THE CLAY PIGEON (1949)

 

This American film may not be included in anyone's top ten film noirs but there is little to fault here. There is never a dull moment. Starring in the B-movie is Bill Williams' rather bland performance due to his vocal tone and delivery. Barbara Hale holds her own, however. The real-life husband and wife were in their third year of marriage when this film was released by RKO Radio Pictures. It is a tidy sixty-three minutes of suspense competently directed by Richard Fleischer with a screenplay and story by Carl Foreman based on a true story. The cinematography of Robert De Grasse should be noted, specifically his positive-negative effects during one flashback.

An intriguing opening scene has a former World War II prisoner-of-war patient, Williams, awakening from a coma at a naval hospital. He overhears the doctor and nurse mention his court-martial for treason and he shoots straight up in bed—face in the camera. He is accused of informing on fellow inmates in a Japanese prison camp. His amnesia makes for a foggy past and a perfect candidate for deception—hence the film's title. Not convinced of his guilt, he escapes from the hospital and contacts two people he hopes will help him re-capture the truth.

Williams' first stop is the widow of one of his POW buddies he greatly admired. Hale knows who he is and the newspaper headlines fuel her dislike of him. There is an intense physical struggle [fight] between the two that is well-played and believable. Though somewhat implausibly—after confessing to being a nice guy—he gets tough with her making the audience wonder if he should receive some sort of punishment. He gags and threatens her at gunpoint, while he calls his best friend, Richard Quine, another ex-POW. I will just say he is pretty irate to get the call as if he has something else planned. Overhearing Williams's sincere conversation, Hale starts to change her opinion. Her gag order is lifted. Expect the obligatory roadblock out of town with Williams—not yet sure she can be trusted—pointing a gun and saying something silly like, “Don't try anything.” This is never believable. Those flashbacks help clarify his past for him and the audience. Williams needs to be eliminated before he recovers his memory. Leave this to thugs Richard Loo and Robert Bray.

Note: Williams and Hale hide out in a trailer park while he fully recovers from another black-out caused by the initial hit on the head during the Japanese prison camp. The scene is filmed at the Paradise Cove location where Jim Rockford will eventually park his own trailer for the popular detective series, The Rockford Files.

WORLD FOR RANSOM (1954)

 

Sarcastic gumshoe, Dan Duryea, opens the film under duress from a local racketeer. Duryea yells much of his discouraged dialogue in his trademark high-register voice with its grating quality of whining. Truly the anti-hero, he complains plenty in this film. He appears to live a day-to-day existence, hoping that a positive turn of events is around the next rickshaw. His pal and polar opposite, Patric Knowles, turns out to be a double-crossing coward. His wife is played by newcomer, Marian Carr, whose breathy delivery is a bit annoying as if to give Marilyn Monroe a box office challenge. As a nightclub singer, her single number has er in top hat and tails, about midway between 1930’s Morocco and 1982’s Victor/Victoria. Later in the film, she is constantly weaving fore and aft at the waist as if trying to get enough air to breathe. Also a bit annoying and a possible subtle scene-stealer. Carr’s career was a short one.

Gene Lockhart playing an unbalanced, criminal mastermind is a bit of a stretch. Though accustomed to playing unethical businessmen, his biggest character flaw here is his arrogant, condescending attitude. He wants the secrets to the hydrogen bomb and enlists two thugs to "Shanghai" Arthur Shields, a nuclear scientist. Knowles is in this plot up to his mustache assisting the kidnapping by impersonating a military colonel. Lockhart meets with the ever-so-British Nigel Bruce—the Colonial Governor—and demands five million dollars, a sum Knowles sells his soul to get his hands on. It is Lockhart’s ransom of the century to prevent the nuclear destruction of Singapore and then some, but not the world. As a bonus, he “promises” to release Shields unharmed.

 

The climax is a fairly exciting standoff with a lot of gunplay at the kidnapper’s hideout. Duryea’s desire is to bring the errant Knowles safely back to his wife and with the help of the Major, Reginald Denny, also rescue the scientist. Knowles is not handling the stress well with multiple lies to save his hide. He shoots all his criminal associates, including Lockhart, then turns his attention to Duryea. Self-defense is called for.

The ending between Duryea and Carr is not uplifting, though he gets his face lifted from being slapped a few times. It is the demise of their friendship. She actually had a thing for the scoundrel because he never questioned her shady past. The closing scene, like the opener, has Duryea receiving wisdom from a female fortune-teller, an actress not even credited for an uncredited role.

Note: This film is the assumed continuation of the popular 1950s television series, "China Smith," starring Duryea as a mercenary adventurer. Its main notoriety is its director, Robert Aldrich, who would soon make his mark with an infamous Mike Hammer film the following year. Also, a carryover from television land is the competent—yet forgettable—score by Frank De Vol. The filming was finished well under two weeks and made the most out of a television-restrained budget. Distributed by Allied Artists Productions, it takes a while to get the blood flowing perhaps due to extending a thirty-minute series into an eighty-two-minute movie. Add to this a slightly confusing screenplay by Hugo Butler during the opening scenes. Worth it all is some excellent cinematography work by Joseph Biroc and his use of intriguing points of view and lighting contrast in sweaty Singapore. Not much stands out beyond this, so it becomes an “also-ran” within the film noir archives.

DOUBLE JEOPARDY (1955)

 

Stoically stiff, yet charmingly handsome, Rod Cameron plays a criminal attorney nearly engaged to Allison Hayes, whose father, a wealthy businessman played by John Litel, thinks highly of Cameron, personally and professionally. Perhaps the director suggested the brunette Hayes lighten her hair. The problem is that she and her equal-billed co-star, Gale Robbins, look similar in their opening scenes, sharing a hairstyle, facial structure, and figure. What separates the two is Robbin’s annoying character, an extremely deceptive and smart-aleck tart. Money is her only interest, not her former wealthy husband, Robert Armstrong. He has not worked in years since serving a prison term for a shady business deal with his former business partner, the aforementioned Litel. He now spends his idle hours consuming alcohol by the quart. That, and blackmailing Litel to keep their secret sealed. Enter problem child, Jack Kelly.

Kelly and Robbins are in a deceptive lust affair. They deserve each other. Kelly is a salesman for “Happy Harry’s” used car dealership. Kelly is as greedy and unethical as they come. Portly Dick Elliott plays Harry, some years away from being a one-term Mayor of Mayberry. At Kelly’s suggestion, Robbins sweet-talks Armstrong into pressuring Litel for a second big payoff. Another dreaded phone call and Litel meets Armstrong on their usual mountain overlook. But Litel has not brought any money, only rendezvousing with the extortionist to say he has had enough. Slime bag Kelly has been watching from afar and after Litel drives away he confronts Armstrong, demanding the assumed money. They argue, then Armstrong gets behind the wheel and attempts to drive off. Outside the passenger side of the car, Kelly appears to impossibly pull Armstrong away from the driver's side in a questionable bit of editing. Suddenly Armstrong's right arm dangles out the passenger side window. The car slowly rolls backward over a cliff. 'Twas the crash that killed the drunken beast.

Based on the specific tire tread pattern of his Rolls-Royce leading to the spot, Litel looks good for the murder. He finally admits his past with Armstrong and their financial deal for new housing development. Investigating on his own, Cameron puts the idea into Robbins' head that Kelly planned to double-cross her and keep the money himself. The two “love doves” drive to the scene of Armstrong’s demise to get the invisible money. Kelly's only plan is to silence loose lips.

This drama was produced by Rudy Ralston and written by Don Martin for Republic Pictures. The veteran of many Republic westerns, R. G. Springsteen, directed this seventy-minute crime film. Thanks to a competent cast, this well-played B-movie is a familiar theme of extortion with lying characters—two Hollywood favorites. Thick, night cinematography adds atmosphere to this "mystery" film. It holds up well enough for a very unknown film with an oft-used title.

Note: Late in the film, Cameron begins suspecting Kelly is surely guilty of something and poses a few questions to Elliot. Covering for Kelly, the attorney gets the run-around. Fed up and realizing there will be no straight answers, Cameron sarcastically deadpans, "Well, are you happy, Harry?"

JIGSAW (1949)

This seventy-two-minute production by Tower Pictures Inc. and distributed by United Artists is a film noir with a title suggesting a puzzle and not the subject of a home-tooled horror movie. Its most distinguishing aspect is the brief cameo appearances of several major Hollywood stars in the film's early stages. But do not glance down to grab some popcorn or you might miss one. Considering the similarities of this film’s subject with Communism, their support of the film can be explained to the audience's delight. The producers thanked them for their goodwill at the very end. Each appears as inconsequential characters: John Garfield, Marsha Hunt, Everett Sloane, Henry Fonda and Burgess Meredith. Marlene Dietrich has the most clever appearance when she leaves the actual nightclub, “The Blue Angel,” the title of her early signature film.

An opening exchange between Franchot Tone and Myron McCormack is very telling about self-absorption. The insightful scene is apropos for the current century. McCormack is the tough newspaper editor who pulls no punches. When a local printer pays the ultimate price, he is convinced his death was not a suicide. The widow hysterically insists it was but fear can be a terribly effective weapon. Special prosecutor Tone argues these hate groups are just harmless lunatics. A hopeful guess, but no, says McCormack. "The murder was carried out by a neo-fascist organization calling themselves the Crusaders. It is their dream of power or political success; a financial scam to generate profits. Where he grew up nobody cared what country each came from. They got along. Then hate gave them derogatory terms for their beliefs or ethnicity. Ignorance is the vehicle and hate is the avenue for attacking an individual’s ideology." McCormack wraps up by saying, “Americans do not understand why they are supposed to be different.” He finds out firsthand (above right) what hate can do when dictated by a short script.

Franchot Tone holds the film together with ease and a subtle coolness. He is very adept at delivering witty lines, perhaps only second to Dick Powell in this regard. He is an assistant district attorney determined to flesh out those responsible for hate crimes in his city. Tone is connecting all the pieces of the puzzle but a few are not fitting properly.

Playing the widow of a prominent judge, Winifred Lenihan throws a dinner party for movers and shakers. One might find annoying her tiny voice and snooty New England dialect with a syrupy delivery suggesting she expects something in return. She makes it a point to introduce Tone to several influential men whom she believes can help his career. Nudge. Nudge. Foreshadowing a questioning Jack Webb on television's, “Dragnet,” the camera abruptly cuts between Tone and the men as each looks directly into the camera. While conversing with Tone, one only sees their lips move in silence. Tone's sarcastic voice-over interprets each man and their ambitions. Jean Wallace, introduced as a singer at “The Blue Angel” nightclub, is also an invited guest. Tone is surprised yet pleased to see her. What is a nice girl like her doing at a creepy party like this? Tone and Wallace, recently divorced in real life, have some cat and mouse interaction before she asks him, ‘You’re a special something or other aren’t you?’ Their scenes provide the only sparks in the film.

The ending takes a definitive noir turn with some nice elevated camera work casting long shadows from tall interior columns in an art gallery. The Crusaders are there to retrieve incriminating papers hidden behind a particular painting. Gunshots echo through the marble halls but only the bad die young in this one.

Note: Tone, Wallace, and Meredith would be together the following year in, The Man In The Eiffel Tower. A film that could have been a classic but the elevator never made it to the top.

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 movement 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 following 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 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. 

THE CHASE (1946)

Michel Michelet's opening Cuban “piano concerto” for this film noir seems to fit crashing waves along an ocean shore. A place the female lead longs to be. It is befitting a passionate love story, too, but passion is in short supply during its eighty-six-minute run. He got plenty of mileage out of his score, doubling as a spinning record tune and for badly faked piano playing for this United Artists release. The score beyond this does not seem noticeably necessary. On the camera front, there are a few slow transitional shots that may try your patience. In particular, one long pause of the female lead as she stares out a ship's porthole window.

Robert Cummings plays a penniless Navy veteran with a small prescription bottle. His easy-going acting style made him friendly to audiences. His vocal tone is comforting and trustworthy. Just a nice young man. He is every bit that in this film. On the opposite scale is Steve Cochran, a ruthless Miami gangster with an accountant-assassin, Peter Lorre, who eliminates any competition by death. in another signature role, Lorre is always concerned about Cochran's expenses. Renowned French-born actress, Michèle Morgan, is Cochran’s property wife of three years. Cochran's rather brief screen time ignites the film, unlike Morgan's extended film time.

The film opens with a light moment as we witness Cummings salivating outside a diner window as a cook flips pancakes and turns bacon. In resignation, he departs, stepping on a wallet belonging to Cochran. After his breakfast, he returns the wallet and remaining cash to Cochran at his ostentatious mansion. Their first meeting is a gem. Being uncomfortable in his surroundings and fending off many questions, Cummings shyly admits he returned the wallet probably because he is just a sucker. This elicits a singular chuckle out of deadpan Lorre. Given his own lifestyle, Cochran is amazed that anyone would do this. He likes Cummings' unassuming nature and honesty. He is immediately hired as the new chauffeur while the current one is fired. Perhaps fired upon.

Cochran certainly has a screw loose upstairs. His menacing glare makes one wonder what is turning inside his head. He may also have a death wish of sorts. On the floorboard at the rear seat of his limo, he has installed an accelerator and brake pedals. He can override the chauffeur anytime he wants. He is quite amused by it though Lorre seems bored with it all. All the driver needs to do is steer. It brings a whole new dimension to driving dynamics. He surprises Cummings with his toy by going over one hundred miles per hour to beat an approaching train. Cochran applies the brakes just in time, only skidding about fifteen feet. A testament to the amazing stopping power of skinny, radial tires, drum brakes of the era, and the audience's gullibility.

Morgan came into Cochran's life with nothing and now wants to be let go the same way. Who better to arrange a getaway trip than a chauffeur. Thus begins a tedious, forty-minute middle section which is simply used to lead the audience on a fantasy journey by way of two subtle transitional film scenes. One may wonder why Cummings makes some clichéd decisions in the face of danger. Illogically, he leaves his meek persona behind to become a debonair risk-taker. Once he awakes in a cold sweat, your first words might be, “You have got to be kidding!” Cummings suffers from “anxiety neurosis” due to combat shock and it explains the prescription bottle he carries. In hindsight, though established better in other films, the dream excursion adds the only real excitement to the film. Too bad it never happened.

The recurrence of amnesia sends Cummings back to the Navy hospital to consult with his former Commander and current doctor, Jack Holt. In the back of his memory, Cummings seems to think he is supposed to be somewhere and constantly watches the time. To help take his mind off things, Holt takes him to a nightclub, the same haunt of Cochran. What are the odds? They sit on opposite sides of a partition. Intense. After taking a phone call, Holt is spotted by Cochran who was briefly a patient after his own discharge. Considering Cochran’s behavior, he should re-establish those appointments. Predictably, before Holt returns, Cumming's memory kicks in and he leaves to get Morgan off to Havana.

Near the film’s beginning, “Fats,” played by the famous announcer, Don Wilson, spotted Cochran’s new chauffeur buying tickets for Havana. Assuming they were for him and his wife, he mentions this during the aforementioned club scene. Awkward. The two gangsters are in extremely hot pursuit of his lousy, stinking, dishonest chauffeur. The ending scale model train/car chase is quite obvious but good movie-making. Still, the old sedan going one hundred ten miles per hour around thirty mile-per-hour curves is a bit much. Lorre, never a fan of Cochran’s pedal toy in the back seat, only hopes he and his rear-seated boss can again make the rail crossing before the train. Perhaps an alternate meaning behind the movie's title.

FINGER MAN (1955)

There are few surprises in this eighty-two-minute Lindsley Parsons Productions project. Distributed by Allied Artists and directed by Harold Schuster, there were numerous films patterned in the same manner mid-century. Hats off, though, to William Sickner for his photography and Paul Dunlap for providing a solid score that fits the various moods nicely. The talky script is slow at times with a fair share of clichéd staging. It is an average effort and subsequent viewings will probably not be high on your list of priorities. As is so often the case, without an experienced cast, this film noir would not be nearly as watchable.

How unfortunate that Frank Lovejoy's short, thirteen-year career did not allow viewers to witness future projects. It seemed he was Hollywood’s go-to man when needing an average guy dealing with challenging situations. He possessed an intense, underplayed acting style that, more often than not, was effective. He could be a bit lackluster, too. Lovejoy does the voice-over narration reminiscent of his earlier radio program, Night Beat. Rather unusual to have someone at odds with the law tell his story in voice-overs. Most criminals end up dead in a routine film noir. 

Lovejoy is a petty criminal who has served time in the big house. He is also a talented “piano player” after a fashion. Probably the accompanist for the prison choir. To clarify, we never see the full keyboard of the upright piano he tickles at a nightclub. Not quite sure if he had a job at the club or if they just let me play when he shows up. Brought in for hijacking a truck, he is given a choice to either return to prison or help the U.S. Treasury Department take down a crime boss, the less-than-believable, Forrest Tucker. The studios or perhaps his agent may have struggled to find a niche for Tucker. This role does not seem the right one. If Lovejoy is successful in putting the finger on Tucker, his record will be washed clean. The worst that could happen is that he gets killed. Understandably, this factors heavily in his decision. After discovering his sister has become a drug addict thanks to Tucker, he is committed to the assignment.

The acting is believable with the possible exception of Timothy Carey (above), Tucker’s lunatic partner and sociopath. Carey could be the levity in this movie as his scenes elicit laughs. Yet nothing amusing about his disturbing desire to scar females’ faces before, during, or after killing them. Opposite a laid-back Lovejoy, he provides an over-the-top contrast. Discovering a past despicable deed, Lovejoy wants to attack him savagely. But before a blow can be landed, Carey immediately starts whimpering like a little child until he finishes his outrageous scene. An odd, one-dimensional character that has become classic Carey.

Lovejoy’s love interest, formerly employed by Tucker to pad his income, is Peggie Castle. Castle seems a bit too refined for the role. A “Jan Sterling type” would have been a more expected choice. She wants to turn her life around and Lovejoy demands the Treasury also clear her record if he is successful. He needs her help to get on good terms with Tucker. Things do not end well for Castle. Often noted is her final scene crossing a darkened intersection while Lovejoy watches her for the last time from his second-story apartment. The best noir element in the film or several other films.

Tucker initially likes the short-fused Lovejoy but his opinion changes rather quickly after an undercover detective, assigned to keep tabs on Lovejoy, is fleshed out. There is no escape for the panicky Tucker. Just a reservation at the San Quentin “motor lodge” where the yearly rate is the best value. Lovejoy’s final voice-over, walking away from the camera down a darkened sidewalk, indicates he hopes to start a new life. Help people like his sister or Castle. If he lives long enough.

DOWN THREE DARK STREETS (1954)

Produced by Edward Small and distributed by United Artists, this film is another pseudo-documentary-style account of the FBI pursuing three cases (dark streets). Underlying the opening credits is a commanding, All-American march theme, by Paul Sawtell. The film wastes no time locking in the viewer with the murder of a gas station attendant followed by a brief, dark and suspenseful scene tracking a killer. Then it settles into melodramatic voice-over narration informing the viewer what the actors are doing, have done, or will soon do. Aside from the first-rate performances, this movie possesses nothing new for the moviegoer. Broderick Crawford is solid in this warm-up for his successful television series, Highway Patrol. Literally and figuratively, he carries a lot of weight as an agent who plays it by the book but with empathy. Working alongside Crawford is polite FBI agent, Kenneth Tobey, always excellent with a genuine professional demeanor in any of his authoritative roles. The script is pretty riveting as his story unfolds. Tobey was working on three cases, each one involving women who may or may not have a common thread. Unfortunately, he ends up with much less dialogue than Crawford. 

Woman number one, Roman, is a primary dark street. She is getting calls from an extortionist with demands threatening her and her young daughter. Roman is a nervous wreck and Crawford replaces Tobey to help discover and apprehend the extortionist. Woman number two is Martha Hyer, who tries too hard for a Best Supporting Actress nomination. As the worldly girlfriend of the guy who killed Tobey and the service station attendant in the opening, she shows every sign of trying to steal scenes from Crawford. A tough job. Marisa Pavan is woman number three. Her conversation with Crawford is methodically talkative but provides a tender moment. She is so familiar with her surroundings, that it takes a while for Crawford to realize her character is blind. Her husband, Gene Reynolds, is suspected of hot car hustling. Known car hustler and boxer, Claude Akins, is also apprehended. He and Reynolds pretend not to know each other, but when the FBI mentions Akins using Paven as a punching bag, Reynolds attacks him, fists flying. The violent tussle between them goes without a single expletive. Not that anyone would expect it during this era. But a rarity for today's films as useless words are regurgitated without any self-control.

Roman closes the film with the climactic finale. A phone call instructs her to find a hidden note at a designated location. It is the classic ransom note with individually clipped letters pasted on paper. She is to put the payoff money under the "W.” She revolves, looking for the letter, then spots the Hollywood sign up the mountain. While driving closer she double-checks the note to make sure which letter she is looking for. She really is rattled. As scripted women seemed to do in this era, she stumbles, spraining her ankle from heels that should never go off-road. The money spills out of her purse. The extortionist, a face not unfamiliar to her, grabs the money and escapes through the big "O" letter. He has a very short drive as the way down is blocked by the police. After all the creeps Crawford deals with, Roman is a breath of fresh air. As she is escorted home, he tells his partner, “Sometimes you meet some nice people in this business.” The film closes from an elevated camera position and the return of the majestic march theme. Not unlike a Highway Patrol ending.

Note: Max Showalter, using his singing career name, Casey Adams, for this film, is a persistent “friend of the family” to Ruth Roman and a bit too frequent date. His brief appearances do not lessen his importance in the film. Speaking of a bit too frequent, Jay Adler has a creepy role as Roman's sleazeball uncle who comes and goes when one least expects it. He has no relevance in the film and simply gives the audience someone else to wonder about. Suzanne Alexander has a couple of short scenes in the early going. Her acting becomes unintentionally funny. She is unable to reveal details for fear of her life. The FBI agents are at the end of their patience as she sits, constantly trying to work up some acting tears while fiddling with her noisy, tinkling charm bracelet.

WHERE THE SIDEWALK ENDS (1950)

This film hardly falls into the unknown category for any film noir fan. It is generally highly regarded despite a familiar B-movie path. Directed and produced by Otto Preminger with a screenplay by the typically great Ben Hecht, it follows the story of another cynical detective who hates criminals to the core. Subconsciously, because his late father was a gangster in his own time. His methods of getting a criminal to talk are not by the book and the Inspector, Robert Simon, in his first film role, repeatedly calls him on the carpet for it.

Dana Andrews plays the aforementioned detective, where violence seems to be around every corner. Murder suspect and gambler, Craig Stevens, who is particularly soused, strikes Andrews across the jaw, then he is decked, hitting his head on the floor. Andrews tries to wake him, but he is out. Permanently. Andrews turns white with fear. He will surely lose that parking spot in front of headquarters! When he finds out Stevens was a war hero and the silver plate in his head is what killed him, he feels even worse. Things get dicier after Andrews discovers that Gene Tierney was his wife. Andrews' web of deceit plunges him deeper into self-loathing. Andrews devises a plan to detour the manslaughter rap.

Gary Merrill is Andrew's gangster nemesis. It was Andrew's father who set Merrill up in the mob. His character is somewhat in the mold of Richard Widmark's screen debut role, though not mentally unstable. Cool, calm, and polite with nice threads, Merrill's quirk is his apparent addiction to nasal inhalers. A medicinal gimmick that seems to only afflict the underworld. Hiring Neville Brand as a heavy, here doing double duty as a massage therapist, was also a customary gimmick during this period.

Tierney was another actress of the era with a slight overbite. This physical “feature” is noticeable only when she speaks. Which is her every scene. I guess they cannot all be Grace Kelly. I digress. Her father, Tom Tully, is a cabbie who has been understandably angry with his good-for-nothing son-in-law, Stevens. Because of this and his whereabouts near the time of Stevens' demise, he is inadvertently accused of homicide. Newly promoted Lieutenant, Karl Malden, is convinced Tully is the killer despite Andrews' attempt to throw the killing in Merrill's direction.

At his personal sidewalk ends, Andrews is abducted and driven to the gangsters' hideout. There is a creepiness of being helplessly trapped inside a car as it is hydraulically lifted to the upper level of a parking garage. No dialogue. No music. Just the sound of the lift's mechanics. Feeling more despondent and no better than his father, he hopes to be killed so the authorities can at least pin one murder on Merrill, who is not taking the bait. The gangsters hightail it when the sirens get louder and they lock Andrews in the garage. In their hasty retreat, the gang forgot about an unlocked rooftop door, and out pops Andrews. He stops the elevator's descent between floors, with Merrill and his gang being arrested.

Andrews had written a confession letter to be opened in the event of his death. Simon, now all smiles and grateful to Andrews for bringing down the mob, indicates there is no reason, thankfully, to open it. Awkward. He wants the letter to be read anyway in front of Tierney. The Inspector's smile is turned upside down. Andrews will have time to contemplate his future career move. Perhaps security detail at a Woolworth's. 

CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS (1953)

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

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

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

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

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

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

ONE WAY STREET (1950)

For the first twenty-five minutes, this film would appear to have potential as a noir with its dark shadows and moody, waiting game atmosphere of poker. The film starts strong with a wounded criminal, a girl who belongs somewhere, and the whine of Dan Duryea’s voice. But it all falls short during the vast middle, becoming a predictable romantic melodrama. As if you changed channels and stopped on another movie before returning for the final ten minutes of noir. Even with a couple of A-list actors, this disappointing film goes nowhere but south. The opening music theme is befitting a soap opera which should have been my clue.

Perennial double-crosser, Duryea, plays the gangster mastermind of a recent bank job. His partners are William Conrad, King Donovan, and Jack Elam. The latter's brief role is irrelevant, though momentarily (stay with me here) resembles David Letterman after a horrible face plant and botched plastic surgery. Not many mobsters travel with their own doctor, James Mason, who immediately attends to Conrad’s flesh wound. In the mix is Marta Toren, who is supposed to be Duryea’s girl but she has a fondness for medical males. He does not trust the group. Toren in general. Duryea specifically. The slickest setup in the film has Mason giving Duryea something for his headache. A standard procedure after an intense heist. Mason is not exactly a model citizen, either. He closes his medical bag but also the matching bag with the 200 grand. He intends to walk out with both. Guns are drawn on Mason, but with his calm, understated delivery, he tells Duryea the “aspirin” he took will actually put him into convulsions in under two hours. Without the antidote, he will die. All three watch Mason and Toren leave. Donovan is particularly out of sorts over his disappearing share of the loot and in a rage attempts to shoot Mason from their second-story apartment. Duryea, literally, calls the shots in the gang and a bullet releases Donovan’s share. The King is dead. Sweating, Duryea hopes Mason’s long-distance call with the antidote will come true.

The nervous couple is off to Mexico as quickly as possible because the pill Mason gave Duryea was a placebo. The next forty-five minutes is a completely different film. Oddly, it stars both leads from that earlier film. You will have plenty of time to fix that sandwich or wash your car. To be fair, it is not a poorly executed segment and Mason reluctantly uses his medical practice for the locals and livestock. Warming to Toren’s advances, both appear to be living happily ever after. A highlight during the Mexico bits is a priest, played by Basil Ruysdael. He is loved by the locals and becomes a trusted friend to the assumed married couple. His rich bass voice, rye sense of humor and wisdom are endearing. One wonders if Duryea and Conrad have already started work on their next picture because it does not appear as though we will see them again in this one. Thankfully, Mason and Toren want to be free of their past and both think it best to return the money and end this film "noir-like." Many tears are shed by the locals. Understandably, they preferred being part of this film over the bookended parts.

Mason arrives on "a dark and stormy night" to find that Conrad has double-crossed Duryea, mortally wounding him. Conrad demands Mason take the stack of bills out of the leather bag. Stack after stack, Mason complies. But a surprise awaits Conrad with a bullet through the bottom of the bag. Toren rushes to meet Mason in the pouring rain and they embrace. With great relief, he confesses, “I really thought my number was up today.” Never say that at the end of a film noir. Let us just say he should have looked in both directions when crossing that one-way street.