PORTLAND EXPOSÉ (1957)

Allied Artists released this low-budget crime film. It was directed by Harold Schuster from a screenplay by Jack DeWitt. The jazz combo blast is Paul Dunlap's opening. The film was inspired by crime boss Jim Elkins and the McClellan Committee's investigation into Portland's underground criminal ventures for a decade after 1940. The "travelogue" opening narration encapsulates the city's beauty and surrounding scenery. A great place to call home. But the town has unseen problems: mobsters running amok. The film is pretty routine outside some hard-hitting and sleazy operatives taking over businesses, specifically the tavern, soon to be opened by Edward Binns and his wife, Virginia Gregg. A teenage daughter and younger son complete the family. A salesman pressures Binns into installing a pinball vending machine, arguing that it will make more money than a jukebox. Expect soap opera moments with Binns and Gregg as they wonder what they are getting into, using dull dialogue fit for a television episode.

A syndicate boss, Russ Conway, wants to infiltrate the labor unions. It will be no surprise to see the ever-present and versatile Lawrence Dobkin (sans toupee below) as Conway's right-hand man. Binns' tavern is targeted as it is near some blue-collar industrial plants. Conway enlists thugs, the unknown Joe Marr and up and up-and-coming star Frank Gorshin to convince Binns to install their machines. The multiple "sinball" machines end up making the tavern not exactly Cracker Barrel-friendly. Marr is just awful (maybe an actual thug) while Gorshin makes an impression here, near the beginning of his career, often cast in gangster or hoodlum parts. Speaking of impressions, for those old enough to remember his stellar caricature impersonations of famous actors, it is pretty funny watching Gorshin "method-act" his way through.

Binns catches the pedophilic Gorshin assaulting his daughter, and he is left horizontal and bloodied. Co-captain of the pinball team, actor Rusty Lane, arrives late that night in Conway's late model Thunderbird to meet Marr at a railroad warehouse. It is always a warehouse. Gorshin, still half unconscious in the back of Marr's sedan, is a skinny squealer by nature. Lane is not taking that chance. Gorshin's demise is—by all accounts—gruesome. And it is not even the halfway point of the film.

With assistance from the police, Binns is able to go undercover wearing a wiretap that doubles as a "hearing aid." The recorder is the size of a DVR under his suit. Conway and a skeptical Dobkin accept Binns into his racketeering business, with the former spilling the beans about his bigger operations. The pinball wizard handles everything like an experienced private detective—taking a beating and keeps on ticking. At one point, Jeanne Carmen (above) thrust herself on him. Her acting is so obvious, running neck-and-neck with Mr. Marr in the acting accolades. Note the sarcastic dialogue between Dobkin and Carmen, however. The prostitute is suspicious of Binns' hearing loss and informs her boss.

Knowing Binns has suddenly regained his hearing, he is transported to the obligatory warehouse where he is (naturally) beaten to a pulp. Binns is smirking most of the time until they threaten to blind his daughter with acid. He reveals where he has hidden the tapes. The thugs untie Binns from the "torture chair," but he springs to action, dispensing with some heavies, after hiding his daughter behind some crates. He strangely disappears from the film, leaving his daughter and the audience to wonder if he is still alive. A bit of strange directing. An arriving taxi—with no paying fares—leads two cars full of a rival union. They all casually step from the car as if it were movie night and appear rather reluctant to enter the warehouse with only their fists. A very brief, highly staged, and humorous rumble ensues. An upbeat closing narration closes the film to issue an "all clear" message. The citizens can breathe easy. 

Note: Many who lived near or in Portland, Oregon in the 1940s and 1950s knew or their children have found out the history of the veritable cesspool it was. Still a high-crime area today in the city's center, it has nothing to do with pinball machines. 

FALLGUY (1962)

This one-off, sixty-four-minute crime drama opens in a highly interpretive manner as we watch a pair of slacks and a briefcase enter a house where three female bimbos are lounging around. Naturally, there is the obligatory saxophone to accompany them. A guy comes down the stairs and hands some cash to the slacks—now with a hat. The scene cuts to the minimalist office of a newspaper editor/mob boss. He smugly tells his two operatives that the Indian is set to deliver his contract tonight. Crank up the cool jazz theme and graphics. This intriguingly quirky opening may have you wondering if it is an Indian from New Mexico or New Delhi. Like passing an automobile accident, not gawking might be difficult. Not that anyone might care, here is my spoiler alert: the following paragraphs walk through the myriad of awkward or funny elements right to the amusing ending.

That pounding opening jazz score by Jaime Medoza-Nave will remind those familiar with the then-current television series, Checkmate, and its cool theme written two years earlier by Johnny (John) Williams. The graphic title sequence is an obvious knock-off of the genius work of Saul Bass, then breaking new ground with film title graphics. These assumed “inspirations” end up being the only classy elements of the film. An independent production, its lack of creativity is a good example of a wasted low budget. The film had no chance of being successful. This is not a foreign film but some post-production vocal recording was no doubt necessary for this inexperienced cast. Actors who indicate their apparent limited experience in community theater. The film’s star, Mr. Ed Dugan (top), saved his best performance for his final film. This was also his first film. There are moments when one more retake might have helped his delivery. 

Driving home one night in his Triumph TR3, Dugan comes to the aid of a badly injured motorist (assumed dead by the Indian). The head laceration of the injured man is well done. Hats off to the makeup department. At gunpoint, however, the thug forces Dugan to take him to the syndicate's doctor, working out of his white, plywood-paneled basement. Looks sterile enough. Recognizing the man, the doctor knows the Indian’s contract was unsuccessful. As the injured driver collapses, Dugan grabs the gun but it accidentally expels a bullet into the thug. The syndicate attempts to frame Dugan as the title character. A crooked police chief grills him under a single 65-watt bulb.

Some of the oddest scenes occur at the editor’s home, played by G. J. Mitchell, where he is constantly lounging and enjoying the finer things of a middle-class lifestyle. The boss's partners, the weasel-of-a-doctor in a bow tie, and a pudgy police chief are talking syndicate business when an irrelevant and bazaar catfight breaks out on the carpet by two ladies on the editor’s “payroll.” Those rug burns are going to sting. Ignoring the obvious distraction, the double-chinned chief is actually miffed that Dugan has not changed one word of his testimony. That would make total sense, actually. The chief is also angry with the boss. Not because he is dressed in a “Hugh Hefner” lounging robe on his Sears massage recliner, but because of music on his radio. The chief yells at him, 'Will you shut that thing off and listen to me!' The boss obliges, reaching over to turn it off. Viewers hear a click but the background score faintly continues as before. “That's better!”

Due to a freak fender bender, Dugan escapes the squad car and as the chief attempts to fire his gun, he slams the door on his hand. The film actually improves slightly at this halfway point as the shaved-head Indian is now in pursuit, giving the Dugan a chance to shine as he pantomimes fear. An improvement over delivering any dialogue. The jazz score helps out these dark, lengthy scenes. The Wile E. Coyote of Indian hitmen hangs his head in shame as he reports to the boss. The police chief suggests 'Chief Broken Head'—as he sarcastically calls him—go back in front of a cigar store. The funniest line in the film.

One of the funnier scenes, however, has all three operatives again at the mob boss’s home, mostly arguing about how the Indian is a lousy shot or the police chief complaining about the doctor fretting over his daughter’s well-being, constantly phoning her in near panic. Amid all the petty squabbling, there sits the boss in his recliner, preparing to shave. Now he decides to shave?! Unique and totally uncalled for. Suggesting a product placement, he uses a portable, non-electric wind-up shaver from the era. In case of a shaving emergency during a blackout. In actuality, they were used on NASA’s early space flights. He yanks on the tiny cord several times, making a high-pitched “zip-whirr” noise. Then there is this: though a warm California sunset splash is not out of the realm of reason, it is unusual to film the scene in near total darkness with the characters poolside in swimwear as if working on their “moontan.”

Dugan ends up at the doctor’s house where he tries to convince his daughter that he is being framed. She is skeptical. The police chief arrives with the doctor and he takes a pot-shot at Dugan from outside the house, wounding him in the shoulder. His second shot mistakenly hits the daughter (D'oh!), and the scene shifts to the surgical basement ward where four cast members are conveniently staged. In his great-grandfather’s tradition, no one hears the Indian tip-toeing down the basement's wooden steps. He fires one chamber of his shotgun at his two current hits. He then succumbs from simultaneous return fire, as his second chamber accidentally goes off...hitting Dugan’s knee. Whoops!

One Indian and two oafs down, the boss makes a run for it as the police move in. He attempts to step into an elevator and suddenly discovers the passenger cubicle is several floors below—potentially plunging to his death. Actually, it is a clever, startling scene assisted by blaring trumpets. He wisely takes the stairs. Ironically, he stumbles on the very top step and dies instantly by the time he hits the first landing. A genuine fall guy.

The final scene has the daughter off on a flight for unknown reasons via a TWA Boeing 707. There is a profile close-up of Dugan's head as the opening jazz theme cranks up. For the suggested cool ending, the camera pans away as Dugan turns toward the camera with a full-body shot of him hobbling away from the airliner on crutches. Job well done, Ed Dugan. Well done. 

Note: This film could be found as part of a triple billing feature to help ease the embarrassment of buying a ticket for only one of them. The director and producer, Donn Harling, vanished after this, his one and only film. It is a risky assumption but he may be more to blame than the story and screenplay by Richard Adams and the singular George Mitchell. The confusing stats on IMBD dot com indicate that G. J. Mitchell plays mob boss Carl Ramin. The “G” stands for George, apparently. However, he is credited as George André in the effort to never be found again. Many sources mistakenly suggest character actor, George Mitchell (1905-1972), plays Ramin by using his photo. He is not in this film and he has zero credits as a screenwriter as well.

WIRETAPPER (1955)

 

Based around actual events, this eighty-minute crime biopic highlights four years in the life of a World War II communications expert, Jim Vaus Jr., in 1945. He is awarded a four-year prison term for the theft of government equipment. The film is respectably acted, though no Golden Globe nominations were announced. Directed by Dick Ross, with a screenplay by John O'Dea from Vaus' autobiography, "Why I Quit Syndicated Crime," it was produced by World Wide Pictures, founded in 1951 by the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association. The film was an outreach tool to inspire moviegoers. Unfortunately, they have to wait seventy minutes to be inspired. The film gets no awards for cinematography nor for the score composed by Ralph Carmichael—who will be considered the father of contemporary Christian music in a decade.

I use the Vaus name and not the actor, Bill Williams, who portrays him. Another B-movie regular, Douglas Kennedy, joins the male lead ranks as an underworld boss. The least-known, Georgia Lee, as Vaus' wife, is the weakest acting link. A "criminal casting call" was sent out to snag the usual suspects. Paul Picerni is once again hooked up with the mob as is Eric Roman. Even Stanley Clements works his way into the ranks. He becomes instrumental in Vaus's plan to delay horse-race betting results, giving both a guaranteed race winner. Going behind Kennedy's back to do it is not wise. Carmichael's military march composition during the horse-race segment is astonishingly misplaced.

Vaus is released early but his incarceration results in a demotion from Captain to Private. His deception begins when he buys cheap knock-off service medals to pin to his uniform before arriving home. He takes no pride in his decision. Soon running his own electrical business with a hit-and-miss profit margin, he is hired to fix a lowly doorbell for Kennedy. Vaus accidentally discovers someone has planted a hidden mic in the mob boss's home. Kennedy slips him a “Franklin” to find out who. Vaus's easy money is suspiciously on the rise while his new marriage begins a rapid descent. A low point has him working while his wife gives birth to their first child. Another empty promise to be there. He justifies his illegal wiretapping by working for both the mob and the police. That horse-race betting scheme takes a rapid descent as well, with Clements gunned down from behind. Vaus is apprehended, beaten, and given an ultimatum. One final job in St. Louis.

Vaus drives his wife to the safety of her mother's home before his trip to Missouri. Mysteriously, they appear to be without their now pre-school daughter. Lee spots the Graham revival tent and is urged to stop. Bible passages and Graham's poignant words seem to be directed specifically toward Vaus. He tells his wife it is time to face the [Carmichael] music. At life's turning point, he is spiritually guided to accept Christ into his life, relieving his criminal burdens to begin a new life. Mustering the courage to face Kennedy about why he is quitting the syndicate presents a tense scene between them.

Note: In this film, we witness a high-energy Billy Graham during the extended, eight-week-long, Los Angeles Crusade under a huge tent in 1949. The passionate young Graham may appear to be the clichéd “condemning preacher” but he does not condemn nor judge. He simply understands the seriousness of eternity as spelled out in the Bible. Vaus went on to tour the country as an inspirational Christian speaker. Throughout history, God has chosen people to lead. Ignoring these truths and not comprehending the change in Vaus, the ending will likely remain dull.

THE BROTHERS RICO (1957)

This well-acted American crime film noir was directed by Phil Karlson, who stepped away from another John Payne project to helm this fine one. The ninety-two-minute film was produced by William Goetz and distributed by Columbia Pictures. It is all accompanied by a solid, if not unique music score by George Duning. Cinematographer, Burnett Guffey, creates some dramatic visual effects. Karlson's trademark realism of location shooting places the viewer in the action. For the transportation historian, it is an eyeful.

Richard Conte plays the eldest of two younger brothers, Paul Picerni and James Darren, the latter two possessing a slight family resemblance. Without flaw, Conte excels again in a role in which he is well acquainted as a guy caught in the middle of a serious life dilemma. In the old days, he was an accountant for the syndicate but has used his financial expertise to become owner of a legit and prosperous laundry company. No one launders money there. Picerni's monetary greed will have him outfitted with the latest in concrete footwear by the mob if caught. He confesses to a shocked Conte his responsibility for a recent hit. Baby brother Darren was the driver. Added in the turmoil is Conte's wife, played by Dianne Foster. Their opening scenes can be an uncomfortable ten minutes. The viewer may feel they are watching through a hidden camera. In a later scene together, she is unreasonably irate because Conte suddenly must catch a flight to Miami for a face-to-face with the syndicate boss, Larry Gates. The couple was supposed to sign adoption papers, instead.

Gates has been somewhat of an uncle to Conte. The cordial Gates hides his ability to turn up the heat if double-crossed. This becomes painfully obvious to Picerni in the adjoining room. Hitman, William Phipps, is giving him a serious “Martinizing.” Gates highly suggests Conte find his missing little brother as the bulk of the film takes flight to New York, Phoenix, and El Camino, California. Everywhere he goes, guys in fedoras are there before his arrival. Darren and his expectant wife, Katherine Grant, are not universally thrilled with Conte's surprise appearance. Darren does a good job. His final scenes are first-rate as it quickly becomes apparent Conte was not actually the first to discover his whereabouts.

Conte is alone in thinking “Uncle Larry” is sincere. Even “Mama Rico” no longer trusts him. Ending up back in Miami, the lone Rico has learned the truth about Gates and their final confrontation is an exciting—a life-altering experience for the latter. Conte testifies against the syndicate, successfully shutting it down in one of the most rapid film closings of the decade. A letter from the DA vouches for him, assuring the Ricos a successful adoption from the Bayshore Children's Home. Conte will have more dirty laundry to clean.

Notes: In addition to William Phipps, there are other genuine performances by the “theatrical mob members” Harry Bellaver, local crime boss, and Rudy Bond as Bellaver's “secretary” henchman. Cast as another underworld informant is Richard Bakalyan, with two brief appearances. Both Dianne Foster and Katherine Grant have little to do in the film, yet both are second and third billed respectively. An “Italian moment” between Conte, his mother, and his grandmother is loaded with authenticity.

JOHNNY COOL (1963)

A surprising box office success, this one-hundred-three-minute film, distributed by United Artists, produced by Peter "Rat Pack" Lawford, and directed by William Asher, Miss Montgomery's third husband, has some believability issues, and its mix of tongue and cheek humor with gangster elements simply lessens the impact of contract assassins. It could be argued that Silva did for contract killers what James Coburn did for spies with his Derek Flint character. It is light years away from the wallop two years earlier by Blast of Silence. However, Asher does a fine job with pacing and the authenticity of location shooting. The film’s violence is not visualized, but it gets the point across and may have set a new trend for assassins without a moral conscience. A Billy May jazz score also provides the right amount of kick when needed. Why this popular poster has three people in the crosshairs who are not targeted is at the very least misleading.

Henry Silva carries this film, in the early stages of his typecast career—he was even intimidating as a mobster in the Jerry Lewis comedy, Cinderfella. Silva’s emotionally detached persona advanced the type to a higher violent quotient by the late Twentieth Century. At certain angles or lighting, his facial structure may appear as though he had reconstructive surgery after a serious face plant. His eyes seemingly lack any iris, just giant pupils.

Elizabeth Montgomery is believable in an emotionally difficult, roller-coaster role. Witnessing Silva easily dispense with an obnoxious bar patron in a nightclub, she is instantly attracted to the button-eyed Silva in the worst way. Her boredom is quelled by his mysterious aura. His persona overpowers all her discernment. She is all-in for Silva. Danger is always teasingly attractive to Hollywood. 

Marc Lawrence is riveting during the opening scenes, thanks, in part, to years of portraying movie gangsters. As an exiled American gangster (the original Johnny Cool) living in Sicily, he has bigger plans for Silva than the local mercenary he has become. A look-alike is killed in Silva’s place so Lawrence can reinvent him for the American market as the oxymoron “cultured assassin.” He wants Silva to take out each former associate residing in America. Lawrence has equipped him with a detailed history of all things underworld. Silva 2.0 has memorized it all. He removes his mismatched costume beard and takes the name of Lawrence’s character, eventually gaining the modified moniker, the film’s title. After establishing himself in New York City, his next “take-out order” sends him to Las Vegas.

Silva infiltrates a Vegas crap game with no real relevance to the plot. Sammy Davis, Jr. (as "Educated") wears an eye patch similar to the one he used for a while after his 1954 injury. In real life, long since fitted with a glass eye, he uses the patch here as a subtle comedic prop. Davis has a knack for rolling winning numbers. After a few winning rolls in a row, his nervousness demands he lift his eye patch—since Silva is holding a gun to his head—just to make sure he is still using the same die. Another Vegas heritage connection, comedian Joey Bishop, takes an amusing turn as a fast-talking Los Angeles used car shyster who prevents Montgomery from getting a word in edgewise during her purchase.

Montgomery is seriously abused by two thugs posing as police officers. The originally filmed violent assault ended on the editing floor for 1963 audiences. Sliva crosses their path after they exit their vehicle in town. With their laughter and exchanged words, Silva makes a miraculous assumption that she is the subject of their "fun." After checking on her, he returns to the duo's car and knifes them both. Back to his "to-die list," ruthless casino owner John McGiver, is up next. Also not leaving the room is his confidence man, the then-popular comedic pundit, Mort Saul. He provides an eye-opener for the hitman. He calmly informs Silva that Lawrence is using him like he was used. Murder's delivery boy. Unemotional Saul is aware he faces eternity by the trigger finger of an embarrassed and angry Silva. Jim Backus plays an unethical contractor whose day is permanently cut short with a briefcase mix-up. When off camera, leaving a scene, Backus provides his "Mr. Magoo" laugh. I am not sure why, other than the cartoon was popular at the time. Very silly.

Then there is an amusing “filler” scene involving a Vegas tour bus driver. The local police are looking for a suspicious passenger, one of several lined up outside the bus. Silva, who already “confessed” his religious views against gambling to the driver, is in a flowery tourist shirt with three cameras around his neck. Looking down the line, the police are convinced by the bus driver that Silva could not possibly be wanted for anything. Just look at him. A guy in line with a cowboy hat is bragging to Silva about the money he won, exclaiming, “Boy, I murdered ‘em!” He asks how Silva did, and he blandly replies, “I did all right.” It is the cowboy who gets yanked out of line. 

Silva and Montgomery are off to Los Angeles, where she learns his background, which does not faze her much. She is the getaway driver for Silva’s latest hit on an oil baron, Brad Dexter, treading water in his pool. With her convertible idling atop an overlook, she hears an explosion, and then she and her windshield become spotted with blobs of chlorine water in a rather creepy moment. They drive away, and she attempts to process all of Silva's detailed instructions about doing ordinary things until her time comes to reconnect with him back in New York City. She goes to a hair salon and pulls up curbside. It is clear she has issues with parallel parking. Upon exiting the salon, she noticed a patrol officer looking over her 1962 Ford parked at nearly a fifty-five-degree angle. Guessing “what would Cool do,” she abandons the car. This is a big error. She will never know the officer was only giving her a ticket for an expired parking meter. A second officer hits pay dirt by discovering fragmented pieces in the car's interior, typical of a homemade bomb. 

Silva's killing efficiency may be hard to believe, but JC is also an expert con artist. Posing as a photojournalist on assignment, he uses a motorized outdoor window washing system to inch his way up to the upper-floor skyscraper office of Telly Savalas, a New York mobster kingpin. In what would otherwise be a comedic parody scene, Savalas turns to see Silva’s head slowly rising outside his window. As surprising as this is, the only thing concerning him is the rifle pointed in his direction. Edited out, smartly, is Silva's slow getaway descent.

Joining friends for a Newport Beach yacht party, Montgomery finally has a reality check. Though still disturbingly attracted to Silva, she realizes he is a despicable human. She reveals Silva's location, and the East Coast “brotherhood” puts him in a straitjacket and then explains in very specific detail how his life will slowly and painfully end. Not so cool, Johnny.

Notes: James Van Heusen wrote a nearly incoherent title song as if Sammy Davis Jr.—totally without blame—was making up the song on the spot. A perpetual motion tune with rambling lyrics by, sorry to say, Sammy Cahn, who seems to have written too many words for Van Heusen's given notes. 

Finally, there is a mystery involving an FBI agent, played by Douglas Henderson (above), with only one tinted eyeglass lens. We have already seen Davis with an eye patch. Now this. It would be strange that the director would suggest this. It is not explained. I chalk it up to another quirk of the film. 

FLIGHT TO HONG KONG (1956)

This budgeted black-and-white crime drama was directed and produced by Joseph M. Newman of, This Island Earth, fame. Newman finished his career in television. There are no dull moments in this eighty-eight-minute film as it leaps from, as one poster puts it, the “sin-capitals of the world” from Hong Kong to Tangiers, Macao, Tokyo, and San Francisco in an effort to keep the lead actor in business and alive. A Sabre Productions film, it was formed by associate producer, Victor Orsatti, and distributed by United Artists. Orsatti would later join Rory Calhoun to help form Rorvic Productions. The forgettable music score is composed by Albert "B-movie" Glasser. In mock-documentary fashion, the film initially opens with a British officer explaining the worldwide effort to bring crime syndicates to justice. Not a bad film, just a quickly forgotten one. But it is well cast and acted, with Calhoun a charming scoundrel. Unfortunately, the dialogue was obtained from a folder marked, “Movie Clichés.”

Handsome and self-confident, Calhoun is a lady magnet. No one knows this better than himself. He comes off as a respectable businessman in the skeptical “import-export” business on his flight to Hong Kong. That is what he tells his fellow passenger, the equally charming Barbara Rush, a bestselling author. They hit it off like two college seniors who imagine each might be “the one.” The airliner is transporting industrial diamonds and is hijacked for this very reason. This comes as no surprise to Calhoun, the mastermind behind it. The plane is forced to land on an abandoned runway, totally disrupting everyone's dinner plans. In subsequent happenstances, when he and Rush meet, Calhoun is mysteriously called away on “business.” Unsuspecting, he becomes the central character for her next novel. Calhoun becomes increasingly unreliable by the week, which is no surprise to his long-time girlfriend, Delores Donlon.

No longer working on his own, Calhoun has become an operative for a crime cartel. Things have gone swimmingly for him, but there is hanzi on the wall that his carefree life may be hampered by his personal elimination. His fellow operative, Pat Conway, would like nothing better. With Calhoun's confidence at an all-time high, he decides to freelance. Never do that to the boss of a crime syndicate. Calhoun's fear and desperation increase as the film progresses. He fakes his own kidnapping, then double-crosses the syndicate in a savvy display of violence by rigging a ceiling fan with a grenade taped to the top of each blade. When the fan is turned on, the connected string tightens and sets off the mortal blasts. He is assumed dead among the gang members. Calhoun departs with an alias and a million dollars in diamonds. Paraphrasing Mark Twain, the report of Calhoun's demise has been highly exaggerated.

Constantly on the run, he racks up a lot of frequent flier miles and pockets full of airline peanuts. An entire year later, he tracks down Rush in San Francisco and crashes a party thrown by her publisher on behalf of her latest book success about a charming deceiver she met on one of his many flights, entitled "The Calhoun Story." In an understatement, she is surprised. Especially by his acknowledgment that he has a new identity. He thought she would find that pretty cool. To his surprise, she has moved on with someone else. Personally embarrassed, Calhoun storms off, wandering the streets of San Francisco in search of a safety plan as the gangsters close in. A loyal friend gets him passage on a steamer back to Hong Kong. He contacts his life-long mentor, played by Soo Yong, and also reunites with Donlon. Calhoun's realization that his diamond-filled briefcase has brought nothing but trouble, he attempts to give it back to Conway and walk free. Knowing what he knows, however, they cannot let him go “unattended.”

Note: One of my old movie pet peeves is transportation continuity. Airliners seem to provide the most problems. Low-budget films are notorious offenders. Accessing ideal stock footage can be understandably difficult or expensive. However, I do not understand why it happened so frequently. Padding the film's length, perhaps. In most cases, a transitional scene to another location would suffice. These editing details are sometimes blatantly obvious. The poor continuity in this film is a good example. Under the opening titles, we are witness to stock footage of a Pan American Stratocruiser in flight and its landing. The film's director takes over to finish the journey from Tokyo to Hong Kong on a fictitious airline called “East Asiatic Airways.” Acceptable, but during the flight, the plane morphs into a United Airlines airliner and then lands in Hong Kong as a Pan American DC-6. All those changes, with not one passenger missing their boarding gate. Locating their luggage is a different story.

THE MOB (1951)

This Columbia Pictures release, directed by Robert Parish with an adapted screenplay by William Bowers, is first-rate from beginning to end. A compelling film about corruption, mental delusions, and atonement. Bower’s script bounces humorous quips from one character to another, as one might expect from a film noir of this caliber. Nearly everyone has a turn at them. The cinematography by Joseph Walker is rich with wet streets and dark, danger-filled shadows. The well-versed George Duning provided an effective music score, as well.

Police detective Broderick Crawford is duped by a mob killer carrying an authentic police badge who appears to be coming to the aid of a shooting victim. Crawford discovers too late the victim was a key witness in an upcoming hearing. The police commissioner is livid and would like to punish Crawford for his halfhearted effort to double-check the true identity of the impostor/gunman. For news headline purposes only, accompanied by a fake picture, he is “suspended.” His real punishment is a death-defying undercover assignment to infiltrate a rough New York waterfront crime organization and bring down its kingpin. 

Needing to redeem his career, Crawford's acting trademark allows him to fit right in as a tough, sarcastic, and unflappable thug from New Orleans. His noir quips are expelled effortlessly through his legendary lightning delivery. Also on the waterfront payroll is Richard Kiley. He and Crawford become pals. It does not take Kiley long, however, to frequently question why Crawford is so interested in what goes on. A relatively unknown Hollywood entity at this point in his career, Kiley is very authentic in this role. Crawford drops a few key names that get the attention of a Union thug, Ernest Borgnine. Neville Brand, nearly at a typecast level in his career, is again playing a henchman. This time, not the psychotic “Chester” from D.O.A. but a thug with the wherewithal to also deliver a few quips of his own.

Local bartender Matt Crowley seems to know a lot about what goes on around the waterfront. For a fee. After frequent encounters, he feels Crawford can be trusted enough to set up a meeting with Blackie, the kingpin. The police put a tracking device under Crowley’s car, about the size of a carry-on suitcase. Also installed is an equally sized tank that cleverly drips fluorescent dye on the road so the police can tail the car at night using an infrared spotlight. Cool. Except they did not figure a city street sweeper would turn onto their street a few blocks ahead of them. Just one of the many clever twists in this film you will not expect.

Blackie wants Crawford to do him a favor. Kill the suspended police officer seen in the newspaper. In a twist to end all twists, then, Crawford is hired to do a hit on himself. Blackie has kidnapped Crawford’s girlfriend, Betty Buehler, to use as a pawn to flesh out her boyfriend, who, unknowingly, stands before him. Twisted. When she and Crawford meet, their roles are played as effectively as possible. The scenario becomes potentially too dangerous and Crawford tries to overpower Blackie, who escapes with a minor gunshot wound. A hospital setting ends the film with both Buehler and Blackie recovering. Blackie later enters her hospital room at gunpoint while Crawford is visiting. From an adjacent building, the police have a clear shot through the window.

Note: There is a humorous scene when Kiley sets up a blind date for Crawford to find out what Crawford’s game is. The women in waiting are Kiley’s wife, played by Lynn Baggettt, and his sister, Doris, played by Jean Alexander. Crawford immediately hooks up with the more attractive wife. It seems no one wants to be with the sister. Especially Kiley, who protests. He says there is nothing wrong with Doris. “Why can’t he like Doris?!” The sister quickly adds, “Why can’t somebody?” After numerous teasing lines between Baggett and Crawford, the sister turns to her brother, “Well, say something to me.” Kiley hesitates then awkwardly replies, “Oh...uh..how ya’ been?”

THE STREET WITH NO NAME (1948)

This notable and hardly unknown film from Twentieth Century Fox was adapted from actual FBI files. Though you may never notice, some roles were played by the actual personnel involved. It was photographed in the original locale whenever possible, albeit in fictitious “Center City.” The documentary style is typical of the era, with amazing revelations of the highly technical procedures used to catch criminals. An oft-parodied melodramatic narrator keeps us informed in case we cannot fully grasp what we are seeing. Yes, it was a long time ago.

Though Mark Stevens gets top billing, it is Richard Widmark's film. Stevens is excellent and believable, but Widmark extinguishes any flame that might have been erupting from the former. Widmark plays an underworld kingpin with an addiction, of sorts, to nasal inhalers and suspicion of drafts from open windows. Only bad guys have nasal congestion, apparently. Add Lloyd Nolan, John McIntire, and Ed Begley into the mix, and you have a solid acting troupe. The screenplay includes no lulls in the action and the film is satisfying from beginning to end. A ninety-minute lesson on how to do film noir, thanks in big part to William Keighley's direction.

After a holdup at a nightclub ends in a murder, the FBI, headed by Inspector Nolan, meets with the Police Chief, Begley, and Police Commissioner, Howard Smith, to put a stop to the current crime wave. Nolan is introduced to an undercover agent, Stevens, whose assignment is to infiltrate the gang responsible. He is set up in a hotel room across the street from a fellow agent, McIntire, who will be his eyes and ears. Using an alias, Stevens causes enough prearranged trouble to get the attention of Widmark, who subsequently has Stevens' social security card stolen. With the aid of a corrupt official, it is his system to uncover someone's background. Widmark likes what he finds and enlists Stevens for his next big heist. Right before the heist is to take place, however, Widmark gets a call from his informant that the FBI knows all about it. 

It is a pretty exciting ending after fingerprints from Widmark's gun are identified and his FBI informant spills the beans. On Widmark's plan, the police arrive at a prearranged warehouse robbery with instructions to kill the identified Stevens. A case of mistaken identity kills one gang member, and to the kingpin's surprise, all guns are instructed to fire in his direction. The dirty police official feels pretty smug, assuming he has tied up all loose ends. The truth shall not set him free. 

Note: There is a great scene done without a stitch of supporting music. Stevens needs evidence from Widmark's gun to help convict him. Under noir, he returns to the gang's hideout, the basement over Widmark's boxer training gym. Widmark arrives and is suspicious of light in the lower level. In his retreat, Stevens glances against a boxer's punching bag, and the chain creaking is the only sound heard as Widmark silently investigates.