RAW DEAL (1948)

Anthony Mann directs another tough crime noir starring Dennis O’Keefe, a prisoner soon to break out unscathed. Claire Trevor is his contact once back on the streets. Her character is full of angst and self-obsession. She voices her inner thoughts throughout the film accompanied by the mental instability sound of a Theremin instrument. It gets more amusing with each use, finding it easy to substitute Madeline Kahn in the role. Front and center is O'Keefe's prison caseworker, Marsha Hunt. Aside from today's perceived unintentional humor, this film is hardly forgotten for the obvious first-rate production and one of the best crime roles of O'Keefe's career. It is another successful film noir from Edward Small Productions.

In the course of his late-night escape, O’Keefe stops at Hunt’s home. His breakout is not what she recommended, and she attempts to call the police for his own protection. But he abducts her and, along with Trevor, the trio swaps cars and escapes a roadblock as expected. Trevor, insecurity personified, is jealous of Hunt and wants her removed, however possible. At least don't have her sit in the middle of the front seat.

Turns out, the escape was set up by mobster Raymond Burr and facilitated by Trevor. He figured O’Keefe would not escape successfully, given the odds. Once again, Burr plays a sadistic psycho, a despicable bully who is also terrified when told of the escape. He wants him taken out so he does not part with the 50k due him. Burr decides to send his hired gun, John Ireland, in his place to finish him at the designated payoff location. The ensuing intense and believable fistfight does not go down in Ireland’s favor. Though Hunt carries a torch for O’Keefe, he knows his life is more suited to Trevor. Dang it. To keep Hunt safe from harm, he sends her back to Los Angeles. But she is recognized by Ireland en route and brings her back to Burr as leverage. O’Keefe seems as ruthless as Burr in the beginning, but Hunt’s persuasive nature softens him a bit as the film progresses.

Meanwhile, waiting for their ship to set sail for Mexico, Trevor answers a call from Burr’s mouthpiece, who says that Hunt is in grave danger unless O’Keefe makes an appearance. Trevor, in another self-centered decision, lies about the call. O’Keefe is resigned to spending an “eternity” with Trevor, mumbling about what might have been. Her face silhouetted in shadows, "Miss Theremin" reminds us that he will always be thinking of Hunt, and her inner thought audibly blurts out her name for O’Keefe to hear. Quicker than he can say “What is wrong with you, lady?!” he slices through a thick fog of thugs and bullets to confront "Big Burr." Burr is cordial. Sweating. In the darkness, after saying he is unarmed, he shoots O’Keefe, who returns fire. A stumbling O’Keefe locates Hunt before Trevor arrives to finish out the film.

Note: This is an essential B-movie noir. Many in-depth reviews single out all the excellent work in this production. Here are a couple I have noted. Shots of Burr from a low vantage in his enormous suit present a good case for widescreen. Following his success in T-Men from the year before, John Alton's cinematography is artistically done and full of underlying meaning. The low budget is obvious at times with matte paintings or projection backgrounds, but it is balanced by more important location shoots. The film is not that predictable, but several standard devices are used once again. I never understood the logic of holding a loaded gun on a driver when going through a police roadblock. The criminal is not going to attract attention by shooting. It is pure silliness.

THE SUN SETS AT DAWN (1950)

This thought-provoking film, based on a true story, has the look of a late 1930’s melodrama. It falls into the noir category with a "darkness" covering much of the movie. Do not expect much action, however.

A young man is accused of murder and a group of reporters are on location to compile the news about the state’s first use of the electric chair. The newfangled electric chair keeps malfunctioning, much to their disappointment. A few hours before the execution, the chaplain is called in to offer wisdom and have the “boy” (as the script calls him) get right with his soul. Philip Shawn (aka Patrick Waltz) is actually 26 but could pass for 19. The good old days when anyone under 21 was still considered a boy. The lad repeats scripture passages but cannot honestly admit the sin of murder. Because he did not commit one. 

At dawn, the chair breaks down again, blacking out half the county it would seem. The priest believes it was meant to be. God saved the boy’s life for a reason. They capture the real killer so the story ends justly. The scene with the group of reporters, each with their own rapid responses about the electric snafu, is rather exciting and well-edited. Two of the reporters are played by veterans, King Donovan, and Percy Helton, the Baby Boomer's favorite weasel. Both actors with distinctive vocal qualities.

But there is a good share of weak acting throughout. The girlfriend of the innocent man, played by Sally Parr, for one. One scene in particular involves a senior off-duty prison orderly. Despite a mobster's cosmetic surgery, he recognizes him at a diner and tries to convince a policeman who he is. But he nervously takes matters into his own hands. I found the scene funny when he slips a wanted bulletin inside the menu for the mobster to see before he orders. “Somethin’ to eat? (pause) Mister!” He places the menu down with the quickness of the Flash and calls him by name. Coldly, the mobster rises and fires, then escapes. The orderly’s final frantic lines, in an effective stark close-up, is a plea to get the mobster’s fingerprints as confirmation.

The script brings the tension right to the wire (sorry) as it appears the kid will fry. However, fingerprints do not lie. The doomed mobster sets the record straight and elects to peck out his own confession on the typewriter. One letter. One index finger. At a time. Taking forever. Funny. It will leave enough time to get that chair fixed once and for all.

A FILM BRAKE: TELEVISION’S INTEGRAL CHARACTER

A Hypothetical Sidekick for Jim Rockford

On the classic series, “The Rockford Files,” private detective Jim Rockford usually worked alone, by preference, to solve cases. He did things his way. For this reason, the series was not created with a sidekick or an assistant in mind. Jim was not Barnaby Jones or Joe Mannix. Angel Martin might seem to be a logical candidate. Although he was a frequent contact, sometimes working with Rockford, he more often than not was a detriment to him. Angel never took nor retained any advice from Rockford and he would just as soon sell Jim out to save his own neck. Not the traits of a trusted sidekick. Other members of the cast fell short of the sidekick moniker with occupations at odds with Rockford. But there was one character in the same line of work who assisted and learned from Rockford. I think the young, aspiring private investigator, Richie Brockelman, would make a good candidate. An endearing character to be sure, thanks to a superb script and Dennis Dugan’s performance playing a character much younger than himself. Unfortunately, Brockelman was not able to sustain his own series. He needed Rockford’s help.

Though only guest-starring in two, ninety-minute episodes, Richie was to Rockford what Chester was to Matt Dillon, Archie to Nero Wolfe or Artemis to James West. Each with opposite personality traits to one another. Richie runs mornings. Rockford runs only when being chased by thugs. Richie is excited about any new case. Rockford is skeptical of most clients and, at times, takes the job just to pay off creditors. But their common ground, a necessary sidekick qualification, is being in the same line of work and loving it. Student and mentor relying on and learning from each other to solve a case.

“The House on Willis Avenue” is brilliantly written and introduces Richie as a guy who also thinks outside the rules and at times, a con man to rival Rockford; a competent investigator with a lot to learn. Both are attending the funeral of Joe Tooley, a veteran Los Angeles P.I., played by Paul Fix. The things Joe taught Rockford kept him alive in his first few years. Tooley was a mentor of sorts to Rockford. Richie meeting Rockford face to face is one of the best moments of the series. When Rockford coincidentally sits next to Richie and introduces himself, Richie is in awe. Wow! Jim Rockford! He cannot help but stare. The beauty of this first meeting is that it reinforces Rockford as one of the best and most experienced private detectives in the Los Angeles area. Legendary in Richie’s eyes. It also establishes the “gee whiz” factor for young Brockelman.

Neither buys the idea that Tooley could have died in the location that the authorities said he did. Paraphrasing, “The thing of it is, is, I don’t think Joe Tooley’s death was an accident, Mr. Rockford. And if you are working on the same theory, we should pool our resources and work together on this.” Rockford does not show his hand readily to the lad so Richie keeps needling him in the hope that he will provide the information he wants. Rockford makes no commitment but makes it clear that if they work together Richie is to follow his lead. “Hey, no problem. You’re the boss,” replies Richie. But in his unrestrained enthusiasm, Richie has the tendency to butt in on Rockford’s conversations after being told not to say anything. “Do you mind, son?!,” Rockford retorts. He calls him “son” but his driving skills, at the expense of Rockford’s Firebird, completely loses the bad guys in one scene and Rockford is impressed. And that is saying something. ”I guess people underestimate you all the time, son.” To which Richie replies, “Yeah. You can count on it.” Richie quickly endears himself to Rockford, who, in turn, teaches the young P.I. a thing or two. Especially how to get into business offices they have no authority to be in. A real teaching moment for Richie.

In a scene reminiscent of Chester Goode confiding in Matt Dillon in numerous first-year episodes, Richie asks for sage advice from Rockford. Richie says his dad does not understand why he is in the P.I. business. He assumes Rockford’s own father likes what he does for a living. Jim is quite familiar with his father’s opinion on the subject, responds, “Oh, he will say things like, ‘Life is like a red Ford. If you rev the engine too much it won’t last long.’ “Things like that.” A puzzled but accepting look comes over Richie’s face.

In the following season’s episode, “Never Send a Boy King to do a Man’s Job,” Rockford and Richie, with the aid of a cast of operatives, team up for an elaborate sting operation to bring down a crooked sports promoter, Jack Coombs, whose underhanded practices have forced Richie’s father out of business. Richie is beside himself and wants to make Coombs pay. But he is not sure how to go about it. He suggests some sort of con to Rockford but he is wary of a sting on such a powerful businessman with endless connections. It could very well backfire. Yet the whole idea could be a thing of beauty and Rockford is in. Their plan is to get Coombs invested in a phony Egyptian artifacts tour that promises to bring in millions. 

Coombs is amazed at the potential and takes charge as only he can. By beating his opponents into submission. In separate incidents, both he and Richie take a pretty good beating from Coomb’s muscle. It is Richie’s understanding that when the principle marks get beaten up, there is a flaw in the con somewhere. Rockford does not find the comment amusing. Coombs boldly makes a move that Rockford or Richie never saw coming. Richie admits to Jim, “He gave us the ‘ol greased pole.”

With the only backup plan that might work, they turn up the heat on Coombs by suggesting, through a series of fake deaths, there may be an ancient curse on anyone associated with the artifacts. Coombs, already a health hypochondriac, immediately buys his way out of the whole deal, unknowingly writing a large enough check to restore Richie’s father’s business and pay off the operatives.

Though not official sidekicks, Rockford and Brockelman fit the bill on the assumed age gap alone. Rockford’s experience leads the way but cases would not be resolved successfully without Richie Brockelman’s assistance. Proving two opposites can work well together.

THE HOODLUM (1951)

Monarch Films produced this low-budget crime drama complete with studio backlot sets and in-studio automobile interiors. A few scenes are shot on location but any realism is diminished by a cheap production.

The opening automobile scene, with a frantic violin solo, shows a very nervous Lawrence Tierney slowly scowling over at this real-life brother Edward—not the other brother, Scott Brady—behind the wheel. Tierney has the look that indicates whatever is going to happen will not be pleasant. The scene flashbacks to Tierney’s teen days to explain this lifelong sociopathic criminal behavior. Someone who has been blind to reforming and feels no one will ever give him a break. He trusts no one. Tierney’s performance is the reason to watch this hour-long film, though his previous performance in Born to Kill took a similar role to even lower lows.

Edward, in his first credited film appearance, owns a successful gas station business and gives his brother a job in hopes he will finally settle down. Instead, Tierney immediately tries to figure out a way to steal the money from the armored car stopped at the bank across the street. To make Tierney even more despicable he seduces his sister-in-law who becomes pregnant. Totally uncaring about this, he assembles a gang to hit the bank. The brother thinks something is suspicious in front of the bank but is stopped from calling the police by the butt end of Tierney’s gun. It was this type of despicable character that critics and the industry came down hard against.

As real-life robber Baron Lamm taught every bank robber to follow, they switch cars at a planned location. Their limo getaway is facilitated by bringing up the tail end of a funeral procession which gets them through a roadblock. At their hideout, the gang turns on Tierney and leaves him with a mighty big headache. He returns to his mother’s dying bedside with selfish remorse but it is too late. His mother, Lisa Golm, gives him a good tongue-lashing for being a rotten soul. The film closes with a return to the opening scene on their way to the city dump—where bad siblings go. Tierney seems puzzled by it all. What would cause this kind of brotherly behavior?

THE CROOKED WAY (1949)

This is a tough film noir set in Los Angeles. The dark shadows and odd camera angles are well recorded by other reviewers, but it is John Payne’s search for his identity that makes it a little out of the ordinary. He plays a WWII veteran whose past is completely wiped away by a piece of shrapnel in his brain. Permanent amnesia. He is treated by Dr. Kemble (without the "i") at the Letterman General Hospital. Not amusing at all in 1949. He leaves the hospital with his correct first name but a new last name. He is immediately recognized and apprehended by police Lieutenant Rhys Williams. Williams assumes Payne is guilty until proven innocent. Payne plays along with no idea where it will lead. His initial meeting with Ellen Drew is an eye-opener—his former wife. Payne reveals his amnesia, but the trust is not there. She knows his past too well.

Crime boss Sonny Tufts had a long working relationship until he took the fall for Payne's crime. Tufts figures it is payback time for being set up. His performance is one to remember, but he rarely gets due credit. He is dangerous and volatile. Payne, not remembering who he is, gets reintroduced to Tufts with a beating. With help from his two goons, Tufts kicks Payne down the outside fire escape stairs. That sort of behavior from a total stranger sends a message, and Payne begins to realize that his past has some kinks to work out. The two encounters between Tufts and Williams are fun. Tufts looks quite calm and content during his self-manicures. Two drops of medicine into a glass of water help his nervous condition. Their cat-and-mouse conversations are gems. Each holding their disdain for the other in check. Seeing Williams “accidentally” knock over a pitcher of water in Tuft’s lap is beautiful.

The rotund, sandpaper-voiced tenor, Percy Helton, has a history with Payne. And pain. A man with no courage and a nagging cough. Or is it a fur ball shared with his cat, Samson? Under duress, he tries to shelter Payne in his War Surplus Store. Near the end of the film, the police have the storefront riddled with bullets to get Tufts’ and Payne’s attention. The latter is half-unconscious after several blows to the head from the former. Tufts drags Payne out the front door using him as a shield. The police demand his surrender. With no such intentions, Tufts’ maniacal rage is captured nicely in tight, sweaty close-ups. Now, in full view of the police, out crawls Helton through the door after being shot by Tufts’ men. He is the only human moving during that scene. How he could go unnoticed is funny. The police do not ask him to stop or why he was crawling through the front door with a gun. Helton manages to get an errant shot off toward Tufts, who returns a couple of accurately placed bullets. As Payne gets dropped to the sidewalk, the police force empties their chambers.

Note: This top-notch crime film was distributed by United Artists and produced by Benedict Bogeaus, and directed by Robert Florey. The screenplay is by Richard H. Landau based on the radio play "No Blade Too Sharp" by Robert Monroe. The cinematography by John Alton is superb.

THE PARIS EXPRESS (1952)

This British color film, released in 1953 for the American market as, The Man Who Watched Trains Go By, is noteworthy for Claude Rain's dynamic voice and performance, making it a worthwhile stopover. The film opens with a group of bicyclists awaiting a train’s crossing. Rains is one of them. He gazes down the tracks after it passes dreaming of travel to far-off cities. The charming opening is contrasted by the later evil temptations that a routine life would not be expected to act on. Rains is the senior citizen head clerk at a highly respectable company, spending his entire working life slaving over the firm’s accounting books. And they are perfect. A dull man with predictable habits, his employer, Herbert Lom, is the antithesis. An arrogant, self-possessed scoundrel who treats Rains like a subordinate. A mere office boy. He discovers Lom’s secret of embezzling the entire company’s fortune on a Paris love interest, played by Marta Toren. Moments before Lom makes his final departure for Paris, Rains confronts him. He demands an answer. The two men push and shove until Lom accidentally trips backward into a canal and drowns. Consumed with temptation and a rye smile, Rains takes Lom's suitcase with the company's fortune and catches the film’s title train. The one on which he has dreamed of someday riding.

Thus begins his downward spiral into a dark and seedy world where he has no experience. Not very convincingly, Rains lies about why he is in Paris. Mild-mannered people can also commit crimes but they do not make good liars. He dreams that Toren will fall in love with him. She laughs at the old man until she discovers all that cash. At which point she fawns over him. She assumes he has killed Lom and enlists her boyfriend to cook up a plan to get the cash whatever it takes. An inspector is on the trail of both. Toren, for her part in an ongoing investigation.

The Paris Express is not great. Rains’ transformation from a meek bookkeeper to a dangerous villain is poorly developed so the implausibility factor is high. The very ending seems unresolved if not plain confusing. The inspector ruled Lom’s death accidental. But we are not sure if Rains is totally innocent.

WICKED WOMAN (1953)

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

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

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

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

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

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