UNDERTOW (1949)

Distributed by Universal Pictures, produced by Ralph Dietrich, and directed by William Castle, this film is not ground-breaking, but it does fly by thanks to a screenplay by Arthur T. Horman and Lee Loeb. Unfortunately, they offer an assumed outcome in the first ten minutes of this seventy-one-minute film. How it plays out is well handled with a couple of (obvious) surprises. The filming in Chicago may bring back memories if you lived there during this era. It is yet another B-movie noir with little to fault or remember. Paul Sawtell took the reins as the composer, but none of the themes in this movie will be hummed after the ending.

Scott Brady, doing a great job here as a handsome I-take-care-of-myself former Chicago mobster, ex-con, and war veteran, turning over a new leaf as manager of a lodge in Reno. Before leaving on a quick trip back home to Chicago and “mend a fence” or two, he spots his old friend and colleague from the Windy City, John Russell, a fellow casino owner. As both get up to speed on their seven-year separation, each is excited to share a glimpse of their engagement rings for their respective girl. Strolling through the casino, Brady accidentally bumps into vacationing Peggy Dow. Pardons are accepted, but they stumble upon each other a second time, laughing at the coincidence. 

He and Dow are so comfortable together that there is little surprise they will have a future together within the hour. She is an unassuming elementary teacher from Chicago with zero gambling experience, but has won twice with only two dice rolls. After seeing the handler change the dice after a nod from Russell, Brady makes an astute gambling decision on her behalf so she can win again. Russell is not amused and feigns his disappointment that Brady has to leave so soon. This is that ten-minute point. Based on Russell’s early film roles with his angular face and “dangerous” arching eyebrows, there is no surprise, either, that he has ulterior motives. It will be no surprise, as well, that Dow and Brady are on the same plane back to Chicago. Good odds. She may not be any good at it, but she is willing to gamble on a relationship.

No sooner than hitting the pavement from the airliner steps, Brady is met by a childhood friend, now detective, Bruce Bennett, above, with the nearly invisible Roc (Rock) Hudson in his fifty-second stint as a police detective. Bennett has orders to bring Brady in for questioning. The police captain is especially hard on Brady, accusing him of returning just to kill mob kingpin, Big Jim. The police tail him with little success. Brady reunites with his girl, Dorothy Hart, Big Jim’s niece, at Buckingham Fountain along Lake Shore Drive. Brady wants to make peace with him so they can get married. Later that night, Brady is attacked, shot in the forearm, and placed in a car across the road from a diner—a revolver placed beside him. Gadzooks! Then, perhaps the only surprise in the film, the character actor with the over-the-top Southern drawl, Robert Easton, shows up as a parking valet of sorts for the country diner. Cars are parked willy-nilly in the gravel lot, and he offers to park Brady’s car. Spotting a parked police car, Brady makes a quick exit and finds out Big Jim is suddenly not available for any future scenes, and a clichéd frame is afoot. Dow goes the extra “magnificent mile” to protect Brady, while Bennett, unfairly suspended by the captain for supporting an innocent man, has evidence to help clear Brady.

Unsurprisingly, Russell shows up in Chicago with Hart in the mansion she inherited from “Big Dead Jim.” Brady expects help from both, but she is pretty icy about it. He then notices the chunk of “ice” around her finger that Russell had shown him in Reno. Again, no surprise who orchestrated the murder and frame-up. A rapid, happy ending evolves for Brady and Dow, at least.

NOTE: Some suggest Peggy Dow was bland in this outing. Perhaps hard to argue with, casting her did seem appropriate. She is sweet in this role. Probably best she ended her three-year acting career after marrying an oil baron. Otherwise, she might have been lost in guest-starring roles after her television transition. Dorothy Hart never set a film frame on fire, either, but she should have. She is pretty one-dimensional as a devious female with hardly more than a smirk or smile. Smoki Whitfield has three brief and effective scenes as Big Jim's long-time aide, out to get whoever killed his boss. Perhaps the most memorable takeaway from the movie other than Robert Easton's obligatory performance.

CHICAGO SYNDICATE (1955)

There is a crowded Chicago commuter trainload of details to sift through during this average B-movie from Clover Productions, distributed by Columbia Pictures. The voice-over details in documentary style, plus the added dialogue, make it difficult to keep things straight at times. Probably does not matter. I have grown to appreciate Dennis O’Keefe's talents. His character here, through no fault of his own, is too amazing to be real. He knocks down the analytical accountant stereotype of a numbers cruncher. A Chicago newspaper editor, civic leaders, along with a detective, the ubiquitous John Zaremba, want him to go undercover to flesh out the syndicate responsible for killing a bookkeeper who had evidence on the syndicate’s boss, Paul Stewart. Feeling they have the wrong guy for the job, O’Keefe is totally against the dangers associated with the idea. They plan to pay him sixty grand to do it. He gives it a try. O'Keefe handles everything like an experienced secret agent. Cool under pressure and light on his feet. Fists of iron. Pencils with no erasers. Stewart is excellent as a seemingly good-natured crime czar whose only love comes from his mother. The suave insurance scammer has little fear, but his patience has its limits. He can be vicious. O’Keefe’s plan is to capture assumed microfilm to put Stewart away on tax evasion.

Speaking of hard to believe, Allison Hayes’ role has her going undercover, on her own initiative, using an alias to avenge her bookkeeping father’s death at the hands of Stewart. This is after spending time in a mental institution over the traumatic event and the subsequent suicide of her mother. O’Keefe befriends her (above) to gain access to Stewart’s nightclub. Once he is informed of who she really is, he suggests she stay out of harm’s way. But Hayes comes in handy. O’Keefe’s amazing accounting expertise places him in good favor with Stewart after the police arrange a jewel theft and a nifty insurance scam.

Double-billed with O'Keefe is Abby Lane, Stewart’s tolerable girl. She drinks too much when she is not performing with her real-life husband, Xavier Cugat. The squinty-eyed, rotund devil had a thing for a woman nearly thirty years younger. Cugat was given some lines to say. Yay. With numerous roles already under her strapless gowns, Lane does alright in the part. If you are musically inclined, you may find yourself singing her opening number, “One At a Time,” long after the movie's end. O'Keefe suggests Hayes cater to Stewart's social weaknesses, which makes Lane jealous. She threatens to reveal Stewart’s edited books. His goons do a sixty-second beating in a separate room in full earshot of all the dinner guests. Awkward. Lane comes out of the room instantly bruised by a lot of strategically placed dark, smudgy makeup and tousled hair.

In a bit of a nail-biter, Zaremba and the police arrive to catch Stewart with his account book on a tip from O'Keefe. To his dismay, Stewart burns the pages in his mommy's wood stove. With the expected knock on the door, O’Keefe volunteers to answer it. To not blow his cover, he decks Zaremba. Now horizontal, he whispers to him that the book has been burned. Both men pull off the charade. As I say, one amazing accountant. Kind of funny when Zaremba tries to enter the room, though, as he does a comical triple-take as if confused. What the...hey! Stewart knows Zaremba well, but O'Keefe covers the incident by telling him he thought he was trouble. Lane's hidden microfilm evidence is revealed, and Stewart tells O’Keefe to light a match to it. Instead, he pockets the microfilm, gives Stewart a knuckle sandwich, and makes a run for it. From her upstairs apartment window, as if expecting her son to come by any moment, Mom witnesses Stewart being brought down by police gunfire. He was such a good boy.

DANGER LIGHTS (1930)

One could easily assume the RKO cinematographers were supervised by people who love trains. No doubt, the Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Paul, and Pacific Railroad’s cooperation was a significant force in showing their first-class railroad at work. It is the most authentic steam railroad movie Hollywood has ever made. No restored museum locomotives were used. No CGI necessary. Typical of dramas in this era, there is no distraction or needed help from a music score. The filming of actual freight train operations is singularly unique, with an opening landslide expertly authentic. It is a true time capsule of an era that might otherwise remain unknown. The acting is more than satisfactory, though it is typical of 1930s melodramatic storytelling. Some scenes are treated like stage plays with cued entrances. But first and foremost, this is a railroad film which happens to have actors in it. Just the opposite of Titanic (1997), a concocted love story in which they happen to be on a "boat" that sinks. In this regard, Danger Lights stands alone. Today's viewer needs to accept this; otherwise, it will only play as an outdated, corny film with yucky, polluting trains.

Louis Wolheim, who would die suddenly one year later in real life, plays the burly rail yard boss in Miles City, Montana. A singular career man who gets things done. Nobody loafs or gets a free ride on his watch. A few boxcar hobos are quickly put to work to help clear the tracks after the aforementioned landslide. Robert Armstrong, a former railroad engineer, is one of them. Wolheim recognizes Armstrong simply needs to get his self-esteem back and hires him. Jean Arthur, Wolheim's fiancée, knows their love story is far-fetched. Her father has long desired that she would marry the hard-working, honest, and polite railroader. But he exudes all the romantic charm of a jackhammer. A steam locomotive has a more attractive face. This is where handsome, energetic Armstrong comes bounding in to fill her void. Once he and Arthur meet, it is full steam ahead, and Wolheim is uncoupled and placed on a siding. 

Few films paint a more accurate picture of a steam locomotive's “romantic” era than one scene from inside Arthur’s living room. I am not sure if miniatures were used at all or exactly how the scene was shot, but it is realistic enough. Perhaps a studio set with real train footage superimposed in the background. As curtains flutter in the summer breeze through the open windows, we see a freight train in the distance and hear the engineer’s unique, personal whistle signifying it is Armstrong to Arthur's heartfelt delight. This is authentically true as many engineers had their own recognizable, rhythmic “song.” 

The young couple decides to elope on the next train to Chicago. During the rainy night, Wolheim spots them walking down the tracks and goes into a jealous rage, pounding toward them with steel fists. Armstrong steps between two tracks as it switches, getting his shoe caught in between. Suddenly, Wolheim's anger is thwarted by what he sees. Armstrong is in the path of an approaching high-speed train. Danger lights! The big-hearted boss yanks him free, but a stuffed, limp dummy takes a nasty hit in the head by the locomotive’s cylinder. Had it been a real person, he would have died instantly. Not in Hollywood. Wolheim’s only hope of surviving his "migraine" is to get him to specialists in Chicago in record time. Armstrong volunteers. It is an eye full for locomotive fans and exciting for everyone else, including beautiful pan shots of the train crossing an iron bridge, around curves, with top-mounted cameras through cities. After returning home, the recovering Wolheim resolutely acknowledges to Arthur that his first love will always be the railroad. Though she feels guilty for not honoring his long courtship, inside, she is secretly jumping off the ceiling with joy.

Notes: There are doses of humor from Wolheim. Armstrong and Arthur have a humorous romantic encounter as he is washing up, singing a jaunty tune. But it is Hugh Herbert who must carry the torch. Herbert does double duty as the film's dialogue director and a lovable hobo who expects a great deal of respect for his position in life. He sheepishly threatens to report the railroad if he is not treated properly. Wolheim acts tough, but the old softy takes it in stride. Herbert hanging on for dear life between two rail cars during the climactic, dusty, record run to Chicago certainly cures him of wanderlust. 

THE REBEL SET (1959)

Allied Artists Pictures distributed this basement-budget crime tale for E & L Productions. A one-time offering, apparently. The only thing lowering this below other heist films of the period is the hilarious “pre-hippie” subculture. In this regard, the film could stand alone. A position it richly deserves. Thankfully brief, the lame performances are the comedic low point in the movie, though the opening jazz combo is cool enough. Dig it, daddio? Other than the opening, an innocuous score seems to be added without the director's knowledge. After an opening seemingly longer than fifteen minutes, the plot unfolds, and the film gets better. But make no mistake, this film is funnier than intended. 

Edward “Get Smart” Platt steals the film and delivers a convincing performance as a scoundrel in a silk lounging robe. A bit of humor can be found beyond the coffee house performers, thanks to quips from Ned Glass, Platt's leg man, and wristwatch fence. Platt is certainly full of himself as he frequently quotes famous literary passages, making whoever he is with feel inferior. Glass assumes he is a master chess player because he never loses. On the contrary, Platt simply handpicks customers who cannot play the game well. He appears to be the biggest Beatnik sellout. In reality, his Los Angeles coffee house provides him cover where sunglass-wearing, anti-establishment weirdos with van dikes spout poetry—after a fashion—or leotard-clad females attempt interpretative dance all in an effort to “find themselves” through overt behavior. As most surely know, bongo drums have a magical power to transform people into groovy cats. Can you dig?

Being the wise judge of character he is, Platt condescendingly hires three frequent coffeehouse losers he has been monitoring. He asks their help to rob an armored truck of one million clams during the stopover in Chicago of the Los Angeles to New York train. All three men could use a financial portfolio booster. Top-billed and obviously acting, Gregg Palmer and his wife, Kathleen Crowley, are struggling because he cannot land any acting gigs. He was lucky to get this one. She suspects he is not trying that hard. It is not that he lacks potential. He is quite believable when coming up with excuses. John Lupton has writer's block, and Don Sullivan's only achievement, barring a few suicide attempts, is being the rich brat-of-a-son to his famous actress mommy.

The slickly planned and timed professional heist during the train's four-hour layover in Chicago goes without a hitch. Assuming all things could go as planned, these scenes are feasible. Platt “shaves off” his studio beard and dons a clerical collar. A good disguise, as all the elderly ladies on board think he is swell when quoting scripture. But one cannot judge a priest by his collar.

Sullivan's greed gets the best of him, and he plans to keep the entire take for himself. When he turns up dead, Palmer suspects someone is not playing fair. Dig, my brother? He and Lupton spot a typewritten suicide note designed to quell any suspicions. But Palmer astutely blurts, “Except that looks type-written.” Yes. It certainly does. Next up, Lupton departs the speeding train against his will. Palmer, finally buckling down to something, levels with his wife about his so-called all-night casting calls, then leads a police detective to the money's suspected location. 

Palmer initiates a long—can it only be seven minutes?—foot chase to capture Platt and his money-filled duffel bag through a rail yard, in which the director never threw away any footage during editing. If it were an actual chase, both men would have been exhausted in the first minute. But filming scenes can do wonders for your stamina. Just when you think Platt will be pounced on, he escapes—his cane becomes a force to reckon with—under or over rail cars or climbing up boxcar ladders. Reset. Platt is spotted and then disappears again. Reset. They each sprint through a locomotive shop completely unnoticed. Reset. Palmer finally gets hands-on with Platt as the chase finally comes to a...no, wait...a railroad employee comes to the “reverend's” defense. After beating off the employee, Palmer is back in the chase after one wily priest for an electrifying finish.

Note: In the middle of that climactic chase, we witness an odd placement of deliberate humor. Three hobos silently crawl forward on all fours to peer out from their individual, triangularly stacked large sewer pipe sections, wondering what all the commotion is about. When they spot the railroad police, all three pop backward inside their pipe like a turtle in its shell. A scene seemingly lifted from a silent film comedy.

CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS (1953)

The slow-motion dissolving opening credits of a shimmering font seem to establish a whimsical tone. The orchestral music crescendos gently as each main credit slowly appears, then decrescendos as credits fade. Then the cycle repeats. With a complicated lead character, this movie needs to be watched more than once to catch all the nuances that make this low-budget film work. The film's pacing in the first thirty minutes was a bit frustrating, however. The cinematography by John Russell is certainly a highlight. The exception is the "Keystone Cops" rear projection of 1930s traffic as seen from a speeding (studio) police car's windscreen. The wacky, blurred footage embarrasses an otherwise solid, yet slightly quirky, film. The sets nicely masquerade for location filming, yet according to the film, all businesses apparently close after dusk. The insomniac city is Chicago, and Chill Wills gives it voice during one day in the Windy City. 

Young is strangely nonchalant with his unhappy lot in life, thinking it will be his last day as a policeman. He has grown weary of his job and restless with his marriage of an interminable three years. Few could play nonchalantly better, though. It took me a while to realize the early references to “Pops” was more than everyone's affectionate term for a senior policeman. Young plays his son, carrying the family torch in the line of duty. Young's brother, on the other hand, is tempted to a wilder side by local magician turned hoodlum, William Talman. Rather odd since the magician angle is irrelevant to the movie unless he prepared those title credits. Talman has indelibly etched himself into another film, this time as a smooth and calculating criminal mind. Edward Arnold, the powerful crooked attorney, is a "maker of men." Talman is one, and he hopes Young, being unhappy as a lowly policeman, will be his next success. The attorney will pay Young handsomely if he transports Talman to Indiana for protection. In reality, it would get him out of Arnold's hair. What there is of it. Arnold's wife, Marie Windsor, has her own scheme.

In the mix is an “exotic” dancer, Mala Powers, to whom Young is not that committed either. He would like to be, but it is complicated. She plays an aspiring ballerina whose bit of bad fortune placed her in the company of Tutu-less dancers. Also in love with Powers is perhaps the film's most unusual character. Wally Cassell plays the club's unique entertainer, whose job behind an elevated glass case outside the nightclub is to fool the public into believing he is actually a mechanical man. With his face painted silver, under a top hat and black tuxedo, he performs in shifts for the equivalent length of this movie---ninety minutes---with fifteen-minute breaks in between. This quirky character is the only witness to a murder by Talman outside the club. And Cassell's single tear exposes the truth.

There is a nice ending twist of confusion for Talman. The father takes the police radio call in place of his son. Talman is stunned to learn that father is there not to take him to the Hoosier state but to handcuff and arrest him. With the devastating realization of Talman's heartless action, Young's career commitment and life purpose hit new heights, no thanks to Wills. The ending is the typical gunfire exchange while running to total exhaustion. Chicago's electrified elevated commuter rail system is a big concern as both men sidestep around it in the shadows. 

Spoiler Alert: When Chill Wills pops up out of nowhere to be Gig Young's substitute patrol partner, the viewer and Young wonder where he came from. It is a good bet this film is the only fantasy noir released by Republic Pictures or any other studio. It is another quirky element, and I am not sure it even has a point. Young does not seem to be affected by any of Will's angelic, wise counsel. Nearing the film's end, once he is confident, Young has his life on course, he vanishes just as mysteriously as he appeared.

Notes: A couple of officers refer to Talman as a “who’d.” It was an era when "hoodlum" was truncated to "hood" as slang. Other movies of the era may use the same term. Finally, Wally Cassell may be best known as the soldier with constant amorous intentions in the notable 1945 film, Story of G.I. Joe.