmaking. The film is not a thriller; it is science fiction, but not in the typical sense. Do not expect flying saucers to destroy totem poles in Juneau, Alaska. This is a mystery, and that is its strongest compliment. Denver Pyle, Roy “B-movie” Engel, and to a lesser degree, Russell Hicks, are the best-known faces, while much of the cast turns in solid collegiate performances.

Intelligence officials learn that Soviet spies have begun exploring a remote region of the Alaska Territory, concerning worldwide reports of flying saucers. Conrad, raised in that region, is recruited because his credentials as a wealthy American playboy are best suited to handle an undercover assignment to assist a Secret Service agency. He is not excited—too much work. Then he admires his reflection in a mirror and is introduced to the pretty female agent, Pat Garrison. Many frames are eaten up by bucolic Alaskan scenery, slow motorboat navigation across a vast lake, a seaplane flight, and a picnic, all of which include no dialogue. The crescendoing music score is better suited for an epic film. Yet the grandeur is lost in a wash of grays. 

Conrad is to pretend he is suffering from a nervous breakdown—trying to control this film, perhaps—with Garrison acting as his private nurse. “Mr. Terrific,” clad in plaid, is highly skeptical of flying saucer reports until he hears one slice over his Alaskan lodge. Probably a meteor, he thinks. The saucer is real, an invention of American scientist Roy Engel, whose mechanic, Denver Pyle, is a greedy communist spy with a plan: get in on the ground floor of the Soviet Frisbee cartel. Conrad has to deal with Soviet agents in Juneau, a conniving barmaid, and his own drunken stupor, an avalanche, and the rescue of his phony private nurse—all of which approach the mundane. Conrad, Garrison, and Engel see light at the end of a secret Soviet tunnel just in time to spot Pyle being "saucered." The Soviets would learn a lot from reverse engineering, so Engel installed an after-market accessory. At a certain altitude, the saucer explodes, resulting in small "Pyles" scattered about.

Note: This seventy-five-minute science fiction film was distributed in the United States by Film Classics Inc. It is the first feature film to deal with the era's hot topic of flying saucers. I imagine those who bought tickets for this international spy yarn were ticked off that it has nothing to do with the poster. The single saucer in this film is more akin to a reconnaissance drone. Flying disks were first given the film's title in 1947 by a private pilot who reported nine silvery, crescent-shaped objects flying in tight formation. Some chose to take him at his word.

LIPPERT PICTURES SERIES

Robert L. Lippert controlled a successful low-budget American film production and distribution company from 1948 to 1956, producing short, fast-paced westerns and crime films with a penchant for obligatory humor and the occasional jarring edits. This is my first of seven Lippert films.

RADAR SECRET SERVICE (1950)

Suppressing counterfeit currency was the Secret Service's primary objective in 1865. In future decades, its service expanded to other areas. But few anticipated—nor actually considered—radar. So forget G-men. The R-men are really on to something, cracking down on California crime one telemeter at a time. The opening voice-over excitedly points out that radar's potential is “beyond belief.” For this film, I have to agree. As confirmation, the radar operator back at headquarters tells his boss they located a school of fish by radar that resulted in an unbelievable catch of the day. This potential I could believe, though it has no relevance in this movie. But there were those who could imagine all sorts of useful things it could do in true science fiction fashion—live images in the fashion of a highway webcam. The relayed picture quality is undeniably excellent, as if the movie studio provided the footage. Similarly, how their stationary telemeters could possibly keep pace with a passing vehicle is a total mystery. Merely a minor issue to work out.

One could not be blamed if this sixty-one-minute film was thought to be originally a four-part serial from the Thirties. It possesses a cast of “who knew” B-movie actors, including John Howard as an agent of the Secret Radar Service (RSS) lobbying for more funds to expand the use of telemeters across the United States. That knee-jerk action is similar to suggesting that enough charging stations will make electric vehicles viable for the masses in three years. Tom Neal and Tristram Coffin—known to law enforcement as the mustachioed Mickey & Michael—star as uneasy partners trying to intercept a shipment of Uranium-238 they hope to transport across the Pacific Ocean. Coffin never reveals his master plan, but one can assume he will sell it to the highest bidder and probably double-cross Neal.

Robert “B-movie” Kent is the gang's enforcer. Too bad, he looked like such a nice young man. Returning famously in another devious typecast role is the soft Adele Jergens, girlfriend to Neal or Coffin, whichever works best into her future. Myrna dull—er, Dell—plays a waitress involved with a member of the “U-Gang.” Her boyfriend is recovering in a hospital from a gunshot wound from an earlier RSS raid. Angry because the gang leaders are not willing to help him, she eventually goes under the radar to help the RSS. Adding wacky levity to the gang is Lippert's own Sid Melton with the moniker “Pill Box.” He is convinced his perpetual illness results from blood pressure “at a 140 net” and his “blow pressure is with a hypertension” and his “temperature is by the arrow Fahrenheit.” One wonders who vouched for the hypochondriac.

The headquarters use their radar to find the car carrying the radioactive material. To their dismay, Coffin had the incomprehensible idea of sending out a decoy car. Drat! Their horizontal radar beam has its limitations. A fragile-looking Hiller 360 helicopter is employed to track fleeing criminals from above during a yawning chase with cars “rocketing” down the highway at nearly twenty miles per hour. The helicopter was a marvel during this period, but it would not be long before it would mock radar's usefulness as a crime-fighting resource. The two gangs meet in the California countryside just as the radar patrol arrives. It becomes a trilogy of gunfire. A wounded Neal manages to make it to Coffin's hideout for a final confrontation. More mayhem ensues as the armed waitress also arrives. The film ends with preparations being made for two additional coffins. 

Note: This is probably one of the silliest premises from Lippert Pictures, again directed by Sam Newfield. The “1940” worn-out screenplay was written by Beryl Sachs—his last of five films—but I appreciated his take on Melton's character, though misplaced it may be in this “action-packed thriller.” 

GUN CRAZY (1950)

This movie fits into the “human-noir” category, where childhood can be a dark affair affected by circumstances, psychological issues, or the influence of others. Any number of B-movie actors could have brought justice to each character, yet it turned out to be the defining film for both John Dall and Peggy Cummins. A superstar couple may have clouded the natural interpretation of the script by these two. Though the acting is compelling, it is the cinematography that stands the test of time. This film is based on a 1940 story of the same name from The Saturday Evening Post by MacKinlay Kantor. The film's premise could be adapted for any decade. He also wrote the screenplay along with Dalton Trumbo. The story features a gun-shooting husband and wife on their brief crime-spree honeymoon. It never consistently hits the bull's eye, but it still racks up some points.

I found the opening backstory about Dall's childhood obsession with guns drawn out more than necessary when narration over key filmed segments would have sufficed. Victor Young's opening score fits these scenes, which may be the only rushes the prolific composer ever saw. His music seems absent during the balance of the film. The opening does make it clear Dall is crazy about shooting guns. Peggy Cummins, on the other hand, is just plain crazy. In her first scene in this film—clad in Spandex-like pants borrowed from television's Lone Ranger—she appears to be far more dangerous without a gun. She is a crack shot in a traveling carnival, and Dall is enthralled. He has found his shooting-mate for life. His psyche is triggered, then he betters her in an on-stage challenge, using a gun he has never fired before. He is that good. Dall's future is in her hands—though he tries to rein her in—they are both on an anticipated downward spiral. Her character flits from charming to disturbed in the midst of a robbery. What he does not know about her past—she occasionally has to shoot somebody—the FBI is well informed. Their “undying” love will have them running until death do them part.

Directed by Joseph H. Lewis and produced by Frank and Maurice King of King Brothers Productions, the eighty-seven-minute film took thirty days and 400 grand to make. It was released by United Artists. Without a doubt, the most engaging element of the film is the periodically astounding cinematography by Russell Harlan. His extraordinarily realistic in-car camera work has the viewer riding in the back seat on a typical day of robbery as Dall and Cummins seem to be unscripted, as their dialogue fades in and out as if they were ad-libbing. Harlan's famous one-shot bank robbery sequence from a car's back seat is another trend-setting example. These scenes appear out of place among other routine scenes, seemingly shot by another cinematographer. Yet his camera placement under the dash—shooting through the steering wheel spokes—appears likely to be a wacky experiment that actually worked. Also of startling note are the extreme close-ups near the end as we watch the quivering lips of the sweaty couple. As to be expected during the first century of film, the editing by Harry Gerstad slips in a “chase” with a studio prop police car that should have been left on the editing room floor.

At least two things are puzzling. When the gun-crazy couple is being tailed by the police, Dall shoots the patrol car's front tire cleanly through their own rear window with nothing to suggest he broke out the backlight before shooting. For another, I found the drive to the top of the mountains strange, where Dall spent time as a youth. Not so much the drive as the foggy swamp at the summit. I had no idea there were swamps on California's low-humidity mountaintops. 

Finally, seventy-year-old forgettable films may garner new fans when dissected through Twenty-First Century thinking. The proper way to interpret this film is with a mid-century mindset. The implausible scenes are invisible to these commentators, preferring to zero in on the duo's sexual interpretation that they feel compelled to give an "enlightened" reboot to, which was not even thought of (or appropriate ) to comment on in 1950. By this measure, some of today's forgettable films may one day be considered great after all the personnel invested in the film have died.

Note: Dall's movie career and his life were short. His only other notable films before settling into television were Alfred Hitchcock's Rope, two years prior to this film, and a significant role in Spartacus (1960). He died at the age of fifty. This is Irish-born Cummins's best-known and last American film. Her film career ended in 1961, but she lived a long life with personal involvement in other ventures. She died at age ninety-two in London.

HOT ROD (1950)

Monogram Pictures did the right thing by keeping this a sixty-minute film. One could blame an idealistically inane screenplay by Daniel Ullman for these “breakout” kids who use proper grammar and handle adversity with unselfish common sense. Lewis Collins—known for his many Westerns—directed. Hollywood had its influence on this film, but these mid-century people actually existed in smaller cities across the United States. In five years, MGM’s Blackboard Jungle will portray a harsher rebellion far removed from this milquetoast outing.

Opening voice-over narration describes what a hot rod is against the backdrop of stock footage at El Mirage Dry Lake in California. Edward Kay’s score with frenetic violins supports the film’s opening, reminding one of a 1930s action serial. Poignant, as the hot rods in this film are souped-up Thirties coupes. With World War Two stagnating the auto industry’s creativity, the hot rod culture was born out of a need for something completely different. The music takes a serious tone as we see an overturned hot rod along a county road. Racing in the desert is legal and safer. Street racing is for “Club Ignorant” members. The crux of the film.

Six hot rods, two rows three-abreast, race on a straight stretch of road for bragging rights with the pavement barely wide enough to stay on the concrete. Unbelievably, the road’s finish line is lined with high school fans, many standing on the edge of the pavement. Though the starting point is logically out of sight, the gang is already cheering wildly. The fans are looking across—not down—the road, but Hollywood gives the impression they have the same vantage point as the camera crew. Filmmaking at its essence. It takes the racers forever to speed past their classmates due to repeated views of the previous footage. Topping the preposterous scene off is a motorcycle cop—heading in the opposite direction—attempting to halt the speeding hot rods by waving his arms wildly. His death is averted.

James “Henry Aldridge” Lydon (left) seems to reprise his iconic character this time as the son of the town judge, Art Baker, who apparently runs the town. He is not wavering about cracking down on illegal street racing, so that the teen gene pool is not completely drained. In a rare instance, Myron Healey does not play a villain but a police officer, the older brother of Lydon. Trying to convince “Pop” to support a legally timed strip will not be easy. Lydon buys an old beater and, being level-headed, does not add any “soup.” It is just a tired dog of transportation. His best bud and comic relief, Gil Stratton, is full of sarcastic jabs about it. This from a guy whose imprinted cap design—from the front—makes it look like his hair is in curlers. Gloria Winters, Lydon’s spoken-for girl since grade school (aka elementary), is embarrassed to ride in his turtle junker. Local demon of speed, Tommy Bond (right) is a hit with the ladies and a twisted crankshaft to Lydon. Lydon and Stratton set out to piece together the fastest rod within the city limits.

Jealous, Bond steals Lydon's pride and joy, then sideswipes a sedan in town, parking the car nearby. The police and the entire town, including Winters, assume Lydon is guilty without any proof. This, back when social media was actually social. He escapes a “public hanging” when Bond jumps up in the courtroom to confess. “Judge Dad” is lenient, but orders his own son to get rid of the hot car nonetheless. But...fate moves its huge hand—my apologies to screenwriter, Stanford Whitmore. A bank robber saves the day as Lydon’s hot rod catches up with an escaping Cadillac’s license plate. A motorcycle cop and patrol car quickly catch up with Lydon and Stratton, who lead the police in the waning moments of the pursuit. This is a pretty realistically filmed chase. For his heroism under preposterous circumstances, Lydon gets a motorcycle police escort back home as the officers vouch for the kid to his father. Hot rods and law enforcement are on the same side. There is a highly contrived closing as the judge’s public apology falls on deaf ears at the drag strip’s groundbreaking ceremony.

Note: Gloria Winters is best known to Baby Boomers as Penny on the action-adventure Saturday morning show, “Sky King.” Kirby Grant starred as Schuyler "Sky" King, while Penny portrayed his niece, who was always consumed by unexpected trouble. The television version began in 1951, and the popular show ran for eight years. As for Tommy Bond, he was the original Jimmy Olson in the Superman movie serials.

THE MAN ON THE EIFFEL TOWER (1950)

This American, eighty-seven-minute noir mystery released by RKO Radio Pictures was directed by Burgess Meredith. He also stars, along with two other high-caliber actors, Charles Laughton and Franchot Tone. The original director, Irving Allen, gladly departed after a barrage of tomatoes was thrown his direction, chief among them, Laughton. The film was somewhat of a team effort as it was co-produced by Tone and Allen. A minor but noticeable point, there are no French-speaking actors within a three-mile radius of the Eiffel Tower. Even a local newsboy speaks perfect English. The fine music score by Michel Michelet provides appropriate themes, especially the first ascent up the tower. Ansco Color's overall "burnt-sienna" murkiness certainly degrades the enjoyment of this complicated, suspenseful thriller with a disjointed story and jarring edits. Still, it would not be difficult to imagine that this film might have been a celluloid classic in more capable hands. In my astute assumptions, few will bother watching this film. Hench, a few spoilers below.

The story begins with a mousey Meredith, again wearing thick eyeglasses, a prop that may have made an impression on him. There is at least one other film role where he is cast with “coke-bottle” lenses, though his most noted role was as the bookworm in the television series, The Twilight Zone. Similar to that episode, his lenses get broken after stumbling, this time over a corpse in the dark. Out of the shadows appears a pair of slacks with shoes or feet wrapped in burlap. Perhaps this unexplained detail was to establish an abnormal individual. Let the speculations begin. He taunts Meredith with his commands, and the viewer is (literally) in the dark as to their connection or why Meredith is at this location. Leaving behind numerous fingerprints and a pair of broken spectacles, Meredith is arrested for the murder.

The manic-depressive, egocentric intellectual medical student wash-out, and Meredith's mystery man is Tone. A creepy sociopath responsible for the corpse, the wealthy aunt of the spineless Robert Hutton, who nervously paid to have it done. As a “favor” to tie up any loose ends, Tone also kills the aunt’s maid, hoping to pin both murders on the unsuspecting Meredith. Blackmailing Hutton for a chunk of the inheritance is also part of his scheme. In a subplot seemingly lifted from a separate movie, Hutton completes an infidelity trio with wife, Patricia Roc, and Jean Wallace. Roc is quite aware of her husband's affair with the latter, and the ladies exchange sarcastic barbs, like two sisters who do not get along. 

Mush-mouthed Laughton plays the pipe-smoking Jules Maigret, a fictional French police detective created by writer Georges Simenon. Laughton usually steals every scene with facial expressions and body language, sometimes humorously, as in the handwriting analysis scene regarding Tone’s notes. He does not believe in Meredith’s guilt, so he arranges his prison break to have him tailed. To Laughton’s ire, his men lose him after he jumps from a bridge into the river. I guess it never occurred to them to follow his slow swim along the river’s bank and wait for him to come ashore. Laughton methodically goes about his investigation while Tone taunts and mocks his progress. First in phone calls and messages, then in person, in the tower’s open-air restaurant. Dining together, we first witness Tone’s eccentricity with his diatribe against Laughton. The tower is his sanctuary and a metaphor for being above everyone else. He suggests to Laughton that, with his seeming lack of evidence, he will never be caught.

There are a few exciting moments in the film. The first has a young William Phipps chasing Tone on Parisian rooftops. The climactic tower scene also makes for good filmmaking, but suggesting Tone can climb preposterously fast in leather dress shoes on the angled grids of iron is beyond belief. The only thing more unbelievable is having the introverted, first-time tower climber, Meredith, rapidly chase him up the tower in retribution. The ending is not what you might expect after the killer ascends to the tower’s top platform. Laughton asks him to climb down. Yet knowing Tone’s self-imposed courage and importance, maybe just let him jump.

EXPERIMENT ALCATRAZ (1950)

The best news about this film is that it makes use of only fifty-seven minutes. Distributed by RKO Pictures, it was directed by Edward “B-movie” Cahn, who turned out a good one with a small budget and a low-tier cast. Orville Hampton wrote the screenplay, with Irving Gertz's score used appropriately. Voice-over narration gives a sense of an exposé documentary, of course, but the medical research in this film is merely hypothetical. Hopeful thinking of the era to harness nuclear energy for peaceful purposes. In keeping with an RKO trend, location titles are superimposed over the given background footage so no viewer gets lost. 

John Howard, doing a respectable job here, plays the doctor who discovers a serum that may cure a fatal blood disease. Death is an alternate outcome. Leading and supporting actor, Robert Shayne, had an unmistakable vocal tone as if talking through a hollow plastic box stuffed with cotton, a wound-tight mellow sound. His perpetual smirk here will immediately suggest he is up to no good. He is one of several Alcatraz prisoners to be set free if they volunteer to take part in the Navy's experimental research. A notorious racketeer, Shayne appears to go insane after his injection of a radioactive isotope, stabbing and killing his prison pal lying in the nearby bed with a pair of scissors lifted from a Navy Lieutenant, the equally billed Joan Dixon. It reflects badly on her assumed negligence, and the Navy removes her immediately and cancels the experimental program.

Dixon’s untrained vocal delivery sounds periodical as if she is pretending to be a bad actress in a classic movie spoof. Her occasional “heavy” eyelids appear to be lacking a proper night’s rest. Dixon's short B-movie career was in the hands of Howard Hughes at RKO, who had hoped to mold her into a star. She was attractive, with a face that blends Gene Tierney and Elizabeth Taylor, according to my current eyeglass prescription. Her most famous role came a year later in the famous Roadblock.

Howard knows from repeated tests that the reaction of the serum with the isotope actually dulls the person’s emotions, not excites them to violence. He sets out to prove Shayne, who has since returned to his racketeering, is a murderer. Back in his formal wear, Shayne is quite smug about his chances of being booked for murder. To deter his investigations, Howard is pummeled repeatedly by Shayne’s muscle. The balance of the film reveals why Shayne would kill his prison pal. Not exactly an original idea, it involves the pal’s wife. Though Howard never witnesses “The End,” by the end, his research is reinstated by the Navy, and it is assumed Dixon gets her job back.

Note: Real-life Navy veteran John Howard became one of the first screen actors to commit to the new field of television. He formed a friendship with Fred MacMurray and was a frequent guest star on his Sixties television show, playing his boss. Howard transitioned into the field of specialized education, teaching English for more than twenty years.

BORDERLINE (1950)

There is not much of anything hard-hitting in this eighty-eight-minute crime noir-ette about narcotics smuggling. Directed by William Seiter with a decent screenplay by Devery Freeman, this Universal International-released B-movie eventually slipped between theater seats rather quickly. Fans of Claire Trevor or Fred MacMurray may be pleased, however. Fans of Raymond Burr, not so much, as his screen time carries less weight than he appears, playing a ruthless drug dealer in a widescreen suit. A music score by Hans Salter supports the film.

The opening establishes this extra-light comedy with Trevor slightly daft, as per Madeline Kahn some twenty years later. Trevor’s character is “Madeleine” by the way. Policewoman Trevor is being ignored as the right undercover officer to infiltrate the drug-dealing gang. With her face framed in a “V” between two male sleeves, their superior thinks she is not tawdry enough. Glancing her direction, one guy thinks she would probably pass. Two seconds later, Trevor's expression reacts to the remark. Another makes it a point to mention she was in the OSS during the war and speaks “Mexican,” training she never uses throughout the film.

The film cuts to Mexico as Salter’s score decidedly adds a theme seemingly pulled from a music library shelf labeled, “Mexican.” Trevor arrives by dusty bus, walks into a cantina, and in the very next frame, she is dancing in a chorus line! Their second assumed purposely humorous number has all six girls displaying their training from the Lucy Ricardo School of Music and Dance. A number that could have used at least one run-through backstage. None are in sync with the melody nor the difficult lyrics of 'la-la-la, la-la-la, la-la-la.' Sounding uncomfortably like barnyard chickens. Trevor seems especially out of her element. It is a funny scene. She tries, in a not-so-subtle fashion, to get Burr to make eye contact. After making several passes, at one point she kicks her left, then her right leg high on both sides of him. I imagine the breeze felt good in the stuffy nightclub.

Trevor is making inroads into Burr’s circle of noir-do-wells, but all is interrupted when MacMurray enters the film with gun in hand, confronting Burr about a shipment of narcotics. He wants credit for the sale. There is a tussle, some gunpowder, and MacMurray absconds with Trevor, assuming she is part of Burr’s inner circle. Narcotics boss, Roy Roberts, arranges for them to pose as husband and wife as they head toward the borderline of a studio set. 

I could not accept Fred MacMurray as a hardened criminal, as his first screen appearance might suggest. He does wear a frown most of the way, but I expected dry quips at any moment. The script lightens up, and not surprisingly, so does MacMurray. No real secret, owing to the comedic music score. Avoiding the Mexican authorities, they ditch their strategically muddied car. Now on foot, there are shades of It Happened One Night, or It's A Wonderful World, as both share their phony background to hide their true identity. There are a lot of assumptions between them. The last ten minutes are worth the wait as big surprises await the leads. Other than the early tussle with the big Burr, the only real excitement comes in the last two minutes.

Note: This is purely an innocuous drama/comedy movie that happens to have respected leads. A film that starts promising and ends pleasantly enough. Trevor had a flair for subtle comedy. MacMurray was no stranger to comedy, either. But as a memorable film noir crime saga, it is borderline at best. 

NIGHT AND THE CITY (1950)

Twentieth Century Fox released this interestingly creepy film noir set in London and directed by Jules Dassin. There are countless reviews of this movie’s involved storyline. Today, in hindsight, most seem to place it higher on a pedestal than I. Most of the characters have few redeeming qualities, so I found it an unpleasant story. There is no denying the great cinematography by Max Greene. One would expect nothing less of a film set in foggy London. This is Richard Widmark's film, with his co-stars coming in a distant second.

If one had been following Widmark’s career to this point, his role here would not be a surprise. Undoubtedly, the standout of the movie. His emotional range is astounding. Whether one liked his characters or not, moviegoers were familiar with his talent. He portrays a slice of humanity living a day-to-day existence. He is a desperate American con artist always planning his next moneymaker, borrowing “investment” money, and lying about his successes. Widmark’s pipe dreams put their trust in untrustworthy people, however, dooming his every venture.

His co-stars turn in credible performances. Francis Sullivan is an overweight, slimy nightclub owner who has Widmark on a leash to hustle money into his club. One would expect him to expire in this film, either by self-implosion or at the hands of an angry Widmark. His extended hysterical laughter after Widmark tells him of his wrestling scheme is a bit much. However, I imagine it was the director’s way of humiliating Widmark's character even more. Google...um, no...Googie Withers plays Sullivan’s estranged wife with schemes of her own. An underplayed performance by Herbert Lom is of note. As the promotional kingpin of the wrestling world in London, he does not take competition kindly. There are always serious consequences.

Gene Tierney may be the weakest link in the film. She barely exudes an emotion beyond sadness. She sympathetically tries to help Widmark rid himself of his habitual demons. Her character is without fault, unlike his. Opposites do not attract in this case. She could have been easily replaced without skipping a beat. Perhaps with Jane Wyman or Evelyn Keyes.

The final scene with real-life wrestler, Stanislaus Zbyszko (above), takes a back seat to no one. His bout with (fellow wrestler) Mike Mazurki packs a disgusting wallop as both men are intertwined to gain final dominance with bare-chested slaps and grunting. His death from an overworked heart, head cradled in his son's arms, is worth is gut-wrenching. With a face showing the ravages of time in and out of the ring, he gives a fine performance while personifying the film’s dark, unattractive premise.

Note: Hugh Marlowe is once again a supportive third wheel, this time for Tierney and her roller-coaster relationship with Widmark. He is preparing “pasta flambeau” when Tierney, his apartment neighbor, knocks on his door. His scream forces her entry, finding him engulfed in smoke. Judging by Marlowe’s total panic, one would expect him to be surrounded by a consuming fire of imminent death from burning pasta in water. Maybe it was supposed to be humorous, but there is no hint of it in the scene. For me, it simply establishes a weakness in his character...cooking over an oven in a turtleneck is not his thing.

ARMORED CAR ROBBERY (1950)

This sixty-seven-minute RKO Radio Pictures project is a dandy and hardly unknown to film noir geeks or fans of the lead actors. Suffice to say it is nearly flawless in execution and Charles McGraw got noticed. Naturally, there are a couple of clichés that may bring a chuckle or two from Twenty-First Century viewers. Directed by Richard Fleischer, it displays his penchant for realism with his early trademarks of location filming and attention to police procedural details. The latter point is well displayed when the authorities comb the area for clues as to where the robbers abandoned their getaway car. That scene is also enhanced by a lean screenplay with no wasted dialogue. The cinematography is outstanding as well. The score is not memorable, but at least it does not get in the way of the actors.

You do not want to get on the bad side of Detective Charles McGraw. He makes no compromises with criminals and also appears a tad weary of a daily routine of trying to apprehend them. The opening, low camera close-up of him on a phone call sets up his persona. Ruggedly handsome with a face chiseled from stone and just about as animated. He plays it exactly how his character should be. His gravelly voice helped define his film destiny, though. He had no fear of competing against the likes of Danny Kaye for a musical comedy. Today, his voice and maturity may have had him auditioning with the likes of Liam Neeson.

He and fellow partner, James Flavin, are called to the less famous Wrigley Field. The one in Los Angeles used by the farm team of the Chicago Cubs. Both detectives are miffed it is another false alarm. In reality, it was William “He’s got Bette Davis eyes” Tallman who called in the fake alarm in a pre-robbery timing to discover how long it takes for the police to get there. Assuming they left on time and there was no heavy traffic to delay them, I guess.

Tallman enlists three petty criminals to help him with the armored car robbery when it stops in front of the stadium. Steve Brodie thinks an armored car robbery will not work. Risky. He says it might work if it were run by Tallman, yet he only knows him by reputation. Awkward. Doug Fowley is married to Adele Jergens (above) who is in love with Tallman. Gene Evans finalizes the four losers in the robbery. The detailed robbery plans of who is where and when are not described in the film. Smartly, we discover the end result as it happens. What mastermind Tallman could not foresee is that McGraw was on patrol nearby and responded to the emergency call rather quickly. Evans pulls his sputtering jalopy purposely behind the men unloading the armored truck and fakes a look under the hood. He sets off an explosion of tear gas. In an exchange of bullets, Flavin succumbs, then Fowley gets seriously wounded. McGraw jumps in his car in hot pursuit of the bandits, but an evasive maneuver damages his tire. 

Tallman was adept at playing despicable criminals before he turned over a new leaf, went to law school, and met Perry Mason. He has no sympathy for the mortally wounded Fowley. To help him forget this pain and give them a chance to get through a clichéd roadblock, Tallman angrily slaps his face a few times. After the officers look over their car and give them the go-ahead, Brodie cannot get the car started. A tension "device" used countless times in crime movies. Once at their hideout, Fowley, gasping for life, demands a doctor and his share of the loot. Tallman gives him a final parting gift. Three bullets. He later gives Brodie a lesson about who is boss. After punching him in the stomach, he violently takes both hands, clapping them hard against both sides of Brodie’s head, potentially rupturing his eardrums. It is shocking and perhaps the first time this violent act was used on film. It was used again by the director in a John Payne crime story.

Jergens plays her usual role, though her employment changed from film to film. This time, she is a burlesque queen. Brodie stops in the burlesque house in hopes of getting his money from her. McGraw is there with handcuffs, and both men miss the entire performance. With no fear of the murder wrap, Brodie spills the truth about Tallman. McGraw’s young new partner, Don McQuire, volunteers to take Brodie’s place and meet “the queen.” A solid plan, except Tallman knows his partner is locked up. His gun is there to meet McQuire outside the establishment. Jergen's wired car allows the detective to audibly send location points to the tailing patrol car. Tallman is suspicious of these hints and tells him to get out, whose life is then saved by Jergens, preventing Tallman from firing a second time. Or third. Or a fourth, just to be sure.

The lovebirds attempt a getaway via a chartered plane. Tallman, not happy the plane has been recalled to the terminal, threatens the pilot at gunpoint. This is always pretty silly, and Hollywood still does it. If he shoots the pilot, they are going nowhere. Tallman grabs the suitcase of loot and, in his panic, does not see (or apparently hear) a taxiing DC-3. The suggested prop divides the cash and him in small denominations. A happy ending for McGraw. Well, not so much, judging by the grimace on his face. The happy part is when he shares a news article with McQuire, recovering from that gunshot wound. It is all about their success in the robbery. Both officers are mentioned at the bottom of the article, and as the young partner starts reading, he pretends his name is so minuscule he has to get really close to the page to see it. They both laugh.

Note: For a limited role, Don McQuire (above) does a fine job. He and McGraw hit it off by the end. Today, this movie might have had a sequel based on their chemistry if the studio gambled to make more money. But things were pleasantly different in 1950.