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. 

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.

HOODLUM EMPIRE (1952)

This ninety-eight-minute “noirette” is directed by Joseph Kane and produced by Herbert J. Yates, founder of Republic Pictures, known for his many Westerns. There is an opening score by Nathan Scott—father of legendary saxophonist and composer Tom Scott—that sets a dramatic tone for the film. The word “hoodlum” is in the title, but this is not an action film. It is another entry inspired by the Kefauver Committee, a special committee of the United States Senate (1950-51) that investigated organized crime with Senate hearings, displayed as usual in a semi-documentary style. Overall, there is nothing new here and much of it clichéd. A strong performance by Luther Adler elevates the film.

Flashbacks can be appropriate or annoying, seen as a crutch to help a weak script's flow. But the frequent flashbacks here are imperative with the obvious benefit of shortening a boring Senate hearing. Though the first one may stretch your patience, each establishes facts about the past from first-hand knowledge. Facts that run contrary to two gangsters' testimonies. Giving a near-over-the-top performance during the hearings is one Senator, played by the bulldog-faced Gene Lockhart, whose angry response to the evasive answers received from the mob boss even made my face red.

The other positives are respectable performances by the central cast of John Russell, Brian Donlevy, Claire Trevor, and Forrest Tucker, with Vera Ralston, the real-life Mrs. Yates, holding her own away from the ice rink. After his uncredited roles in the 1940s, Russell somewhat split his early screen time between bad and good guy roles. His dangerously handsome looks—eyes as slits and the occasional angry furrowed V-brow—worked well for shady characters. He handles this role well, with a diverse range of restrained emotions. Trevor is once again a wisecracking third wheel in a losing romantic triangle between her former gangster boyfriend, Russell, and Ralston, a French woman he fell for overseas. Russell had his life's priorities immeasurably altered by his combat experiences. He is now engaged to be married and wants nothing more to do with the gambling racket.

Adler is accustomed to playing underworld figures and flawlessly sells the character of an iron-fisted mob boss who thinks he is invincible. He is also the uncle who raised Russell, putting the "hood" in childhood—the best uncle you could imagine as long as he gets his way. His mood swings can be sudden and violent. Just as ruthless is the tall Tucker, his gunman with zero sanctity for life. Unknown to Adler, Trevor secretly records his meetings from another office. That does not go over so well during the violent climax. In an underhanded move to keep Russell on the payroll, Adler forges Russell's name to every racketeering operation, clouding efforts to clear himself. Also not letting go is Donley, Russell's former commanding officer, now the lead Senator of the hearings. Wounded and under anesthesia, Russell deliriously blurts out some associated crime tidbits which is overheard by Donlevy in the Army's medical tent in the first flashback. His assumptions plague Russell throughout the film.

Time flies when not being flashbacked: Russell and his wife now have two children and his gas station business is thriving. But the mob attempts to force two one-arm-bandit machines inside the station's waiting room. Russell's old Army buddy and station partner, Phillip Pine, refuses the “offer” then takes a beating before Russell and two other vets return. One fist at a time, they dispense with the mob goons and throw the machines to the pavement. Adler is not pleased and later visits Russell at his home. The reunion niceties are short-lived. He quietly, almost sweetly, threatens Russell's entire family while standing over their newborn's crib. Ralston's flashback confirms his visit, which he denied under oath. The truth wins out and Donlevy's public apology for his mistreatment and skepticism about Russell rapidly ends the film with an elevated camera view of the Senate room.

KANSAS CITY CONFIDENTIAL (1952)

 

This is the first of three films teaming director Phil Karlson with John Payne in his career-changer. This film noir has captivating segments, though one may need to overlook an idealistic screenplay by George Bruce and Harry Essex. With commendable casting choices, great camera work, and an enhancing score, ninety-nine minutes never seemed so short. It was produced by Edward Small with distribution by United Artists, and it paved the way for a few "confidential" films in the Fifties. Despite some uniqueness, nearly seventy years have given it some humorous and less-than-believable scenes. Worthy of a more in-depth review, it necessitates two words I rarely want to use: spoiler alert.

Robbery mastermind, Preston Foster, with an unimaginative character name of Tim Foster, checks the timing of a floral delivery truck driven by Payne and the all-important armored bank van from his third-story office across the street. Foster puts a lot of stock in the preposterous idea that both vehicles will always arrive at precisely the same time. He checks off the time on a desk-sized stakeout map as confirmation. The large map is assumed to be a scaled architectural blueprint, yet this map is a simple outline drawing of building squares that are directly in front of the bank. A hand-drawn note on a paper napkin would have sufficed. It would suggest an exciting robbery to come by way of a rudimentary robbery so often used. But the clever setup and robbery are dispensed with right up front. The bulk of the film concerns the aftermath.

Foster hires three lowlifes for the opportunity of financial freedom if they help pull off the heist: ironically, three stereotypical villains of the era, Jack Elam, Lee Van Cleef, and Neville Brand. To their amazement, he knows their backstory specifically. Their dialogue is concise and effective. A chain smoker by birth, Elam’s character is a nervous wreck, constantly in hiding from the electric chair. He is the first to meet Foster, and it is a dandy scene. The mastermind wears a rather creepy, perhaps leather, mask when he meets with each of the three. At gunpoint, Elam angrily demands that the mask be removed. Elam is in no position to make demands. Instead, Foster slaps him back and forth several times in "burst out laughing" choreography by Elam as he jerks his head left and right in a precise metronome fashion. Van Cleef is much cooler during his prospective job interview. Quite the ladies' man—they are entranced by his eye slits—he is told not to be late, which means stay away from women. Brand is an emotionless gum-chewing killer who has nothing better to do than look numb. 

CINCH UP YOUR SUSPENDED DISBELIEF BELT

First class all the way, Foster (as Foster) has thought of everything, supplying the trio with one-size-fits-all masks, identical delivery uniforms, airline tickets for their Mexican rendezvous, and a floral delivery truck that will only contain the foursome. Foster needs the bank money to recoup his losses. It seems unfair that the artist who painted the floral company's logo on the side of the truck will get no cut of the loot. And no jail time for being an accessory. As it speeds away, awkwardly amusing is a bank guard, who, without really aiming, fires several times at the van in a crouched position with his gun at knee level. His firing range instructor has repeatedly scolded him about his ineffective stance. Slickly, the van is driven inside a big rig trailer parked at a prearranged loading dock. Once again, director Karlson has Payne, a reformed ex-con, a victim of mistaken identity, as his truck is spotted. Without a single shred of evidence, he is assumed to be part of the robbery. One sadistic detective tries to beat Payne into submission. He hates him on pure assumption before gathering any facts. So very 2020-like. Foster’s clever plan dictates that everyone keep their masks on to hide their identity from each other. One of the film’s clever devices. Each is separately ordered to get out of the semi's trailer in the middle of nowhere and told to stay south of the border until the heat is off. Probably about two years! Think about that for a moment.

After the police find the bogus floral van, Payne is released with the police chief's feeble apology. Not from the violent detective, though. “Thanks for nothin'!” is Payne's seething reply. Payne gets a bead on Elam from an informer. He needs to only follow the cigarette butts. Elam grabs Payne in another Hollywood “confrontational alley.” He demands to know why he is being followed. He growls, “You’ve been giving me the fisheye all evening!” A funny apropos coming from Elam. Payne claims innocence and then walks away, later picking up Elam's carcinogenic scent in his hotel room. The first item of business...slap Elam. Payne finds a mask in his suitcase. Elam gets slapped again. Payne’s breathy taunting pre-dates the “Dirty Harry” character by nearly two decades. Payne is on Elam like a bad stink as they await their flight to Mexico. The authorities spot Elam, who reaches for his gun. His frequent-flyer club membership is canceled. But it gives Payne an opportunity to pose as Elam. The viewer knows his charade is understandably limited. This is the halfway point in the film, and one is still pretty sure Colleen Gray is in this movie.

Since the robbery, Foster (as Foster) has been enjoying his retirement as a pipe-smoking fisher of errant men. A longtime friend and insurance investigator, Howard Negley, shows up by invitation. We finally learn that Foster is a veteran cop, explaining his background knowledge of his accomplices. He informs Negley that new “evidence” will help him crack the two-year-old bank robbery with the credit—Foster's double-cross of his three stooges—going on his resumé. It is the first mention of his daughter, Gray, who has been waiting for her cue to enter the film while studying her script and bar exam. Despite her short screen time, being the singular female lead, and her notable work in earlier films, it probably accounts for her star billing, whether negotiated or paid for. She grows fond of Payne during the same southern flight. Purely scripted coincidence. She eventually mentions his “undercover” name to dear old Dad. His eyes suddenly get suspicious, knowing full well she could not have been charmed by “Fisheye Elam.” 

Payne is pummeled by the pugilistic team of Cleef and Brand, the latter having met Elam before. There is another usage of the specific violent and painful act as  Cleef’s left and right palms bang hard against Payne’s ears. Cleef repeatedly refers sarcastically to Payne at this point as “pal-zee,” after being decked by Payne earlier. As luck would have it, Gray shows up during a pummeling pause, and the two thugs, sweating profusely, cordially leave. Gray assumes a serious “conversation” was taking place. She and Payne have little to say to each other. At this point, every male identity starts to unravel. Gray is relieved to learn the truth about Payne as Negley sets the record straight. Confidentially, of course.

Note: Elam wants to buy some cigarettes at the airport. I always thought it strange that some of those height-challenged machines had a large mirror, usually round, on the front. Apparently, for men to nonchalantly check their fly.

WALK EAST ON BEACON (1952)

Directed by Alfred Werker with a screenplay inspired by a J. Edgar Hoover article on the case of treason against Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, this ninety-eight-minute Columbia Pictures release uses a pseudo-documentary format like so many low-budget FBI-themed films of the era. It is melodramatically narrated by the then-familiar voice of Westbrook Van Vorhees. Without frequent narration, it might be difficult to keep track of the many characters or procedural shifts in the film. To help sell the authenticity, the narration includes a superimposed “date stamp” as events unfold. Canadian composer Louis Applebaum, known for his documentaries and short films, wrote the score. There are few actors of note here, but three are mentioned below. 

An FBI agent, pre-Senator George Murphy (center above), is assigned to locate the Communist spies behind a plot to infiltrate a secret government project on a high-speed, basement-sized, IBM Selective Sequence Electronic Calculator. Murphy comes off genuine in his last Hollywood role, and he adds credence to the film. The Communists’ plan is to extort information from a top mathematician, played by Finlay Currie, with the added incentive that his son will remain a hostage in East Berlin until he surrenders the information they want. The film highlights cutting-edge investigative work of the FBI, like car spotlights—pre-GoPro days—converted to nifty concealed cameras. After reviewing an undercover film of a suspicious male-to-female exchange in a park, the bureau sends out a police bulletin about a woman who carries a shoulder-strapped purse and has a peculiar walk. This would be Virginia Gilmore (pictured with Currie below). I could never determine the cause for her walking—perhaps only a broken heel—nor did the director provide any clues. Gilmore may be the one actress who could pass as Jane Greer, given the correct angle and hairstyle.

As suspected during this era, Soviet operatives met secretly, hiding under the guise of legitimate businesses. Their operations make up a good chunk of the film. The FBI shows a few frames of silent surveillance film of suspect Communists to members of a Boston school of international lip reading to determine their nationality and conversations. The information gleaned suggests a late-night escape along the Atlantic shoreline. Some fairly tense moments as the Navy and Coast Guard pinpointed the exact location of the cabin cruiser. The end of the film wraps in quick order as Applebaum’s score cranks up the intensity. Currie barely escapes with his life, his son is actually released, and the Moscow mastermind is apprehended for a positive climax.

Note: Noted director, George Roy Hill, in his first of four acting gigs, has the unenviable role as the suggested Julius Rosenberg. Louisa Horton plays his wife. Both have fictitious character names in the film to protect the guilty. Finally, this film is perhaps one of only a handful—if not the only one—that makes reference to J. Edgar Hoover’s first name, John.

MACAO (1952)

You are not alone if you think this might be a follow-up to His Kind of Woman, released the previous year, or perhaps its backstory from The Las Vegas Story, released the same year. The film opens with a voice-over introduction about Macao being its own Las Vegas. Coincidence? Of the three RKO Radio Pictures, “Woman” was superior to this box office failure. Jane Russell seemingly uses a slightly altered script and wardrobe of a nightclub singer looking for a gig while snarling a few lame comebacks to any advancing male. Despite its star power, this eighty-one-minute film plays out slower than a one-person rickshaw. That responsibility falls heavily on director Josef von Sternberg, who had few fans among the cast. The screenplay by Bernard Schoenfeld and Stanley Rubin did not make this a memorable experience, either. Everyone’s low-key performance is sleep-inducing, and it takes nearly sixty minutes to get enough energy to overcome narcolepsy. Producer Alex Gottlieb hired the uncredited Nicholas Ray to step in and revitalize the climactic fight scene between Robert Mitchum and Brad Dexter. The result is not noteworthy, so I can only imagine how Sternberg originally planned it.

Memorable is Mitchum's chemistry opposite Russell, his kind of woman. He always earns his salary but glides through this film to ensure his house payment is on time. His trademark walking, as if his knees bend fore and aft, skims across floors with a manikin's upper body. He plays a laid-back drifter avoiding authorities in America. Russell is the only detail that he and Dexter have in common.

Painted into a familiar white strapless dress, Russell could never be called diminutive at 5’ 7” plus heels. Once again, a fabulous necklace fills the vast trapezoid below her neck. Despite a limited vocal and acting range, Russell was blessed with a fine alto voice. Though she appears to be belting out some notes, there is not an equal amount of sound coming out. The curse of early lip-syncing. Also limited is her vocal dynamic, never rising past mezzo-forte for these easy-going numbers. True enough, she was popular just standing still. Russell’s role is not precisely defined, yet she is good enough to pickpocket Mitchum’s wallet in the early going without him immediately noticing. The script subjects both to clichéd misunderstandings, making waves even in port.

Also from that “Vegas” movie is Dexter, again in his stereotypical, mid-century role. He plays the conniving casino owner and underworld boss who hires Russell to sing at his club. He appears to lack sleep for most of the film, perhaps thinking of her night and day. Though wanted by the authorities, he remains safe inside the three-mile limit of international waters. On his leash, doing his dirty work is a knife-throwing Philip Ahn and a slimy police lieutenant, Thomas Gomez, who informs him that Mitchum is an undercover cop. Jealousy over Russell, Dexter tries to bribe Mitchum into leaving Macao with the additional intention of ridding himself of the assumed detective.

William Bendix is introduced as a salesman. Not completely legit, he offers Mitchum a commission if he helps sell a stolen diamond from a necklace to Dexter, who is not interested because it is the same necklace he recently tried selling in Hong Kong. Later, mistaking Bendix for Mitchum from behind, Ahn sends a knife into an obvious protective “corkboard” under his suit coat. The knife wobbles a bit, nearly dropping from his back—Bendix has to hold it in place—before he falls. Ahn is disabled—possibly killed—improbably fast, quicker than a Vulcan nerve pinch by Mitchum’s arm around his throat. Bendix shares his final “sales pitch” with Mitchum.

Note: The three leads all have a turn at potentially funny quips. Rarely do they work all that well. However, there are a couple of noteworthy instances best suited for Mitchum. He asks Bendix what the “C” in his middle name stands for. He sheepishly replies, “Cicero. But keep it under your hat.” Understanding the obvious, Mitchum says matter-of-factly upon leaving the room, “What else would I do with it?” Mitchum is given another zinger after he delivers Dexter to the authorities in international waters. Drenched from going overboard, Mitchum climbs aboard where Russell awaits. They start to embrace, but she cautions him, “You’re all wet!” to which he replies, “You had better start getting used to me fresh out of the shower.” Their future is anchored with a kiss.

WITHOUT WARNING! (1952)

This seventy-seven-minute Allart Productions film noir falls into the unknown realm, though the year offered little, if any, exciting crime films as competition. It seems sandwiched neatly between larger-budget crime films from the prior and following years. From a story and script by William Raynor, the film does not break any new ground, but Adam Williams's sensitive performance will not disappoint. Most often in supporting roles, we witness his talent as he embodies his character's subtle mood shifts. He is first-rate. Do not pay much attention to the routine, dated police procedural segments, lab work, and the oft-used supporting voice-over narration. Focus on the camera work by Joseph Biroc, the editing by Arthur Nadel, and the powerful score by Herschel Burke Gilbert. The film was directed by Arnold Laven and shot in a semi-documentary style. There are many elemental details to this fine film, but it stumbles over a weak conclusion.

Williams is handsomely creepy as an unassuming, polite independent gardener. His living quarters add a visual to his pathetic existence—a small, run-down house in a low-income rural neighborhood overlooking the distant City of Angels. The serial killer returns exhausted with the startling realization of what he has done, yet a gentle grin emerges from his success. And he is compelled to do it all over again. On his belt hangs a leather sheath containing the sharpest garden shears in Orange County. Each month, another blonde female is found with the killer's same modus operandi. The emotionally scarred paranoiac kills, according to a police psychiatrist, in retribution for his unfaithful, equally blonde wife. One could understand his anger over his wife’s infidelity, but his psychological issues may have been simmering since his youth.

The killer has been very careful to cover any evidence. In that opening scene, he accidentally rips his suit coat and takes it to a tailor. As the next customer in line, the panic on his face indicates he realizes a piece of his coat was left behind in the motel room. He exits and returns home to incinerate the coat with his blood-stained shirt in his cast-iron stove. The guy is running out of clothes on a monthly basis. But mistakes accumulate. Tying the clues together falls on the shoulders of Edward Binns, the police detective in charge. I thought his character was a bit nonchalant, almost smirking, because he thought the murderer would be caught in short order, because his department was just that good. Yet he is no closer to solving the crimes after three weeks of investigation.

Some effective camera work is revealed through a shaky “hand-held” effect as it follows Williams wandering the streets at night, looking for his next “wife” to kill in a seedy part of town. Dressed in the only suit equipped with a pair of garden shears, he connects with his next victim in Sears Roebuck. No...in a bar. She instantly cozies up in her car with him for a night she will not remember. The following morning, Williams exits the car, appearing almost sick to his stomach. Two motorcycle cops spot the car parked illegally under a freeway overpass and investigate. In a panic, Williams gets back to the car with the officer asking what is wrong with “that dead lady.” He is asked to get out of the car, but the officer gets clobbered. Williams takes his gun and later wounds the other officer in pursuit, dumping the revolver beside the highway. Williams has played his hand at this point, and it is only about thirty minutes into the film.

After jumping off the back of a delivery truck, not too inconspicuously, he sprints on foot between rows of commercial loading docks, knocking over crates and dodging trucks to distance himself from the freeway. Mostly shot from an elevated position, Gilbert’s score is especially effective with a jazzy solo piano frantically playing only a few, repeated notes. I have always been impressed with actors of this period who are scripted to run at full speed in slick-soled leather dress shoes on concrete. Of course, unless you were playing a sport, it was what every man wore.

To entrap the murderer, blonde-haired—bleached or otherwise—undercover policewomen are sent to the streets to notice anyone fitting the killer’s tell-tale pattern of behavior. Preferably, before it is too late. Williams connects with one female officer (above) who is not particularly cool with the pressure of undercover work. They are heading to the beach, but he catches a view of a car in the rearview mirror and suspects a setup. Deviously smiling, he keeps driving up a winding road while never answering her persistent questions. She is wondering how the beach is accessible at such a high elevation. He stops. She exits, with only a cliff in front of her. In a clever turn, he pretends he is an honorable guy and tells her she can walk home from where they are, throwing her suspicions a curve. He drives to a spot where he sees her enter the tailing detective’s car. Williams confidently smiles. The police department have their man. Finding him is another matter.

Williams purchased his shears from a local greenhouse. The owner's daughter, co-star Meg Randall, is temporarily helping her father's business. “Creepy McWilliams” cannot help but stare...she has blonde hair. Randall becomes his next potential victim. The ending, frustratingly and implausibly, drags on, nearly ruining the intelligence of the film prior to this point. In addition, his final attempted murder goes against the serial killer’s pattern of late-night murders that had been established. Nevertheless, Binns and his partner arrive to find only a little neighbor girl standing by Williams' house. The reason for the interaction at all is simply for the girl to glance in the direction of Williams, crouching outdoors behind a discarded bookshelf, slightly off the property, with Randall. Perhaps hoping Williams would make a move, Binns and his partner appear to drive away. Randall finally breaks free and yells for help. As Williams begins to apply his shears, they are no match for six bullets. He was such a nice young man. Viewers only care about his fate, so the film ends instantly.

Note: This United Artists release is recommended, yet certainly not flawless. An unscripted filmed section that has no business in this film is pretty ridiculous, as Williams’ unsolved crimes become so famously exciting that people are confessing left and right for the notoriety. Among others, volunteering for incarceration is an elderly woman crocheting in the police department, or a man on the street pleading to be arrested. Any humor is redeemed during scenes with the police lab chemist. Byron Kane, playing a dry-witted police chemist who enjoys being smarter than detectives. He pours in a white powder into a glass flask and then a dark liquid. He offers some to a detective who drinks it without hesitation. Kane makes his coffee in a large Retort flask. 

THE PACE THAT THRILLS (1952)

You can thank the producer, Lewis J. Rachmil, for helping make this RKO Pictures release just sixty-three minutes long. Howard Hughes' tread marks are evident in this film, with opening dramatic action shots of motorcycle racing appearing to have been filmed a decade earlier. No music score beneath the credits, just the roar of racing. The historic motorcycle fan may like it. Plaudits go to good rear camera work right in the thick of the racing sequences. Of course, sandwiched in between are the familiar fuzzy studio-projected backgrounds of the actors' pseudo-racing." A predictable script with supporting actors, more C-movie than B-movie, it becomes simply a time-filler, as it was for me. Despite these things, the entertainment value is pretty high.

With a similar visual opening, do not confuse this film with the motorcycle gang film, The Wild One. The dweebs in this movie certainly could use some road manners, but their Clover Leaf "Sickle" Cub (as one character pronounces it) becomes a gang only to play cycle soccer, have a cola, or ride together, weaving between oncoming traffic. Or feel the thrill of your best girl hanging on for dear life when they "pack double," as those crazy cavorting young adults used to say. But it is not, as the poster suggests, murder on wheels. Death on wheels? A distinct possibility.

The movie centers around the misunderstood era of motorcycles and winning anyway you can. Bill Williams' style of racing has taken a cue from the roller derby circuit as he, quite literally, kicks challengers out of a race to win. When your company does not have the fastest bike, cheating levels the field. Encouraging “Long Leg Williams” is his boss and cycle builder, Robert Armstrong. He feels bad that Williams has to play dirty, yet he can live with that. The chief engineer and childhood friend of Williams, Michael St. Angel (RKO changing his name to Steve Flagg), is building a new cycle with fluid drive, as per Chrysler transmissions of the day, I assume. He thinks Williams is the best rider in the city limits. If Williams rides it, they are sure to win. Possibly without cheating. But one never knows. 

Enter female newspaper reporter, Carla Balenda, who is sent to do a hard-hitting story about what these nuts do on weekends. When she witnesses William's lack of riding etiquette in the ring of dirt, her story berates Williams to the point of tears. Well, unlikely. She gets a new perspective on cycling, though, when she and Flagg take to the road with other club members. There is a lot of filming as actors recite dialogue in the movie’s middle. Enough said. Flagg’s new “sickle” still has flaws to work out, but no dough to do it. Williams racks up funds by racing and stunt riding on the Daredevil circuit, county fairs, and Girl Scout cookie fundraisers. Flagg again pilots the new bike in a major race while graciously, carefully, Williams takes himself out on the final lap in a controlled crash, giving Flagg and the new cycle the win. But that is all he wins. Williams gets the girl.

NOTE: Williams is half of the acting glue that barely holds this film together. Robert Armstrong is the other half. Frank McHugh is on hand to do his trademark high, lilting laugh. Balenda holds her own, but that cannot be said of the handsome Flagg. His lines are delivered like a polished amateur. The name change did not help. A red flag that his career was not going to be remembered.

INVASION, U.S.A. (1952)

Very little has not been said about this basement-budget movie which turned in a huge box-office profit, proving that sensationalism sells. On the cutting edge of mediocrity, it is so bad it is “good.” The production cost savings of combat stock footage smothers the film and is rarely accurate or believable. This Columbia Pictures release is nothing else if not a film about hypnotic power. Mass hypnotic power. To be fair, it is a rather clever “back door” approach to a subject that was on the minds of some big metropolis movers and shakers in the early Fifties. Once the “unthinkable” happens, the director serves up a scary scenario. Scale models and burning building footage were used during the ending nuclear bomb drop on New York City. I imagine Hedda Hopper's quote on the poster rang true on opening night, which left moviegoers scrambling to locate said pants in the dark after the ending.

It is an invasion of a B-movie cast, starting with Gerald Mohr, of radio fame. He is a well-known television newscaster conducting interviews at a New York City cocktail bar for his next broadcast. Sort of his “Andy Rooney Moment,” perhaps saying, “Did you ever notice those local bar patrons?” While the broadcast news is playing on an impressively large, wall-mounted Admiral television screen, his questions are directed at an amazingly coincidental cross-section of America's wealthy who show up on cue as if in a stage play. There is the pretty socialite, escorted (or hit on) by a California industrialist, a Congressman, and a wealthy Arizona rancher. However, providing a leveler for the other side of life is Tom Kennedy, the ubiquitous bartender. This is probably the only film to include both actresses who played the original Lois Lane character on the television series.

The pivotal role goes to Dan O'Herlihy as the unknown entity and mysterious Mr. Ohman (as in Omen). His occupation is a forecaster, and Mohr jots down “meteorologist.” Biding his time reading a book entitled “Mercury,” oddly enough, his character is responsible for the film's premise. With a large brandy snifter in hand, his sonorous tone, and his experienced way of swishing around the liquid, everyone is now in a trance. From one end of the bar's counter to the other. Do not deny that this has never happened to you. He imparts words of wisdom and a Cold War warning. Many Americans want safety and security, but do not want to make any sacrifices to keep them. Through their subconsciousness, the ”invasion” unfolds. Suddenly, the news becomes catastrophically bad. Nothing has changed.

Our bar patrons scramble to do their part against the enemy. As Air Force jets scramble in retaliation, composer Albert Glasser weaves in part of the wild blue yonder “Air Force Song” in between threatening chords of angst. As if this whole premise is not preposterous enough, socialite Peggie Castle wants Mohr. They fall in love between atomic blasts. Death and Hollywood's stereotypical pessimistic outlook for the future are thrust on the cast until Kennedy brings everyone back to reality by dinging O'Herlihy's solitary snifter. Kennedy escaped that short Hypno-trance while cleaning drinking glasses. Bartenders are always cleaning glasses to the point of being paper-thin! Keeping him engaged, commenting on the news, was a clever device to fool the viewer into thinking he was in lock-step with those hypnotized and the mayhem was real. The five are thankful it was only a nightmare as O'Herlihy leaves them with his final thought-provoking comments. 

Note: On the aviation front, some American aircraft pose as Soviet planes, so it is hard to tell what the enemy is flying in all the edited confusion. Paratroopers are dropped from American aircraft, yet reports suggest these are enemy troops. Making it even more confusing, aside from the muddy film clips, massive amounts of Boeing B-29s pose as the reverse-engineered Tupolev Tu-4 Soviet bombers, dropping A-bombs at will. “Bomps Avey!” A plane that did not have enough range to ever hope of returning to their homeland, perhaps crashing in some American suburb or factory instead. One bit of aviation accuracy, if you are keeping track of what the good guys are flying, is United Kingdom footage of the Intercontinental Convair B-36D bombers taking off, representing one deterrent to further aggression.

HIAWATHA (1952)

Based on Longfellow's 1855 epic poem, at times this film seems sincere about its treatment of the story with filming locations setting a wonderful tone. Composer Marlin Skiles' score takes the film up a notch, mostly complimenting the location and light action scenes. The movie opens with beautiful visuals and a soothing voice-over reading of a poem, after a fashion. Considering its potential, the low budget is pretty well hidden. Until the actors show up. As an uninterrupted segue from poem to film, the main credits are uniquely held until the end so the viewer stays in the moment. This was the last film produced by Monogram Pictures.

The casting department's budget was thin. An obvious reason for a forgettable film. Most of the cast sound like they just completed their first month at a New York school of drama. The actor pictured (above, top) may be a Manhatten insurance salesman. The main leads, Vincent Edwards, Keith Larsen, and Yvette Dugay, each wearing identical non-gender Indian wigs, do not totally embarrass themselves, however. Edwards seems to fit the part of the even-tempered, peaceful tribesman after a right-of-passage ceremony stripped him of all his chest hairs. He definitely has more charisma than a cigar store Indian. Larsen delivers his lines as if it were the opening night of a melodramatic stage play. With tribal names like Pukkeewis, Megissogwon, Chibiabos, and Mudjekeewis, you better have an encyclopedia handy. Hats off to the canoes. I liked their period appearance though adapted from modern ones. I will say, the arrows shot into a couple of barebacks are very realistically done.

Selected by the Ojibway council, Edwards/Hiawatha is sent on a peace mission to the Dakotah tribe. Fellow tribesman, Larsen, insists Edwards is a weak coward because he is so nice and even-tempered. Larsen constantly spreads fake news and real arrows to undermine Edward's mission so he can elevate himself in the eyes of the tribe. Edwards has a choreographed fight with a black bear costume and you will burst out laughing when the bear takes an arrow from one Dakotah, who comes to Edwards' aide. While recovering, you witness one of the fastest courtships in film history as Dugay/Minnehaha falls in love with Edwards after only their second scene together. She is all "gitche gumee" about him. The subsequent wedding is clouded by a manufactured war between the two tribes, instigated, naturally, by Larsen, who prefers to make war, not love. Acceptance and peace win out and war is averted as Larsen gets justice thrust upon him once and for all. Rest assured, Edwards and Dugay will one day have a tribe of "mini-hahas" running around.

THE TURNING POINT (1952)

This eighty-five-minute Paramount Pictures release grabs you from the start with escort sirens blaring as district attorney, Edmond O’Brien, arrives in court with breaking news about inroads to bring down a crime syndicate, run by Ed Begley. Not as optimistic is a news reporter and his childhood friend, William Holden, who is skeptical of O’Brien’s approach. Begley has half of San Francisco in his pocket and Holden can confirm it. Caught between Holden and O’Brien is the latter’s assistant and possible girl, Alexis Smith. Holden and Smith get off to a rocky start but it is clear her future could result in better-looking children than with O’Brien. The film's well-worn screenplay by Warren Duff is enhanced by William Dieterle's direction making for an excellent, believable, and fast-paced movie.

When O’Brien’s father, career cop Tom Tully, is selected as lead investigator, he balks at first. We quickly learn why as cynical Holden decides to tail him to meetings with Begley and crew. Meanwhile, O’Brien is grilling Begley in a hearing and the situation looks bleak for Begley. The DA reveals his shadow company, on the ground floor of multi-purpose apartments. Begley’s books are located there. With the DA aligning the facts and soon connecting the dots, just burning the books is an obvious option. Begley makes the snap decision to blow up the entire building. Everyone will blame it on a recent report that the building had faulty gas lines. But even his henchmen, Ted de Corsia for one, is appalled he would do such a thing. In a ruthless, selfish, and terrorist act, the entire building is set ablaze with surviving men, women, and children moaning and crying in the explosion’s aftermath. This alone is justification for the film receiving an advisory in some advertisements.

O’Brien soon arrives and becomes a pivotal scene for him and places an otherwise standard script to the top. He feels his pressure on Begley is responsible for the carnage and he is ready to throw away all his hard work. Holden challenges him not to give up and in a huge blow of truth, reveals his father’s involvement and his demise was planned by Begley, not a random robbery shooting. A turning point. Enter Neville Brand, in his usual early psychotic hitman role, hired to take out their most dangerous foe, Holden, in the midst of a boxing arena. Good luck. The match ends early in a knockout, leaving Holden obscured by the exiting crowd.

Note: Stellar performances by A-list actors is the main reason this film might be outside the B-movie category. O’Brien especially reigns in his acting skills to a perfect level. Unsurprisingly, Ray Teal is in this film as he seemingly was in every other film for over forty years. Finally, Carolyn Jones made her motion picture debut in the film.