HOT SUMMER NIGHT (1957)

 

There is some intrigue at the beginning of this film as bank robbers coerce a bank executive from his home at night to open the vault. Overall, it is a decent film, helped enormously by veteran actors. The film stumbles during a slow-motion, dimly-lit getaway through a most obvious studio set with "studio dirt" heavily applied to a station wagon. There is zero realism in the scene that is sprinkled with extras as obvious as shadows on a sunny day. In his small, fading hometown, Robert Wilke has become somewhat of a local hero, giving his illegal gains to support the town where he sees fit. The townsfolk are very protective of him—out of fear.

The recently fired newspaper reporter, Leslie Nielson, sees the news article about a local robbery and develops a plan—put his honeymoon on hold while he gets a scoop on Wilke's former girlfriend. Nielson's past article helped free her from his dominance, but everyone in town is tight-lipped about her whereabouts. Never mind about his wife, Colleen Miller, for marrying a guy without a job or mindlessly accepting her husband's decision for this dangerous career booster. He is vague about his plan, only telling her that a honeymoon is forthcoming. Probably.

Wilke's ego is stroked with anticipation of a grand story about himself. He is eerily cordial to the reporter as his skeptical gang is not sure whether he might order Nielson shot from across the table. In a powerfully tense scene, before the interview starts, Wilke sets the table by verbally flattening his skittish partner, Paul Richards, like a placemat—insulting his panic attack that ruined a previous robbery. Richards is seething with rage but has not yet decided how to retaliate. Their friendship has run its course. Nielson ultimately gets a story, but not the one he intended.

Most will note the familiar television lead actors in this unknown crime film, a film suggesting it has noir roots. A volunteer gang member, James Best, opens the film with his usual good old country boy flavor. He praises Wilke for his morale boost to the town. Nielson is adequate as a one-dimensional character. He was much “bigger” on the small screen during his dramatic era. Miller's career was sparse, as is her emotional range here. She is the weak link in the cast. The standout in the film, the aforementioned Richards, is the mentally unpredictable polar opposite of venerable film actor Jay C. Flippen, the level-headed veteran of the gang. Filming never attempts to capture Richards' menacing, aloof stare that was somewhat of his trademark in sinister roles. But what he does in wide-eyed pleasure about halfway into the film gets everyone's attention. It is the only shocking moment in this dialogue-heavy film. The genuine article is Edward Andrews, inhabiting his character as a sweaty sheriff.

This is probably the only film with two actors of the opposite sex named Leslie. For her uncredited role, Leslie Parrish plays an undefined character sitting on the floor, oddly clinging to Richards' leg in total devotion. IMBD dot com, for one, incorrectly identifies Parrish, giving her two different actresses' names.

Note: Directed by David Friedkin, this eighty-six-minute film did not return a profit. It would appear to be a television production with its low budget, flat camera work by Harold J. Marzorati, and highly visible actors of the period. The music is by André Previn, but the score remains, for the most part, anonymous. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer distributed the film. Today, it might be considered a lost treasure by younger viewers, not realizing Nielson did anything else but Lt. Frank Drebin.

GUN CRAZY (1950)

This movie fits into the “human-noir” category, where childhood can be a dark affair affected by circumstances, psychological issues, or the influence of others. Any number of B-movie actors would have brought justice to each character, yet it turned out to be the defining film for both John Dall and Peggy Cummins. A superstar couple may have clouded the natural interpretation of the script by these two. Though the acting is compelling, it is the cinematography that stands the test of time. The film's premise could be used in any decade, and to support my theory, this film is based on a 1940 story of the same name from The Saturday Evening Post by MacKinlay Kantor. He also wrote the screenplay along with Dalton Trumbo. The film features a gun-shooting husband and wife on their short crime spree honeymoon. It never consistently hits the bull's eye, but it still racks up some points.

I found the opening backstory about Dall's childhood obsession with guns drawn out more than necessary when narration over key filmed segments would have sufficed. Victor Young's opening score fits these scenes, which may be the only rushes the prolific composer ever saw. His music seems absent during the balance of the film. The opening does make it clear Dall is crazy about shooting guns. Peggy Cummins, on the other hand, is just plain crazy. Her first scene in this film—clad in Spandex-like pants borrowed from television's Lone Ranger—she appears to be far more dangerous without a gun. She is a crack shot in a traveling carnival, and Dall is enthralled. He has found his shooting-mate for life. His psyche is triggered, then he betters her in an on-stage challenge, using a gun he has never fired before. He is that good. Dall's future is in her hands—though he tries to rein her in—they are both on an anticipated downward spiral. Her character flits from charming to disturbed in the midst of a robbery. What he does not know about her past—she occasionally has to shoot somebody—the FBI is well informed. Their “undying” love will have them running until death do them part.

Directed by Joseph H. Lewis and produced by Frank and Maurice King of King Brothers Productions, the eighty-seven-minute film took thirty days and 400 grand to make. It was released by United Artists. Without a doubt, the most engaging element of the film is the periodically astounding cinematography by Russell Harlan. His extraordinarily realistic in-car camera work has the viewer riding in the back seat on a typical day of robbery as Dall and Cummins seem to be unscripted as their dialogue fades in and out as if they were ad-libbing. Harlan's famous one-shot bank robbery sequence from a car's back seat is another trend-setting example. These scenes appear out of place among other routine scenes, seemingly shot by another cinematographer. Yet his camera placement under the dash—shooting through the steering wheel spokes—appears likely to be a wacky experiment that actually worked. Also of startling note are the extreme close-ups near the end as we watch the quivering lips of the sweaty couple. As to be expected during the first century of film, the editing by Harry Gerstad slips in a “chase” with a studio prop police car that should have been left on the editing room floor.

At least three things are a puzzlement. When the gun-crazy couple is being tailed by the police, Dall shoots the patrol car's front tire cleanly through their own rear window with nothing to suggest he broke out the backlight before shooting. For another, I found the drive to the top of the mountains strange, where Dall spent time as a youth. Not so much the drive as the foggy swamp at the summit. I had no idea there were swamps on California's low-humidity mountaintops. Finally, seventy-year-old forgettable films may garner new fans when dissected through Twenty-First Century thinking. The cheap or implausible scenes are invisible to these commentators, preferring to zero in on the duo's relationship that they feel compelled to give a 2021 reboot to, which was not even thought of (or appropriate ) to comment on in 1950. By this measure, some of today's forgettable films may one day be considered great by the hindsight of the more enlightened. The proper way to interpret this film is with a mid-century mindset.

Note: Dall's movie career and his life were short. His only other notable films before settling into television were Alfred Hitchcock's Rope, two years prior to this film and a significant role in Spartacus (1960). He died at the age of fifty. This is Irish-born Cummins's best-known and last American film. Her film career ended in 1961, but she lived a long life with personal involvement in other ventures. She died at age ninety-two in London.

THE WALKING TARGET (1960)

A California State Prison warden opens this crime drama like so many movies before it, warning the prisoner, Ron Foster, that the 260 grand he hid after a robbery five years before will bestow upon him the film's title. Reluctantly, he signs the prisoner's release, and Foster reluctantly finds himself in the arms of his former girl, Merry Anders, right out of the gate—literally. He cools her jets by asking where she has been for five years. Not one visit. Not one cake. This lady has never used an oven. Like her current favorite boyfriend, Robert Christopher—whose faux excitement of reuniting with Foster is short-lived—she has ulterior motives. They want that money. Unlike these two, Foster later reveals he has a beating heart.

Outside the no-fault cast, a bit of stunt driving in Ford Motor Company's models features prominently, and the matched studio prop car scenery out the rear window is logical and authentic. Less so is the obvious, poorly edited stuntman choreography during two fight scenes. Taking the sting out of any crime film, the misplaced music played under closing credits by an otherwise competent score by Paul Sawtell and Bert Shefter, befits an old Bob Hope comedy-mystery from the past decade.

Attesting to the warden's astute judgment of character, a number of people are on the ex-con's heels, most notably Harp McQuire. He plays a detective, a condescending, tough-talking, wisecracking detective cliché. He stands out in the film for being the only unintended levity in the film. He loathes Foster until the contrived cafe ending. Barry Kroeger, not surprisingly, plays a mob boss with only three scenes to his credit. That is all he needs to establish his character. Weasel Christopher now works as his inside man. Anders, essentially, disappears from the film past the halfway point.

A flashback explains where the money was cleverly hidden. Neither of Foster's partners in the heist survived, one leaving behind a widow, Joan Evans—in her final film—whose physical presence is her acting weak point. Foster's deep remorse for the robbery's outcome has weighed heavily on his conscience. He tracks her to an Arizona cafe she operates to give her the share due her late husband. She wants no part of the stolen money. Soon, everyone knows where she is, and a cafe confrontation between Kroeger, Christopher, McQuire, and Foster ignites. Humorously, before going into the cafe, Kroeger instructs his henchmen, “Check the silencers to make sure they're working.” I expected them to place the guns to their ear to confirm this. The bullets are unrealistically quiet, with three or four cast members going down just as quietly. Because of return fire, McQuire gets tabbed, but the rapid closing suggests he survives.

Notes: Director Edward L. Cahn churned out numerous films like this one. Decent crime films possess all the elements that should make for a memorable movie. Unfortunately, the premise had been done so often—usually, with the grit this film lacks—it has been universally forgotten. This tidy film is produced by Robert E. Kent Productions—as Zenith Pictures—for Edward Small, the executive producer. Small or Kent could produce realism in their pictures in spite of stale scripts and a low-visibility cast. Foster and McQuire team up again after their earlier Robert Kent Production, Cage of Evil. Talk around the office water cooler probably did not include this film, though television's Foster or Anders might have garnered mention. This film marks three in a row with director Cahn in Foster's sparse movie career. The seventy-five-minute film was distributed by United Artists.

LOOPHOLE (1954)

Distributed by Allied Artists Pictures, this eighty-minute film was produced by Lindsley Parsons and directed by Harold Schuster. The movie is a forgotten good one, though the premise by Warren Douglas offers few surprises. Paul Dunlap stepped away from his many westerns to score this movie. The second-tier studio production falls into the noir slot because an ordinary guy attempts to get himself out of a loophole. Once again, the poster is misleading—one could say dishonest—which suggests Barry Sullivan is the film's criminal.

You just want McGraw hit by an iron Buick while jaywalking. 

The kind with the big toothy chrome grille.

Nearly six minutes of voice-over sets up the opening premise and reminds the viewer that this is an ordinary Friday, and the incident that unfolds could happen to you. Assuming you are a bank teller. Sullivan heads up a competent cast with Dorothy Malone, looking quite vibrant and balanced in her natural hair color, Charles McGraw, and Don Haggerty. In another of his apprehensive, swindler roles, Don Beddoe is responsible for said loophole as the phony, second bank examiner, stealing fifty grand while his accomplice, Mary Beth Hughes, distracts Sullivan at his teller window. Sullivan makes a judgment error by not reporting the major shortfall until after the weekend. The bank’s bonding agent sends in their investigator, former police detective “McGruff McGraw,” who assumes everyone is a liar. A guy who hates life in general. He will not consider that Sullivan might be on the level. He tails him everywhere, hoping for a slip-up. Pretty excruciating to sit through his obstinate, condescending character.

Everyone at the Hollywood precinct has Sullivan guilty until proven innocent. They question Sullivan’s wife, Malone, in the hopes she will reveal any tidbit with which they can “hang” her husband. Their barrage of questions is designed to humiliate them, albeit in a private office and not leaked to the press. It is soon confirmed that there is never a second bank examiner during the annual review. A lie detector test provides a ray of hope, and Haggerty believes Sullivan. McGraw growls. He thinks the machine is faulty. A waste of time. Sullivan obviously had an accomplice, probably a girl. The suspect is sent home and then fired the next day at work. McGraw spreads lies about Sullivan’s “embezzlement” to his new bosses to keep him from being hired. Their house has to be put on the market. And this was in the mid-twentieth century. Many things never change. 

Really, you just want McGraw hit by a bus. 

Just a smaller city transit bus.

At about the forty-five-minute mark, things start to rev up for Sullivan, now a taxi driver. His next fare is an irate Hughes with sugar daddy Beddoe. How this age-disparate couple ever got together might be worth a sub-plot. While taking a call from dispatch outside the cab, they recognize Sullivan's photo ID and hightail it. Sullivan suddenly recalls the fare’s voice. It is the first of too many contrived close calls.

At a different bank, Malone approaches the teller window, and on the other side is none other than Beddoe. Returning to the car, she fails to grab her purse, which Sullivan volunteers to retrieve. He and Beddoe lock eyes. Dunlap’s score cranks up the excitement. Beddoe is forced to his apartment and abides by Sullivan's “deal.” The moviegoer is not clear what point Sullivan is trying to make. What is clear, Hughes is the mastermind of the duo. Her constant verbal abuse has beaten the courage out of Beddoe, and he cannot pull the trigger.

The film ends with a “travelogue-style” voice-over as we see Sullivan, now an assistant bank manager, welcoming Haggerty. Outside, peering in, stands granite-faced McGraw, still on “The Sullivan Case.” They both laugh, knowing he has lost all credibility.

Note: Burly Richard Reeves has a couple of good turns as the taxi business owner. The best is nearer the end at Beddoe's apartment. Sullivan asked for Reeves’s help and to meet him there. The ever-present McGraw arrives there first, however, after the “Hughes-Beddoe Gang” escapes. He finds Sullivan waking from a knock on the head. When Reeves and his taxi pal show up, they stop McGraw from pounding on Sullivan, not letting him leave the room to pursue him. Reeves insists. One solid punch and McGraw turns all limp. “Keep forgettin’ my own strength,” he confesses.

KANSAS CITY CONFIDENTIAL (1952)

 

This is the first of three films teaming director Phil Karlson with John Payne in his career-changer. This film noir has captivating segments, though one may need to overlook an idealistic screenplay by George Bruce and Harry Essex. With commendable casting choices, great camera work, and an enhancing score, ninety-nine minutes never seemed so short. It was produced by Edward Small with distribution by United Artists, and it paved the way for a few "confidential" films in the Fifties. Despite some uniqueness, nearly seventy years have given it some humorous and less-than-believable scenes. Worthy of a more in-depth review, it necessitates two words I rarely want to use: spoiler alert.

Robbery mastermind, Preston Foster, with an unimaginative character name of Tim Foster, checks the timing of a floral delivery truck driven by Payne and the all-important armored bank van from his third-story office across the street. Foster puts a lot of stock in the preposterous idea that both vehicles will always arrive at precisely the same time. He checks off the time on a desk-sized stakeout map as confirmation. The large map is assumed to be a scaled architectural blueprint, yet this map is a simple outline drawing of building squares that are directly in front of the bank. A hand-drawn note on a paper napkin would have sufficed. It would suggest an exciting robbery to come by way of a rudimentary robbery so often used. But the clever setup and robbery are dispensed with right up front. The bulk of the film concerns the aftermath.

Foster hires three lowlifes for the opportunity of financial freedom if they help pull off the heist: ironically, three stereotypical villains of the era, Jack Elam, Lee Van Cleef, and Neville Brand. To their amazement, he knows their backstory specifically. Their dialogue is concise and effective. A chain smoker by birth, Elam’s character is a nervous wreck, constantly in hiding from the electric chair. He is the first to meet Foster, and it is a dandy scene. The mastermind wears a rather creepy, perhaps leather, mask when he meets with each of the three. At gunpoint, Elam angrily demands that the mask be removed. Elam is in no position to make demands. Instead, Foster slaps him back and forth several times in "burst out laughing" choreography by Elam as he jerks his head left and right in a precise metronome fashion. Van Cleef is much cooler during his prospective job interview. Quite the ladies' man—they are entranced by his eye slits—he is told not to be late, which means stay away from women. Brand is an emotionless gum-chewing killer who has nothing better to do than look numb. 

CINCH UP YOUR SUSPENDED DISBELIEF BELT

First class all the way, Foster (as Foster) has thought of everything, supplying the trio with one-size-fits-all masks, identical delivery uniforms, airline tickets for their Mexican rendezvous, and a floral delivery truck that will only contain the foursome. Foster needs the bank money to recoup his losses. It seems unfair that the artist who painted the floral company's logo on the side of the truck will get no cut of the loot. And no jail time for being an accessory. As it speeds away, awkwardly amusing is a bank guard, who, without really aiming, fires several times at the van in a crouched position with his gun at knee level. His firing range instructor has repeatedly scolded him about his ineffective stance. Slickly, the van is driven inside a big rig trailer parked at a prearranged loading dock. Once again, director Karlson has Payne, a reformed ex-con, a victim of mistaken identity, as his truck is spotted. Without a single shred of evidence, he is assumed to be part of the robbery. One sadistic detective tries to beat Payne into submission. He hates him on pure assumption before gathering any facts. So very 2020-like. Foster’s clever plan dictates that everyone keep their masks on to hide their identity from each other. One of the film’s clever devices. Each is separately ordered to get out of the semi's trailer in the middle of nowhere and told to stay south of the border until the heat is off. Probably about two years! Think about that for a moment.

After the police find the bogus floral van, Payne is released with the police chief's feeble apology. Not from the violent detective, though. “Thanks for nothin'!” is Payne's seething reply. Payne gets a bead on Elam from an informer. He needs to only follow the cigarette butts. Elam grabs Payne in another Hollywood “confrontational alley.” He demands to know why he is being followed. He growls, “You’ve been giving me the fisheye all evening!” A funny apropos coming from Elam. Payne claims innocence and then walks away, later picking up Elam's carcinogenic scent in his hotel room. The first item of business...slap Elam. Payne finds a mask in his suitcase. Elam gets slapped again. Payne’s breathy taunting pre-dates the “Dirty Harry” character by nearly two decades. Payne is on Elam like a bad stink as they await their flight to Mexico. The authorities spot Elam, who reaches for his gun. His frequent-flyer club membership is canceled. But it gives Payne an opportunity to pose as Elam. The viewer knows his charade is understandably limited. This is the halfway point in the film, and one is still pretty sure Colleen Gray is in this movie.

Since the robbery, Foster (as Foster) has been enjoying his retirement as a pipe-smoking fisher of errant men. A longtime friend and insurance investigator, Howard Negley, shows up by invitation. We finally learn that Foster is a veteran cop, explaining his background knowledge of his accomplices. He informs Negley that new “evidence” will help him crack the two-year-old bank robbery with the credit—Foster's double-cross of his three stooges—going on his resumé. It is the first mention of his daughter, Gray, who has been waiting for her cue to enter the film while studying her script and bar exam. Despite her short screen time, being the singular female lead, and her notable work in earlier films, it probably accounts for her star billing, whether negotiated or paid for. She grows fond of Payne during the same southern flight. Purely scripted coincidence. She eventually mentions his “undercover” name to dear old Dad. His eyes suddenly get suspicious, knowing full well she could not have been charmed by “Fisheye Elam.” 

Payne is pummeled by the pugilistic team of Cleef and Brand, the latter having met Elam before. There is another usage of the specific violent and painful act as  Cleef’s left and right palms bang hard against Payne’s ears. Cleef repeatedly refers sarcastically to Payne at this point as “pal-zee,” after being decked by Payne earlier. As luck would have it, Gray shows up during a pummeling pause, and the two thugs, sweating profusely, cordially leave. Gray assumes a serious “conversation” was taking place. She and Payne have little to say to each other. At this point, every male identity starts to unravel. Gray is relieved to learn the truth about Payne as Negley sets the record straight. Confidentially, of course.

Note: Elam wants to buy some cigarettes at the airport. I always thought it strange that some of those height-challenged machines had a large mirror, usually round, on the front. Apparently, for men to nonchalantly check their fly.

MAN IN THE DARK (1953)

Edmond O’Brien is offered (under duress) immediate parole if he is willing to undergo experimental brain surgery in the hope it will remove his criminal impulses. It will also remove his memory. After moving up the surgery a few days, O’Brien is impulsively set on punching the male nurse in the jaw before a sedation injection.  After surgery, the angry criminal finds serendipity in hedge-trimming and painting, though ballet could not be worked into his rehab schedule. An insurance investigator, needing to recover the stolen money from a robbery, thinks O’Brien is faking and tracks his every move. Likewise, Ted de Corsia is not buying his former partner's amnesia story. Stereo-typically, under his angled fedora, he is his usual gangster self, grumbling and angrily threatening to beat the truth out of him or burn an eye out with the lit end of a cigar. The latter used as a gruesome 3D stinger, one of several 3D moments.

Later, trying to refresh O'Brien's memory in the first of three flashbacks, gang member Nick Dennis retells exactly, second by second, what happened during the robbery. If it were possible, one could accept this if it were O’Brien’s flashback. How Dennis knew O’Brien’s every step, including an attempted call at a phone booth without being present, is positively clairvoyant. What follows is a pursuit by two officers because O’Brien looks pretty guilty running down the sidewalk. In his early films, O'Brien was quite the runner. Really laying those dress shoes down. His stunt double climbs up a three-story fire escape, followed by a silly implausibility: O’Brien drops a potted plant down in the officer’s vicinity in Merry Melodies cartoon fashion. A big clue as to his location. A clichéd chase on rooftops ensues as the frantic music score backs up the action. O’Brien is not only exhausted but also arrested on a painter’s scaffolding.

Audrey Totter is O’Brien’s girl, but he does not know it. However, his two dreams, aka flashbacks, suggest she may be more than a stranger. One dream concerns a Santa Monica amusement park with a creepy seven-foot-tall laughing animatronic charwoman that is hard for O'Brien to forget. Me too. The following may answer why it is laughing so hard. The most unintentionally humorous scene, and no doubt a highlight of the 3D processing, has O’Brien getting on The Whip ride, where individual pods rotate around an oval hub. The cars never stay in one position for any length of time, yet five police officers slip into their own car and “chase” O’Brien around the oval, never getting any closer. The officers shoot at him as their pod randomly twirls around. It is lucky a fellow officer was not wounded, or a patron failed to dodge the stray bullets at the popcorn stand. The officer’s training never included this! Understandably, they cannot hit the broadside of a barn. The ride stops, and all six orderly get out of their pods. 

O’Brien’s dreams come to life as he and Totter return to the amusement park. He knows where the money is hidden and, with a dose of returning greed, stuffs the cash inside his suit coat pockets. Perhaps that brain surgery did not work. Her disappointment shows, and she assumes he has reverted to his old ways. They go their separate ways. Later, the oft-used rear projection roller coaster ride is used with actors pretending their necks are being snapped back and forth. I imagine a real buzz in 3D. O’Brien gets off the coaster as it creeps to the top and climbs down the wooden structure, only to encounter de Corsia, who stands up at the wrong end of the speeding coaster. Dennis takes a final bow off the scaffolding after an officer’s bullet rings true. Give the officer a stuffed animal! Never far away, the insurance investigator arrives after bodies stop hitting the pavement and gets back the company’s one hundred thirty grand from O’Brien. He and Totter kiss as their roller-coaster relationship levels out.

Note: Directed by Lew Landers and produced by Wallace MacDonald, this was the first Columbia Pictures film released in 3D, all in glorious black and white. It is a remake of the 1936 film, The Man Who Lived Twice, with a premise that has been overused since. This seventy-minute B-movie offers up good pacing, but the amnesia angle is pretty stale aside from the brain surgery concept. Decidedly more fantastic than John Payne’s war injury in the 1949 film, The Crooked Way.

MONEY MADNESS (1948)

This bargain-basement, seventy-three-minute film noir, distributed by Film Classics, opens with one of the most confusing flashbacks I have seen. We witness young Frances Rafferty standing before the judge as he passes out her ten-year sentence for being an accessory to robbery and murder. A reporter makes a call, telling the person on the line, you never know who will get off the next bus. There are no wavy, ghostly transition film frames to suggest a time shift. What the viewer actually sees is a bus coming to a stop. Out steps the movie’s lead, Hugh Beaumont, against type as an out-of-balance individual. One might logically assume it is ten years later, after Rafferty’s release. Essentially, the movie begins after the end. Overall, for the mad money spent, the film is not half bad. More like one-third bad. But do not blame the cast.

The music underlying the opening scenes with Beaumont, who is convincing in this role, is just too whimsical. Its use is totally mindless for what is about to unfold. The viewer suspects he is up to no good, yet he seems so Cleaverish. After he gets a job as a taxi driver, his charm flows directly, by pure happenstance, in Rafferty’s direction. She is burdened by the care for her selfish, bitter aunt, who always moans or fakes an attack of some sort when her niece attempts to go out. Beaumont's charm wins them both over, with Rafferty becoming his bride in whirlwind fashion. She likes that he seems different. Not like the others. At about the twenty-five-minute mark, she discovers how different. He is psychotic. Absolutely nothing like the others. He needs a place to hide his unearned cash—two hundred grand—temporarily held in a bank’s safe deposit box. An old suitcase in the aunt’s attic is the perfect location for the money transfer. Thanks to bipolar Beaumont, the aunt comes down with a bout of death, leaving the estate and an attic surprise in Rafferty’s inheritance.

When Rafferty meets with her attorney concerning the will, he senses she is distracted by something. Still using her maiden name, he unknowingly asks her for dinner. Every male in town is hitting on this attractive female. Naturally, Beaumont might take a cleaver to her if he finds out, so she declines, missing her first chance to escape her torture. As Beaumont has already reminded her, she cannot testify against her husband anyway. The attorney later meets with an elderly citizen who speculates about that taxi driver. This bit of gossip and the newspaper headline photos of the three robbers have the attorney wondering if one might be Beaumont, who obviously has had an extreme makeover since that photo was taken. In suspended disbelief, the photo is taken to a photo lab, and he asks them to remove the mustache, clean up the pockmarked face, do the eyebrows this way, and take all the shadows out. This they do. They also changed his lips to give him a more amused expression and rotated his head slightly. No extra charge. It all happens in a matter of seconds as the original photo transforms right before our very eyes in a blurry “flash-forward” transition. Exactly how a flashback should be done. Only in reverse.

Beaumont is there to greet one of the robbers with a revolver. Long before Al Pacino, Beaumont refers to his gun as “My little friend, here." Before releasing a bullet from the chamber, he has the wife turn up the radio’s volume, apparently with the belief that all three of them will not hear the gunshot inside the house. Like a young child closing his or her eyes, believing they cannot be seen. Beaumont tells his wife to get rid of the dead man’s car and hands her the keys. Logically, this might be a great opportunity for her to get out of this nightmare. She could just keep on driving or go to the police with her story. But not in any dim-witted Hollywood script. Escape number two is obliterated.

Our mental patient gets all melancholy after that murder and insists, above all else, he really loves Rafferty. Sure. When the attorney arrives at the house of the “happy” couple, Beaumont once again asks his wife to turn up the volume on the radio ‘cause he’s in a shootin’ mood. Fortunately, a patrol car happens by and hears the raucous party with Artie Shaw music. The good news, Beaumont will not have to serve any time in prison. The bad news, Rafferty is about to start the beginning of the film.

A STRANGE ADVENTURE (1956)

A decade before this film's release, William Witney was directing Republic Pictures cowboy serials, so he may have felt at home in the mountain setting of “Suspended Disbelief,” my alternate title for this film. The official title works. It is every bit that. It comes off, at times, like a filmed stage play with everyone knowing their cues and what expression to provide. The opening score is appropriate...if it were a soap opera. The score may also burst onto a scene without warning. Some abrupt edits give the impression that the film reel may have broken and been spliced together. This actually complements the film’s pacing.

An apparent “upper teen,” the twenty-three-year-old Ben Cooper (speaking of Westerns) assists his mom in running her mountain motel. His hobby is a souped-up 1939 Mercury coupe for which he is always in tinkering mode. His other tinkering hobby is gawking at the visiting Marla English, poolside. Her intentions are rather obvious, except to Cooper, who plays it cool like a naive high-school senior. She says she is a nightclub singer—we have no evidence of this—and completing her trio are Jan Merlin (known for many despicable characters) and Nick Adams. I am not sure how much the boy really knows about cars after these two arrive in a new Lincoln. He is "gosh-darned" impressed and heard it will do zero to sixty in six seconds. Even Road&Track found this hard to believe.

Cooper is pretty suspicious of these two after noticing that the Lincoln is actually registered to Woody Wilson, the trio's "booking agent." He is supposed to arrive at a later hour, but Cooper informs English that the newspapers say he has escaped from a midwestern jail. Golly! She is “shocked” and cannot figure that one out. Her real shock is suspecting Woody knows Merlin double-crossed him. Cooper soon discovers the trio’s new gig: an armored car robbery. He is pressured into driving his “faster than a Lincoln” hot rod as the getaway vehicle. I will say, the stunt driving convinced me of its custom nature. Nothing phony about the speeds or cornering up the mountain roads. The actual car was somewhat of a celebrity, a genuine early Fifties customized model completed some two years prior. I digress. The robbery should move that fast because Woody is in town! While English gazes at the blurred flora and fauna up the mountain, she gets something in her eye. After they stop, she tells Cooper, “I think a pebble hit my eye.” The only thing funnier would have been using the word “rock” instead. I think an ophthalmologist is needed. With all the talk and fear of Woody, I looked forward to seeing the actor. But the role was never cast.

Merlin’s character is certainly dangerous. A momentary wise mastermind and a man-child prone to temper tantrums. Things do not always pan out like he thinks they should. So frustrated, he takes it out on whoever is nearby with bursts of angry yelling, using a gun for gesturing. After the robbery, a contrived radio broadcast centers on the lighter side of the news. The amused newscaster mentions Cooper’s mother (startled, he blurts out, “Mom!”). She figures her son eloped with that 'swimming pool Delilah. Everyone in the car has a good laugh at the son's expense.

Merlin demands Cooper take a particular turn off the main highway. They come to a halt. Merlin yells, “It’s a dead-end!” The “Road Closed until Spring” sign should have been an earlier clue. The entire cast is now at an electric company’s weather reporting station, which is about to experience its first big snowfall of the season. No one in or out for six months. Merlin’s brilliance tells him this will be the ideal hiding place. Six months without anyone ever making contact with the station and stretching the food supply for two to five. Suspended disbelief at its essence. The station is run by a brother and sister team of Peter Miller and Joan Evans. For some unknown reason, Evans falls head over heels for Cooper. She knew him for his weekend races, but they had never met. He is on the same page. More tinkering. There is plenty of acting silliness until Miller purposely destroys the communications radio. With communication down, a ranger in a snow tracker heads in their direction.

The final scene is a most rushed segment, as if the director had to say, “Cut. That’s a wrap!” at the seventy-minute mark, no matter what he had intended to film. With no time left to properly resolve the film, the viewer has to settle on another radio broadcast from the car Cooper, Evans, and Miller are traveling in. 

Note: Nick Adams brings an early comedic note to the film as a guy with sinus woes due to the higher elevation. Merlin is intolerant of his constant sniffles, yelling, or throwing things at him like a child. With his black shirt, white tie, and white suspenders, Adams looks like he is part of a clichéd comedic gangster skit. He is a funny sight, later, with a “scarf” under his fedora, tied under his chin, to keep warm. But his I.Q. is a bit higher than “Merlin the Yeller” and outwits him by incrementally depositing all the loot in a "snow bank," exchanging pine cones for the money inside the bag. Neither Merlin nor English could figure out why the money turned hard and lumpy. Must be the altitude.

ROADBLOCK (1951)

RKO Radio Pictures provided a promising opening to this film noir. Character actor, Peter Brocco, witnesses the late-night shooting of Louis Jean Heydt by Charles McGraw. He is abducted by McGraw at gunpoint but swears not to mention it to the police. He cannot. He is on the lame for theft. He makes a deal to split his one hundred grand, kept in his late uncle's cemetery vault. As Brocco removes the floor tile, he first grabs a gun from underneath. McGraw's fist is introduced to Brocco, and to his shock, in walks Heydt. The two insurance investigators have just wrapped up another case. Just like that. Do not expect a lot of action after this. The film is bookended by this intriguing opening and an exciting, though predictable, closing. But you will witness something McGraw rarely gets to do. Smile.

We find McGraw awaiting a plane back to Los Angeles. With an air of sophistication, petite Joan Dixon, unable to afford a full-price single ticket, requests a husband/wife discount ticket. She chooses McGraw as her husband. He does not understand but likes the idea. A lot. The flight has to land short of their destination due to bad weather and both assess each other during the delay. She bluntly tells him they have no future together. Never misquote the Bible: money is not the root of all evil. It is the love of money. Just ask Dixon. Her demeanor suggests a teenager as she dreamily envisions her future, “I’m on a rocket ship to the moon” or “I’m going for the World Series.” McGraw looks puzzled. He cannot afford tickets to the World Series on his salary! This greatly bothers him and we learn his left brain is packed full of stupid. Now settle in for a lot of conversation until well past the halfway point.

The good news is, Dixon now wants to marry McGraw. He needs a lot of money and fast. And so it goes. He proposes a railway mail car robbery to underworld figure and Dixon’s former sugar daddy, Lowell Gilmore. McGraw’s inside knowledge of over a million-dollar cash shipment is the target. He wants Gilmore to stash his take inside a commercial-sized fire extinguisher and mail it to their mountainside honeymoon cabin offered to them by Heydt. I think most have mailed fire extinguishers at some point. To liven up his alibi honeymoon, he confesses his deal with Gilmore. The bad news, money is not as important as her new husband. D'oh! Dixon is ashamed of herself for how low McGraw has descended for her.

The robbery goes well except a railroad employee later dies from the mail car explosion. This, according to a police detective, Milburn Stone. The department tracks down the pilot of the seaplane used for the robbers’ getaway. He identifies one of the robbers. Methodically, the noose gets tighter around McGraw, who arranges to meet Gilmore with a plan to solve their predicament. Gilmore attempts to draw his gun but square-jaw McGraw gets the upper hand. The unconscious Gilmore is placed in his car before it goes over an embankment in flames. Predicament solved.

In a restaurant meeting, Heydt disappointingly explains McGraw’s slip-up. It was the extra fire extinguisher. He had just bought a new one for the cabin. D'oh! A beer bottle on the head temporarily slows Heydt, but soon he and Stone are racing to apprehend husband and wife as they predictably flee to Mexico via the classically famous and frequently used, Los Angeles riverbed, hydro-foiling across the water. It never seems like anything good comes from driving down there, but the low traffic volume made it simpler for a few directors during this era, to say nothing about it being unique. These closing chase scenes are the most memorable moments. The seventy-three-minute film ends with mixed feelings among the remaining cast as Dixon walks away amidst the Los Angeles smog.

Note: For any film buff, this film hardly deserves to be in an unknown category. McGraw's career never skipped a beat because of this film and a jumpstart with RKO's previous dandy, “Armored Car Robbery” or the later “The Narrow Margin.” His co-stars in this film did not burn up the screen, however. Gilmore’s weak character is not memorable. Dixon is rather one-dimensional in this, the most famous role of her short career.

ARMORED CAR ROBBERY (1950)

This sixty-seven-minute RKO Radio Pictures project is a dandy and hardly unknown to film noir geeks or fans of the lead actors. Suffice to say it is nearly flawless in execution and Charles McGraw got noticed. Naturally, there are a couple of clichés that may bring a chuckle or two from Twenty-First Century viewers. Directed by Richard Fleischer, it displays his penchant for realism with his early trademarks of location filming and attention to police procedural details. The latter point is well displayed when the authorities comb the area for clues as to where the robbers abandoned their getaway car. That scene is also enhanced by a lean screenplay with no wasted dialogue. The cinematography is outstanding as well. The score is not memorable, but at least it does not get in the way of the actors.

You do not want to get on the bad side of Detective Charles McGraw. He makes no compromises with criminals and also appears a tad weary of a daily routine of trying to apprehend them. The opening, low camera close-up of him on a phone call sets up his persona. Ruggedly handsome with a face chiseled from stone and just about as animated. He plays it exactly how his character should be. His gravelly voice helped define his film destiny, though. He had no fear of competing against the likes of Danny Kaye for a musical comedy. Today, his voice and maturity may have had him auditioning with the likes of Liam Neeson.

He and fellow partner, James Flavin, are called to the less famous Wrigley Field. The one in Los Angeles used by the farm team of the Chicago Cubs. Both detectives are miffed it is another false alarm. In reality, it was William “He’s got Bette Davis eyes” Tallman who called in the fake alarm in a pre-robbery timing to discover how long it takes for the police to get there. Assuming they left on time and there was no heavy traffic to delay them, I guess.

Tallman enlists three petty criminals to help him with the armored car robbery when it stops in front of the stadium. Steve Brodie thinks an armored car robbery will not work. Risky. He says it might work if it were run by Tallman, yet he only knows him by reputation. Awkward. Doug Fowley is married to Adele Jergens (above) who is in love with Tallman. Gene Evans finalizes the four losers in the robbery. The detailed robbery plans of who is where and when are not described in the film. Smartly, we discover the end result as it happens. What mastermind Tallman could not foresee is that McGraw was on patrol nearby and responded to the emergency call rather quickly. Evans pulls his sputtering jalopy purposely behind the men unloading the armored truck and fakes a look under the hood. He sets off an explosion of tear gas. In an exchange of bullets, Flavin succumbs, then Fowley gets seriously wounded. McGraw jumps in his car in hot pursuit of the bandits, but an evasive maneuver damages his tire. 

Tallman was adept at playing despicable criminals before he turned over a new leaf, went to law school, and met Perry Mason. He has no sympathy for the mortally wounded Fowley. To help him forget this pain and give them a chance to get through a clichéd roadblock, Tallman angrily slaps his face a few times. After the officers look over their car and give them the go-ahead, Brodie cannot get the car started. A tension "device" used countless times in crime movies. Once at their hideout, Fowley, gasping for life, demands a doctor and his share of the loot. Tallman gives him a final parting gift. Three bullets. He later gives Brodie a lesson about who is boss. After punching him in the stomach, he violently takes both hands, clapping them hard against both sides of Brodie’s head, potentially rupturing his eardrums. It is shocking and perhaps the first time this violent act was used on film. It was used again by the director in a John Payne crime story.

Jergens plays her usual role, though her employment changed from film to film. This time, she is a burlesque queen. Brodie stops in the burlesque house in hopes of getting his money from her. McGraw is there with handcuffs, and both men miss the entire performance. With no fear of the murder wrap, Brodie spills the truth about Tallman. McGraw’s young new partner, Don McQuire, volunteers to take Brodie’s place and meet “the queen.” A solid plan, except Tallman knows his partner is locked up. His gun is there to meet McQuire outside the establishment. Jergen's wired car allows the detective to audibly send location points to the tailing patrol car. Tallman is suspicious of these hints and tells him to get out, whose life is then saved by Jergens, preventing Tallman from firing a second time. Or third. Or a fourth, just to be sure.

The lovebirds attempt a getaway via a chartered plane. Tallman, not happy the plane has been recalled to the terminal, threatens the pilot at gunpoint. This is always pretty silly, and Hollywood still does it. If he shoots the pilot, they are going nowhere. Tallman grabs the suitcase of loot and, in his panic, does not see (or apparently hear) a taxiing DC-3. The suggested prop divides the cash and him in small denominations. A happy ending for McGraw. Well, not so much, judging by the grimace on his face. The happy part is when he shares a news article with McQuire, recovering from that gunshot wound. It is all about their success in the robbery. Both officers are mentioned at the bottom of the article, and as the young partner starts reading, he pretends his name is so minuscule he has to get really close to the page to see it. They both laugh.

Note: For a limited role, Don McQuire (above) does a fine job. He and McGraw hit it off by the end. Today, this movie might have had a sequel based on their chemistry if the studio gambled to make more money. But things were pleasantly different in 1950.