ABANDONED (1949)

When I began my selected movie reviews in 2015, I never imagined I would comment on eight films starring the same actor. A record. Dennis O'Keefe had an authentic acting style and a knack for delivering charm and witty quips like few others. Using a few pseudonyms, he was also an under-the-radar screenwriter. From my perspective, O'Keefe hits all the right buttons in my B-movie world.

Distributed by Universal Pictures, this seventy-nine-minute film is a police versus crime melodrama like many others. But the subject matter sets this film apart. William Daniels' cinematography raises the bar, as does Joseph Newman's rapid pace directing. As per the era, camera filters transform daylight into nighttime. The film stars Dennis O'Keefe, Gale Storm and Jeff Chandler. O'Keefe appears to extend his character from the film Cover Up, of the same year, with his oft-used charming, witty characters. I would have liked more of a balance between this and his previous T-Men role. One of my earliest posts. Storm restrains her typical bubbly light performances, while Chandler's periodic appearance as a no-nonsense police chief fits him. He also provides opening and periodic voice-over narration for a pseudo-documentary style as if ripped from actual cases. 

Storm inquires about her lost sister at the missing person's bureau at the city hall. Happening upon the scene is crack news reporter, O'Keefe, who overhears the conversation and charmingly offers his services to help her locate her sister, sensing a headline story or maybe hoping for a date. William Bowers' snappy dialogue has several characters delivering witty quips, but none more often or naturally than O'Keefe. He and Storm team up—after a fashion—and he is compelled to test some witty quips out on her. Expect an eventual "get to know each other" moment with small talk as they stake out a residence inside his sedan. Oh yeah...they like each other. 

Someone is tracking them and it sets up another set of clever dialogue. Raymond Burr is yanked from behind and the reporter lifts a revolver from Burr's coat and sarcastically states, "I know. You couldn't sleep so you just decided to take your gun out for a walk." The private eye's client has him also trying to find the sister's whereabouts. The three head for the city morgue and discover the sister is no longer missing, an assumed suicide victim. The sister's out-of-wedlock baby establishes the controversial crux of the film, a baby black market of illegal adoptions. Burr's client is society matron, Marjorie Rambeau, the despicable ring leader of a criminal crew, led by the menacing Will Kuluva. 

Under assumed names as a married couple, O'Keefe and Storm arrange the adoption of her niece with the two-faced Rambeau—suddenly all sweetness. She spends her off-hours distributing Bibles as cover for her operation. The anticipation of leaving the racket and a large payoff, Burr intercepts the transfer and Storm is given the baby and instructed to wait at the house until further notice. Burr is now up to his neck in Kuluva. Not being a very stealthy private detective, he is apprehended by the gangster and undergoes matchbook armpit torture to extract facts. A first (and last?) in film torture to my knowledge. Burr quickly becomes useless to Rambeau. With a knock at the room's door, Storm just opens it without asking who it is, assuming it is O'Keefe. Thus begins the climax, the only tense action in the film, with an implausible car crash and Universal International's gunshot sound effects. Narration closes the story with, "...This did happen in the city which may be your home."

Note: Some who discover this film more recently tend to be cynical about the production, impatiently finding it boring. Interestingly, the reviews closer to the release date are generally more favorable. Though mid-century film aspects are dated today, the acting and character development can stand the test of time. One should understand the historical era to give a fair assessment. 

THE RESTLESS BREED (1957)

This is the final Western from director Allan Dwan, known for many "oaters." It is also my first Western added to this blog after a decade considering a pre-1960 Western that is not typical fare. My "first draw" to this particular Western was Scott Brady. With a long career as a famous leading and supporting player, he can usually elevate B-movies. Unlike most Westerns of the era, the film opens oddly (uniquely?) with a black background behind a glowing red modern font of credits accompanied by a contemporary music score by Edward L. Alperson Jr. The result creates an impression more attuned to a low-budget horror film by William Castle. The opening music somewhat foretells Brady's own television Western, Shotgun Slade, with its atypical jazz score. 

The Restless Breed is distributed by 20th Century Fox. The Pathécolor tinting is of questionable quality in a film that utilizes bluish (night) studio sets along with location filming. Set in 1865, the story is written by Steve Fisher. Joining Brady as main cast members are Anne Bancroft and Rhys Williams. Many will note a few familiar B-movie character actors. Fine performances all around. Be prepared for some unnecessary and disruptive two-second edits that return the viewer to another location during a break in the conversation. There is an overabundance of character eavesdropping, too, but it is not intended to be humorous.

A lawyer with a temper, Brady opens the film as it confirms his father, a Secret Service Agent, has been murdered. The incident is told in a brief flashback that has true spoiler-alert credentials. He accepts his father's revolver but not the badge. Bent on revenge, he goes to the town where the murder took place, a Texas-Mexico border town overrun by the typical gang of outlaws. After a self-defensive shooting of two town bullies, everyone thinks he is their latest gunslinger.

There appears to be a significant role for Scott Marlowe, yet he is irrelevant until near the movie's end. The young Marlowe pops up throughout the film, lurking nervously against storefront posts, in alleys, or peeping through a broken section of a saloon window. His every appearance proves he does not have the nerve to shoot down Brady. This eavesdropper reports to Leo Gordon, one of the gun-runners, whose boss is Jim Davis.

Williams is quite the eavesdropper, himself. These "advanced notifications" make him wise beyond his understanding. He is perceived as the only sensible factor in town, benefiting from dressing in black like a minister. When pressed by Brady, however, he admits to the impersonation. Only his word should be taken as gospel. The tunnel-visioned Williams deems his good intentions are best for the whole town. His soft-spoken demeanor always wins out. It is hard to argue with a man who initiated a children's shelter for unwanted half-breeds. The oldest being Bancroft. Williams becomes much more "hard-spoken" when she becomes enamored with Brady. Always ready to make demands, she must stay away from that no-good gunslinging [though handsome] criminal.

All the town's previous sheriffs have been murdered soon after taking office. Brady himself survives numerous assassination attempts, but the gang's numbers only dwindle. Beware of a hot-headed lawyer with a gun. Williams finally gets the facts straight about Brady and nearly apologizes. The murderer arrives back in town with a few of his henchmen. We learn of Marlowe's small part in the murder, then he disappears from the film. We can only assume he still lurks in the next town. Everyone supposed to be dead is now dead, and Williams supports the Brady-Bancroft union.

Note: I could not pinpoint the restless breed. It could be Brady, out for revenge. The contraband gang is quite restless. Perhaps it is Bancroft, wanting to break out of a children's shelter. Perhaps it is all three or the town itself. It could be the four producers of the film.

THE INSIDE STORY (1948)

This eighty-seven-minute comedy opens with text about a small town's Uncle Ed, played by Charles Winninger, who suggests every town has one—a lovable but absent-minded inn clerk possessed by “knock-knock” jokes. He has a habit of wearing his eyeglasses on the top of his head, and his poor eyesight is also a poor reminder of where he left them. The opening has Winninger entering a bank to access government bonds in his safe-deposit box. A friend arrives in the vault. Both men have different views about hoarding or spending money. Winninger tries to persuade him to invest in government bonds and circulate his money. Though set in 1948, the balance of the film flashes back to 1933 in the midst of the Great Depression as Winninger recalls the "inside story" of one confusing day due to his error in handling a thousand dollars. The script stumbles at a couple of points, but overall a delightful little film.

The story is by Ernest Lehman and Geza Herczeg, and the snappy screenplay is by the team of Mary Loos and Richard Sale. Directed and produced by Allan Dwan, the film was distributed by Republic Pictures. The score was written by Nathan Scott, father of the legendary producer, composer, and saxophonist, Tom Scott. The Depression-era story addresses President Roosevelt's declaration of an eight-day "bank holiday" (closings) with the Emergency Banking Act of 1933 to avoid customer withdrawals. In the case of this film, however, it involves the misplacement of a thousand dollars that changes its location.

William Lundigan plays a struggling artist (cliché intended). He is stressed about making a decent living to support his fiancée, Marsha Hunt. Both are hoping a painting of his sells for one thousand dollars, because nine hundred of it will go to her father, Gene "Bulldog" Lockhart, owner of a local inn. Lockhart loathes the artist's feast-or-famine career pursuit. It initiates his overstepping the bounds of character exaggeration. The frequency becomes a bit out of place in a film of subtle humor, more in keeping with a screwball comedy. Lundigan and Hunt made one of the most attractive on-screen couples in Hollywood with this film.

While attending to an insurance salesman, Roscoe Karns, Winninger mindlessly puts his thousand dollars in the wrong envelope—addressed to Lundigan—into the safe. The insurance money is meant for a local farmer, Tom Fadden, when he arrives. Karns does his typical rapid-fire delivery as a wisecracking womaniser with a trademark, wide-eyed double-take after a verbal smackdown. Into the mix are two bootleggers, an expert safecracker, Allen Jenkins, and his low-IQ partner, William Haad. They provide some periodic laughs in the film. Karns panicks at the very sight of them. Lockhart later finds the money in the safe and mistakenly thinks it was payment for Lundigan's painting. Suddenly, Lundigan is his favorite son-in-law. He uses the cash to help pay off his debt to local merchant, Will Wright, who, in turn, pays what he owes the building's owner, the take-charge, life-long resident, Florence Bates. Her impact on the characters and film nearly suggests she is the actual star of the film. 

Winninger wonders how to rectify the shortage. He hopes Jenkins will be tempted to open the safe after being asked to protect it in his absence. Though it makes little sense, this would explain to the police how the money "disappeared." Jenkins easily opens the safe, but refuses to look inside after vowing to protect the money. Winninger knows the money is not there, so it would boil down to his word against a bootlegger's. Without any evidence, Jenkins stole nothing.

Another script fumble, is handsome Robert Shayne's over-the-top extreme for his inability to provide a living for his wife, Gail Patrick. In an angry tirade, he storms off to his office. Being a lawyer, a revolver rests in his top desk drawer. Just in case. Enter Bates, who prevents (postpones?) his potential suicide by giving the grand to him. In a bi-polar reversal, Shayne is instantly beside himself with joy. Patrick then uses the money to pay Lundigan for the portrait she's gifting her husband. So Karn's money goes full circle, passing between six people and back to Karns. Perfect timing for him to pay farmer Fadden, who enters before the film's end. What are the odds?

ARSON, INC. (1949)

The American production company, Lippert Pictures, had a talent for underwriting low-budget action films that were generally easy to like: they were short, had bits of humor, and typically had an exciting climax. Directed by William Berke and produced by William Stephens from a story by Arthur Caesar, everything is in order for this film about tracking down an arsonist by an undercover fireman, not a police detective. This may seem like old serial episodes edited into a sixty-three-minute film noir. It is not. One might discover this film under the alternate titles, Firebug Squad or Three Alarm Fire.

The film's opening credits are supported by an upstanding military march theme followed by a voice-over that spells out the film's premise. The narrator plays the Deputy Chief of the Los Angeles Fire Department, who smoothly transitions his speech to welcome handsome Robert Lowery (below center) into his office. Chosen because of his special interest and knack for solving "crimes of fire." He is given full rein to find the missing briefcase of evidence from a fellow investigator, deliberately killed during his own arson investigation. Lowery must expose who is behind the killing and the suspicious warehouse fires of recent years.

Perennially slimy bad guy, Doug Fowley (above right), is the insurance claims adjuster whose payouts for property loss in fires seem legitimate. The smug agent delivers his lines—initially in extreme close-ups—as tight-lipped as someone whose jaws are wired shut following reconstructive surgery. On the take is Hollywood's well-known nervous weasel, Byron Foulger, needing money to cover past debts. Fowley tells him to torch his wife's mink coat—something Foulger has probably thought about for years—to be awarded the needed cash. The spineless husband senses he may get burned after Lowery's initial questioning.

With a never-ending supply of matches, the usually harmless comedic actor, Ed Brophy (above left), often delivers reactionary lines in other films as a poor man's Curly of The Three Stooges fame. As Fowley's (fire) man, he is instructed to keep tabs on Lowery. The investigator goes deep cover as a disgruntled firefighter to gain the confidence of Brophy, the latter vouching for him to his boss. Now, good pals, they frequent a bookie's backroom hideout. During a raid, the two are arrested. The following day, a phony newspaper headline indicates Lowery lost his job as a firefighter. Brophy is encouraged that Lowery is a rat just like himself. The duo works with Fowley on his next fire sale.

There are three female costars in this film: Anne Gwynne plays a school teacher and part-time babysitter for Foulger's young son. Lowery is instantly aflame for her upon their first meeting. She initially puts his fire out, but it does not take long to figure out their budding relationship. Gwynne even plays along as part of his undercover work. Brophy sets off a warehouse fire, but cannot resist having Lowery drive him back to see the huge flames. But Lowery tipped off an undercover cop, who was nearby, to put out the potential blaze. This is disappointing to Brophy, and very suspicious to Fowley.

The second female is Marcia Mae Jones (above, lower right), Fowley's secretary, with facial features appearing to be a composite of three females, all put together at odd angles. With too much to drink while dining with Brophy, Lowery, and Gwynne, she lets it slip about the next warehouse fire of mink stoles. Turns out it is Fowley's plan to see if Lowery shows up. No minks are going up in flames with a flummoxed Lowery trying to explain it to the fire captain. Bullets whiz by Lowery as he and Gwynne take cover in the warehouse. The seething Brophy sets off another fire to flesh them out for a clear shot.

Note: The briefly seen third female costar is Maude Eburne as "Grandma," also an occasional babysitter for Foulger. Her elderly face is on the opposite end of the spectrum from Gwynne. As is often the case in a Lippert production, levity plays its part. She and Lowery accidentally bump into each other early in the film—she,  completely in his arms. It becomes the amorous highlight of her day. Eburen wrapped up her thirty-three-year career one picture and two years later.

Mismatched Couples Blogathon

TELEVISION HISTORY 101

Decidedly unknown today, even in America, Yancy Derringer (1958-59) was categorized as a Western but set in New Orleans—a Southern Western if you will, broadcast on the USA's CBS network. It was an era of gimmick Westerns to remove the stigma of the traditional Westerns in the likes of Cheyenne, Gunsmoke, or Wagon Train. The trend was The Rifleman, Wanted: Dead or Alive, Have Gun—Will Travel or Bat Masterson. Each weekly hero carried unique defensive weapons. One Western lead had shiny discs around his hatband that blinded his opponent in a gunfight given his precise positioning against the sun. There was also a short-lived series of a one-armed bounty hunter—his prosthetic arm covered in black leather and supported by a sling. And there was the Derringer series. The title character owned a river boat, a lavish homestead, was an expert card sharp, and had a most apt name for the character: he concealed four-barrel Sharp derringers, one up his sleeve, another in his vest, and a third under his hat. Oh, and he sometimes carried a cane that concealed a sword. Just in case.
Yancy Derringer undoubtedly had the largest gimmick: a Pawnee Indian sidekick. At first glance, he appeared to be the cliché cigar store Indian seen in many ancient Western films or television episodes. His face remained emotionless, and he hardly ever bent at the waist except to sit. Pahoo Ka Ta Wah never spoke and rarely broke a stare. The duo communicated only by sign language.

On the other hand, Derringer was a fancy-dressed dude. Always cool, fluid, collected, and the ever-gallant gentleman to the ladies. He looked every bit that next to the wooden Pahoo in authentic Indian dress. In this contrast, few characters appeared more disparate than these two. Far from it. Acknowledged blood brothers, Pahoo always had Yancy's back with a knife sheathed behind his right shoulder and a buckshot-spitting shotgun concealed under his Native blanket. However mismatched they appeared, they were a tightly synchronized duo on the set because both began their careers as stuntmen.

Derringer is played by Jock Mahoney while Pahoo is played by Jay X Brands X Brands. Mahoney is considered the most original and best stuntman working in Hollywood in the Forties and Fifties with an athletic ability that stunned his contemporaries in the business. His earlier Western series, Range Rider, showcased many of his outstanding abilities. As stuntmen, they were consistently developing new stunts for the Derringer series. One of the more common was passing Pahoo's knife back and forth—a deceivingly simple toss backward—without looking. By the way, it was Mahoney's suggestion that Brands not say a word during his audition for the part. Pahoo became a defining character of the series.

Notes: With its blend of drama, action and humor, the series was destined for a second season but the CBS network, now realizing they had a hit on their hands, wanted a significant interest in the series and wanted Desilu Productions out of the mix. Neither Mahoney nor the creators would agree to this and the network canceled the series.

A special thank you to Realweegiemidget Reviews for hosting the Mismatched Couples Blogathon.

SHAKEDOWN (1950)

Howard Duff plays an over-confident, womanizing con man with a camera who despises the low income of society, of which he is currently a part. The opening beating he takes sets the tone for his well-known lack of character. Among other things, the love of money is the root of all evil, and he will use anyone as a stepping stone for financial gain. A newspaper photo editor, Peggy Dow, falls for Duff's smooth, charming manner and ambition, then vouches for him to the editor-in-chief, Bruce Bennett. With a nose for news, honesty, and integrity, he does not like Duff from the outset—something rotten is developing. Nevertheless, due to her persistence, he is hired. In time, his uncanny ability to be in the exact spot to capture a newsworthy happening suspiciously lacks authenticity. Like the time Duff happens upon an apartment fire and spots a lady breaking a third-story window for escape. He tells her to pause,  then yells, "Now jump." Click! I assume there were firemen to catch her. Not an issue for Duff.

Duff surviving until the end of this film seems highly unlikely. His cocky, yet naïveté get him involved with organized crime. He is well paid for his darkroom skills, going to work for a racketeer, Brian Donlevy, who provides him with inside information about a rival's activity. Duff just "happens" to be in downtown San Francisco to capture Lawrence Tierney during the bank robbery. Duff later approaches Tierney to offer him a deal—he will keep the negative in safekeeping for a substantial fee. If that is not enough, he later hides in a parking garage to capture him in the act of installing an after-market accessory to Donlevy's limo: a bomb. The unscrupulous shutterbug now has the blackmail image of his dreams. Duff is free to swoop in for Donlevy's widow, Anne Vernon.

During the rapid climax at a high society formal event, Duff's true colors are revealed to Vernon, and Tierney suggests that he was responsible for her husband's death. But those negatives, hidden within a picture frame at Dow's apartment, will prove otherwise. Duff's frantic call proves fruitless. She is fed up with his fabrications and hangs up on him. Duff is a marked man. After being shot three times, he still manages to squeeze the shutter release cable hanging from his tripod to photograph Tierney firing the fatal bullet.

Duff lived for a “shot” at immortality. His photographic evidence brings the mobsters to justice. Yet the newspaper staff knew he was a "skunk of the first odor" all along.

Note: The eighty-minute film was released by Universal Pictures and directed by Joseph Pevney. It is a better-than-average B-movie noir. Fine performances all around. The powerful scores are from a stock library by several well-known composers. Duff effortlessly delivers numerous sarcastic, witty quips throughout—like a guy who memorized the excellent screenplay by Martin Goldsmith and Alfred Lewis Levitt. Ignore the poster. At no time did Donlevy attempt to punch out Duff. The viewers, on the other hand....

There is at least one gullible moment in the film. Duff desperately wants that image few could capture. As a taxi fare, he notices the car in front is weaving left and right and thinks it might lead to something. The erratic car does plunge into shallow water, balanced precariously on its side—the driver in a panic. Rather than help the driver, Duff tells him to stick his head out the side window and then stretch out his arms in a show of desperation. Why the driver would comply with these commands is difficult to fathom. 

FALLGUY (1962)

This one-off, sixty-four-minute, independently produced, crime drama is probably the most forgotten theatrically-released film of the Sixties. It opens in a highly interpretive manner as we watch a pair of slacks and a briefcase enter a house. The producer should have hired a taller cameraman. The camera pans to show three female bimbos lounging around. Naturally, the obligatory saxophone intrudes as accompaniment. The pants pick up an overstuffed envelope. The film cuts to another house, where a guy comes down the stairs, followed by another female companion, and hands cash to the slacks—now with a hat. The scene cuts to the exterior of a downtown building, then abruptly to a minimalist office of a newspaper editor/mob boss. He smugly tells his two operatives, Louis Gartner, the pudgy police chief, and Don Alderette, the weasel-of-a-doctor in a bow tie, that the Indian is set to deliver his contract tonight. Crank up the 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, refusing to gawk at this film might be difficult. This is literally a dark film with hardly any location night lighting. Darkness eliminates a lot of potential reshoots. The following paragraphs highlight the myriad of awkward or funny elements, right to an 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 John (Johnny) 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 “inspirations” end up being the only classy elements of the film as the jazz score pops up throughout. The film's lack of creativity represents a good example of a wasted low budget. It had no chance of being noticed, with unknown actors indicating 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 in a drive-by shooting). The head laceration of the targeted 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, Alderette, working out of his white, plywood-paneled basement. Looks sterile enough. Recognizing the man, the doctor knows the Indian’s contract was unsuccessful. The injured driver collapses, and the doctor struggles with the gun, which goes off, killing the thug. The syndicate attempts to frame Dugan as the title character. The crooked police chief, Gartner, grills him under a single 65-watt bulb. The double-chinned chief is miffed that Dugan has not changed one word of his testimony. That would make total sense, actually.

Due to a freak collision while transporting Dugan, the twenty-one-year-old "teenager" escapes the squad car. As the chief attempts to chase him, Dugan slams the car 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 enept boss. Gartner suggests 'Chief Broken Head'—as he sarcastically calls him—go back in front of a cigar store. The only funny dialogue in the film.

The oddest scenes occur at the mob boss's home, played by G. J. Mitchell, aka George Andre, where he is constantly lounging and enjoying the finer things of a middle-class lifestyle. His delivery is noticeably better than the rest of the cast. His partners are talking syndicate business when an irrelevant and bizarre catfight breaks out between two ladies on the editor’s “payroll.” Andre cannot bear to watch, comically peeking between his fingers. The doctor complains that there are women all over the place when they come here. Ignoring the obvious distraction, the police 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 the music volume on his radio. Gartner yells at him, 'Will you shut that thing off and listen to me!' The boss obliges, clicking off the radio. Yet the "radio music" film score continues.

An embarrassed George Andre (Carl Ramin) during the catfight

One of the funnier sequences, however, has all three operatives again at the mob boss’s home, mostly arguing about how the Indian is a lousy shot or Gartner complaining about Alderette fretting over his daughter’s well-being, constantly phoning her in near panic. Amid all the petty squabbling, there sits Andre in his recliner, preparing to shave. Now he decides to shave?! Unique and totally uncalled for, suggesting a product placement. His shaver of choice is a portable, non-electric wind-up shaver from the era. In case of a shaving emergency during a blackout. In actuality, they were developed by NASA for their early space flights. He yanks on the tiny cord several times, making a high-pitched “zip-whirr” noise. 

Dugan somehow finds the doctor’s house, where he tries to convince his daughter that he is being framed. She is skeptical and assumes he will take advantage of her. Gartner arrives with Daddy and takes a potshot 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 tiptoeing down the basement's wooden steps. He fires one chamber of his shotgun at his two current hits. He then succumbs to simultaneous return fire, as his second chamber accidentally goes off...hitting Dugan’s knee. Whoops!

One Indian and two oafs down, Andre somehow remains an editor. Finally, the police figure out who and where he is. He makes a run for it—for some reason, now limping—as the police move in. He attempts to step into an out-of-service elevator and discovers the passenger cubicle is several floors below—narrowly escaping death. It is a genuine, 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 parentless daughter off to school via a TWA Boeing 707. She and Dugan part ways. There is a profile close-up of Dugan's head as the opening jazz theme cranks up. For a 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, typically found online with about three minutes omitted, was part of a triple-billing feature to help ease the embarrassment of buying a ticket for any one of them. The director and producer, Donn Harling, vanished after this, his one and only film. It is a debatable assumption, but he may be more to blame than the story and screenplay by Richard Adams and someone named George Mitchell. Most sources mistakenly use a photo of character actor George Mitchell (1905-1972) as mob boss Carl Ramin. He is not in this film and has zero credits as a screenwriter. Confusing stats indicate that George Andre, aka G. J. Mitchell—the “G” stands for George, apparently—are the same person. Outside this film, I found no images of the main cast online.