STREET OF CHANCE (1942)

This early film noir was directed by Jack Hively and it established a number of noir elements that would be used throughout the next decade and beyond. There are moments of excellent cinematography work by Theodor Sparkuhl as his camera may pan out to see where the action is going or for scene transitions. The closing scene, in particular, with an elevated camera, is cleverly handled. The seventy-four-minute film was produced by Sol C. Siegel for Paramount Pictures and generally received good reviews.

Burgess Meredith stars as a man who suffered amnesia nearly a year before the film begins. Not knowing who he was, he assumed a fictitious person. A subsequent blow to his head opens this film which actually eliminates that fictitious character. Yet it creates a second dose of amnesia. Somewhat humorously, and a departure from the typical amnesia gimmick, Meredith now has amnesia about his previous year with amnesia. He is left to figure out who he used to be and why he is being aggressively pursued by men in felt hats. His inner thoughts are periodically inserted as voice-overs. Though Sheldon Leonard is an all-business detective this time around, the audience nor Meredith are sure at first, given Leonard’s trademark delivery, if he is a gangster or not. All Meredith knows is Leonard’s bullets are a bit too close.

Meredith reunites with his wife after their lost year apart. Both are unclear where he has been since “going out for a quart of milk.” With not a single question about his supposed “nervous breakdown,” his former employer hires him back. It takes a couple of days, but Meredith pieces together his old life, taking a chance back on the street where he thinks his troubles started. Second-billed Claire Trevor recognizes him from the old neighborhood and provides shelter from Leonard—who suspects him of the murder of a wealthy family member whom Trevor has been a servant. She does not realize she fell in love with the guy who no longer exists. She is puzzled by his searching questions. They arrive at the mansion where he meets the family’s invalid, elderly matriarch, who was an eyewitness to the murder. Oddly, Meredith realizes she is also mute after glancing over at her...wheelchair? Or so it appears. Through a form of sign language, blinking her eyes once for yes, twice for no, Meredith discovers who committed the murder.

During the final scene, Leonard is on the premises and hears the murderer’s confession. There is a struggle with a handgun and it fires in the unintended direction—one of Hollywood’s most used devices—killing the murderer. The overhead camera boom then ascends up from the mansion’s living room seemingly bursting through the roof in the process. The camera moves with Leonard walking through the movie set and exiting the front door as the boom returns to a ground-level perspective. He lights a cigarette and moves off-screen as a distant “smoker's cough” echoes through the night. Pure speculation about that last bit.

Note: There are a couple of contrived stagings when Leonard pursues Meredith. First is when the two men pass each other on opposite sides of a hand-carried protest sign, obscuring their view of each other. On the heels of this scene, Leonard ducks into a barbershop but does not recognize Meredith behind an avalanche of shave cream.

THE CHASE (1946)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE CROOKED WAY (1949)

This is a tough film noir set in Los Angeles. The dark shadows and odd camera angles are well recorded by other reviewers, but it is John Payne’s search for his identity that makes it a little out of the ordinary. He plays a WWII veteran whose past is completely wiped away by a piece of shrapnel in his brain. Permanent amnesia. He is treated by Dr. Kemble (without the "i") at the Letterman General Hospital. Not amusing at all in 1949. He leaves the hospital with his correct first name but a new last name. He is immediately recognized and apprehended by police Lieutenant Rhys Williams. Williams assumes Payne is guilty until proven innocent. Payne plays along with no idea where it will lead. His initial meeting with Ellen Drew is an eye-opener—his former wife. Payne reveals his amnesia, but the trust is not there. She knows his past too well.

Crime boss Sonny Tufts had a long working relationship until he took the fall for Payne's crime. Tufts figures it is payback time for being set up. His performance is one to remember, but he rarely gets due credit. He is dangerous and volatile. Payne, not remembering who he is, gets reintroduced to Tufts with a beating. With help from his two goons, Tufts kicks Payne down the outside fire escape stairs. That sort of behavior from a total stranger sends a message, and Payne begins to realize that his past has some kinks to work out. The two encounters between Tufts and Williams are fun. Tufts looks quite calm and content during his self-manicures. Two drops of medicine into a glass of water help his nervous condition. Their cat-and-mouse conversations are gems. Each holding their disdain for the other in check. Seeing Williams “accidentally” knock over a pitcher of water in Tuft’s lap is beautiful.

The rotund, sandpaper-voiced tenor, Percy Helton, has a history with Payne. And pain. A man with no courage and a nagging cough. Or is it a fur ball shared with his cat, Samson? Under duress, he tries to shelter Payne in his War Surplus Store. Near the end of the film, the police have the storefront riddled with bullets to get Tufts’ and Payne’s attention. The latter is half-unconscious after several blows to the head from the former. Tufts drags Payne out the front door using him as a shield. The police demand his surrender. With no such intentions, Tufts’ maniacal rage is captured nicely in tight, sweaty close-ups. Now, in full view of the police, out crawls Helton through the door after being shot by Tufts’ men. He is the only human moving during that scene. How he could go unnoticed is funny. The police do not ask him to stop or why he was crawling through the front door with a gun. Helton manages to get an errant shot off toward Tufts, who returns a couple of accurately placed bullets. As Payne gets dropped to the sidewalk, the police force empties their chambers.

Note: This top-notch crime film was distributed by United Artists and produced by Benedict Bogeaus, and directed by Robert Florey. The screenplay is by Richard H. Landau based on the radio play "No Blade Too Sharp" by Robert Monroe. The cinematography by John Alton is superb.