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.

THE WALKING TARGET (1960)

A California State Prison warden opens this crime drama like so many movies before it, warning the prisoner, Ron Foster, that the 260 grand he hid after a robbery five years before will bestow upon him the film's title. Reluctantly, he signs the prisoner's release, and Foster finds himself in the arms of his former girl, Merry Anders, right out of the gate—literally. He cools her jets by asking where she has been for five years. Not one visit. Not one cake. This lady has never used an oven. Like her current favorite boyfriend, Robert Christopher—whose faux excitement of reuniting with Foster is short-lived—she has ulterior motives. They want that money. Unlike these two, Foster later reveals he has a beating heart.

Outside the no-fault cast, a bit of stunt driving in Ford Motor Company's models features prominently, and the matched studio prop car scenery out the rear window is logical and authentic. Less so is the obvious, poorly edited stuntman choreography during two fight scenes. Taking the sting out of any crime film, the misplaced music played under closing credits by an otherwise competent score by Paul Sawtell and Bert Shefter, befits an old Bob Hope comedy-mystery from the past decade.

Attesting to the warden's astute judgment of character, a number of people are on the ex-con's heels, most notably Harp McQuire. He plays a detective, a condescending, tough-talking, wisecracking detective cliché. He stands out in the film for being the only unintended levity in the film. He loathes Foster until the contrived cafe ending. Barry Kroeger, not surprisingly, plays a mob boss with only three scenes to his credit. That is all he needs to establish his character. Weasel Christopher now works as his inside man. Anders essentially disappears from the film past the halfway point.

A flashback explains where the money was cleverly hidden. Neither of Foster's partners in the heist survived, one leaving behind a widow, Joan Evans—in her final film—whose physical presence is her acting weak point. Foster's deep remorse for the robbery's outcome has weighed heavily on his conscience. He tracks her to an Arizona cafe she operates to give her the share due to her late husband. She wants no part of the stolen money. Soon, everyone knows where she is, and a cafe confrontation between Kroeger, Christopher, McQuire, and Foster ignites. Humorously, before going into the cafe, Kroeger instructs his henchmen, “Check the silencers to make sure they're working.” I expected them to place the guns to their ear to confirm this. The bullets are unrealistically quiet, with three or four cast members going down just as quietly. Because of return fire, McQuire gets tabbed, but the rapid closing suggests he survives.

Notes: Director Edward L. Cahn churned out numerous films like this one. Decent crime films possess all the elements that should make for a memorable movie. Unfortunately, the premise had been done so often—usually, with the grit this film lacks—it has been universally forgotten. This tidy film is produced by Robert E. Kent Productions—as Zenith Pictures—for Edward Small, the executive producer. Small or Kent could produce realism in their pictures in spite of stale scripts and a low-visibility cast. Foster and McQuire team up again after their earlier Robert Kent Production, Cage of Evil. Talk around the office water cooler probably did not include this film, though television's Foster or Anders might have garnered mention. This film marks three in a row with director Cahn in Foster's sparse movie career. The seventy-five-minute film was distributed by United Artists.

FORGOTTEN FILMS: TV TRANSITION

Though typically overshadowed by Hollywood's A-list, there were respectable performances by numerous actors and actresses who never became major film stars. A common career shift was to the new medium of television. These periodic posts offer insight into their transition.

Patricia Blair: Patsy Lou Blake (1933-2013)

Like numerous attractive female actresses of the era, Patricia Blair got noticed first as a model. The photogenic Blair signed a contract with Warner Brothers in the mid-Fifties, later being picked up by MGM in 1959. She appeared as a second female lead—a common occurrence—in such standards as Jump Into Hell (1955), an uncredited role in The McConnell Story (1955) followed by Crime Against Joe (1956) alongside John Bromfield and Julie London. She played the devoted girlfriend of escaped convict and heroin dealer, Vince Edwards, in City of Fear (1959), a well-produced thriller with unintentionally funny moments. He steals a canister of what he believes to be experimental heroin—worth a fortune and Blair is all-in. In reality, it is a highly contagious radioactive isotope. Next came the low-budget caper, Cage of Evil (1960), playing the self-serving love interest and temptress of police detective, Ron Foster. Her second-tier productions did little to strengthen her film career so it was back to the small screen.

Television was already a big part of her resume when she became a semi-regular for one season on The Rifleman (1958) as the spunky love interest and businesswoman, Lou Mallory. Adding her seemed like a last-ditch effort to advance the series. Unfortunately, the move spelled an end to one of the series’s strongest points—the singular father and son relationship. Her most popular recurring role was playing the wife of frontiersman, Daniel Boone, on the long-running, highly-fictionalized series starring Fess Parker. Outside of Parker's 165 appearances, she had the most credits with 118 until the show ended in 1970.

For the Texas-born beauty there were single appearances on the “DOA” comedy-western, Dusty's Trail (1973) starring Bob Denver and the more promising, yet short-lived, Petrocelli (1975). Her last television role was her one appearance in the popular comedy, Me and My Girl (1988). After retirement, she produced industrial trade shows, echoing the business savvy of Miss Mallory of North Fork fame.

FORGOTTEN FILMS: TV TRANSITION

Though typically overshadowed by Hollywood's A-list, there were respectable performances by numerous actors and actresses who never became major film stars. A common occurrence was their transition to the new medium of television, often becoming familiar faces in homes across America. These periodic posts offer insight into their transition.

Peggie Castle: Peggy Blair (1927-73)

Peggie Castle had a brief career in B-grade films typically playing a conniving second love interest or a woman on the wrong side of the law. She signed a seven-year contract with Universal-International and made her film debut—as Peggy Call—in the 1947 film, When a Girl's Beautiful. In 1949, the 5’ 7” model was voted "Miss Classy Chassis" by members of the United Automobile Workers Union from seven Western states. Just one of the modeling titles bestowed upon her during the period. She continued with uncredited or supporting roles in a number of forgotten films until landing a lead role as a socialite in Invasion U.S.A. (1952), a low-budget film concerning the power of hypnosis and its mind-altering perceptions about a third world war. Then came a solid role in the gripping crime noir, 99 River Street (1953) opposite John Payne, in which her character meets an untimely demise at the hands of Brad Dexter. Westerns became a staple as she was assigned the female lead in Jesse James’ Women (1954) and the starring role of, Two-Gun Lady (1955). Both far-fetched and forgettable.

Her car logically turned to television and the western was her stock and trade. She appeared on Cheyenne (1955-60). In one episode, Fury at Rio Hondo (1956), she was delightfully playful as a singer and pickpocket nicknamed “Mississippi.” Castle tapped into her roots for a pretty convincing Virginia accent. She rejoined John Payne twice on his western series, The Restless Gun (1958-59) before a regular role in the more popular series, Lawman (1959-62) in the second season. With little surprise, she was the owner of The Birdcage Saloon, giving stars John Russell and Peter Brown someplace to hang out. She left show business after the show’s cancellation therein struggling for the next decade with alcoholism.

Note: Born in the small town of Appalachia, Virginia, her characters came across as a woman to reckon with more than a dainty flower as her alto vocal range with scripted caustic remarks fitting her film noir roles. From an acting standpoint, she never embarrassed herself on screen. Indeed, her performance could be considered the most memorable in some of her low-budget productions.

FORGOTTEN FILMS: TV TRANSITION

Though typically overshadowed by Hollywood's A-list, there were respectable performances by numerous actors and actresses who never became major film stars. A common occurrence was their transition to the new medium of television, often becoming familiar faces in homes across America. These periodic posts offer insight into their transition.

John Bromfield: Farron Bromfield (1922-2005)

John Bromfield was a leading man in B-movies during the mid to late 1950s who possessed a fine voice and a square-jawed handsomeness. While still in his mid-twenties he became a contract player for Paramount Pictures. His early acting gigs placed him shoulder-to-shoulder with some big names in Sorry, Wrong Number (1948) and Rope of Sand (1949). Bromfield was an obvious candidate for leading man status by mid-century. His brief career churned out such forgotten films for Bel-Air Productions as, The Big Bluff (1955), Three Bad Sisters (1956), and Crime Against Joe (1956), co-starring another transition to television, actress-singer Julie London. Like most of these features, the film possessed some unintentionally funny moments in between London’s comatose performance. A decent script and on-location filming helped make Hot Cars (1956) his most authentic of the era. His role for Universal International Pictures, Revenge of the Creature (1955),  “earned” him cult status, after a fashion.

Bromfield’s transition to television was instant, bringing him notoriety from living rooms across America. The syndicated modern-day western series, The Sheriff of Cochise (1956-60) was a big success as officer Frank Morgan chased bandits by station wagon, not on horseback. The Chrysler Corporation was a sponsor and late episode viewers could see a DeSoto Fireflite Explorer station wagon complete with a shotgun clipped to the driver's side door panel. Due to the show’s success—thanks to Bromfield, location filming and accurate portrayal of law enforcement—he was made an honorary deputy by the real sheriff of Cochise County. Morgan was promoted to U.S. Marshall status and the entire state of Arizona was under his purview and the third season gained a new title, U.S. Marshal. Bromfield embraced the television medium and the show wholeheartedly. His co-star for one season, Stan Jones, playing Deputy Harry Olson, was the creator of the series.

Note: Bromfield was born in South Bend, Indiana, and soon developed strong athleticism. Hollywood knew him as a health enthusiast. Female fans knew him as a hunk. After leaving acting abruptly in 1960, he produced sports shows. Before being discovered by an acting agent he was a tuna fisherman. He returned to those roots in retirement as a commercial fisherman off Newport Beach.

HIGHWAY 301 (1950)

Produced by Bryan Foy with a screenplay by Andrew Stone, who also directed, Warner Brothers released this disturbing eighty-three-minute B-movie noir starring a real-life bad boy, Steven Cochran. The film made a sizable profit. Narration by actor Edmon Ryan, also playing a detective, provides background in pseudo-documentary fashion. Appropriate as this film is a twenty-year update on the crime spree in the Thirties by the Tri-State Gang through the nation's east coast. So the viewer is not exiting the highway that connects three states any time soon. Common for the era of low-budget crime films are comments by three of the east coast's Governors that suggest the tri-state crime is once and for all finished.

The film has all the noir visuals one would expect but it is not perfect. Standard fare in one sense, the film holds one's attention with a well-paced script. Cochran is a ruthless gang leader and cold-blooded killer. The film was a bit of a shocker during its day. His (once) girlfriend is making disparaging remarks about the truth behind the gang's activities. There are startling scenes as he tracks her down in her attempt to leave town. The apartment's elevator ascends to where she waits. As the elevator doors open, he shoots her in the back while she heads for the stairs. Needless to say, the elevator operator is a bit shaky when trying to hit the down button. Noted is the film debut of television's perennial bad guy, Robert Webber. His girl is Gaby André. After discovering the gang's real business, she wants out. There are tense scenes as she attempts to escape from Cochran. Scenes where composer William Lava does his best Dimitri Tiompkin impression. The future gets bleak for two others in the gang after playing dodge bullet with the police. B-movie regular, Richard Egan, has a small role as a fourth wheel in the gang, on-call as needed. Virginia Grey's character cannot be without a portable radio and her favorite program: organ music. Grey provides the wisecracks. With André recovering from a Cochran bullet in the hospital, he devises a ridiculous plan to infiltrate the hospital to finish her off. He thrusts Grey into a role as a newspaper reporter with a handgun and finds herself quickly in over her head with Ryan stationed next to André's room. Her constant lying buries her. After a shootout escaping the hospital, Wally Cassell's character accepts a bullet or two. Cochran meets a more definitive end facing down...well...it is worth the wait.

Note: Virginia Grey always reminded me of a bad composite drawing of Loretta Young and Lucille Ball.