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.

CAUSE FOR ALARM! (1951)

To Have And To Hold Until Paranoia Do Part

This seventy-four-minute MGM film, directed by Tay Garnett, suffered a six-figure loss at the box office. But then, it did not cost much to make. The screenplay is by Mel Dinelli and Tom Lewis with the film being produced also by Lewis, Loretta Young’s second husband. Young periodically narrates the film, sharing inner thoughts about her frightening day of the week. The film quickly unfolds with a flashback to set up the friendship between Young, Barry Sullivan, and Hollywood newcomer Bruce Cowling during WW2. Cowling is pursuing Young, but it is Sullivan who makes the biggest impression on her.

I found it difficult to ignore Young's over-the-top performance at times. Maybe she was trying too hard, aware that the film was rolling. Young seems to be the wrong actress for this paranoid character. Perhaps a “stronger” actress in the mold of Anne Baxter or Patricia Neal might have toned down the hysterics. Neither, of course, was married to the producer. Then again, here, Young is “married” to Barry Sullivan, who is also paranoid. 

Sullivan has a limited role as a bedridden patient with a scripted bad heart. He is also a little touched in the head with irrational jealousy, convinced Young and his doctor, his old Navy buddy, Cowling, are having an affair and both plotting to kill him. Sullivan goes so far as to write a detailed letter to the district attorney suggesting so. His plan is to kill her before she gets to him. He tells her his whole warped plan. But before firing a shot, he collapses from a fatal heart attack. Young’s posture and expression, wedged between the door frame and dresser (lower right image above), are straight out of a Carol Burnett show skit. She is acting so hard that it is laughable. 

It is near this point that the film is cause for alarm as hysterical Young tries to get the letter back from the postman, the always befuddled or opinionated Irving Bacon. A by-the-book postal carrier with the gift of gab about the extreme heat, his sore feet, and concerns about securing his pension. The exchanges between him and Young are good, though she is obviously rattled to the point of being ridiculous. She pleads with Bacon to give her the letter, but he cannot. It is Sullivan who wrote the letter, and he must sign for it. Bacon is more than happy to take it to him. Young bursts. He instructs her to pick up the letter at the post office. Postal Superintendent Art Baker is happy to return the letter to her. Her husband just needs to fill out a form and sign it. Her irrational behavior is a red flag to Baker, who cancels their conversation.

More bad news as Sullivan's snooty and arrogant aunt shows up at the house. Young returns from the post office to find her making herself at home. She nearly has a heart attack herself when the aunt heads upstairs to see her nephew. Young's perceived rudeness sends the aunt to her car. Young's only good news in the film is when Bacon returns to inform her that the letter could not be delivered anyway. Insufficient postage. My preferred title for the film. 

Note: There is a brief uncredited appearance by Robert Easton and his pal, Carl Switzer. Both are involved in their personal automotive maintenance program.

Adding some humor and cuteness to the film is nine-year-old Brad Marrow, as "Hoppy," a popular nickname for the Western hero Hopalong Cassidy. It is Hoppy's public service to protect the neighbors from outlaws while riding his tricycle "horse." The engaging boy is not shy about asking Young for a cookie, either.

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.

THE GANGSTER (1947)

This eighty-four-minute film was directed by Gordon Wiles with production handled by King Brothers Production (Frank and Maurice). It is from a screenplay by Daniel Fuchs and Dalton Trumbo. Distributed by Allied Artists Pictures, it is one of the most stylish noir films thanks to Paul Ivano's cinematography. Just one of the many standouts in this classic film. The limited-budget film might remind you of a Playhouse 90 with a singular gigantic set.

The title role of Shubunka (an original name if there ever was one) is played by Barry Sullivan in his breakout leading role. He is excellent as a small-time numbers racketeer who arrogantly thinks he is unstoppable. His front for the racket is an ice cream shop owned by his partner, Akim Tamiroff. In hock up to his eyeballs is John Ireland, who frequents the shop pleading with Tamiroff to give him an advance. He eventually comes to blows (literally) with Tamiroff. Ireland’s wife is played by Virginia Christine who is always pleading with him to come home for the mountain-grown coffee she just percolated.

Sullivan’s infatuation with a nightclub singer, played by Belita (the real-life ballerina and ice skater) takes a toll on his finances, buying her everything. Unknown to Sullivan, a rival, Sheldon Leonard, is planning to muscle him out of business. But Sullivan refuses to believe what a frightened Tamiroff tells him. Or that Belita is in on the takeover.

Sullivan’s riveting, rapid monologue in the last half is memorable. Truly 'told with bullet force' as the poster suggests. The low camera angle pointed toward the checkerboard ceiling makes him appear bigger than he is. It is a reality check for the viewer. Angrily he comes down on the shop cashier, Joan Lorring, in an effort to justify his lifestyle to all beneath him. Viewers soon realize that this cynical character is rather insecure and all his “accomplishments” are the result of tough talk and limited resources with no lasting impact.

Notes: Perhaps strange how many European figure skaters were groomed as actresses in the first half of the twentieth century. By far the most successful was Sonja Henie, but there was Vera Ralston, and here, Belita. They apparently had Foreign appeal on ice that Hollywood moguls wanted. Tamiroff's soda jerk, Harry Morgan, offers the only light moments in the film as a man of the world who wants anyone within earshot to know how he treats a real lady. An expert on the subject with little evidence as proof.