VIOLENT SATURDAY (1955)

The early, low-budget Richard Fleischer movies were noted for realism through location shooting and in-car cameras, giving credence to the scripts. Violent Saturday has the realism front covered, but this time with a larger budget worthy of the then-popular CinemaScope. Hiring Hugo Friedhofer to do the score settles the issue. From the pivotal opening scene of the obligatory bus arrival, Fleischer does not let your attention wander. Cameras weave in, out, up, and down, setting up scenes and characters with no loss of continuity. Ideal for CinemaScope. It is not without its faults, as a few sequences may generate a few chuckles in the truest soap opera sense. There is at least one illogical scene that tests the suspension of disbelief in you. The script involves a myriad of character subplots, not unlike many of today's television dramas. But the film is first-rate.

Speaking of first-rate, Victor Mature gets top billing. An obvious assumption based on his leading roles over the past decade. His supporting cast is equally strong, including up-and-comers Lee Marvin and Ernest Borgnine. Along with stalwarts J. Carrol Naish and Stephen McNally are Sylvia Sidney and Virginia Leith. They even managed to work in Brad Dexter as his smarmy self. Richard Egan has a major role as the mining company CEO and is in charge of the soap opera element. He and his wife, Margaret Hayes, have the usual Hollywood marital problems, and their extended scene together may try your patience. The scene becomes very poignant after the bank robbery.

Tommy Noonan has a creepy subplot as the awkward and emotionally challenged bank manager who moonlights as a voyeur of a nurse, Leith. From a distance, he peeks into her window at night. He follows her around town to get closer to her. He nearly faints at the drugstore, finding himself in a tight spot exiting, brushing between her and a display rack. It was not meant to be funny in 1955. His character is also married, which makes one wonder how that is going. He is wounded on this violent Saturday, and Leith is the nurse monitoring him. With a sense of manliness, he confesses his weird behavior to her.

Known for her somewhat wooden acting and with one of the most unfortunate female voices since the silent era, Virginia Leith never made it into the big time. She was attractive, but it is hard to describe her occasional goofy voice. When she keeps her volume low, it disguises the real danger when she smiles and talks. Her throat tightens up, and all her feminine qualities vanish. Her first greeting to Egan in the drugstore is a prime example. One would think the studio might have provided vocal training if they thought her career was skyrocketing. It is not offered today, as actors and actresses are not associated with studio demands. Plus, no one cares anymore.

That obligatory bus lets off McNally, the self-proclaimed “traveling salesman.” He is soon joined by two “junior salesmen,” the sadistic nasal inhaler, Marvin, and Naish, who appears to be everyone’s favorite uncle. Naish has been through this routine before and has the presence of mind to keep candy in his suit pocket in case an unruly child in the bank needs to be distracted.

There is a somewhat humorous scene for Marvin. It is a great scene that captures his character. He is restless. He cannot sleep. McNally is not yet in dreamland, and Marvin wants to talk about all the women who have messed up his life. He always went for “skinny broads.” Just skin and bones. One wife, in particular, was a record holder for getting colds. Then he would get a cold. Maybe fifty times. That is how he got addicted to nasal inhalers. She left him for a two-bit undertaker. Another character revelation comes earlier in the film when a local boy accidentally bumps into Marvin, knocking his inhaler to the sidewalk. Uh-oh. As the boy apologizes and attempts to retrieve the inhaler, Marvin grinds the boy’s hand into the concrete with his shoe. He enjoyed it.

McNally fakes a visit to an Amish farm outside town in which Borgnine is the head of the household. Borgnine calls any stranger “neighbor” and says “thee” and “wouldst thou.” It will be the perfect hideout. McNally later describes him to his partners as “a religious screwball.” McNally is given the customary glass of buttermilk. Nothing more refreshing in the desert! Set in the fictitious town of Bradenville, the southwest Arizona desert seems an unrealistic location for the Amish, given their expertise and dependence on growing and harvesting crops in fertile soil. The Amish DIY houses are made from wood, making one wonder where they got the bricks for this two-story home. But it is Borgnine’s pitchfork that may explain why the Amish were scripted in.

Mature’s Mercury is what the robbers need, and at gunpoint, he is ordered to drive to the Amish farm. Fleischer’s in-car camera goes to work, and Friedhofer’s score cranks up the excitement. The final stand-off scene was controversial at the time as the bandits tie up Mature and the Amish family in the barn’s hayloft. Seeing the family lined up with white tape covering their faces is still a bit unsettling, as they look less than human. Mature manages to cut the ropes around his wrists and then sets the Amish free—in a nod to Abraham Lincoln. The bandits then position the Mercury in front of the barn doors, and with a huge stone over the accelerator, the high-revving engine is remotely shifted into gear with a rake, and the car rams through. They set the car’s gas tank on fire to level the barn. Mature and Borgnine push it back into the open and Mature crawls underneath with little fear that the car might explode. His shotgun eliminates another robber. After shooting Mature in the leg, Borgnine notices he is reloading. Marvin kicks his inhaler habit with Borgnine's magic pitchfork thrust into his back, in a shocking moment.

Mature's young son could not explain why his friends called his dad a coward—a classic example of attacking someone before knowing the facts. Mature was more useful at home in the copper mines during World War II. After his recovery of the stolen money, blowing away two criminals with a shotgun and getting wounded himself, he becomes a hero to his son and his friends.

Note: The jury may still be out on how deeply "thy pitchfork" could be driven into the upper back to kill a person instantly, as suggested in this film. A lot of bones to pick through. It would "take thee" one monumental thrust into the spinal column. Based on the effect in the film, passing out would be logical, and with medical attention, perhaps survivable.

WICKED WOMAN (1953)

Any mid-century film buff should have enough time for a Beverly Michaels film festival. One evening should do it. This lead role is one of her more popular as she uses her self-serving curves to fire up the male ego. The film opens with  “Larry Lounge-Singer” performing the title song for this sordid tale of a deceitful woman who is near the last rung of life’s ladder. Traveling by commercial bus is not exactly first-class so the opening scenes set the tone for the title character. Her reputation is on display as soon as she steps off the bus.

Michaels, with her occasionally obvious overbite or no childhood dental counseling, checks into “Hotel Carcinogen.” A tenant across the hall is that handsome Percy Helton. A lady magnet. A creepy weasel lady magnet. All the chairs in his apartment have been stolen from a first-grade classroom. With legs crossed, Michaels' knees are high enough to get Helton's attention. He hits on her as only he could in his trademarked, suspendered, hunched fashion. She entices him because there is something she needs. He is a seamstress. Michaels certainly puts the "man" in manipulative.

In her early shopping scenes, the 5' 9" Michaels is filmed in slow motion, looking like those old silent Blackhawk 8mm movies. A weird director’s idea perhaps. She even exhales tobacco smoke in slow motion when trying to seduce Richard Egan. Yeah. That will do it. He and his wife are owners of the local bar where Michaels is hired as a waitress. In slow motion, she is very popular with the gents. On the cusp of stupidity, Egan, looking quite beefy in a white T-shirt, falls for her and she immediately suggests he sell the bar, take the money and both of them head for Mexico. She is apparently on a tight schedule. Egan’s wife is the financial boss of the bar and that causes concern. Since the buyer has never met the wife, Michaels fills in. What seems like an editor’s miscue, because nothing is revealed from the close-up of Michaels's hand not wearing a wedding ring, a tight shot of Egan’s face suggests there may be trouble ahead. 

Helton eavesdrops on Egan’s visits to the hotel. He threatens to blackmail Michaels unless he gets his way with her. Helton is a very lonely man. A man of sewability. Egan barges in, catching him caressing her, and goes ballistic. He realizes his stupidity and turns his anger on Michaels. She takes the brunt of some seriously effective shoving by Egan. The audience cheers. It is Egan and the Tramp. Michaels plays out the scene on her bed, sobbing and beating her pillow into submission.

The film closes with Michaels buying a new bus ticket to any town, hoping for a few more men who are attracted by a bleached blonde who could have used braces when she was a kid. She flashes a big “one-off” grin at a male traveler but he has no dental fear. He is hooked. Larry Lounge appropriately ends this ugly, and quite amusing, story with a shortened title song.

Note: This screenplay was written by Michaels' real-life husband, Russell Rouse, whose diverse work spanned nearly five decades. The two were married from 1955 until his death in 1987.