SUDDENLY (1955)

Directed by Lewis Allen, with a screenplay by Richard Sale from his 1943 story, Active Duty, this film was distributed by United Artists. Hardly unknown to anyone with access to the Internet or a Sinatra fan, the crooner capitalizes on his Oscar performance the year before. He is riveting as a big-shot contract killer whose self-imposed bravado in World War II does not quite ring true. My essay goes into more detail than usual to highlight the good aspects and call attention to some gullible moments. Based on today's film buff familiarity, spoiler alerts are unnecessary. The premise falls into the noir slot because of the content. Do not expect dark, shadowy visuals in the sunny California desert.

In his second credited film role, television’s Paul Wexler plays a deputy sheriff who opens the movie with a wooden delivery and bass voice belying such a narrow guy. He gets the film off to a shaky B-movie start with an attempt at local humor about the town's name to a motorist. However, the film quickly gathers momentum as David Raksin’s score fires up. His complex composition during the opening bars features soaring brass and dissonant strings suggesting something is about to happen. The score quickly shifts to represent a bustling small town. In a slice of chaotic realism, the railroad telegraph operator interprets a top-secret message of national significance. Caught off guard by the urgency, he habitually blurts, 'Good. Night. Shirt!' I like his creative use of words. For those under fifty, "nightshirts" were essentially knee-length T-shirts to sleep in.

Co-starring in the film is Sterling Hayden, the chief of police who knows instinctively what to do. Anytime. The Secret Service arrives, headed by the ever-present Willis Bouchey, who coordinates with local officials to make the President's stopover secure. He is surprised to learn that his old boss, James Gleason, lives nearby and would like to see him. Gleason's on-screen daughter and grandson, played by Nancy Gates and Kim Charney respectively, live with him. Her son and Hayden get along quite well. The boy has his eye on a toy gun inside a window display—Gates will have none of it—to pretend he is Hayden or his grandpa, a former Secret Service agent for President Coolidge. A grieving war widow, Gates despises guns and is hesitant to move on with any new relationship. The film's believability is at an all-time high at this point.

FASTEN YOUR SUSPENDED DISBELIEF SEAT BELT

Sinatra, along with his accomplices, Christopher Dark, and actor/voice-over artist, Paul Frees, arrive at Gleason's house ahead of schedule with phony FBI credentials. Gleason wonders what the FBI is doing on this type of assignment. As Hayden and Bouchey approach, the trio hides in an adjoining room. Out pops 'ol Blue Eyes with Bouchey going for his gun, who is the first to go down. Hayden takes a bullet in the arm, breaking a bone, which needs to be reset. He asks the smirking Sinatra to do it but he replies, 'You couldn’t take it.' Hayden insists. Sinatra, sensing a gruesome delight coming his way tells him, 'Hold on brave boy.' One hard yank and a smile erupts. Not a peep out of Hayden. A little man in every sense of the word, Hayden sizes him up pretty quickly. It is interesting to note the size difference between the two when standing toe to toe. Surely a subliminal message.

Perhaps overlooked in editing or simply badly staged, the house, when viewed from the depot, appears to be about an eighth of a mile up a hillside. But viewed from the house, the depot is directly across the tracks! Sinatra was counting on a wooden table to screw to the floor and provide stability for his scoped rifle. Instead, he has to settle on Gleason’s metal table. Considering how close Sinatra is to the depot, a scope will be useless. Lazy Frees whines about the hassle of bolting everything down. He suggests that a “Tommy” gun would work just as well. Here is a guy who knows the distance to the depot. Like Tonto to his Lone Ranger, Frees is told to go into town and see what is happening. He whines. Frees gets questioned by Wexler, loses his cool and the deputy gets wounded. The coward does not get far, groaning and whining as he goes down from, ironically, one of his beloved “Tommy” guns.

Gleason was in the process of fixing his television but ended up calling their local repairman. Using his past field training, he sets up the exciting climax by suggesting the clueless repairman clamp the wires—the 5,000-volt ones—to the metal table for better “reception.” Sinatra seems annoyed by all the background electronic gibberish. Gleason fakes an angina attack with the grandson fetching his pills in the next room. After grabbing the pills, the lad swaps his toy gun for Gleason's real one. The geezer “accidentally” spills his cup of water on the floor near the metal table. The shallow puddle goes unnoticed. Dark, who just prior wanted to call the whole thing off and make a run for it, (suddenly) is excited to view the shot through the gun’s scope. He will get a microscopic view of a Philips head screw in the depot's sign! With his soles sufficiently wet and the rifle gripped, his soul is sent into the afterlife. His involuntary reflexes repeatedly pull the trigger and their location is no longer a secret. Sinatra sees the sparks, yanks off the clamp, pushes dead Dark out of the way, and rapidly steps up to the rifle in fear of missing the shot. Hayden throws a heavy ceramic ashtray at Sinatra’s spine, and then Charney, the little pistol, takes an errant shot. He tosses the revolver across the carpet.

Not phased by all the personal attention from the rear, Sinatra grins, suggesting he is locked in, ready to fire. Except the train does not intend to stop thanks to a stool pigeon's tip about the assassination plot. Had it stopped, all passengers would have been hidden from his view by exiting from the opposite side of the coach! His face goes into shock. The scene sets up beautifully delivered lines for Sinatra. In utter bewilderment, almost to tears realizing his moment of glory is gone, he hesitantly and quietly says, 'It didn’t stop. It. Didn’t. Stop.' He quickly pivots, facing the center of the room, and shouts, 'It didn’t stop!' Gates delivers an accurate second bullet (suddenly) realizing a gun can be a crime deterrent.

Note: Though not flawless as noted, it is seventy-five minutes well spent in Suddenly, California. Visually it is a time capsule of small-town America, the storefronts and their interiors, the vehicles, and the Southern Pacific Railroad. It was an era when a U.S. President made a stop, it was a rare and special event. As a testament to the era, early in the movie, Hayden asks Gates if he can pick her up for church on Sunday. Try suggesting that for any modern action movie. Incidentally, after the television is fixed, it is Paul Frees’ voice-over calling the fake baseball play-by-play.

THE BIG CHASE (1954)

The opening score beneath the title credits and Los Angeles highway footage sounds like music for a 1940s Lon Chaney Jr. horror film—ironically a supporting player in this film. The rest of the music would fit an old action serial. Few films are more aptly titled as about one-third of the movie is a climactic chase sequence that flits from car to rowboat to motorboat to helicopter, and to dress shoes.

Such as it is, the plot concerns a police officer, his expectant wife, and criminals out to steal a payroll truck. Starring again in a “limp-pert” production are actors past their career peaks, Glenn Langan, Adele Jergens, and Jim Davis. The opening amateurish dialogue between the police lieutenant, Douglas “B-movie” Kennedy, and reporter, Joe Flynn, (in a thankless role) is a weak spot yet the other unknown supporting actors think their own dialogue is not only important but terrific. As recalled by Kennedy to Flynn, it sets up a backstory about Langan and Jergens (in a role against type) back to his graduation from the police academy and the following months on the force. Kennedy is very supportive of the expectant couple and as a point of encouragement, visits them periodically. Their dialogue is also clichéd. By the way, Kennedy and Flynn wrap up the film in hokey style.

Aside from some good location filming on land and sea, there are some cheap high school drama sets during the early prison scenes. A potential riot stirs up the acting extras as they pound their tin cups on a table in front of a blank wall. Making it laughable are extras casually “photo-bombing” in front of the main actors in slow motion in the prison yard. Jim Davis plays a hardened criminal planning a big breakout. This is the last we hear about that (plot hole number one). Instead, he is released from prison and looking to reconnect with his wife and a couple of prison pals for a payroll robbery. As the chase begins, the trailing police attempt to shoot someone or something in the convertible getaway car while on the freeway. Davis’s wife is assumed to be shot dead and he takes the wheel to steer the car. Somehow, he manages to bring the car to a stop. In a surprisingly despicable act, more in tune with movies twenty years into the future, the guys push her from the car and over a cliff. Catch you later, babe! 

Then sit back for an “editing festival” as scenes jump from one location or automobile in a matter of seconds. The railroad yard sequence appears to wrap up the chase after Chaney is shot multiple times and the music fades. I was wrong. The two remaining criminals are now on foot to an awaiting row boat to Mexico. Amazingly, they trade their row boat for a motor boat abandoned in open water. In an impressive supporting performance, a Nash Ambassador patrol car comes in hot, skidding at an angle toward the camera next to a waiting police helicopter. Langan misses his child's birth as the chase continues—in Florsheims.

Note: In contrast to this movie's lead, Robert L. Lippert senior was probably present at his son's birth. It appears Junior picked up some of his father's traits. Number six of seven in his producing career, this film is by no means horrible. The film was directed by Arthur Hilton, and taking full responsibility for the mundane dialogue is the writing team of Fred Freiberger and the uncredited (by request?) Orville Hampton. The 3-D footage will have no relevance today, but it was thrust upon the viewer willy-nilly during the big chase. The producer edited that footage into this film from his film short, Bandit Island (1953). The twenty-five-minute short had no dialogue. Probably a wise choice. The above poster appears to promote Bandit Island with an overlaying poster.

THE ATOMIC KID (1954)

A crowd mentality suggests a person will typically do things in a crowd—no matter how small—that they would not do alone. I probably should have watched this silly science fiction film with a couple of friends due to my lack of laughter. I mustered a couple of chuckles, however, due to comedic visuals. The film has not aged well. The B-movie garnered lukewarm reviews when it was released, too. It is an absurd twist on actual early Fifties atomic bomb testing in the Nevada desert about two lame brain prospectors stumbling into ground zero—maybe the only science fiction film of the era that is meant to be a comedy. The thirty-four-year-old “kid,” Mickey Rooney, and his seven years older partner, Robert Strauss, have gotten lost in the desert searching for uranium. Rooney confesses to Strauss that he threw away the compass. It was broken. The needle only pointed in one direction—north. A clever line that also defines his character. They cannot agree on the purpose of a 500-foot tower with a “cabin” on top. The duo comes off as a once-popular, decade-long comedy team in their final film insult before calling it quits.

Seeking rest and food, they are encouraged by a lone house in the distance. The abandoned house with a mannequin family is there to give the researchers a vague idea of what an atomic explosion can do. However, the duo is unaware that the Nevada desert is set aside for nuclear testing. Parked beside the abandoned model home is a new Mercury with the key and a full tank of gas. I cannot explain this. Strauss, the one with big ideas, takes the car to get help, heading straight for a trench filled with military men. Having no clue why they are wildly waving their arms at him, he sheepishly waves back. Under protest, he is dragged to the safety of the trench. Staying behind in his search for a peanut butter sandwich, Rooney absurdly survives the atomic blast in an enclosed pantry. Do not try this at home. He emerges from the obliterated house seriously singed, hair smoking, and with a toasted sandwich. His voice is sped up electronically, giving him a cartoon delivery. The officials who arrive wonder if he is a 5' 2" alien. Only one-third into the movie, it is the film's funniest scene.

During Rooney's treatments, his real-life "mid-point" wife of eight, Elaine Devry (Davis), plays his attending nurse. He becomes a national phenomenon for surviving an atomic bomb blast. Somehow. After weeks of medical supervision, he needs to escape his hospital room. Way too freely. The FBI plans to follow him because their intel says the Soviets want to kidnap the kid. The two selected FBI agents cannot believe their assignment. They are left with the responsibility to pick up the atomic hitchhiker because no one else stopped. Some funny lines from the agents. Rooney arrives in Las Vegas and bumps into Devry there. Because of radioactivity exposure, he can clear out every slot machine he walks by. Outside the "inconvenient" radiation exposure, Rooney does glow in the dark when his romantic impulses increase around Devry. Perhaps the first film to use this gimmick in this manner.

In bug-eyed, bombastic Strauss form, he sets his sights on money-making deals about the peanut butter brand Rooney was eating at the time of the denotation. The kid's newfound fame could make him a fortune with a book and product endorsements. The dunderhead he is, he unwittingly teams up with a Soviet spy. Now radiation-free, Rooney unconsciously helps them capture the "head spy" by accidentally falling on him from an upper-story office window.  

Devry developed a thing for the little guy, and they get hitched. Tired of all the attention, the newlyweds take back roads across the Nevada desert, stopping at an isolated house for directions and maybe a cold drink. But the mannequins inside are of no help. Panicked, they accelerate away from another atomic test site.

Note: This eighty-six-minute film was distributed by Republic Pictures and produced by Mickey Rooney Productions from a Blake Edwards story. The music score by Van Alexander puts the odd in periodic as it flits from a symphonic string quartet during a lighthearted moment to a driving march theme during Rooney's physical tests. The film includes many familiar faces in comedy films or television: Joey Forman, Paul Dubov, and Stanley Adams. Peter Leeds and Hal March deliver funny,  sarcastic remarks as the two FBI agents. Not missing out on a single casting call is Whit Bissell.

LOOPHOLE (1954)

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

You just want McGraw hit by an iron Buick while jaywalking. 

The kind with the big toothy chrome grille.

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

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

Really, you just want McGraw hit by a bus. 

Just a smaller city transit bus.

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

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

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

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

WORLD FOR RANSOM (1954)

 

Sarcastic gumshoe, Dan Duryea, opens the film under duress from a local racketeer. Duryea yells much of his discouraged dialogue in his trademark high-register voice with its grating quality of whining. Truly the anti-hero, he complains plenty in this film. He appears to live a day-to-day existence, hoping that a positive turn of events is around the next rickshaw. His pal and polar opposite, Patric Knowles, turns out to be a double-crossing coward. His wife is played by newcomer, Marian Carr, whose breathy delivery is a bit annoying as if to give Marilyn Monroe a box office challenge. As a nightclub singer, her single number has er in top hat and tails, about midway between 1930’s Morocco and 1982’s Victor/Victoria. Later in the film, she is constantly weaving fore and aft at the waist as if trying to get enough air to breathe. Also a bit annoying and a possible subtle scene-stealer. Carr’s career was a short one.

Gene Lockhart playing an unbalanced, criminal mastermind is a bit of a stretch. Though accustomed to playing unethical businessmen, his biggest character flaw here is his arrogant, condescending attitude. He wants the secrets to the hydrogen bomb and enlists two thugs to "Shanghai" Arthur Shields, a nuclear scientist. Knowles is in this plot up to his mustache assisting the kidnapping by impersonating a military colonel. Lockhart meets with the ever-so-British Nigel Bruce—the Colonial Governor—and demands five million dollars, a sum Knowles sells his soul to get his hands on. It is Lockhart’s ransom of the century to prevent the nuclear destruction of Singapore and then some, but not the world. As a bonus, he “promises” to release Shields unharmed.

 

The climax is a fairly exciting standoff with a lot of gunplay at the kidnapper’s hideout. Duryea’s desire is to bring the errant Knowles safely back to his wife and with the help of the Major, Reginald Denny, also rescue the scientist. Knowles is not handling the stress well with multiple lies to save his hide. He shoots all his criminal associates, including Lockhart, then turns his attention to Duryea. Self-defense is called for.

The ending between Duryea and Carr is not uplifting, though he gets his face lifted from being slapped a few times. It is the demise of their friendship. She actually had a thing for the scoundrel because he never questioned her shady past. The closing scene, like the opener, has Duryea receiving wisdom from a female fortune-teller, an actress not even credited for an uncredited role.

Note: This film is the assumed continuation of the popular 1950s television series, "China Smith," starring Duryea as a mercenary adventurer. Its main notoriety is its director, Robert Aldrich, who would soon make his mark with an infamous Mike Hammer film the following year. Also, a carryover from television land is the competent—yet forgettable—score by Frank De Vol. The filming was finished well under two weeks and made the most out of a television-restrained budget. Distributed by Allied Artists Productions, it takes a while to get the blood flowing perhaps due to extending a thirty-minute series into an eighty-two-minute movie. Add to this a slightly confusing screenplay by Hugo Butler during the opening scenes. Worth it all is some excellent cinematography work by Joseph Biroc and his use of intriguing points of view and lighting contrast in sweaty Singapore. Not much stands out beyond this, so it becomes an “also-ran” within the film noir archives.

DOWN THREE DARK STREETS (1954)

Produced by Edward Small and distributed by United Artists, this film is another pseudo-documentary-style account of the FBI pursuing three cases (dark streets). Underlying the opening credits is a commanding, All-American march theme, by Paul Sawtell. The film wastes no time locking in the viewer with the murder of a gas station attendant followed by a brief, dark and suspenseful scene tracking a killer. Then it settles into melodramatic voice-over narration informing the viewer what the actors are doing, have done, or will soon do. Aside from the first-rate performances, this movie possesses nothing new for the moviegoer. Broderick Crawford is solid in this warm-up for his successful television series, Highway Patrol. Literally and figuratively, he carries a lot of weight as an agent who plays it by the book but with empathy. Working alongside Crawford is polite FBI agent, Kenneth Tobey, always excellent with a genuine professional demeanor in any of his authoritative roles. The script is pretty riveting as his story unfolds. Tobey was working on three cases, each one involving women who may or may not have a common thread. Unfortunately, he ends up with much less dialogue than Crawford. 

Woman number one, Roman, is a primary dark street. She is getting calls from an extortionist with demands threatening her and her young daughter. Roman is a nervous wreck and Crawford replaces Tobey to help discover and apprehend the extortionist. Woman number two is Martha Hyer, who tries too hard for a Best Supporting Actress nomination. As the worldly girlfriend of the guy who killed Tobey and the service station attendant in the opening, she shows every sign of trying to steal scenes from Crawford. A tough job. Marisa Pavan is woman number three. Her conversation with Crawford is methodically talkative but provides a tender moment. She is so familiar with her surroundings, that it takes a while for Crawford to realize her character is blind. Her husband, Gene Reynolds, is suspected of hot car hustling. Known car hustler and boxer, Claude Akins, is also apprehended. He and Reynolds pretend not to know each other, but when the FBI mentions Akins using Paven as a punching bag, Reynolds attacks him, fists flying. The violent tussle between them goes without a single expletive. Not that anyone would expect it during this era. But a rarity for today's films as useless words are regurgitated without any self-control.

Roman closes the film with the climactic finale. A phone call instructs her to find a hidden note at a designated location. It is the classic ransom note with individually clipped letters pasted on paper. She is to put the payoff money under the "W.” She revolves, looking for the letter, then spots the Hollywood sign up the mountain. While driving closer she double-checks the note to make sure which letter she is looking for. She really is rattled. As scripted women seemed to do in this era, she stumbles, spraining her ankle from heels that should never go off-road. The money spills out of her purse. The extortionist, a face not unfamiliar to her, grabs the money and escapes through the big "O" letter. He has a very short drive as the way down is blocked by the police. After all the creeps Crawford deals with, Roman is a breath of fresh air. As she is escorted home, he tells his partner, “Sometimes you meet some nice people in this business.” The film closes from an elevated camera position and the return of the majestic march theme. Not unlike a Highway Patrol ending.

Note: Max Showalter, using his singing career name, Casey Adams, for this film, is a persistent “friend of the family” to Ruth Roman and a bit too frequent date. His brief appearances do not lessen his importance in the film. Speaking of a bit too frequent, Jay Adler has a creepy role as Roman's sleazeball uncle who comes and goes when one least expects it. He has no relevance in the film and simply gives the audience someone else to wonder about. Suzanne Alexander has a couple of short scenes in the early going. Her acting becomes unintentionally funny. She is unable to reveal details for fear of her life. The FBI agents are at the end of their patience as she sits, constantly trying to work up some acting tears while fiddling with her noisy, tinkling charm bracelet.

SHIELD FOR MURDER (1954)

This United Artists release is a standard film noir, and there is hardly a dull moment, starting with an attention-grabbing opening. Directed by Edmond O’Brien and Howard Koch, the latter may have obliged the star to take top credit. The music score by Paul Dunlap is used sparingly and only when effective. Much like an episode of television’s Columbo, there is no surprise who is guilty of murder after the opening scene. What is unknown is how O’Brien, a sixteen-year police detective with a volatile nature, is finally brought to justice. Do not be too surprised by O'Brien's occasional overacting. It sometimes reflects badly on an otherwise versatile actor. His character may raise a viewer's blood pressure.

O'Brien covers up his deed, suggesting it was a justified but errant shooting. No one bothered to check his revolver's chamber. It would have indicated he shot three bullets, not the two, heard by passersby. Never bothered to check the distance the fatal bullet entered the deceased, either. But I digress. His false scenario could almost be legit, but for his lifting of twenty-five grand from a well-known bookie’s coat. The money hounds him throughout the film. In between the hounding, Hollywood once again portrays a male being tempted to do whatever it takes to make his girl and himself happy. Marla English is the girl employed at a nightclub. A job O'Brien loathes as she's being ogled by male patrons nightly. The loot may be his ticket to “untrue” happiness. In hopes of buying a particular home under construction for the two of them, he buries the bag of cash in his personal “dirt vault” near the foundation.

A seasoned police reporter, Herbert Butterfield, hangs around the squad room in hopes of a Pulitzer on O'Brien. He was quite pessimistic about that opening scene. O’Brien’s young partner, John Agar, refuses to believe it. O’Brien is something of a hero to him, helping turn his own wayward youth in the right direction. However, building a new house on a policeman’s salary sets off an internal siren.

Notorious bookmaker boss, Hugh Sanders wants his twenty-five grand “investment money” back and hires two private detective goons to tail O'Brien. The script gives private detectives some bad press as these two usually beat the truth out of a suspect. O'Brien is one recipient. This police hatred for private investigators was no help to Jim Rockford twenty years later. Their final shootout in a crowded indoor swimming pool set several lap records for some swimmers. Bullets flying between them—both lousy shots—with little regard for the patrons. One swimmer, prostrate on a high dive, hesitates, then decides to dive in between bullets. And they call it a health club!

Though no surprise to the viewer, there was a witness in that opening scene. What is a surprise is that the screenplay cleverly makes the witness unable to hear or speak, demanding he write down what he saw. O’Brien is the first to read the small note. Bummer. Later, he pays the old gentleman a visit to confirm the note's assertions and close a loose end. Unknown to him, the man left a master copy of his police note in his notebook. Agar finds it and plans to arrest his partner, who nearly pulls the trigger on Agar. It is at this point the viewer has confirmation that O’Brien needs serious psychological counseling. He maniacally attempts to retrieve the cash from his dirt vault after the usual high-speed night chase. He turns around with his bag of loot to face a row of headlights. Losing all reasoning, O’Brien opens fire. What he receives in return is undeniably over-the-top.

Note: As Hollywood's typical lonely woman at a bar counter, Carolyn Jones has a couple of scenes with O’Brien, though he is not good company. She could not care less. At least he is company. After they kiss, he notices an obvious large bruise on her upper right arm. He asks her where she got it. “From somebody, I guess,” she says unconcerned. “Besides, it doesn't hurt.”

THE DIAMOND WIZARD (1954)

Dennis O’Keefe’s character in this forgotten film may seem familiar. His excellent performance in the gritty T-Men seven years before was a much tougher portrayal of a U.S Treasury agent, however. Perhaps that role gave him the insight to write this film’s story as well as share in directorial duties. There is very little to fault here from an acting standpoint. O'Keefe again displays his ability to be a real charmer. Especially when it comes to a stewardess, Margaret Sheridan, whom he has met on previous flights. It is not hard to imagine that his character would be fun to be around or that he rarely has a totally bad day. He is always trying to lighten the moment with a quip. Or persistently trying to get a date. This eighty-three-minute film was produced by Gibraltar Productions and released through United Artists. The film was Britain's first in 3D. Unfortunately, moviegoers really never got their 3D money’s worth with limited opportunities to use the process. The film is a routine investigation with a slow beginning, but it is nonetheless an entertaining effort. Hang on for a worthwhile explosive ending. 

After a million dollars is stolen from a treasury vault, the trail takes O’Keefe to London, and with the assistance of Scotland Yard, they attempt to break up the racket. He and Philip Friend, the British detective he is teamed with, hit it off right out of the arrival gate. They are always on the same page, each having an eye on Sheridan. The film is a procedural account of the authorities trying to find who is behind the profiteering from the sale of synthetic diamonds.

Sheridan transferred to a London hub to be with her father, a renowned atomic scientist, busy making synthetic diamonds for industrial research in a spooky mountaintop castle rented from Dr. Frankenstein. The process is a dangerous mix of towering flames, giant dials, lights, and switches. These laboratory scenes are in stark contrast to the mundane search by O’Keefe and Friend. A few abrupt edits back and forth between the scenes can be jolting and irritating. O’Keefe’s accumulating evidence suggests the scientist’s integrity may be in doubt. Sheridan refuses to believe it.

Note: A couple of scenes to mention. One, in a later French Connection style, has O'Keefe at the top of an escalator returning fire at a criminal holding a drawstring bag full of fake diamonds. The thief first falls backward, but the escalator slowly brings him back to the top as the diamonds spill out of his bag and roll to O’Keefe’s feet. Another is the filming of a ship's funnel as her steam whistle blows. Clever if not original, the camera then pans backward to reveal simply a model on the bridge of the real ship they are on.

PRIVATE HELL 36 (1954)

This eighty-one-minute noir centers on two detective pals coming to odds when one turns to the noir side. It is an independent film produced by The Filmakers Inc team of Ida Lupino and Collier Young. Directed by Don Siegel, do not expect anything ground-breaking but it will not disappoint, thanks to a competent cast. The opening, in particular, is excellent as it leads to an off-duty detective stumbling perilously upon a store robbery. Leith Stevens' score with muted trumpets at the beginning adds a jazzy, low-key element and never overpowers the scenes. Unfortunately his best bit, the bouncy, multi-faceted tune entitled, “Daddy Long Legs,” is hidden in barely audible background music a couple of times in the film, the last being the meeting of the detective pals at a diner near the ending. Revealed in the closing minutes, 36 refers to a trailer park address. 

Detectives Howard Duff and Steve Cochran are tasked with tracking down fake fifty-dollar bills from a three hundred grand robbery. The duo first encounters two famous character actors and one less famous. King Donovan is one of the robbers and a frequent guest of the police department. His face and torso hurt after a one-sided fight of realistic proportions with Cochran in that opening sequence. Dizzy Donovan has trouble keeping his aliases straight. Another stolen fifty ends up with a pharmacist, Richard Deacon, who is questioned about it. He is well cast in a meek, unassuming role. His prescription payment from a gall bladder patient leads them to one of the best character actors in the business, Dabbs “Marv” Greer. He is, as usual, one hundred percent believable. This time as a local bartender who thinks the cops are accusing him of a crime because he had one of the bills. He is quite defensive about it. Duff has a funny line here to reassure them they are just asking where he got the fifty. He tells Greer, “Uh-uh, mind your bladder, Marv.”

The duo turns next to money enthusiast, Lupino, a nightclub singer, questioning her at length about how she came upon her fifty. She delivers a few witty lines at the expense of the detectives which Cochran finds very appealing. Against her preferred judgment, she is convinced to go along with their plan and ultimately identifies the man with the phony bills. A realistic car chase ensues with automobiles racing to the edge of tire adhesion. The fleeing thief is killed in a crash, learning too late that the mountain's “Road Closed” sign was not a mere suggestion. You might say Cochran goes over his own cliff when he pockets part of the stolen loot at the crash site. Most of it, he hopes, going to keep Lupino happy. 

Police Captain, Dean Jagger, who also opens and closes the film with sonorous voice-overs, calmly asks the cops later about the shortfall from the thief's suitcase. Cochran concocts a likely scenario. Duff sits silently fuming over his partner's blatant dishonesty. Obviously, the partners have a falling out with Cochran taking his obsessive downward spiral even lower with murder not out of the equation. The final scene offers a twist, all explained by Jagger's script. 

Notes: Ida Lupino performs part of one number, “Didn't You Know?” yet she really does not sing it. She talk-sings it, never really zeroing in on any particular note. Unlike others who must talk their way through a song because they cannot carry a tune—Eva Gabor's “Green Acres” television theme is a prime example—she was musically talented. Her song interpretation simply was a bit humorous as Cochran goes off in dreamland listening to her “talk” while the piano plays.  

Seemingly in his element, Duff earlier played a U.S. Treasury agent in the lesser-known film, Johnny Stool Pigeon, and would star as a detective in his own 1960s television show, The Felony Squad. 

THE MIAMI STORY (1954)

Columbia Pictures distributed this Clover Production noir crime film. It is a classic example of cliches and dated technology that is now humorous. Directed by Fred Sears with a story and screenplay by Robert Kent, it features a less-than-convincing introduction by Florida's then-Senator, George Smathers. He assures us that Miami has finally cleaned out the mobsters. With the actual Kefauver Senate hearings as inspiration, these docu-style crime films, with melodramatic narration, typically tell of a crime wave in a big, out-of-control city and how the crime is throttled. There are not many surprises to this oft-told gangster tale, including the unlikely way this “clean-up” actually happens. There is a mix of studio sets and some location filming for automobile buffs. You will need your suspended disbelief seat belt cinched tight, though. Fortunately, the cast saves this film from being a total disappointment. The film perks up with Barry Sullivan's first appearance.

A former Chicago gangster and now widower, Sullivan, has spent over a decade under an alias with his young son on a Midwest farm. Sullivan's former attorney, with the help of local businessmen, devises a plan to lure him out of hiding, as he is their only hope of putting the mob boss before a grand jury. Yes. He was quite a gangster. Sullivan is angry that a fake news headline purports he is back in Miami on “business.” He resists all pleas for his help until he learns that it was the mob boss, Luther Adler, who framed him for his prison term for murder. Sullivan is now committed to the plan, live or die, possibly leaving his son to review adoption papers. He is given unlimited resources and authority to do whatever it takes as local law enforcement awaits his every command in a far-fetched scenario. After twelve years of cultivating, he has not lost the gangster touch.

Not wasting any time, Sullivan confronts Adler's authority, threatening to shut him out with his own Cuban-enforced crime “family.” Adler is quite convincing in this role, uncompromising with a Teflon record. A bitter pawn of his and a wee past her prime is Adele Jergens, who looks the clichéd part. Appearing to be carrying an extra fifteen puffy pounds, I think when she is angry—which is most of the time—she eats. Which she loathes. Which in turn makes her eat. John Baer is the handsome, cold-blooded killer and right-hand man to Adler. His opening scene is also far-fetched as he shoots, from a great distance, two rival Cubans exiting an airliner. The gun is hidden inside a piece of carry-on luggage and equipped with a pop-up sight. Suspended disbelief (SD) takes center stage as the crowd never hears the two shots. Some may have assumed it was coming from a grassy knoll. Previously exiting was Beverly Garland, who now fears for her own life. The deceased were friends of hers.

In about the only real noir scene, Sullivan returns late to his apartment to find a seated female, whose face is in the shadows, pointing a gun in his direction. She seems cool. Calculating. Dangerous. How Garland got the gun or access to his apartment, we do not know. But you know what is about to happen. Sullivan overpowers her with an authentic gangster backhand, enhanced by twelve years of doing the same to a stray cow. Garland's subsequent sobbing is a bit much as it drags on. She is not sobbing for the backhand so much as her frustration to find out what is going on and where her dear sister is. They become sort of a team to get Adler, although she is not sure Sullivan is leveling with her. To his advantage, he finds out her sister is Jergens. When the sisters meet after a long absence, the hugs and kisses are soon replaced by Jergens' self-loathing and vile remarks to her baby sister. She wants something to eat. The dear rotten sister betrays her with Adler's muscle, putting Garland in the hospital after a vicious beating.

Sullivan is about to put the screws to Adler when he spots an actual newspaper headline that his son has been kidnapped. It is Adler's retaliation for the authorities shutting down his illegal gambling house. Sullivan backs off the threats in order to save his son and agrees to reopen the casino. Speaking of far-fetched, he then orders the police to place forty-pound hidden cameras inside the casino before it reopens. Ironically, hidden in the exact location of the film's studio cameras. Exactly where the action will take place. The clarity of the feed on the four-inch remote monitors in the nearby bushes is of extraordinary quality. Maybe give another tug on your SD seat belt.

After a slow-motion boat chase, of sorts, in a cove between the police and Adler's yacht, Senator Smathers is pleased with the film's outcome. Miami is finally safe for the whole family. He ain't seen nothin' yet. In a rather abrupt and slightly humorous narrated closing scene, father and son are duck hunting, reminiscent of their first scene. Our narrator wraps up the film like an old travelogue film as Garland is standing by her new stepson, each in matching plaid coats. Garland came to visit and never left. All part of Sullivan's master plan.