ARSON, INC. (1949)

The American production company, Lippert Pictures, had a talent for underwriting low-budget action films that were generally easy to like: they were short, had bits of humor, and typically had an exciting climax. Directed by William Berke and produced by William Stephens from a story by Arthur Caesar, everything is in order for this film about tracking down an arsonist by an undercover fireman, not a police detective. This may seem like old serial episodes edited into a sixty-three-minute film noir. It is not. One might discover this film under the alternate titles, Firebug Squad or Three Alarm Fire.

The film's opening credits are supported by an upstanding military march theme followed by a voice-over that spells out the film's premise. The narrator plays the Deputy Chief of the Los Angeles Fire Department, who smoothly transitions his speech to welcome handsome Robert Lowery (below center) into his office. Chosen because of his special interest and knack for solving "crimes of fire." He is given full rein to find the missing briefcase of evidence from a fellow investigator, deliberately killed during his own arson investigation. Lowery must expose who is behind the killing and the suspicious warehouse fires of recent years.

Perennially slimy bad guy, Doug Fowley (above right), is the insurance claims adjuster whose payouts for property loss in fires seem legitimate. The smug agent delivers his lines—initially in extreme close-ups—as tight-lipped as someone whose jaws are wired shut following reconstructive surgery. On the take is Hollywood's well-known nervous weasel, Byron Foulger, needing money to cover past debts. Fowley tells him to torch his wife's mink coat—something Foulger has probably thought about for years—to be awarded the needed cash. The spineless husband senses he may get burned after Lowery's initial questioning.

With a never-ending supply of matches, the usually harmless comedic actor, Ed Brophy (above left), often delivers reactionary lines in other films as a poor man's Curly of The Three Stooges fame. As Fowley's (fire) man, he is instructed to keep tabs on Lowery. The investigator goes deep cover as a disgruntled firefighter to gain the confidence of Brophy, the latter vouching for him to his boss. Now, good pals, they frequent a bookie's backroom hideout. During a raid, the two are arrested. The following day, a phony newspaper headline indicates Lowery lost his job as a firefighter. Brophy is encouraged that Lowery is a rat just like himself. The duo works with Fowley on his next fire sale.

There are three female costars in this film: Anne Gwynne plays a school teacher and part-time babysitter for Foulger's young son. Lowery is instantly aflame for her upon their first meeting. She initially puts his fire out, but it does not take long to figure out their budding relationship. Gwynne even plays along as part of his undercover work. Brophy sets off a warehouse fire, but cannot resist having Lowery drive him back to see the huge flames. But Lowery tipped off an undercover cop, who was nearby, to put out the potential blaze. This is disappointing to Brophy, and very suspicious to Fowley.

The second female is Marcia Mae Jones (above, lower right), Fowley's secretary, with facial features appearing to be a composite of three females, all put together at odd angles. With too much to drink while dining with Brophy, Lowery, and Gwynne, she lets it slip about the next warehouse fire of mink stoles. Turns out it is Fowley's plan to see if Lowery shows up. No minks are going up in flames with a flummoxed Lowery trying to explain it to the fire captain. Bullets whiz by Lowery as he and Gwynne take cover in the warehouse. The seething Brophy sets off another fire to flesh them out for a clear shot.

Note: The briefly seen third female costar is Maude Eburne as "Grandma," also an occasional babysitter for Foulger. Her elderly face is on the opposite end of the spectrum from Gwynne. As is often the case in a Lippert production, levity plays its part. She and Lowery accidentally bump into each other early in the film—she,  completely in his arms. It becomes the amorous highlight of her day. Eburen wrapped up her thirty-three-year career one picture and two years later.

THE THREAT (1949)

The film opens dramatically during a night prison break and a constant barrage of machine guns blazing willy-nilly, hoping the guards might hit something moving other than the opening credits. It is an attention-grabbing scene often used during this era. All of which is unknown to Detective Michael O'Shea, recuperating at home from a broken rib. A phone call from the police inspector, Robert Shayne, informs him about the breakout of a notorious homicidal criminal, who had sworn to kill those who placed him behind bars. O'Shea, being number one. Rather than obey his wife's wishes, he goes into action without a single grimace from that rib injury. But before he can even start his patrol car, he is kidnapped by the cold-blooded killer. Few films start so compellingly. That cannot be said of the ending.

Typical of O'Shea's B-movies, one would never call him truly tough, especially when compared to Charles McGraw, in another evil role. With gasoline prices hovering around thirty cents per gallon, the criminal trio is happy to burn the police car's tank as they make the rounds delivering “death warrants” on a District Attorney and nightclub singer, Virginia Grey, in a familiar role at odds with a man who thinks she squealed on him. Like many in today's films, it is another criminal who does not comprehend why he spent time behind bars in the first place, preferring to blame others for his despicable lifestyle.

Known only by McGraw's alias, an unsuspecting Don McQuire is hired to pick up a load in his moving van at a designated location. He gets a bit suspicious after seeing what is loaded into his van: a police car. This weighs heavily on McGuire's conscience. The van is later abandoned and unloaded, and he tries to beg off and return with his van. But all seven end up at a dilapidated shack in the desert, thus beginning the brief slowdown in the film. Suspended disbelief is needed when they enter the dusty, cobweb-infested shack that appears to have not been inhabited for twenty years. McGraw growls out a command for Grey to make some sandwiches. Pretty amazing she could find anything edible—certainly nothing to spread on or meat to place between two slices of rock-hard, moldy bread. Those “sandwiches” do appear to be simply two slices of bread. Yum. 

Not fully grasping the gravity of the situation, McQuire again demands to be set free, swearing not to rat on the gang as he heads for the door. McGraw, stone-cold, calmly addresses him by name. Knowing he will probably be shot, he angrily takes his seat back inside. McGraw uses O'Shea to send a misleading message to Shayne over the police car's radio. But he uses a “code name” that only his wife will understand. The gang stays put until the arrival of their escape plane, leading to their portion of the loot. The hostages are rightfully concerned that there is only room for three passengers upon takeoff.

This RKO Radio Picture film is a hard-hitting sixty-six-minute crime drama from a screenplay by Dick Irving Hyland and Hugh King from King's own story. Edited by Samuel E. Beetley, it is supported by a music score by Paul Sawtell. Though not the first film noir that comes to mind associated with Charles McGraw, this obscure film is a good one to finish out the 1940s.

Note: O'Shea's police training seems to get the upper hand on McGraw from the adjoining, locked, hostage room, but the killer starts firing randomly through the door, hitting O'Shea in the leg. Already known for his high threshold for pain, the bullet in the leg nor the broken rib fazes him in the least when he drops down from the rafters onto McGraw. Welcome to "make-believe" shack.

D.O.A. (1950)

 

This film is hardly unknown to any film buff, and there are countless reviews of its groundbreaking premise. It is one of the great films in cinema, regardless of the budget. I have elected to focus only on some memorable elements that stand out. Few movies ever opened with this level of intrigue. First up is the captivating opening sequence under opening credits. The innovative behind-the-back view of Edmond O'Brien—under a driving Dimitri Tiomkin score—as the viewer follows his brisk walking down the hallway of a police station—is always on pace with O'Brien's gait. If a director is saddled with a routine script, just hire Tiomkin to better the film. To his surprise, the police have been trying to locate him. To their surprise, O'Brien is there to report his own murder. If there was ever a film needing a big flashback, this is it.

The story and screenplay, written by Russell Rouse and Clarence Greene, of intertwining characters, need the moviegoer's full attention. Probably a tad long at eighty-four minutes, it is directed by Rudolph Maté and produced by Leo C. Popkin. The cinematography by Ernest Laszlo is as powerful as Tiomkin's score. This "mystery murder" has indeed become a classic.

O'Brien's performances are rarely subtle. Here, he possesses all the pent-up rage of an accountant and notary public who is not dead yet. His backstory ramps up while on vacation. The director includes a laughable and silly slide whistle sound effect numerous times whenever O'Brien spots a female, which would seem to indicate his main reason for a vacation. A noisy sales convention party in the adjoining suite gets his attention. The salesman and their locally acquired female companions want to paint the town, and the accountant is invited. It is a bad omen for O'Brien, whose drink is unknowingly switched at the bar. 

Later, feeling ill, he visits a hospital that sets up a second powerful sequence about the physicality of O'Brien. After getting the doctor's diagnosis from swallowing a deadly luminous toxin, he bolts from the office in wide-eyed panic. I have always been impressed with actors of this era running full bore in Florsheim dress shoes on pavement. Forrest Gump has nothing on Frank Bigelow. The thirty-five-year-old fluidly descends down the hospital's long set of outdoor steps—feet are two blurs. I like to assume this was done in one take. He sprints down crowded sidewalks and across mid-town traffic, setting a new notary speed record with pedestrians unaware that a film is in progress. At the point of exhaustion, he momentarily pauses in front of a newsstand beside a display of LIFE magazines. He then begins a slow walk, gradually picking up determination as Tiomkin's score accelerates with O'Brien's pace. His anger propels him to solve his murder in under forty-eight hours. His secretary, Pamela Britton—hopelessly in love with her boss—is frustrated with his vague answers over the phone. He spares her the bad news, but has no time to chat. The film then settles into a rather routine and somewhat confusing mystery of characters disconnected from the viewer.

Britton provides an early lead about a bill of sale for the toxin, something her boss notarized. In the pursuit of truth, the accountant discovers others have died under mysterious circumstances, all continually intersecting with characters under police investigation. They all filter down to the guy who knows too much, O'Brien. The final confrontation between the murderer and the murdered ends the flashback. O'Brien, in one final laugh-out-loud moment, leans over to speak Paula's name to the police chief, the ever-present Roy Engle, then quickly pushes himself sideways and instantly disappears behind the desk.

Note: There is an indelible performance by Neville “Chester” Brand, the ever-so psychopathic henchman hired to kill O'Brien more rapidly. Before ushering him into a waiting sedan, Brand pokes his gun hard into O'Brien's stomach, who doubles over in pain. Delighted by the pain inflicted, the smirking Brand informs him, “You're soft in the belly!” Chester's expressions and crazed, side-eye views of O'Brien while "driving" the studio car are priceless.

KISS ME [atypically] DEADLY (1955)

This one-hundred-six-minute cult classic based on Mickey Spillane's salacious book of the same name is hardly unknown in the Twenty-First Century. What is definitively unknown are my opinions about some strangeness or implausibilities in this late-blooming film noir produced and directed by Robert Aldrich for Parklane Pictures and distributed by United Artists. I take note of numerous atypical elements that set this film apart from earlier film noirs. Years of hindsight have solidified this film's cult status and enshrined Ralph Meeker in the Hollywood history books. The measured score was composed by the versatile Frank De Vol, a four-time Oscar nominee with thirty-six comedy acting roles in his future, mostly in television. The film has become one of the most interesting and unusually imaginative film noirs.

This film's atypical opening involves quirky Cloris Leachman frantically running— appearing to be barefoot—in the middle of a road at night. Meeker/Mike Hammer nearly runs her down with his Jaguar XK120. The captivating opening screenplay by A. I. Bezzerides may give the impression that you just parachuted in. The studio cameras attached to Meeker's cars add realism to the film. No cheap studio prop cars in this one. As one would expect, she is exhausted. Questionably strange, however, is that she continues to heave and moan miles later as his passenger. One would think the director would have stepped in to suggest something else for Leachman to do at this point. It is unnecessarily extended or at least annoying. On a more positive note, first-time viewers were probably eager to know what happens next in this slow-burning journey. Cinematographer Ernest Laszlo should be noted for his lighting, and his Los Angeles location shooting may be interesting to those who grew up or still live there. He and Aldrich seemed to have had an understanding and would work together frequently. 

Not many Los Angeles private detectives have the wherewithal to be choosy about the car they drive. And it usually is not a Jaguar. Atypical. His home is built around a cutting-edge reel-to-reel answering machine embedded in his wall. Atypical. He employs an invaluable secretary slash undercover manipulator, Maxine Cooper. The report by the Kefauver Commission, in strongly-worded comments, said this film was not fit for families to view. The initial intimate embrace between the two leads may have made a few mid-century patrons uncomfortable, with the scene [perhaps] comprising one of the commission's middle paragraphs. Another paragraph may have addressed the atypical Gaby Rodgers—the most quirky female in the film and Leachman's roommate—Quirky 2.0. She, too, is barefoot in her opening scenes with a vocal delivery indicating she may be under some sort of influence. Rodgers' short blonde hair seems to fit the era's formula of a sociopath—the bleached hair of psychos like Raymond Burr, Skip Homeier, or Corey Allen comes to mind.

Adding to the lead cast are supporting roles for Wesley Addy, whose condescending, sarcastic delivery is always spot-on—here as a police lieutenant who knows how to keep a secret—and perennial bad guys, the two Jacks, Elam and Lambert. These two earn respect after Meeker's assumed martial arts training, effortlessly off-screen, debilitates Lambert. Atypical. As if Meeker has supernatural powers. Elam is visibly shaken by what he witnessed. Their mob boss, Paul Stewart, has a brief screen appearance but will not go unnoticed. The deviously smiling gangster and Meeker never resolve their trust issues. But with no hard feelings, Stewart leaves a newly introduced Chevrolet Corvette outside his home. He only sprung for two accessories—bombs wired to double Meeker's chances of exploding. The mustachioed Nick Dennis plays the experienced Italian auto mechanic frequented by Meeker, with an enduring phrase, “Va-Va-Voom,” when referring to fast cars or beautiful girls. After “disarming” the Corvette, it becomes Meeker's new ride of choice. It is atypical to spotlight this car in a feature film. The sound department has taken liberties with the Corvette's six-cylinder standard exhaust note. Maybe suggesting Dennis had something to do with that.

Rodgers is reunited with her superior, Albert Dekker, who warns her to never open “The Box.” It sets up the bazaar and chilling twist that utilizes a horrifying sound effect like mankind's screams from hell when she opens the box. Most atypical. Meeker and Cooper escape the beach house's “atomic” fireball—sans a mushroom cloud—capping an implausible ending as they reach safety in the shore's knee-deep water. Mid-century moviegoers—tossed between bewilderment and fright—may not have been able to describe the film to a friend except to say they had not seen anything quite like it before.

Note: The mystery box, so tempting to Rodgers, contained an atom that had excess nuclear energy of a highly unstable Radionuclide. Its degree of harm would depend on the nature and extent of the radiation produced and the amount and nature of exposure. However, with suitable properties, radionuclides are today used in nuclear medicine for both diagnosis and treatment. The film alludes to it only as atomic, equating it to the currently trendy atomic bomb fear in numerous movies.

THE BROTHERS RICO (1957)

This well-acted American crime film noir was directed by Phil Karlson, who stepped away from another John Payne project to helm this fine one. The ninety-two-minute film was produced by William Goetz and distributed by Columbia Pictures. It is all accompanied by a solid, if not unique, music score by George Duning. Cinematographer Burnett Guffey creates some dramatic visual effects. Karlson's trademark realism of location shooting places the viewer in the action. For the transportation historian, it is an eyeful.

Richard Conte plays the eldest of two younger brothers, Paul Picerni and James Darren. Without flaw, Conte excels again in a role in which he is well acquainted as a guy caught in the middle of a serious life dilemma. An “Italian moment” between Conte, his mother, and his grandmother is loaded with authenticity. In the old days, he was an accountant for the syndicate but has used his financial expertise to become the owner of a legit and prosperous laundry company. No one launders money there. Picerni's monetary greed will have him outfitted with the latest in concrete footwear by the mob if caught. He confesses to a shocked Conte his responsibility for a recent hit. Baby brother Darren was the driver. Added to the turmoil is Conte's wife, played by Dianne Foster. Their opening scenes can be an uncomfortable ten minutes, as if watching through a hidden camera. In a later scene together, she is unreasonably irate because Conte suddenly must catch a flight to Miami for a face-to-face with the syndicate boss, Larry Gates. The couple was supposed to sign adoption papers instead.

Gates has been somewhat of an uncle to Conte. The cordial Gates hides his ability to turn up the heat if double-crossed. This becomes painfully obvious to Picerni in the adjoining room. Hitman, William Phipps, is giving him a serious “Martinizing.” Gates strongly suggests Conte find his missing little brother as the bulk of the film takes flight to New York, Phoenix, and El Camino, California. Everywhere he goes, guys in fedoras are there before his arrival. Darren and his expectant wife, Katherine Grant, are not universally thrilled with Conte's surprise appearance, assuming he has been tracked. Darren does a good job. His final scenes are first-rate as it quickly becomes apparent Conte was not actually the first to discover his whereabouts.

Conte is alone in thinking “Uncle Larry” is sincere. Even “Mama Rico” no longer trusts him. Ending up back in Miami, the lone Rico has learned the truth about Gates, and their final confrontation is an exciting, life-altering experience for the latter. Conte testifies against the syndicate, successfully shutting it down in one of the most rapid film closings of the decade. A letter from the DA vouches for him, assuring the Ricos a successful adoption from the Bayshore Children's Home. Conte will have more dirty laundry to clean.

Notes: In addition to William Phipps, there are other genuine performances by the “theatrical mob members” Harry Bellaver, local crime boss, and Rudy Bond as Bellaver's “secretary” henchman. Cast as another underworld informant is Richard Bakalyan, with two brief appearances. Both Dianne Foster and Katherine Grant have little to do in the film, yet both are second and third billed, respectively. 

KANSAS CITY CONFIDENTIAL (1952)

 

This is the first of three films teaming director Phil Karlson with John Payne in his career-changer. This film noir has captivating segments, though one may need to overlook an idealistic screenplay by George Bruce and Harry Essex. With commendable casting choices, great camera work, and an enhancing score, ninety-nine minutes never seemed so short. It was produced by Edward Small with distribution by United Artists, and it paved the way for a few "confidential" films in the Fifties. Despite some uniqueness, nearly seventy years have given it some humorous and less-than-believable scenes. Worthy of a more in-depth review, it necessitates two words I rarely want to use: spoiler alert.

Robbery mastermind, Preston Foster, with an unimaginative character name of Tim Foster, checks the timing of a floral delivery truck driven by Payne and the all-important armored bank van from his third-story office across the street. Foster puts a lot of stock in the preposterous idea that both vehicles will always arrive at precisely the same time. He checks off the time on a desk-sized stakeout map as confirmation. The large map is assumed to be a scaled architectural blueprint, yet this map is a simple outline drawing of building squares that are directly in front of the bank. A hand-drawn note on a paper napkin would have sufficed. It would suggest an exciting robbery to come by way of a rudimentary robbery so often used. But the clever setup and robbery are dispensed with right up front. The bulk of the film concerns the aftermath.

Foster hires three lowlifes for the opportunity of financial freedom if they help pull off the heist: ironically, three stereotypical villains of the era, Jack Elam, Lee Van Cleef, and Neville Brand. To their amazement, he knows their backstory specifically. Their dialogue is concise and effective. A chain smoker by birth, Elam’s character is a nervous wreck, constantly in hiding from the electric chair. He is the first to meet Foster, and it is a dandy scene. The mastermind wears a rather creepy, perhaps leather, mask when he meets with each of the three. At gunpoint, Elam angrily demands that the mask be removed. Elam is in no position to make demands. Instead, Foster slaps him back and forth several times in "burst out laughing" choreography by Elam as he jerks his head left and right in a precise metronome fashion. Van Cleef is much cooler during his prospective job interview. Quite the ladies' man—they are entranced by his eye slits—he is told not to be late, which means stay away from women. Brand is an emotionless gum-chewing killer who has nothing better to do than look numb. 

CINCH UP YOUR SUSPENDED DISBELIEF BELT

First class all the way, Foster (as Foster) has thought of everything, supplying the trio with one-size-fits-all masks, identical delivery uniforms, airline tickets for their Mexican rendezvous, and a floral delivery truck that will only contain the foursome. Foster needs the bank money to recoup his losses. It seems unfair that the artist who painted the floral company's logo on the side of the truck will get no cut of the loot. And no jail time for being an accessory. As it speeds away, awkwardly amusing is a bank guard, who, without really aiming, fires several times at the van in a crouched position with his gun at knee level. His firing range instructor has repeatedly scolded him about his ineffective stance. Slickly, the van is driven inside a big rig trailer parked at a prearranged loading dock. Once again, director Karlson has Payne, a reformed ex-con, a victim of mistaken identity, as his truck is spotted. Without a single shred of evidence, he is assumed to be part of the robbery. One sadistic detective tries to beat Payne into submission. He hates him on pure assumption before gathering any facts. So very 2020-like. Foster’s clever plan dictates that everyone keep their masks on to hide their identity from each other. One of the film’s clever devices. Each is separately ordered to get out of the semi's trailer in the middle of nowhere and told to stay south of the border until the heat is off. Probably about two years! Think about that for a moment.

After the police find the bogus floral van, Payne is released with the police chief's feeble apology. Not from the violent detective, though. “Thanks for nothin'!” is Payne's seething reply. Payne gets a bead on Elam from an informer. He needs to only follow the cigarette butts. Elam grabs Payne in another Hollywood “confrontational alley.” He demands to know why he is being followed. He growls, “You’ve been giving me the fisheye all evening!” A funny apropos coming from Elam. Payne claims innocence and then walks away, later picking up Elam's carcinogenic scent in his hotel room. The first item of business...slap Elam. Payne finds a mask in his suitcase. Elam gets slapped again. Payne’s breathy taunting pre-dates the “Dirty Harry” character by nearly two decades. Payne is on Elam like a bad stink as they await their flight to Mexico. The authorities spot Elam, who reaches for his gun. His frequent-flyer club membership is canceled. But it gives Payne an opportunity to pose as Elam. The viewer knows his charade is understandably limited. This is the halfway point in the film, and one is still pretty sure Colleen Gray is in this movie.

Since the robbery, Foster (as Foster) has been enjoying his retirement as a pipe-smoking fisher of errant men. A longtime friend and insurance investigator, Howard Negley, shows up by invitation. We finally learn that Foster is a veteran cop, explaining his background knowledge of his accomplices. He informs Negley that new “evidence” will help him crack the two-year-old bank robbery with the credit—Foster's double-cross of his three stooges—going on his resumé. It is the first mention of his daughter, Gray, who has been waiting for her cue to enter the film while studying her script and bar exam. Despite her short screen time, being the singular female lead, and her notable work in earlier films, it probably accounts for her star billing, whether negotiated or paid for. She grows fond of Payne during the same southern flight. Purely scripted coincidence. She eventually mentions his “undercover” name to dear old Dad. His eyes suddenly get suspicious, knowing full well she could not have been charmed by “Fisheye Elam.” 

Payne is pummeled by the pugilistic team of Cleef and Brand, the latter having met Elam before. There is another usage of the specific violent and painful act as  Cleef’s left and right palms bang hard against Payne’s ears. Cleef repeatedly refers sarcastically to Payne at this point as “pal-zee,” after being decked by Payne earlier. As luck would have it, Gray shows up during a pummeling pause, and the two thugs, sweating profusely, cordially leave. Gray assumes a serious “conversation” was taking place. She and Payne have little to say to each other. At this point, every male identity starts to unravel. Gray is relieved to learn the truth about Payne as Negley sets the record straight. Confidentially, of course.

Note: Elam wants to buy some cigarettes at the airport. I always thought it strange that some of those height-challenged machines had a large mirror, usually round, on the front. Apparently, for men to nonchalantly check their fly.

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.

Steve Brodie: John Stephens (1919-1992)

Most would remember Steve Brodie from his early film noir roles as a tough, sometimes heartless, gangster. These personas carried over into westerns as a hired gun or a despicable drifter. His contract with RKO Pictures got him noticed with 1947 proving to be a pivotal year in such films as, Out of the Past, Crossfire, and Desperate, the latter of which he had a lead role as a newlywed on the straight and narrow after a prison sentence. It was a fairly exciting film in which he tries to distance himself from a past acquaintance, Raymond Burr, who is now a powerful gangster. Keeping his wife out of harm’s way was his priority. He was opposite Lawrence Tierney in Bodyguard (1948) followed by a freelance project for a dandy Richard Fleischer film, Armored Car Robbery (1950). He was on the right side of the law as a police lieutenant in the remake of M (1951). Though television kept him busy, he never left films totally behind with a supporting role in, Three Came to Kill (1960) opposite Cameron Mitchell, as an electronic “genius” who hates “stinkin' jets” as they roar overhead.

Brodie signed on to popular westerns of the era, Cheyenne, Wanted--Dead or Alive, and Rawhide. He played Butch Cassidy in the Warner Bros series, Bronco. His only recurring role was as Sheriff Johnny Behan on The Life and Legend of Wyatt Earp (1960) then Everglades, (1961), as Captain Andy Benson. He made the rounds in modern detective series such as 77 Sunset Strip, Hawaiian Eye, and Perry Mason in the early Sixties. On the lighter side, he had an appearance on, The Beverly Hillbillies (1965) and The Wild World of Batwoman, 1966. He found only occasional work in the Seventies. His career ended in the Eighties—coming full circle—with three forgettable low-budget films.

Note: Stephens, a native of Kansas, took his stage name from the daredevil, Steve Brodie, who claimed to have survived a jump from the Brooklyn Bridge in 1886. Typical of actors of his era, he jumped from job to job just to get by, resulting in a hard-living, hard-drinking life away from the cameras. However, whether on stage, on film, or on television, he never embarrassed himself and usually added a memorable dimension to his films.

SHOOT TO KILL (1947)

Produced and directed by William Berke with a screenplay by Edwin Westrate, this sixty-four-minute, fast-paced crime noir does have an ending that is anything but routine. The alternate title, “Police Reporter,” best defines the film, however. It was produced for Robert L. Lippert Productions and distributed by Screen Guild Productions. The whiplashing script—thanks to the numerous flashbacks—begins at the end of the movie with a cliff-side car crash that sends a female to the hospital. The myriad of flashbacks can make it a complicated affair, with the viewer feeling they may have “parachuted in.” Character development is nearly nonexistent for these unknown actors. Past the halfway point, the action finally kicks in but the contrived twist at the end is borderline science fiction.

A common practice of the era to condense a film was to have select scenes replaced by the next sequence sliding across the screen (above) or superimposed over another. An example is the whirlwind courtroom scene—dialogue edited down to essentials—to simply introduce local gangster, Robert Kent, accused of a murder he did not commit. The assistant district attorney (ADA) railroaded him, and Kent (below left) vows revenge even if it takes the full twenty-year sentence. One can imagine a number of things that could change in that time span. Besides, a twenty-year “flash-forward” would not be tolerated by the audience.

Russell Wade, in his next-to-last film, plays a crack newspaper reporter also trying to figure out what the characters are doing in this movie. Without the flashbacks, he might never find his purpose in the film. The script makes it a point to mention he has the ability to read—newspapers upside down—to subtly gain information. He is very polite with a laid-back, yet upbeat personality with the pulse of the city in his hip pocket. It would be remiss if I did not mention his flat dialogue delivery. Still in flashback mode outside the office of that ADA, the mustachioed Edmund MacDonald, Wade bumps into Luan Walters for their initial encounter. They become a fixture at many popular nightspots as their relationship blossoms. I expected a marriage proposal from Wade at any second. Walters becomes MacDonald's secretary, as Wade predicted. What he could not predict was MacDonald replacing him at said nightspots. MacDonald—a face combining a young Orson Welles and Robert Preston—is tied in with mobster, Nestor Paiva (above right in hat), who runs his career. 

Paiva senses that Walters is not trustworthy and demands that he, now in what is called a quandary, fire her. He attempts to write a letter dismissing her services, but has an epiphany instead. Walters is asked to transcribe a verbal message which—even in shorthand—becomes his clever marriage proposal. A wife cannot testify against her husband. She surmises his underhanded charade, and we begin to sense she is a driving force to be reckoned with. At this point, one realizes top-billed Wade has disappeared from the film, and after only six months in the slammer, Kent escapes prison.

About the forty-minute point, the film offers its first real action. Wade returns to the screen to track Kent and convince him that the confessions of two witnesses can clear him of the murder conviction. Kent is not convinced. While exiting a darkened stairway, an intense fistfight breaks out between the two stuntmen, with Kent escaping. It is quite an impressive action sequence for any era, sped up for your enjoyment. Another flashback—make that two—takes the viewer back to the hospital where Walters, still suffering from "multi-flashback syndrome," wraps up her revealing story to Wade. The most memorable segment—the science fiction part—is the double-crossing twist-upon-twist ending. The “clergyman” who performed the MacDonald-Walters “wedding ceremony” sends believability off the charts when he reappears. We are finally back to the beginning, but the movie has reached the end of its reel of celluloid.

Note: One will always know when something dramatic is about to happen as the music score by Darrell Calker crescendos to a fever pitch. An amusing example is after the ADA's office is bugged by a very nervous janitor under the fist of Pavia. A lot of film frames were eaten up for the janitor's scenes, though his screen presence is short-lived by an involuntary free-fall down an elevator shaft. MacDonald notices a wire under his office bookshelf. What the?! He starts pulling on it uprooting one floor rug after the other, before moving into the adjoining room, moving file cabinets, chairs and generally destroying the office before moving into a closet as the music gets louder and the tempo increases.

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.

HOLLOW TRIUMPH (1948)

THE QUADRUPLE DO'H!

Based on Murray Forbes’ novel of the same title, this film is better known by its reissued title in the United States, “The Scar.” A title that best clarifies the film’s pivotal detail. This film noir crime drama is supported by a top-notch cast, but do not expect gripping action. Still, few faults here. It was directed by Steve Sekely and released by Eagle-Lion Films. The oldest of seven little Foys, Bryan, was the executive producer while its dual-role star, Paul Henreid served as producer. A dynamic score by Sol Kaplan enhances the film. Riveting at times. The cinematography by John Alton is also noteworthy with some interesting camera positions, lighting, and point-of-view perspectives.

The film opens promisingly as the viewer discovers that the soon-to-be-released prisoner, Henreid, is an intelligent, well-educated man and med school dropout with a tendency toward violence. Lacking zero prison reformation, he wastes no time picking up where he left off. He gathers a team for a big heist at a gambling casino, run by mobster Thomas Browne Henry, the actor with an eagle profile. The robbery goes badly, with Henry eliminating half of Henreid’s team, then placing a hit on each remaining thief.

Henreid escapes by train to another town where his brother, Eduard Franz, has arranged a desk job for him. However temporary. But the manager’s condescending attitude deliberately causes tension, and after repeated badgering, Henreid sends the manager to the office floor with a single right cross. Upset at his brother’s firing, Franz is more upset that Henry’s men have tracked him to his current location. Henreid seeks a foolproof cover and a chance encounter with a dentist, John Qualen, who mistakes him for his friend and psychoanalyst working in the same building. To Henreid's amazement, he has an identical twin from another mother. The doctor and Henreid also share the same accent and vocal range. What luck! Except the real doctor has a scar on his left cheek. Maybe the right?

Illegally searching the twin’s office after hours, Henreid is surprised from behind by the office secretary, Joan Bennett, who kisses her preferred physician. She instantly realizes her mistake and I assume is quite puzzled by her suspended disbelief. On the other hand, as much as she likes the doctor, his scar always bothered her a wee bit. Henreid charms his way into her life. They seem to have a future together until Henreid suavely calls off their “unfortunate timing.” The story of her life. He needs to “disappear.” Joining Bennett in the suspended disbelief ward is the audience that witnesses a contrived identity swap.

Weeks pass, and Henreid gets a job at an automotive service garage. It is from here that the doctor’s car will be returned after servicing, and Henreid takes the service call as a favor to a fellow employee. Confusingly, he has grown a mustache of a useless purpose, perhaps to further distance himself from…himself. Henreid uses a photographic print of the doctor to copy the scar reflected in a mirror. His med school studies were not totally wasted by performing a bit of surgery on his own left cheek. Zero grimacing. A few scenes later, the scar looks like a decades-old scar, skipping the logical progression of a healing scab. For all his smug cleverness, he was unaware he was looking at a flopped image due to incompetent photo processing. DO'H! He first discovers this upon disposing of the doctor’s body. DO'H! In too deep to turn back, he masters the doctor’s handwriting, and his med school studies in psychology continue by using the doctor’s library. All the while, Kaplan’s powerful score intensifies these vignettes.

Henreid now has the perfect cover by tuning out his patient’s chattering while under the guise of a calm demeanor, offering incompetent advice. In quintessential form, gentle Qualen returns for a charming scene in the doctor’s office, unknowingly relaying to the impostor doctor of his past encounter with the twin. He is a wee bit flummoxed, as well. He apologizes for not realizing the doctor’s scar is on the opposite cheek he thought it was.

In a rather slick scene, Henreid takes a phone call while in his fake office and is enlightened to learn the dead doctor had his own girlfriend. Deftly, Henreid covers his identity over the phone and goes with the flow. To make sure he identifies her, he not only chooses the location to meet but suggests, out of pure devotion, of course, that she select an orchid to wear and charge it to his account. He smoothly fakes his way through the evening at a frequented casino, yet he mistakenly calls the ever-present dealer by the wrong name. He is corrected with a blunt reply. 

Aware of Henreid’s studies in psychology, Franz reenters the picture to seek help in finding his brother...from his assumed brother. Oh, brother. He informs him that Henry and his men have been arrested, so there is no reason for his brother to keep hiding. DO'H!

Bennett’s suspicions deepen after overhearing a patient say that her recent sessions seem different. Knowing now that the real doctor has not been in the office for days, she suspects what Henreid has done. Finally. It is a well-acted, powerful scene when they confront each other before she boards a ship, torn between reality and what might have been. Yet still holding out hope the imposter might join her. He does rush to the dock but two thugs corner him, thinking he is the real doctor, who owes a casino a lot of money and is further in debt up to his clipboard. DO'H! It is a tough sale for Henreid to convince them that the doctor they seek has a scar on the opposite cheek.

Note: The automotive service garage provides a humorous scene for Henreid’s fellow, unassuming employee, Alvin Hammer, who shares his passion for a career as a professional ballroom dancer in spite of his short stature. With hand gestures as proof, he believes this disadvantage can be masked by projecting an illusion of height. Henreid could not care less what he aspires to as he glances around the garage, purposely distracted by the inventions in his mind.

IRON MAN (1951)

This eighty-two-minute film noir, directed by Joseph Pevney, is helped by a strong cast starring Jeff Chandler, Evelyn Keyes, and Stephen McNally. Produced by Aaron Rosenberg and distributed by Universal Pictures, it is a few notches below the likes of the previously released The Set-up or Champion, and despite the title, it is not a marvel. It will help to have an affinity for boxing, Hollywood style. Even so, this is simply another one from an extremely long list. Just enjoy watching these professionals perform.

The film is told in flashback through the eyes of Keyes, who gets effectively watery by the end. Agonizingly watching her husband, Chandler, in the ring for perhaps the last time, the film transitions to a “romantic” Pennsylvania coal town where we are introduced to the main cast. Among the hearty group of coal miners is James Arness in a small role. He is always bad-mouthing Chandler in the hopes of picking a fight. He apparently hates him because he seems smarter than himself. Not surprisingly, a cave-in occurs, but Chandler recovers. The other men trapped have an unknown future, as we never see them again. Due to the speculative encouragement by the older brother, McNally, Chandler never returns to the "miner leagues." McNally has always envisioned a future boxing career for his kid brother.

McNally is a thick-headed deal-maker, gambler, and manipulator out to make a buck, ignoring any knowledgeable advice. He remembers Chandler's explosive temper as kids would laugh at him because of his towering height. That killer instinct signifies a champion to McNally. However, after a few practice matches, his face becomes quite intimate with the mat. Fans start laughing at him for a different reason. But Chandler goes into a rage, ripping into his opponent in a savage display of anger. A smiling McNally blurts out, “There it is!” Unfortunately, McNally knows no more about what makes a boxer than Jack Benny.

Winning his bouts with unsportsmanlike conduct has earned him a reputation as a lousy fighter, and sportswriter Jim Backus says as much in his columns. He has no business being in the ring, and the crowds agree. McNally still thinks his brother will eventually gain his undeserved respect. In somewhat of a surprise, Backus turns out to be an understanding mentor of sorts as he learns of Chandler’s backstory. Oddly, Keyes feels totally responsible for Chandler’s fighting fate, when it is clearly McNally's fault.

Rock Hudson, who desperately wants to be called “Speed” when his time comes to get into the ring, sounds as though he inhaled a slight dose of helium. He comes across well as a golly-gee-whiz naive kid who thinks Chandler is the epitome of a champion. It does not take long, however, before Chandler’s lousy attitude alienates everyone in his circle. At the badgering of McNally, Backus informs the trainer to let Chandler fight the young upstart, now “Mister Speed.” The title bout is pretty exciting with the best boxing choreography of the film, though it all looks familiar. To everyone’s surprise, Chandler fights legit and gets the tar beaten out of him near the end of the match. The crowd’s boos turn to cheers out of respect and to the delight of the facially dented, nearly blind Chandler. He has used his face as a metaphor for obliterating his past.