HELL BOUND (1957)

This seventy-one-minute Bel-Air Production project is directed by William J. Hole, Jr., produced by Howard W. Koch, and distributed by United Artists. A Bel-Air standby, Carl E. Guthrie is the cinematographer. This crime drama has its quirks and slow sections, but it is another well-acted and filmed offering. Part of its problem is that some scenes extend far too long, which may affect the viewer's attention span. Although not readily apparent at the outset, it is a small film within a larger film. 

As many B-movies did, a voice-over narration provides the background of a coordinated robbery on a freighter entering the port with 250 grand of surplus narcotics from the 1940s. The viewer assumes the drugs have not exceeded their expiration date. Three impostors—a man rescued in open waters on a dingy, a diabetic ship's doctor, and a nurse complete the gang. It is the perfect setup and goes without a flaw as if it might result in the shortest Bel-Air movie of all time. Except that what the viewer is witnessing has never happened. Yet. This opening is the most clever twist of this film, done better nearly a decade later in Gambit (1966). As in that romantic comedy, nothing quite goes as the mastermind planned.

John Russell, with his menacing good looks, is once again a cold-blooded killer with severe anger issues. Do not be fooled by his charming countenance used for the above poster. His smile is turned upside down in this film. He is the fourth impostor in his demonstration film to entice a crooked businessman into financing the plot. His assistant slash girl is played by June Blair, who has a particular knack for imposing herself on any male and sensing a good plan when she hears one. She is competent in her screen debut. Russell turns a cold shoulder to Blair's repeated “come-ons” and is especially not pleased that she volunteers to be the nurse, squeezing out his girlfriend intended for the part. However, the reality of people's personalities has a way of changing one's future. For this film, reality becomes a bit more confusing than the "home movie" he financed.

Speaking of dragging a scene out, Russell beats a drug addict into submission in a convincing fashion to force him into playing the rescued man on a dingy. Between shadows and total darkness, he is pummeled relentlessly. So this beating can wrap up, he agrees to the assignment. But when the heist is mid-cycle, he is so strung out for a fix that he panics and never follows through. Russell pressures Stanley Adams into playing the diabetic doctor, whose character is an actual diabetic. Adams is to inject himself with insulin to put him into diabetic shock. But it is good news, bad news from his doctor. Adams' improving health means insulin injections are not currently necessary. Indeed, an injection could be fatal. The waiting ambulance is to take Adams and the phony nurse to the hospital. Enter Stuart Whitman, in a brief but pivotal role as an intern slash ambulance driver.

One may not be surprised that the actual heist action aboard the ship looks like the very same footage from Russell's home movie—with different actors. Not to go unnoticed is at least one implausible segment with Whitman and Blair sharing ambulance runs while she, somehow, covers for her total lack of medical knowledge. They also share some milk and cookies—no kidding—in his humble apartment. And passionate kisses. Not Hershey's.

Russell is livid that she wants to go legit with the sensible intern. He drops in on her later and viciously slaps her among the furniture before stabbing her, shoving the pocket knife in as far as possible. Russell becomes the useless operative in his "ideal" heist and is now hell-bound to drag out the final segments of the film. In a somewhat clever climactic scene, his demise in a scrap metal yard provides his final disappointment.

Notes: The music score by Les Baxter is a bit overkill at times, as if he is not quite sure what should support a scene. Mundane scenes might be backed by bold, staccato brass, while other parts of the score nearly disappear. The talented musician was noted for providing stock music for numerous projects. Scoring a film was perhaps not his strong suit.

Better known for his many Westerns, Dehl Berti has an uncredited role as Daddy, a heroin supplier, decked out in sunglasses inside a dark strip club (above). He is interrupted by the addicted dingy “survivor” who needs another fix. Ever cool and calm, the unintentionally funny character smirks his way through clipped conversation in a monotone fashion—his head hardly moving. He cannot help the addict. His bizarre scene ends when the camera pivots to focus on the dancer, then to a seeing-eye dog in the wings. Perhaps I made the equally bizarre assumption that it was the canine's eyesight that allowed him to ogle the ladies.

THE BIG CAPER (1957)

With film camera secured, the viewer rides along with Rory Calhoun's 1956 Chrysler convertible as he motors his way to convince crime kingpin James Gregory, to help organize another heist. Lounging poolside at his estate, appearing a legit businessman, Gregory angrily tells his former operative—in no uncertain terms—he is not interested and to take a hike. Calhoun reemphasizes it involves a bank that regularly holds a million dollars before distribution to nearby Camp Pendleton. In the very next scene, Gregory and his girl, Mary Costa, are passengers in the convertible to case the bank. A salivating Gregory has Calhoun abandon his fancy New Yorker for a mid-forties beater, sets him up as a gas station owner, and buys a large house where he and Costa can establish themselves as a married couple. The big house simply to hide the heist team. However, after four months, Costa starts liking her domestic role and the fact that Calhoun knows how to make pancakes without them sticking to the griddle. Their neighbors establish Scrabble night, and their young son now refers to Calhoun as "uncle." With every vacuuming, Costa thinks less and less of dirtbag Gregory.

This eighty-five-minute American film noir crime film was directed by Robert Stevens from a screenplay by Martin Berkeley based on the novel of the same name by Lionel White. United Artists released a dandy, yet oft-told story about another well-financed and planned robbery. Filmed beneath opening titles and an Albert Glasser score, that automotive opening is a good setup for a heist film, and it is worth going into some detail about it.

Everyone is first-rate in this crime film. Calhoun is his cool self in one of his better crime films of the Fifties. Costa is also quite good in only her second film, possessing an intelligent vocal delivery and on-screen composure—not playing to the camera. Gregory is excellent in a role familiar to him. He mentions serving five years for a robbery as a young kid. He may not have been incarcerated since, but he has been slippery enough to avoid any more downtime. The guy has deep pockets. Gregory's booming, foghorn voice—his trademarked mumbling through some lines as if it is an aside—and sarcastic comments toward the suspected “happy couple” clearly reveal his ruthless side.

Making the film much more memorable, however, are two psychopaths (above). Robert Harris' entrance at the Calhoun house—squinting, sweating, with an untidy appearance—is the first standout. Harris had a knack for convincing performances as an overheated, demented, near-sighted weasel. An expert in explosives—his “bang juice”—he also has a gin problem. His thought processing is seemingly incoherent; he settles into his room, and Calhoun tells him the gin is off-limits until after the robbery. Approaching another meltdown, he lights a match to calm himself. He is mesmerized by the flame. The normally dark-haired Corey Allen is also hard to forget as a short-cropped, bleached blonde in glistening dark suntan makeup. Cold-blooded murder seems to be his most enjoyable pastime. That, and listening to Glasser's jazz score via a record player prop. Hollywood thought there was some sort of connection between a jazz freak and a white-haired murderer with a bow tie. To say he is on edge is an understatement. His role seems to follow up on his previous 1957 film, The Shadow on the Window.

The customary review of the caper's details is to be expected. Gregory is pretty ecstatic to go over the crude map and everyone's role to play. Filming of the successful robbery is effectively not drawn out with a redundant set of visuals. A tense moment occurs when the neighbor pays a visit to the house. Tagging along is his son with an armful of lost dog. The dog bolts up the stairway where the gang is hiding, nearly going to dog heaven by an Allen knife. Glasser's score ramps up the intensity.

Harris's two diversionary explosions will create chaos—one at a high school on Saturday night, assuming no one will be there. He nearly soils himself talking about his assignment. There will be a power outage, thanks to another Paul Picerni criminal role with Allen elected as the wheelman. The exciting, rapid climax includes a believable, choreographed fight scene between Calhoun and Gregory when the latter tries to escape with the loot. Wisely, it was all shot in shadows. Now a genuine couple, the last seconds of the film have “The Calhouns” making a decision that will more than likely reduce their jail time.

Notes: A couple of amusing bits come after Calhoun signs the papers for the gas station. The elderly gas station owner quickly calls his wife about the sale, "Get the trailer fixed. The suckers fell for it!" Another chuckling scene is when Harris, angered over his gin restrictions, knocks Calhoun out and dumps his body from the car on the night of the heist. The camera then has a distant shot of the car parked behind a “No Dumping” sign.

RAIDERS FROM BENEATH THE SEA (1964)

No, this is not a science fiction creature film, though fiction may describe it best. The music by Hank Levine is the anchor of the film, sending it beneath the sea, immediately signifying that the next seventy-three minutes may be better spent elsewhere. The music is often substituted for dialogue, which makes it hard to decide the lesser of two evils. Coupled with the other disjointed cues is the guitar-dominated music that cashes in on The Ventures' popular sound. This is also not a beach party film. A drum solo for whenever a 1964 Chrysler appears is very strange. More than likely, the only leitmotif written for an automobile. The character with a weak heart has his own theme when having an attack—a fake theremin sound. Though not the worst film of the mid-Sixties, the problem lies with the directing and producing by Maury Dexter, as he capitalizes on the essence of "strangulated" budgets. The production company for this "dead fish" crime film is Lippert Pictures. Harry Spalding's screenplay is guilty by association, which limits the audience's ability to invest in the characters. Twentieth Century Fox did most of the investing.

The very tall Ken Scott has the cardboard lead. His wife is played by the very short, curvy (corrugated) Merry Anders. He is the landlord of some Catalina apartment houses. His younger brother lives in the same apartment house and helps with maintenance when he is not drunk or peeping at Anders while she is soaking up the sun. It defines his character, and he is half responsible for the obligatory sultry saxophone.

Scott has big plans for a heist of a million dollars—speaking of obligatory—from a Catalina bank. One may note some brief dialogue pauses, giving the impression that some actors have just requested, “Line, please.” Scott and his former pal, Russ Bender—the guy with the theremin heart—approach the bank in scuba gear like creatures from beneath something. They casually escape by walking hilariously down the street to the beach. Neither whistling a random tune. A policeman stops them for not obeying city ordinances about scuba gear, oxygen tanks, and flippers anywhere near pavement. One cannot see their assumed red faces from his chastisement. 

Two other accomplices assist in the getaway boat. Scott is supposed to attach the money bag to a hook dropped from the boat by his brother, but the retrieval line gets snagged on his scuba suit and is pulled up into the propeller. That is kind of a cool concept and—more importantly—signals the film's end is near. Anders' facial reactions, suggesting she is watching Scott's distant underwater demise, are unconvincing. Feeling her best effort to work up a tear has passed, she walks away from the camera.

Note: Outside of the "stage acting" of the five leads, Levine's misplaced music cues are certainly glaring and a target for criticism. The opening music sounds to be lifted directly from the 1962 hit song, "More," the title theme to the odd, Italian travelogue vignettes for the film "Mondo Cane." The opening bars simply invert a note or two. Kai Winding, the Danish-born American trombonist and jazz composer, arranged his own chart hit for the song in 1963. His unique use of the French electronic music instrument, the Ondioline, is echoed in this film by the more common Hammond organ. 

BEAST FROM HAUNTED CAVE (1959)

Right up front, the producers acknowledge their gratitude to South Dakota for their cooperation in making this film (only for the extended television print). Specifically, the use of their snow. No Hollywood fake snow in this one. The film will eliminate seventy-five minutes from your life. Double-billed with The Wasp Woman, many Dakotans may have been expecting another “comedy” from this grammatically challenged “Tonto-esque” titled film. But many probably came away skittish about hitting "plenty big slopes" given the spooky creature. The “special effect beast” is handled with restraint, relying mostly on ominous shadows, a claw, and a prehistoric scream that sounds like someone tightening their vocal cords while inhaling to get a high-pitched screeching effect. Lessening the embarrassment are undefined facial features as it supernaturally floats about, sometimes superimposed in the corner of the screen. Strange. This paced film, produced by Gene Corman, Roger’s kid brother, has the Corman touches. The random graphics splashing on the screen are typical of the Corman brothers. But accolades are due for being primarily a heist film with the science-fiction premise almost as the film's sidebar. Never mind the salacious, misleading poster, designed to attract an audience.

A Corman always pads their films, and there is plenty of ski footage, supported with misplaced music. Alexander Laszlo’s recycled score, in part, is from other Corman movies. From a Hammond organ to soap opera strings to a cool jazz segment (see note below), the music is certainly disjointed. And totally expected. The film was distributed by Filmgroup—the Corman boys—for Allied Artists Pictures. Charles Griffith’s script of clipped and witty banter, however unlikely, is quite suitable for the drive-in crowd. After a decade of papier mache “monsters,” this one relies more on imagination. The squeamish element is that the beast spins its live victims in a web-like cocoon, placing them in various cave locations until it can return for dinner. Certainly more creepy than Roger’s laughable wasp head on Susan Cabot.

The handsome Michael Forest is undeniably the most familiar face in the film. His long list of television appearances allowed him a great deal of notoriety and variety. He and his four co-stars were Corman regulars, professionally accounting for themselves. Forest is the level-headed element in this film, a ski instructor/guide in snowy Deadwood. In a turtleneck sweater, a prop pipe with his own cabin, he seems too classy, too perfect, to be in this film. He is persuaded to guide a group of four on a multi-day cross-country ski tour to his cabin. The group’s leader, Frank Wolff, has in his possession an unappreciated girlfriend, Sheila Noonan, a free spirit with sarcastic wit, a drinking problem, and insights into her life's bad decisions. She also slurs her lines as if her mouth is actually frozen in the authentic weather. This is Noonan’s second of four roles in her nearly one-year film career. She tries to thaw “Mr. Perfect,” who keeps her flirting at arm’s length for a while. Noonan wants out of her bottomless pit and reveals that her three skiing companions are gangsters. The other gang members consist of Wally Campo, a nutty little guy, and Richard Sinatra, Francis Albert's real-life cousin. 

Prior to the ski tour, the thieves set off a diversionary explosion in an abandoned cave as cover for stealing gold bars from the town’s bank vault. Forest becomes a hostage in order to get the gang close to their escape plane when it arrives. How the pilot could possibly land among thick evergreens and yard-deep powder is not clearly spelled out. But nothing goes as planned, thanks to that stringy spider-beast awakened by "heap big cave blast." Cocooned bodies are suspended in various locations, with the victims helplessly staring out into space. The beast’s lair provides temporary blizzard shelter for the remaining cast. Emphasis on temporary. Chaotic editing makes for a confusing climax in which a final gangster fires two flare guns, giving “haunted beast plenty big sunburn.” 

Note: The extended print for television broadcasts is responsible for ten minutes of extra footage to pad the film. One of those scenes happens before the opening credits roll, focusing on a cutting-edge Polaroid Land Camera. Most viewers were glued at this point. The two guys in a 1960 Corvair station wagon (top image) are casing the town's bank. One will note jazzy saxophone caper music. The brief music snippet may remind one today, humorously, of the chase music later expertly written for the famous cat-and-mouse jazzy chase sequence in the film “Bullitt.” But this is Laszlo, not Lalo. I digress. In the background is a white 1961 Ford Thunderbird. For a film released in October 1959, both vehicles seem a bigger mystery than a cave beast. As the original length version indicates, the only mode of transportation for the gang is a 1959 Ford. 

5 AGAINST THE HOUSE (1955)

Directed by Phil Karlson, this production helped usher in the heist film. It was produced by Stirling Silliphant and John Barnwell for Columbia Pictures with a screenplay based on Jack Finney's 1954 novel of the same name. George Duning's score adds the right amount of heft when needed. For the most part, the eighty-three minutes play out logically until the nonsensical ending. Karlson's realism is evident right from the opening night scene in Reno, Nevada, as a campus foursome arrives and has their car parked on an upper level by a nifty hydraulic parking garage system. There is plenty of genuine comic dialogue, but the script's humorous quips wear a bit thin, in part due to the film eventually taking a darker turn. Enrolled to further their matrimonial studies are Brian Keith, Guy Madison, Kerwin Mathews, and, for the film's levity, Alvy Moore, appearing to be the only age-appropriate student, judging by his mannerisms, physique, and crew cut. Moore was actually thirty-four. If you can get past the age absurdity, you are nearly halfway there. 

Returning to campus after their Korean War duty, pre-law students Madison and Keith are somewhat the "fathers" to the other two collegians. Madison is the straight arrow of the two. Capitalizing on some early roles, Keith's script dictates a volatile nature, this time due to battle shock and a metal plate in his head. He refuses further treatments in the VA's psych ward, however. During this era, a metal plate worked its way into a number of post-war actors' heads. But there are five against the house. Enter Madison's girlfriend, Kim Novak, now reunited. To his astonishment, she has become a singer at a Glendale nightclub. He had no idea she could sing and never suspected her voice would be dubbed. To be kind, the chosen studio singer matches Novak's vocal range accurately enough. Thankfully, there is only one number to sit through.

Due to a sizable inheritance, the wealthy Matthews—perhaps paying cash for each semester—is obsessed with a plan to rob Harold's Club in Reno, just for the exhilaration. All the money would be quickly returned—how is never addressed—ensuring that no one involved would be guilty of a crime. Right. Matthews purchases a used trailer and car to pull it and then fabricates a cash cart—entirely from memory—identical to the ones used at the club. The complex operation depends on Madison's participation—and a gullible audience—if it is to succeed. Throwing a curve into the plan is Madison's intention to marry Novak in Reno. The entire “wedding party” takes the seven hundred twenty-mile drive to Reno. Before long, Madison realizes something is up and forces the trio's hand. The happy couple want no part in it. That will not do, according to the unbalanced Keith, who now has no plan to return the money or share it. Losing all sense of reason, he threatens to bring them all down for their part if he gets caught.

They pull off the ideally timed theft with the help of a nervous William Conrad, in charge of the club's cash cart, during Western costume days. Matthews has a reel-to-reel tape recorder hidden inside the duplicate cart that plays a threatening recording on his (remote) command, psychologically making Conrad think “the guy in there” will shoot him if he does not play along. How Matthews turns the recorder on and off, or how Conrad could not be aware of the cart's lack of weight, is the very definition of suspended disbelief. Madison catches up with the fleeing Keith, and their special bond results in a tearful, emotional collapse of the latter in the same garage where the film opened. The police are there to arrest Keith, and everyone else is preposterously ignored for their part in the scheme. The viewer assumes Keith will not squeal on the other four and his metal...er...mental condition will result in a light sentence. Apparently, Conrad will keep silent when asked about his cowardly quarter-hour experience.

Note: This is certainly an entertaining film and generally got positive reviews at the time. But as time tends to enhance old films, this unknown noir has been raised to a higher level by some. The acting is commendable, but Keith is the only standout performer, eliciting a wide range of emotions. Novak's early film role seems well-matched to the one-dimensional Madison. However, the posters defy any thought of her in a supporting role. It is more like four against one.

HIGH SCHOOL BIG SHOT (1959)

Distributed by Sparta Productions, this seventy minutes of celluloid was directed and written by television's Joel Rapp, the man responsible for writing some of the most popular shows of the Sixties. Let us not blame him entirely for this film. This was a team effort. Shave about five minutes, and this film might have played better through an RCA or Magnavox console. An intelligent, jazzy score by Gerald Fried opens the film, in which a third of the lead cast members are killed. Always an acceptable percentage for low-budget acting. The executive producer was Roger Corman, and though the twenty-something high school students are not fooling anyone, the acting is mostly above par, thanks to those same twenty-somethings and a few television veterans. A film that concerns a depressing group of flawed characters. There is the alcoholic, deadbeat father, a renowned safe cracker who subscribes to the “honor among thieves” mantra, a female classmate who puts the “man” in manipulate, and three high schoolers who enjoy talking about slapping their dates around or anyone they dislike. Just call them the “three stooges.”

Tom Pittman is good. Moody. Talking directly into the camera, he opens the film, asking about the whereabouts of a safecracker to maybe work out a deal. Though captivating, his cool, adult delivery immediately defeats the premise of the shy, awkward high school kid. He is routinely threatened by the bully-leader of the “three stooges,” Howard Veit, in his only acting role, simply because Pittman is the brightest student in the class. In true liberal thinking, he cannot beat someone, so he tries to eliminate the competition. Veit seems to be the more logical choice as the "wannabe" big shot, what with his classroom disruptions and smart-aleck replies. But he is just not that smart. Pittman is the one student who has a scholarship waiting. Being a big shot is not in his thinking. His downfall is the cute Virginia Aldridge, part-time tart of meathead Veit. With an ulterior motive, she goes sweet on Pittman to get him to write her final exam essay. He thinks they have a future, but she is thinking about graduating. Their teacher, television’s famous Peter Leeds, knows she did not write it. She cannot even quote it. After denying it, he presses Pittman again for the truth, and he confesses. She is outraged that he told the truth. Things just never work out for her. No diploma for her, and Pittman’s scholarship is canceled. Thanks, honey-bunch.

Malcolm Atterbury plays Pittman’s father. He was an old pro, and he bolsters the film’s early stages. Their father-son scenes are tender if not heartbreaking. Pittman is devoted to his father, who believes he will get another job or even remarry. Dad reassures his son that he has also sworn off drink. Later, finding his father again nearly unconscious, Pittman bends before him and breaks down in tears. He would do anything to remove their financial state of affairs and buy useless stuff for Aldridge. 

Pittman overhears his boss, Bryan Foulger, planning a million-dollar heroin deal, with the money to be locked in the office safe prior to the deal.  Pittman wanders the streets by fake-walking in place, head turning left and right. Pretty funny. He locates Stanley Adams, a well-dressed safe-cracker, who spends his off-hours mooching off a liquor store owned by his brother-in-law. Hard to believe, but Pitman transforms into a savvy mastermind as the trio splits their haul.

Self-serving Aldridge double-crosses Pittman and informs Veit that he should intercept the money from Pittman at the pier. Distant sirens can be heard. Detail-oriented viewers will notice a film flop as one Plymouth patrol car, conveniently unmarked, is right-hand drive. They use the same correctly projected footage for a “third” patrol car’s arrival. A visual lesson on how to save production money or pad a cheap film. But I digress. In his attempt to escape, Veit is dropped by a bullet and the briefcase flies open. Also on the scene is Foulger, who goes berserk, looking directly into the camera and twice uncontrollably fumes, “A million bucks!” as he watches it float away from the dock. Chilling, but the amount was only Pittman's share of the loot. The aftermath calls for four funeral arrangements and taxpayers to pay room and board for the rest of the lead cast. 

Note: James Dean made a huge impact (poor choice of words) on Tom Pittman. Both had television experience, with the medium being the bulk of Pittman’s work. He had several movies to his credit, and this was his last, released posthumously, along with a previous film, after he died from injuries crashing over a cliff in his own Porsche Spyder on Halloween, nearly four years after Dean. It was nearly twenty days later that his body and car were discovered in a ravine.

TIMETABLE (1956)

Arguably, this may be the best mid-century film of Mark Stevens’ career. His character is believable and, with only a few of his directorial details going amok, is a highly-rated B-movie. One of those details is the film opening to the relaxing sounds of an acoustic guitar more befitting a Western or foreign film. Yet there is a train's headlight coming at you. Abruptly, there is the sound of a sliding iron door slamming shut with a single music chord as the title graphic explodes on the screen. Then back to the guitar, then a full orchestra. That is editing worth looking into. The train sequences are the strongest part of the film, though, laying out the slick, detailed con. Indicative of the era, the ending chase is too long, especially knowing the errant characters are doomed. There are only so many flights of stairs to nowhere or alleys to run down. 

Wesley Addy, playing a bespectacled doctor without a license to practice, was busy on television with a few movies—Kiss Me Deadly, perhaps his most famous project—is only in two scenes, but his smooth, calming, and authoritarian delivery belies his devious persona. When asked by a steward to check on a sick passenger, his diagnosis is that of a phony case of polio, and the train must stop short of the scheduled destination. Due to the severity of the illness, he must have access to his medical bag in another car. His bag comes equipped with a gun for house calls. At gunpoint, he subdues the baggage personnel with a hypo, opens the safe, and keeps the loot. An ambulance is arranged for the doctor, the patient, and his wife. Everyone who debarks is part of an elaborate heist orchestrated by Stevens.

Stevens’ character, as an insurance investigator, is specifically requested to investigate the crime for the company, throwing a wrench into his timetable. Joining him in the investigation is railroad investigator King Calder, above. Practically unknown to moviegoers yet busy during the early years of television, he is excellent and so genuine that one would think he really is an investigator. He has no awareness of studio cameras right in front of him. He simply inhabits the part. He and Stevens have a long working relationship. Calder is convinced there is no such thing as a perfect crime, and he slowly unravels the crime one blackboard, one eraser, and one person at a time. 

True to Calder’s belief, the mastermind’s perfect timetable is again disrupted when he meets up with his reason for the money, Felicia Farr, Addy’s on-screen wife. The money is now in the husband's possession, and the couple makes their pre-planned Mexican escape. She squeaks by with the money and her life. He escapes with neither. With Steven's murder of a key witness and conspirator, Calder tells him the case appears to be a dead end. He suggests Stevens and his wife finally take that Mexican vacation they have talked so much about. Stevens is thinking, “Wife? Whose wife?!” 

There is a nice twist involving Stevens’ briefcase with the stolen money.  As a surprise joke, his wife has a key made for the case, substituting fishing lines and travel magazines for his “work papers.” His briefcase was a surprise to her as well. Doing the right thing, she sends the loot to his insurance company. Their relationship instantly turns south of the border. While Stevens hyperventilates, he leaves for good. Calder pays the wife a visit and she reluctantly reveals her husband's lack of clock management skills. 

Note: Stevens’ directing is not faultless. One detail that is not even questioned is that Stevens tries to convince Calder that the key witness's murder was a suicide. Except he was shot in the side. A slow suicide at best. Secondly, the script uses aliases for the thieves in the opening heist. With no lines or screen appearance, the fake patient’s name is not mentioned until later as the investigation unravels. When his name is mentioned, one might wonder who they are talking about. Thirdly, Stevens could have shaved minutes by cutting the set of “hot news” segments, interviewing those accosted during the robbery. A single-chord music cue gives each more credence than it deserves. The scenes serve no purpose.

MILLION DOLLAR PURSUIT (1951)

At sixty minutes, it is the perfect length for a B-movie. This Republic Pictures vehicle sets a good pace and has all the cliché elements you would expect. The virtually unknown British actor, Norman Budd, plays a small-time crook whose ego is bigger than his brains, doing his best American tough-guy routine. The mob has shut him out but he still thinks he can rise to the top again. Being the dreamer he is, Budd also thinks he has a girlfriend in Penny Edwards, a nightclub singer at the club he used to own with Grant Withers. Though without a spotless record, Withers is the current sole owner and has taken Edwards under his wing. This is the same girl who was previously engaged to the police lieutenant, actor Steve Flagg, who wants her out of the mob and into his life again. She cannot commit to his second engagement proposal until she finds out who framed her for the resulting short prison term.

A department store executive drops a set of keys one night and Budd picks them up. After a scuffle at the club, he is thrown out, leaving the keys at the bar. His buddy bartender, Denver Pyle, returns them the next day. The wheels start turning in Budd's brain and he contacts locksmith, Rhys Williams. He explains that it is a special key used for vaults and the like. Williams makes a duplicate key with plans to easily steal a million and Pyle wants in on it. The group grows to five but the robbery does not go well. A murder charge awaits one gang member. Plus, their take comes up 500K short and the bills are all marked. 

Panic sets in and Williams hopes Budd can get Withers to fence the useless bills for them. Withers arranges a meeting but Williams shows instead. Their location is overheard by the pretty singer who tells the handsome lieutenant. In typical fashion, gunshots buzz by automobile fenders and hoods, killing two human hoods in the process. Withers and his bodyguard also go down. Back at the hideout, a radio bulletin informs Pyle the other gang members were killed and thinks Budd had it planned all along. After Budd arrives, Pyle unsuccessfully tries to bow out. 

Figuring out who tipped off the police, Budd returns to Edward’s apartment and in his anger tells her he is gifted at framing. She manages to escape then he catches up with her in a warehouse. Imagine that? Now, this rarely happens in crime films but the helpless female is held at gunpoint. The lieutenant disarms the crook and they duke it out to a definitive end.

Note: The acting is competent throughout with perhaps the exception of a melodramatic performance by Penny Edwards near the end is a bit overblown. Those scenes are played out more like a stage play. Denver Pyle is quite smooth and inhabits his character. Norman Budd’s short stature works pretty well as he tries to verbally cut everyone down to his size with tough talk. He comes on strong but not over the top. His career was short as well, and his last role was just two years later.

PLUNDER ROAD (1957)

This gripping tale of an elaborate nighttime scheme to heist ten million in gold from a special government train opens with effective title credits as the highway centerline weaves back and forth across the screen. The first fifteen minutes will have you glued, what with the driving rain, the pounding score, and the character’s voice-over inner doubts about their meticulous plan's success. The seventy-two-minute film is concise, with little wasted footage. Transportation buffs will enjoy the realism of location shooting. The only flaw is the ending.

Directed by Hubert Cornfield with a screenplay by Steven Ritch (above left) from his and Jack Charney's story, this crime gem was produced by Regal Films and distributed by 20th Century Fox. Gene Raymond (above) is the mastermind. He has never pulled off anything like this before. But Raymond is the only one with a college degree, making him the most highly qualified "heister" among the gang. The other four men are from mixed backgrounds, with Wayne Morris and Elisha Cook Jr. as the only seasoned criminals (below). The crooks divert the approaching freight train to a siding with the train detonating an explosive cap set on the rail. The engineer knows this is a signal of something amiss ahead. The train operators are gassed or knocked out. The tediously clever long-distance detonation, by tuning the truck's radio, spectacularly blows the boxcar open, carrying the gold.

Their story then unfolds over nine hundred miles, with Raymond not confident everyone will make it. The gold is divided among three trucks, each going different routes, leaving at precise intervals, as devised by the college graduate. The guys patiently wait for their departure time, just as the viewer has to patiently wait for what comes next. An effective director’s device or not, it works. The single driver, then the duo, eventually gets apprehended in simple low-key fashion compared to the film’s complex opening. It realistically captures how mundane the capture of these infallible men can be. A brief, coded phone call to Raymond’s girlfriend, Jeanne Cooper, tells her to expect them in Los Angeles. She has the fake delivery papers and passports for their south-of-the-border trek.

Raymond, Cooper, and Ritch—in a time-consuming, implausible feat—melt down their remaining gold bars into bumpers and wheel covers to fancy up their air-suspended Cadillac. Apparently no concern about the tires blowing out. They are feeling pretty smug. After a strong beginning and middle section, the ending is certainly the film's weak point. And a bit laughable. Making a getaway on a Los Angeles freeway at rush hour was not as well planned as the train robbery. Then a simple bumper bender brings over the police who notice a most unusual Cadillac accessory—solid gold bumpers. The three, in typical fashion of the era, run for it. From the overpass, Raymond decides to jump onto an oncoming truck trailer on the highway below—something else he had not done before. His parkour skills not well polished, set up one of those “whoa” moments. Desperation, thy name in Raymond.