HONG KONG CONFIDENTIAL (1958)

This United Artists film uses periodic voice-over narration akin to a documentary newsreel. The Robert Kent Production sounds authenticated and unfolds the story with the smallest studio sets, looking more like an early television play. Yet in one scene they manage to squeeze in a current model Ford through one tiny street, leaving little room for the studio lighting let alone the Asian extras to walk about on cue. It is a tale of Cold War tensions with the Soviet Union and the special government agents assigned to resolve an unusual case. It is all fairly silly and predictable but the secret agent premise beats the Bond pictures out of the starting gate. 

The Communist's “new weapon” is to kidnap the son of an Arab King to pressure him into not signing an agreement with the United States to build a missile base in his small Arab nation. Assigned to find the prince is undercover agent, Gene Barry, who is posing as a lounge singer in a tiny Hong Kong nightclub set. He handles suave with the best of them and this film highlights his talents. The two brief songs he performs are the standout moments in the film. Barry had a voice but his body rhythm here is hilariously stiff and corny. His left and right arms do whatever they want with his body planning on moving right but it suddenly feels compelled to move left. Cannot fault him for trying his best to sell the first lame song about himself. But he is definitely a “foot loser.” Few would ever guess he is an intelligence agent, so in that regard, he is in deep cover. His love interest and accompanist is played by Beverly Tyler in her last film before transitioning to television. She is not undercover yet her faked piano playing made me suspicious.

After Barry’s informant is killed, King Calder, the intelligence agent recommends Barry for the prince's retrieval. There is evidence that the informant had ties to Allison Hayes, who is under surveillance for gold smuggling to the Communists. Hayes can play untrustworthy through makeup and wardrobe alone. She resides in another small Asian film set called Macao. So Barry has about forty feet to travel, not forty miles, in the hope of flushing out the kidnappers. Barry sells her on his smuggling plan of mass-producing souvenirs, yet after the cheap metal is burned off, underneath is solid gold.

Barry discovers a medallion belonging to the kidnapped prince in the office of Noel Drayton and the kidnapping mastermind is revealed. Hayes sets up a meeting with Drayton but double-crosses Barry at gunpoint, forcing him into a cellar where Drayton awaits with the kidnapped prince. Smugly, he tells his plan to pin the kidnapping on the American Barry. He and the prince will be killed after the Arab King signs the papers to let the Commies establish their own missile base. All wait impatiently for that important phone call. But Barry comes up with a plan to disrupt the telephone service that is right out of a Bond playbook. In the standard secret agent ploy, he needs to stand and "fake" stretch. Then with outstretched arms, he casually picks up a thick metal pin lying near the telephone. Really not sure what it is, yet it is pretty obvious he is up to something. I am surprised Barry was not whistling a random tune. Drayton is oblivious. Suspended disbelief at its best. The funny scene continues as Barry sits back down and one arm immediately dives between the cushions as if it were sucked in. Below the couch is where the telephone line is and he pokes the pin through the rubber-encased telephone cable. Drayton must call from an upstairs phone to confirm the signing. He leaves Hayes alone with Barry. Uh-oh. Moviegoers knew what was coming next. In her “duh” moment, Barry volunteers to light her cigarette but overwhelms her with his charms...uh...arms, knocking the gun from her hand and as she stumbles hits her head in the fall. Drayton returns and graciously accepts a bullet. Barry and the prince escape.

One evil-doer is holding Tyler as Barry leverage. Barry kicks open the door and stands back as Asian bullets shoot the hallway full of lead. Without looking, Barry shoots around the door frame, killing the man. Yes. He is that good. At that very moment, another man is ready to shoot Barry in the back but he is shot in the back by Calder. This would have extended in a Zucker Brothers film. Tyler’s suspicions about Barry’s dancing abilities become clearer when she learns of his real occupation.

Note: Another funny scene, an optical illusion, is between Calder and Barry. Both men are facing the camera with Calder standing right behind Barry's right shoulder. Due to the lighting and shadows, it appears Calder is resting his chin on Barry's shoulder, who is getting a bit uncomfortable.

THE LONG HAUL (1957)

This film opens ominously late at night behind a contemporary, driving score with modern fonts. It has the intriguing feel of a possible Cold War drama. An Army truck comes to a halt near London and out pops Victor Mature with his trademark countenance of superior sarcasm. His momentary heavy eyelids are not from an all-night drive. This will be his last delivery for the U.S. Army and with his discharge sets his sights back on returning to America. His British wife would rather stay put to raise their family. After a moment of heated discussion, Mature realizes staying put is best for their marriage.

His lorry driving comes to an abrupt end, through no fault of his own, after an incident places Mature on Britain’s “do not call list.” Desperate for living money he gets involved with a smuggling operation run by Patrick Allen. Allen’s girl, Diana Dors, has been under his control for some time. He treats her like any of his property. Keeping her looking cheap is anything but. In an intense exchange, she walks out on him and hides in Mature’s lorry. Mature opens the driver’s door and the arrangement is not to his liking. She insists on going to any place else. She prefers a mature man much to Allen’s ire and they begin an on-again, off-again affair with Mature’s marriage taking the brunt.

Always scheming, Allen wants to complete a money-making long haul of hot furs and a sizable cash reward persuades Mature to drive. The middle seat is cushioned by Dors. How the three of them continue to get along is a wonder. The time-sensitive delivery through forest and mountain shortcuts is exciting with literal cliffhangers at every turn. They cross a stream but get stuck on the embankment coming out. While Mature is trying to free up a wheel, Allen diabolically lets the lorry roll backward, hoping to mash Mature. A fistfight ensues with neither actor appearing to use a stunt double as they slosh around the water's edge. Allen is hit by a sliding container from the truck bed and then smothered under a mountain of falling fur boxes and drowns.

After delivering some soggy furs to the cargo ship on time, Mature and Dors take a cab back to town. Their route back was the better one for that fur delivery in hindsight. She begs him to run away with her. The money he got from the long haul is meant for his wife as a final goodbye gesture. Dors delivers it and his wife delivers a slap across her face. Dors overhears talk of Mature’s son’s health (an earlier blow to the head from a fall has turned serious) but she is hesitant to mention it upon reentering the cab, which is a pretty low-down. He knew nothing of the illness and would not leave his wife and son despite his impending arrest. Dors returns to her nightclub gig and all live not so happily ever after.

Mature was more than halfway down the slope of his long-haul career and with a couple exceptions, this might be his best late-career serious role. It is hard to fault him in any of his prior projects, where he usually dominated the screen. Although at times self-deprecating about his career, he turns in a solid performance for a script that takes its time to unravel. Dors’ acting and vocal range cannot be faulted. She seems out of place in a crude trucker's cafe. Like burning magnesium, she is not hard to spot. Most posters used her image as a catalyst for ticket sales.

Note: Hollywood continued churning out this tired premise of the weak male having an affair. They have left out the weak part since, suggesting it is inevitable behavior. Guilt is still a conscience bender in late Fifties Hollywood.

PATTERNS (1956)

Flawless. Compelling. Stunning. Select words that describe this movie from a revised script and screenplay by Rod Serling first used for a Kraft Television Theater production the year before. The lack of a music score carries over from the television project. If you were told that the crux of the film revolves around boardroom meetings, one might think it would be boring. There is nothing here to bore the mature viewer. From the beautiful opening cinematography by Boris Kaufman—weaving between skyscrapers— the movie intrigues as if it were a creative art film. We see graphic patterns right before us, but Serling’s script deals more with personal behavior patterns and political movers and shakers.

Each actor performs a tour de force, but I cannot say enough about Everett Sloane who is extraordinary as the intimidating, iron-fisted company president. His workday begins with crowded ground-floor elevators. To understand Sloane’s status, the elevator operator forbids anyone in a particular elevator—the one reserved for Sloane. He expects no less and few words are ever exchanged. When the door opens, his staff are at his beckoned call.

Van Heflin and his wife, played by Beatrice Straight, arrive in New York City by invitation from Sloane after Heflin’s successful career as an industrial designer. He is a bit overwhelmed by the transition from his small Ohio town until he meets Ed Begley, the long-tenured Vice President, who reassures him in a calm demeanor. Begley has a soft spot for people. Their welfare is his first priority, a sentiment at odds with Sloane. One cannot discount Heflin but this film centers around Begley and Sloane.

Heflin’s first board meeting is an eye-opener. As he has done for many years, Begley voices his concerns over Sloane’s latest business plan in full earshot of fellow board members. Building up a head of steam, remaining cordial, Sloane suddenly and repeatedly nails him to the wall in vicious verbal attacks challenging his competence. Watching the board members sit uncomfortably staring at their folders even made me a bit uneasy. And as explosive as a conversation can possibly be, Sloane smoothly settles tensions down with reasoned foresight and a brief smile. No one dares challenge him without good reason and Begley has never had one. His desire is to get Begley to resign through humiliation. As if not shocked enough by his initial board meeting, Heflin is further jolted to learn his joining the company is to replace Begley. Heflin aligns himself too closely with Begley, lending support to him to the explosive ire of Sloane, who is not in a popularity contest. He is there to make a profit. For his verbal support of Begley, Sloane lays into Heflin with the same viciousness for not recognizing his own potential. The shocking scene packs a wallop, and of course, without the habitually used R-rated language of today’s films. There are no words of real substance wasted or a lack of self-control.

Heflin later spots Begley working late into the night. Begley, perhaps with one too many shots of whiskey, gets so upset referring to Sloane that one might think he is going to kill him at the next board meeting. Heflin begs him to calm down and seriously consider resigning. He is also angrily at rope’s end with stubborn Begley, who refuses to ever give Sloane any satisfaction. Begley’s path is crumbling beneath him. And he knows it. For the next board meeting, he again gets lambasted by Sloane. So relentless and severe that Begley stands up in a rage, but slowly and quietly apologizes to Sloane and the board as he has done for nearly thirty years. He walks out in a trance from the adjourned meeting and collapses in the hallway. He will not need to resign. Heflin believes Sloane is the catalyst for Begley’s death, knowing of his heart condition. Alone in his office, Sloane appears to briefly show sadness at this outcome but a new day of business is upon him.

The final scene is astounding. Heflin confronts Sloane, seemingly for the last time before returning to Ohio. He has had enough of New York City, the company, and Sloane in particular. In no uncertain terms, he tells Sloane how much he hates every inch of him. Heflin would do everything in his power to remove Sloane as president if he remained. Sloane has no problem with that and Heflin is welcome to try. Sloan defends himself by fiercely laying out his reasons for his behavioral pattern, continually challenging Heflin’s work ethic. Still in fiery conversation, out of the blue he immediately doubles Heflin’s salary and stock options. Without even a blink, Heflin also wants to inherit Begley’s “single dream” of breaking Sloane's jaw someday. Slightly amused, Sloane agrees and adds a rider giving him the same privilege to Heflin's jaw.

THE PROWLER (1951)

Louis B. Mayer once looked at Van Heflin and said, “You will never get the girl in the end.” This movie supports Mayer’s assessment. Heflin takes another turn playing a scoundrel, a deceiver in a policeman’s uniform. His past has been a series of disappointments that led to his career as a disgruntled cop. The viewer is not sure who the prowler is in this ninety-minute film and the authorities never find the prowler by the end. Helfin is not likable from his first scene to his last. His co-star is the lithe Evelyn Keyes. Her marriage is rocky due to a possessive, jealous husband, nearly twice her age. Keyes's timid, hesitant performance makes Heflin seem even more controlling. This is an oft-told story of greed, seduction, and a web of deceit. But with only a few implausible moments, the two stars make this obscure film quite watchable.

Heflin and his squad car companion, John Maxwell, arrive to investigate a prowler. Keyes is typically alone most nights because her husband is an overnight radio personality. By the way, he is voiced on the radio by screenwriter, Dalton Trumbo. Instantly, Heflin starts wondering what her “game” is as if she is just wanting attention. He becomes completely obsessed with her. The

In the guise of a follow-up call to check on Keyes's safety the next evening, Heflin comes right into her home and immediately gets comfy on the couch. She is very uncomfortable with his intrusion, not understanding why he keeps showing up. Heflin apologizes with all the fake sincerity he can muster. On another return visit, he needs a smoke but they are locked in a cabinet for her husband’s use. Heflin simply picks the lock in front of her with her hairpin, then snoops around the cabinet to discover an insurance policy on the husband's life.

She feels guilty about the possible affair and decides to call it off. As days pass she gets lonely. Every time she calls he lets the phone ring extra long before answering. He tells her she is right. Nothing he can do. It will never work out between them. And hangs up with regrets. Heflin falls back into his bed and a high-placed camera catches him with a huge smile. She is hooked.

In an official police uniform, Heflin concocts a late-night scheme at Keyes’ home. He makes it appear their screen door has been compromised, then repeatedly bangs the fence gate to arouse the husband. When Heflin sees him he shouts, “Halt!” as he opens fire. The murder becomes “a tragic accident” with Heflin resigning from the police force, never wanting to see a gun again. His deceit convinces Keyes that he may be a nice guy after all. They happily marry then the honeymoon surprise. She is four months pregnant. The date of the child's conception would prove the two had lied under oath. The final turning point for her is when he blurts out in anger about the life insurance policy he is counting on. Oops. Having the baby in a hospital would establish a record so they hide out for an astonishing five months in a desert ghost town. A town Maxwell always talked to Heflin about during his gem collecting.

Keyes goes into premature labor and Heflin seeks a doctor in a nearby town. Keyes discovers Heflin’s "disavowed" gun in his suitcase. She warns the doctor who returns to town with the newborn. Realizing the doctor will send the police, Heflin drives away in panic leaving his beloved to fend for herself. The gravel road is blocked at a narrow passage by his former partner, Maxwell, who was coming to pay a visit. After a five-month disappearing act, he guesses Heflin might be there!? Heflin bolts from the car and attempts to run up a one-hundred-foot mound of steep, loose stone. Not sure where he was planning to go but in that closing metaphor of his life, the harder he tries running up the hill the more futile it becomes. He is as stationary as a statue. It makes for an easy target.

Note: Moviegoers may have talked about this film in the office break room for a week or so. Some modern assessments of this film view it from a twenty-first-century interpretation, leaving behind the milder mid-twentieth-century production restrictions. The film leaves no doubt about its lurid subject matter and today's "enlightened" language is not a necessity.

THE KILLER IS LOOSE (1956)

Budd Boetticher lays out a well-paced movie and the many on-location scenes add reality to a traditional script. There are enough hypothetical situations to slot the film into a B-movie category. Though the ending is contrived and implausible, it is an incredible performance by Wendell Corey. The ever-competent Joseph Cotton sometimes works hard to make his script believable.. He seems irritated throughout the film, perhaps for good reason. His wife, Rhonda Fleming, constantly wants him to change careers because his life is in the balance every day. She is one-dimensional as a self-centered, harping wife.

Though initially touted as a hero for tackling one bank robber, Corey is discovered to be part of an inside job, and the police close in on his apartment, expecting a standoff after he fires through the entrance door. Inside the darkened interior, Cotton accidentally shoots a moving silhouette, which happens to be Corey’s wife. The supposed mild-mannered, gentle bank teller begins his journey into a mentally unbalanced world. Being a model prisoner hoping for an early release, he is transferred to a prison honor farm. Corey's idea of an early release is not quick enough. While en route to make a produce delivery, he kills the driver and makes his escape. As a disguise, he goes without eyeglasses for a period. Not the best plan for highway driving.

Corey looks deranged, in a trance, as he walks through a middle-class neighborhood looking for the Cotton home. His slow and slightly hesitant gate adds to his unsettling persona. I like to think this was Corey's idea. He stops at John Larch’s house, an old army buddy who used to tease Corey, calling him “Foggy” for his deep voice and for wearing spectacles. An irritating jab from an entire life of ridicule. Larch tries to reason with Foggy, I mean Corey. He suggests he does not have much chance of getting far. He says he could probably take him down like he could in basic training. Corey seems to understand and remorsefully, momentarily, thinks it over. Corey disagrees. He shoots Larch right through the milk bottle he is holding near his chest as his wife screams in horror. A hungry, unshaven Corey looks away in disgust. Obviously, he is lactose intolerant. Corey uses the wife’s hooded plaid raincoat, white or yellow rain boots, and purse to transform into a six-foot-two-inch lady. Just another day in LA. This is certainly a point to burst out laughing if you want. He is quite the fashion plate.

Cotton hastily arranges a “charade vacation” to move his wife to a fellow officer’s home for safety. Not wanting to frighten her, he never mentions that she is Corey’s primary target for revenge. It is a poorly executed ruse by Cotton and Fleming quickly catches on during their ride in the studio prop car. She gives her husband little support or understanding. It is a standard premise and makes their interaction the clichéd low point in the film. After a good verbal thrashing...uh...eye-opener from police wife, Virginia Christine, Cotton’s intentions become clearer to her. She skips out, returning by bus, where she suspects Corey may be a passenger. A useless device because the audience already recognized Corey. Besides, Foggy does not have the nerve to get on the bus in that plaid raincoat and rain boots.

The police stake out the Cotton home late at night. From a nearby bus stop, Fleming decides to walk the few blocks home. How Corey knew she was on a bus, then would be walking home, is, at best, a happenstance. I assume the phone book was Corey's go-to source for finding her address. Hiding in the bushes for her to pass by, however, is strictly for the audience to gasp. The officers spot a tall lady closely following a redhead, then Cotton blasts them for not recognizing his wife! Fleming deliberately walks past her home (in a cagey police move), leaving Corey to wonder if he is tracking the right woman. At the last second, she tries to dash back to her front door with Lady Corey in pursuit. The entire neighborhood is aroused by a lot of gunfire. Just another day in LA.

Note: Aside from the horror genre, Corey’s performance newly defines scary. He is not sadistic like Widmark in his screen debut or Mitchum a year earlier. He is disturbed and helpless by his evil deeds. After killing Larch, his wife lies motionless from fainting. Corey looks down at her and in a soft, reasoning voice, says, “What else could I do? It was the ONLY thing I could do.” From teller to killer, Corey is mesmerizing and chilling. He is the reason to watch this film, and the director thought so too. I can only imagine what audiences thought of Corey during its first run. Just do not call him “Foggy.”

DARK CITY (1950)

Do not let a couple of A-list actors fool you. Hal B. Wallis produced a B-movie. With the likes of Don DeFore, Harry Morgan, who again plays a slightly brain-impaired character, and Jack Webb's cutting delivery of snide comments, it could be none other. Add Dean Jagger, Ed Begley, and Wallis’ favorite, Lizabeth Scott, and you have a competent cast. In his lead debut as a small-time bookie, Charlton Heston barely holds his own besides the experienced and pliable Dean Jagger. Still, he stands out from all the rest with a rugged, chiseled handsomeness the others do not possess. He delivers a foot-in-the-door performance. There are some typically awkward B-movie segue edits of actors’ faces or actions that do not match the previous frame. And in a casual driving scene in Vegas, they used an obvious stand-in driver for Heston. I guess it was too risky for him. Those automatic transmissions can be tricky.

Needing money after being shut down by the police, Heston and his hustlers fleece out-of-towner DeFore out of five grand that is not his during a rigged card game. DeFore is so distraught he hangs himself. His protective big brother sets out to kill each one by one. Note the giant emerald ring that keeps getting into tight camera shots. The ring of a psychopath. Heston meets DeFore’s wife, Viveca Lindfors, and they nearly become an item. But the only thing Heston wants is the identity of her disturbed brother-in-law. Heston gets a dealer’s job in Vegas to elude death and be the decoy detective Jagger can follow. Heston and Scott do not board a studio prop plane but remain in Vegas under assumed happiness.

The item of note is the huge contrast between the acting of Jagger and Heston. Jagger’s whole face is animated with vocals that rise and fall with emotion. He is genuine and believable. Heston, on the other hand, is able to move his mouth. An acting style better suited for some future heroic projects. Heston seems to have been asked to overdub his dialogue at times, being louder and clearer than a co-star, even though he is turned away from the camera. A common practice I am sure.

Note: Studio musician, Trudy Stevens, had her work cut out for her dubbing Scott’s three and a half songs. Unless you enjoy seeing Scott or hearing the chosen songs, you should skip right through these. Her introductory scene and first rehearsal are all that are needed to establish her character. If the lyrics pertained to the plot or another character, this could almost qualify as a musical. But who would watch a musical starring Charlton Heston?

MACHINE GUN KELLY (1958)

This eighty-minute Roger Corman production masks any low-budget thoughts as the money has been spent wisely. It is an entertaining tale of gangsters in the early Thirties. The non-stop opening and period background score gets the viewer anticipating what comes next after a slickly planned getaway with a loot hand-off and the usual car swapping. Charles Bronson, in his first film lead, plays the title character who has a death fear rather than a death wish, as if promoting his future movies. Even Bronson tells co-star Susan Cabot, “The fear comes over me...like a cold sweat,” his 1970 movie. Though no one in the cast would be considered Oscar-worthy, Bronson is competent early in his career. Everyone is living up to their salary, including Morey Amsterdam, who probably did not affect the budget that much. Transport yourself to 1958 and that perspective will allow you to watch this movie for its entertainment value. Of which, there is plenty.

Smirking Cabot, perhaps never looking better than in this role, has been the gangster’s “personal agent” from day one and her condescending attitude keeps Bronson under her thumb. All the while smiling as if she is invincible. Her attitude in this movie has become the standard for many criminals or sickos in today’s movies. That evil is a pleasure. In that regard, like it or not, Corman may have broken new ground. On a personal level, I found Cabot’s annoying, bright and pronounced esses irritating. A split-second steel-on-steel sound that sometimes arises from acting out a female character you are not supposed to like. Enunciating, rather than slurring the words, will usually help this affliction. Perhaps the best/worst example of this was Sally Kellerman’s typical delivery. Yet I digress. Equally annoying is her mom, played by Connie Gilchrist. Ma is proud of her criminal daughter and thinks she could do a lot better than Bronson. She belittles him at every opportunity, turning him into the Rodney Dangerfield of gangsters. Gilchrist not only runs her mouth but also a house full of “ladies” for financial support.

Morey Amsterdam, the gang’s lighthearted weasel/stool pigeon, returns with the loot from the film’s opening heist but several thousand are missing. He tries to laugh it off then denies he took any for himself. He lied. Bronson is none too happy. He later plots a meeting with him to talk about another job. Corman throws in an odd premise concerning one of the gang members, Frank DeKova, who was a big game hunter before one arm was mangled by a natural habitat African. He now keeps a mountain lion behind his gas station in a cage. It is DeKova’s place where they meet. Bronson stalls the conversation before pushing Amsterdam against the cage and, somehow, the weasel loses an arm to the lion. I doubt any moviegoer saw that coming. Nor found it believable. In what seems like a short time, Amsterdam is back in the business. All smiles and several pounds lighter.

After a botched robbery, because Bronson freezes up when he spots a casket being delivered across his path, he decides to go bigger. Lacking little logic, he takes up kidnapping. "Ma Gilchrist" will finally give him some respect. He and Cabot abduct an executive’s daughter and her nurse, played by Barboura Morris. Richard Devon completes the kidnapping trio as a sleazeball who cannot help but make a pass at the young nurse. Devon, as “Apple,” is at odds with Bronson. Devon challenges Bronson at gunpoint during a heated exchange. Bronson, in his trademark, clinched teeth and monotone phrasing, his machine gun pointed at him, explains, “Go ahead Apple. And I will peel and core you.” Hey! That is some tough talk. Like a "family outing," Cabot’s parents show up at the hideout with food and encouragement. Suddenly Gilchrist does a complete 180, being so kindhearted and gentle toward the little girl, fawning over her. Perhaps Corman wanted to illustrate that over half the people in this movie have serious personal issues.

In an amusing sequence, the police bring the Amsterdam weasel in for questioning. After he leaves the squad room, two officers lose him because “he snuck into the lady's room.” Their diligence casts a cloud over their upcoming promotions. But the weasel, seeking revenge, gives a tip on Bronson’s location via an “anonymous” phone call, which the police immediately recognize as Amsterdam. The gang goes berserk when Amsterdam arrives and I imagine most moviegoers noted that anyone on screen at this point may not make it to the end. DeKova demonstrates his mental problems which, up until this point, outside of the lion behind his gas station, there were no suggestions of his illness. Giving some final Rodney Dangerfield zingers, the police arrive, taunting and belittling Bronson before hauling him off to prison.

Note: In the real 1933, Kelly's arrest was overshadowed by a famous breakout of John Dillinger and his future gang on the same day. But Hollywood has never been too concerned about facts. They like to blur them, though. Their business is entertainment at any cost. The truth has been warped here but an Internet search might square things. It is understandable they would make Bronson a tough guy, even though the real Kelly was not as tough as his wife led people to believe. In this film, "Machine Gun" is not married.