THE THREAT (1949)

The film opens dramatically during a night prison break and a constant barrage of machine guns blazing willy-nilly hoping the guards might hit something moving other than the opening credits. It is an attention-grabbing scene often used during this era. All of which is unknown to detective Michael O'Shea, recuperating at home from a broken rib. A phone call from the police inspector, Robert Shayne, informs him about the breakout of a notorious homicidal criminal, who had sworn to kill those who placed him behind bars. O'Shea, being number one. Rather than obey his wife's wishes, he goes into action without a single grimace from that rib injury. But before he can even start his patrol car, he is kidnapped by the cold-blooded killer. Few films start out so compelling. That cannot be said of the ending.

Typical of O'Shea's B-movies, one would never call him truly tough, especially when compared to Charles McGraw, in another evil role. With gasoline prices hovering around thirty cents per gallon, the criminal trio is happy to burn the police car's tank as they make the rounds delivering “death warrants” on a District Attorney and nightclub singer, Virginia Grey, in a familiar role at odds with a man who thinks she squealed on him. Like many in today's films, it is another criminal who does not comprehend why he spent time behind bars in the first place, preferring to blame others for his despicable lifestyle.

Known only by McGraw's alias, an unsuspecting Don McQuire is hired to pick up a load in his moving van at a designated location. He gets a bit suspicious after seeing what is loaded into his van: a police car. This weighs heavily on McGuire's conscience. The van is later abandoned and unloaded, and he tries to beg off and return with his van. But all seven end up at a dilapidated shack in the desert, thus beginning the brief slow down in the film. Suspended disbelief is needed when they enter the dusty, cobweb-infested shack that appears to have not been inhabited for twenty years. McGraw growls out a command for Grey to make some sandwiches. Pretty amazing she could find anything eatable—certainly nothing to spread on or meat to place between two slices of rock-hard, moldy bread. Those “sandwiches” do appear to be simply two slices of bread. Yum. 

Not fully grasping the gravity of the situation, McQuire again demands to be set free, swearing not to rat on the gang as he heads for the door. McGraw, stone-cold, calmly addresses him by name. Knowing he will probably be shot, he angrily takes his seat back inside. McGraw uses O'Shea to send a misleading message to Shayne over the police car's radio. But he uses a “code name” that only his wife will understand. The gang stays put until the arrival of their escape plane, leading to their portion of the loot. The hostages are rightfully concerned that there is only room for three passengers upon takeoff.

This RKO Radio Picture film is a hard-hitting sixty-six-minute crime drama from a screenplay by Dick Irving Hyland and Hugh King from King's own story. Edited by Samuel E. Beetley, it is supported by a music score by Paul Sawtell. Though not the first film-noir that comes to mind associated with Charles McGraw, this obscure film is a good one to finish out the 1940s.

Note: O'Shea's police training seems to get the upper hand on McGraw from the adjoining, locked, hostage room, but the killer starts firing randomly through the door, hitting O'Shea in the leg. Already known for his high threshold for pain, the bullet in the leg nor the broken rib do not phase him in the least when he drops down from the rafters onto McGraw. Welcome to the land of make-believe.

ACCUSED OF MURDER (1956)

Filmed in Naturama, Republic’s answer to Paramount’s VistaVision, and Truecolor, where interior shots looked crisp and realistically, yet cold, this seventy-four-minute film is a pretty lackluster outing for a mostly competent cast. They lift this to a solidly average B-movie. Distributed by Republic Pictures, it is directed and produced by Joseph Kane, and is based on the novel, "Vanity Row" by W. R. Burnett. The seventy-four-minute screenplay is by Burnett and Robert Creighton Williams. A film probably dismissed once leaving the theater.

You witness a murder. You arrange to meet the assumed murderer, hitman Warren Stevens, with the intent of blackmail. How dumb do you need to be? Like Virginia Grey in this role. Her “dance for hire” job stinks and she looks marked for death from her first scene. After she confronts Stevens, he insists he did not commit any murder and decks Grey. But neither is quite through. She pesters him by phone later, with Stevens returning to severely beat her as a final warning. Grey will be the performance best remembered from this film.

Stevens is on a shortlist of suspects, the other being Vera Ralston, who portrays a singer, after a fashion, whose nightclub is frequented by Sydney Blackmer, an underworld lawyer. To him, her dubbed vocals are like sugar to a cockroach. I could have used closed captioning for some of her dialogue due to her thick accent. Despite this possible communication problem, Blackmer is interested in marriage, a thought that never occurred to her. He does not take her rejection gracefully.

During the investigation, the police lieutenant, David Brian, after hearing---translating---her story to his fellow officers, gets more involved with Ralston than official police procedures. His performance is the other one remembered. He is solid and believable, coming off strong yet compassionate. He is sympathetic toward Ralston believing she is innocent, though growing evidence provides doubts. Squint-eyed partner, Lee Van Cleef, pressures Brian, suggesting he has a conflict of interest. Cleef possesses a most unfortunate last name for an aspiring sergeant: Lackey. There are a few twists and curves to keep one guessing how Blackmer expired with an ending that may surprise you. But by shaving fifteen minutes never to be missed, it could have played better as an hour-long early television episode.

HIGHWAY 301 (1950)

Produced by Bryan Foy with a screenplay by Andrew Stone, who also directed, Warner Brothers released this disturbing eighty-three-minute B-movie noir starring a real-life bad boy, Steven Cochran. The film made a sizable profit. Narration by actor Edmon Ryan, also playing a detective, provides background in pseudo-documentary fashion. Appropriate as this film is a twenty-year update on the crime spree in the Thirties by the Tri-State Gang through the nation's east coast. So the viewer is not exiting the highway that connects three states any time soon. Common for the era of low-budget crime films are comments by three of the east coast's Governors that suggest the tri-state crime is once and for all finished.

The film has all the noir visuals one would expect but it is not perfect. Standard fare in one sense, the film holds one's attention with a well-paced script. Cochran is a ruthless gang leader and cold-blooded killer. The film was a bit of a shocker during its day. His (once) girlfriend is making disparaging remarks about the truth behind the gang's activities. There are startling scenes as he tracks her down in her attempt to leave town. The apartment's elevator ascends to where she waits. As the elevator doors open, he shoots her in the back while she heads for the stairs. Needless to say, the elevator operator is a bit shaky when trying to hit the down button. Noted is the film debut of television's perennial bad guy, Robert Webber. His girl is Gaby André. After discovering the gang's real business, she wants out. There are tense scenes as she attempts to escape from Cochran. Scenes where composer William Lava does his best Dimitri Tiompkin impression. The future gets bleak for two others in the gang after playing dodge bullet with the police. B-movie regular, Richard Egan, has a small role as a fourth wheel in the gang, on-call as needed. Virginia Grey's character cannot be without a portable radio and her favorite program: organ music. Grey provides the wisecracks. With André recovering from a Cochran bullet in the hospital, he devises a ridiculous plan to infiltrate the hospital to finish her off. He thrusts Grey into a role as a newspaper reporter with a handgun and finds herself quickly in over her head with Ryan stationed next to André's room. Her constant lying buries her. After a shootout escaping the hospital, Wally Cassell's character accepts a bullet or two. Cochran meets a more definitive end facing down...well...it is worth the wait.

Note: Virginia Grey always reminded me of a bad composite drawing of Loretta Young and Lucille Ball.