NEVER TRUST A GAMBLER (1951)

NEVER TRUST AN EX-HUSBAND

Known mostly for being unknown, directing forgettable films in the Thirties and Forties, the name of Ralph Murphy might ring a bell for directing three costume adventure films teaming Louis Hayward and Patricia Medina in Lady in the Iron Mask, The Lady and the Bandit, and Captain Pirate. All in an effort to revitalize the swashbuckler. Months before these films, he directed this very predictable crime drama released by Columbia Pictures. The film was produced by Louis B. Appleton Jr. and Monty Shaff. It was developed from a routine screenplay by Jesse Lasky Jr. and Jerome Odlum with zero surprises. The adequate music score is by Arthur Morton. Clocking in at seventy-nine minutes, it is typical of the period but the commendable second-tier performers steady the film.

The film stars Bernard Zanville, aka Dane Clark, as a small-time gambler refusing to testify to supposedly protect his innocent friend accused of murder. The edgy Clark is always hiding behind curtains, peering between Venetian blinds when not packing a suitcase. His co-star is Cathy O’Donnell, playing the ex-wife. As a reserved school teacher, she is well cast as her apparent weak acting fits the role. Her eyes are lifeless, at times as if she were playing a blind character. Her acting resume was thin. She reluctantly agrees to let him stay and tries to cover for him, but admits she is not good at lying like Clark. In her final scene after being manhandled as Clark's shield, I could not tell if she was crying or exhausted from laughing.

Rhys Williams makes an indelibly disgusting mark on the viewer with his short, pivotal screen time as an off-duty police sergeant full of himself. He collides with O’Donnell in a market. He dated O’Donnell’s roommate and recognizes her. In spite of his rather clownish appearance, he assumes he is irresistible and obliged to make advances. Among her food items, she purchases a bottle of whiskey for Clark. The store clerk is that handsome beach ball with legs, Percy Helton. Williams teases her so persistently about that whiskey and living alone, she just gives it to him to make him go away. But this guy is a leech. A sexual predator. He shows up at her home with the lame excuse of returning the whiskey. He gets physical, and she slaps him a few times and instinctively calls out Clark’s name. The pervert thinks she lied to him about being alone and confronts Clark, thusly:

A fight erupts, Williams fires his gun,

Only hitting the ceiling, he is done.

Hit by a footstool on his head,

He is not alive but very dead.

Moviegoers rise up and cheer,

A pleasant movie moment of the year.

Tip #1: if you want to fill in a bullet hole in your ceiling,

you can use ordinary “kitchen soap.” Preferably white.

Clark decides to mask the manslaughter by sending Williams and his car over a cliff. A plan that rarely works. It is quickly determined that Williams died well before the accident. In a silly bit, another officer spotted footprints and determined the shoes were in a hurry. The officer is amazing. Deserves a promotion. Yet the scenes with Clark leaving the scene have him walking, not running. Williams’ three-year partner is played by Jeff Corey. He confirms, whether on or off duty, Williams had only one thing on his mind: ‘a skirt.’ A character Hollywood salaciously included as expected male behavior, but now, with selective indignation, has created their own hashtags.

Tom Drake, the lead detective, is solid in this role. He and Corey are naturals. Drake’s vocal quality and delivery, along with his body language, add depth to his character. On his first visit with O’Donnell in her home, he senses she is hiding something, though he is there to ask about her former roommate, who had a past with Williams. The roommate is later questioned and, in no uncertain terms, tells the police what a scumbag Williams was. The moviegoers stand and cheer once more.

Drake could also be quite charming. He and O’Donnell have lunch together, and they enjoy each other's company. But a probing question unravels her suspected sheltering of her ex-husband. A lot of interviews later, Corey and Drake know they are after that Clark skunk. The detective duo returns to the O’Donnell house, but she is not there. The day’s heavy rain causes the roof to leak, conveniently revealing the bullet hole in the ceiling. Amusingly, on the floor is the plug of soap.

Tip #2: if you want to fill in a bullet hole in your ceiling,

have a leak-proof roof.

Clark, at his wits’ end, lies about supporting O’Donnell’s constant plea to turn himself in. Unknown to him, she witnesses him packing a revolver in his suitcase. He forces her along on his escape, getting more desperate by the mile. They stop for gas, and she offers to pay by credit card. While signing the receipt, she adds a note for the attendant to call Drake. Clark does stupid things during the climax of the film in typical B-movie fashion. The screenplay ends the film on a lighter note as Drake and O’Donnell cozy up in the rear of Corey’s vehicle. He looks through his rearview mirror, smirks, and adjusts the mirror downward. 

Note: There is a comical scene with Sid Tomack, a bus driver. Drake arrives to question him about passengers he picked up on the night of the Williams’ killing, but his nagging wife, “Ginger,” played by Ruth Warren, thinks the police are there to arrest her husband for stealing again. It is obvious she runs their home. When Drake introduces himself, Tomack tries to take a step backward out of fear, but his wife pushes him forward. Nervously, he tells the police he has not done anything wrong with his wife, instantly calling him a liar. Tomack, however, saves face by confirming Clark was a fare.

FOLLOW ME QUIETLY (1949)

GULLIBILITY OF A DUMMY

This RKO Pictures semi-documentary noir, directed by Richard Fleischer, is a tidy sixty minutes' worth of crime-solving with a couple of questionable twists. Fellow director, Anthony Mann, shared story credit with Francis Rosenwald. Lillie Hayward provided the screenplay, which, in a couple of scenes, packs an emotional punch. There is hardly a dull moment thanks to the pacing. I find no fault with the well-cast lineup of actors or the wonderful moods set by the shadowy cinematography. The story centers around a serial killer, known only as "The Judge," and his stereotypical messages of individually clipped letters pasted on an otherwise blank sheet of paper. He is also an avid reader. He is both judge and jury as to who is evil, murdering them whenever it rains after the sun's setting. Alas, there would be fewer murders if he lived in Tucson.

A police Lieutenant, handsome William Lundigan, is assigned to track down the killer with the help of his partner, the less handsome Jeff Corey. In the mix is a persistent young reporter, Dorothy Patrick, who works for a tabloid magazine with a sensationalistic reputation. Lundigan is not a fan. Patrick, at times, a facial mix of the more famous Ginger Rogers, Priscilla Lane, and Eve Arden, is pressing him for a scoop on the killings, much to his annoyance.

The most implausible element in the film starts with a detailed, full-body sketch to identify the killer by his suit. Finally, some real progress. The film breaks with police routine—and reason—when Lundigan goes to great lengths to create a faceless manikin based on the sketch, blowing the police department's entire Christmas budget. Lundigan then has the manikin face the wall in their lineup—its back facing the policemen—as Corey bizarrely questions it with the dummy’s “answers” prerecorded, based on clues obtained about the killer to that point. The forty-five-second presentation is a real eye-opener. Somehow. Suspects are rounded up based on rear views and placed beside the manikin. Lundigan becomes the judge as to whether or not a suspect might be the killer. The department is only missing a face to go with the suit.

Wait. This is the most implausible element in the film. The blank-faced manikin's photograph is distributed to neighborhood bookstores—on Patrick's advice—in the hope that the manikin might be recognized as a recent customer. Understandably, the face is rather vague, but one shop owner says this customer wore glasses. Lundigan draws round eyeglass frames on the blank face. Nailed it. This narrows their search to any male approached from behind of average height with round-framed glasses.

Wait. Wait. Lest I forget an earlier scene. Alone in his unlit, dark office, Lundigan audibly questions the seated dummy from behind, trying to work through his toughest case, mentally. It is raining as the camera zooms in on his face, suggesting he is at a breaking point. In walks Corey, telling him to ease up. 'If you want to talk to a dummy, talk to me.' After both detectives leave the office, the “dummy” pivots, then rises, still faceless to the audience, pushing the gullibility envelope in a preposterously risky move by “The Judge.” Obviously, he is not a heavy breather or wearing smoke-infused clothing. A slick scene with a believability factor at absolute zero.

Lundigan and Corey stake out the murderer’s apartment building from an empty room. When we first see the face of the serial killer, Edwin Max, he cautiously approaches the building. This skittish guy does not fit the profile of one who would mockingly toy with Lundigan in his office. With the neighborhood eerily vacant and silent, he dashes off with both detectives in pursuit. The climax is a foot chase in an oil refinery among giant pipes, catwalks, and stairways to clichėd heights. Leonid Raab’s score cranks up to a crescendo as the police arrive and take aim at Max with a machine gun, bursting water pipes left and right. Totally spent from running and with no place to go, Max is cornered by Lundigan. He puts one end of the handcuffs on the killer, but fails to attach the other end to himself. The next scene would not work if he had. He instructs him, 'Follow me, quietly.' When Max attempts to walk under the leaking pipes, however, the pouring water sends him into a violent rage (in daylight), and he viciously tries to escape, compromising Lundigan’s grip on the handcuffs. The police chalk up Max's fall—and his body outline—to water torture.