STEP DOWN TO TERROR (1958)

Bicycling is a joy for most youngsters. The freedom to roam outdoors is inherent and often enhanced as an adult with the added adventure of touring. As with any transportation choice, however, there is a risk of serious injury. Just ask the main character, played by Charles Drake. His childhood head injury from being hit while riding his bike scrambles his brain, eventually resulting in a dual personality with uncontrollable behavior. The thought-provoking title of this seventy-six-minute film is subtly illustrated underneath the opening credits. 

This American crime film is directed by Harry Keller and produced by Joseph Gershenson for Universal-International Pictures. It was written by Mel Dinelli with input from Czenzi Ormonde and Sy Gomberg. I find no credits for the music score so assume it is from Universal's stock library. But the opening is powerfully ominous and at least deserves a mention. Besides Drake, the film stars Colleen Miller in one of her more visible roles, and a relative newcomer to the big screen, Rod Taylor. Everyone is first-rate in this rather overstuffed story. 

It is no surprise from Drake's opening caustic verbal attack on his landlord that he has a problem—an underlying anger much deeper than just being irate about his landlord for popping in unexpectedly. However, he is all smiles in a phone booth when next we see him, suggesting a highly-respected, sweetheart of a guy coming home to visit mother, and his sister-in-law Miller, and her seven-year-old son. When a family member disappears without a trace for six years, it would seem to arouse some sort of suspicion. But the unassuming relatives are ecstatic to have him home. The script throws suspicion his way in due course, perhaps subconsciously hoping his mental nightmare will finally come to an end once and for all. Drake embodies a psychotic in subtle fashion despite his handsome winning smile and straight-arrow appearance.

Drake gifts Miller with an expensive ring engraved with initials of no familial connection. Another lie appears to explain it. His heinous life starts to unravel—loosened by guilt—and he is helpless to stop it. Taylor, two years away from fame as H.G. Wells, is a lead policeman on the trail of the philanderer. Miller first finds his revelations preposterous until he tells the origins of the ring's bogus engraving. It leads to a serious falling out with her brother-in-law. This first remake of the Hitchcock classic, Shadow of a Doubt, is not on the same dark and creepy level. Drake is “Uncle Charlie” only to his nephew who has nothing to fear from him, being overly protective of the boy's safety on his bicycle.

The inane climax is the film's weakest element—ironically involving a bicycle. Drake avoids hitting the Schwinn with a slow speed turn—sped up to a humorous Herman Munster level—with his DeSoto convertible—windshield flattened—ending up completely upside down in tall grass. As if positioned there by a crane hired by the studio. Hmm. Miller absorbs her family's dark secret at the hush-hush funeral. Perhaps a commissioned statue in honor of the town's "ideal" native son. 

WITHOUT WARNING! (1952)

This seventy-seven-minute Allart Productions film-noir falls into the unknown realm though the year offered little, if any, exciting crime films as competition. It seems sandwiched neatly between larger-budget crime films from the prior and following years. From a story and script by William Raynor, the film does not break any new ground but Adam Williams's sensitive performance will not disappoint. Most often in supporting roles, we witness his talent as he embodies his character's subtle mood shifts. He is first-rate. Do not pay much attention to the routine, dated police procedural segments and lab work. Focus on the camera work by Joseph Biroc, the editing by Arthur Nadel and the powerful score by Herschel Burke Gilbert. The film was directed by Arnold Laven and shot in a semi-documentary style with voice-over narration in “Dragnet” fashion. There are many elemental details to this fine film but it stumbles over a weak conclusion.

Williams is handsomely creepy as an unassuming, polite independent gardener. His living quarters add a visual to his pathetic existence—a small, run-down house in a rural neighborhood overlooking the distant City of Angels. Few would peg him as a serial killer, but his guilt is no surprise to the moviegoer from the opening scene. He returns exhausted with the startling realization of what he has done, yet a gentle grin emerges for its success. And he is compelled to do it all over again. On his belt hangs a leather sheath containing garden shears. He gives a literal meaning to the term, “backstabber.” Each month another blonde female is found with the killer's same modus operandi. The emotionally scarred paranoiac kills, according to a police psychiatrist, in retribution for his unfaithful, equally blonde wife. I can understand his anger over his wife’s infidelity, but to become a serial killer because of this suggests his psychological issues may have been simmering since childhood.

The killer has been very careful to cover evidence of his crimes. In that opening scene, he accidentally rips his suit coat and plans to have a tailor repair it. As the next customer in line, the panic on his face indicates he realizes a piece of his coat was left behind in the motel room. He exits and returns home to incinerate the coat and his blood-stained shirt in his cast-iron stove. The guy is running out of clothes on a monthly basis. But mistakes accumulate. Tying the clues together falls on the shoulders of Edward Binns, the police detective in charge. I thought his character was a bit nonchalant, almost smirking because he thought the murderer would be caught in short order because his department was just that good. Yet he is no closer to solving the crimes after three weeks of investigation.

Some effective camera work is revealed through a shaky “hand-held” effect as it follows Williams wandering the streets at night, looking for his next “wife” to kill in a seedy part of town. Dressed in the only suit equipped with a pair of garden shears, he connects with his next victim, Angela Stevens, in Sears Roebuck. No...in a bar. With the same possible outcome after arranging a blind date through social media, she instantly cozies up in her car with him for a night she will not remember. The following morning Williams exits the car, appearing almost sick to his stomach. Two motorcycle cops spot the car parked illegally under a freeway overpass and investigate. In a panic, Williams gets back to the car with the officer asking what is wrong with “that dead lady.” He is asked to get out of the car but the officer gets clobbered. Williams takes his gun and later wounds the other officer in pursuit, dumping the revolver beside the highway. Williams has played his hand at this point and it is only about thirty minutes into the film.

After jumping off the back of a delivery truck, not too inconspicuously he sprints on foot between rows of commercial loading docks, knocking over crates and dodging trucks. Mostly shot from an elevated position, Gilbert’s score is especially effective with a jazzy solo piano frantically playing as Williams tries to create distance from the freeway. I have always been impressed with actors of this period who are scripted to run at full speed in slick-soled leather dress shoes on concrete. Of course, unless you were playing a sport, it is what every man wore.

To entrap the murderer, blonde-haired—bleached or otherwise—undercover policewomen are sent to the streets to notice anyone fitting the killer’s tell-tale pattern of behavior. Preferably before it is too late. Williams connects with one female officer (above) who is not particularly cool with the pressure of undercover work. They are heading to the beach but he catches her nervously looking into the rearview mirror and suspects a setup. Deviously smiling, he keeps driving up a winding road while never answering her persistent questions. She is wondering how the beach is accessible at such a high elevation. He stops. She exits to find only a cliff in front of her. In a clever bit of scripting, he pretends he is an honorable guy and tells her she can walk home from where they are, throwing her suspicions a curve. He drives to a spot where he sees her enter the tailing detective’s car. Williams confidently smiles.

Williams purchased the sharpest shears in Orange County from a local greenhouse. The owner's daughter, co-star Meg Randall, is temporarily helping her father's business. “Creepy McWilliams” cannot help but stare...she has blonde hair. Randall becomes his next potential victim. The ending frustratingly and implausibly drags on, nearly ruining the intelligence of the film prior to this point. In addition, his final attempted murder of Randall goes against the serial killer’s pattern that was established earlier. Nevertheless, Binns and his partner arrive to find only a little neighbor girl standing by Williams' house. It is apparent Binns does not have children of his own as he attempts to bribe her with clichéd child communication. He even offers her a stick of gum, which she smartly declines. It is a little awkward. The reason for the interaction at all is simply for the girl to glance in the direction of Williams crouching outdoors behind a discarded bookshelf, slightly off the property, with Randall. This also explains why Randall has not yet kicked Williams and let out a scream prior to that glance. Perhaps hoping Williams would make a move, Binns and his partner start to drive away. Randall finally breaks free and yells for help. As Williams begins to apply his shears, they are no match for six bullets. He was such a nice young man. Viewers only care about his fate so the film ends instantly, focused on Williams’ dormant face.

Note: This United Artists release is recommended, yet certainly not perfect. An unscripted filmed section, with voice-over only, is pretty ridiculous as Williams’ unsolved crimes become so famously exciting, that people are confessing left and right for the notoriety. Among others volunteering for incarceration is an elderly woman crocheting in the police department then a man on the street pleading to be arrested. Perhaps an attempt for laughs but it certainly has no relevance in the film. Humor is redeemed during a scene in the police lab. Byron Kane, playing a dry-witted police chemist, pours a white powder and then a dark liquid into a large Retort flask. He offers some to a detective who drinks it without hesitation. Kane, in a bit of lab humor, makes coffee in his lab beaker.