TRAIN TO ALCATRAZ (1948)

Republic Pictures offers up a rather typical crime story in the fact that you can expect a shootout with people getting at least injured, if not killed, in the process. What is not typical is that it takes place entirely on a train transferring criminals to Alcatraz. They are all under guard, in leg irons, and in a separate coach. The plan to break out from the train is masterminded by the worst of the lot, Don Barry. There are no lapses in the script. It is a slow-burn film and worth a ticket.

William Phipps is the other central character. He is studied at the train depot by a young woman. She is surprised to see him handcuffed to a detective because he does not fit her idea of a criminal. He looked guilty to me. They make eye contact and board the same train. As he is led through the prison coach, one officer gives a brief bio of the dozen, sounding like a tour guide at a museum. It reminded me of an early thirties drama when everything had to be explained to the viewers. The scene is a bit tedious but it does have an effect on Phipps if not the audience. He recognizes the last man as the one who framed him for murder, Milburn Stone. Barry’s planned escape is aided by Stone’s girl in the passenger coach. She manages to get the key that will unlock their leg irons.

Barry is ruthless even by current standards. During the standoff with the guards, he holds one hostage, threatening to kill him if the sheriff does not stop the train ten miles ahead. The sheriff refuses to compromise and Barry keeps his word. Upping the ante, he vows to kill another in the next ten miles. Stone’s girl, with unknowingly perfect timing, pulls a derringer on the conductor and commands him to stop the train. His pull of the emergency brake throws everyone about and Barry makes a run for it, getting “spiked” about five ties down the tracks by two sharp-shooting hunters on board, anxious to hone their accuracy. In the meantime, the murderer is identified, apprehended, and confessed. Phipps flashes his only smile in the film as he reunites with the girl who believed in him.

Note: At just two ticks over an hour, this is a fairly gritty crime drama despite an old premise. When Barry slaps Stone hard across the face it looks and sounds authentic. Perhaps was. And the cold-blooded murder of the guard is startling, though we only hear the gunshot. There are a couple of unintentionally funny moments as two convicts are shot, both letting out loud falsetto screams. Then there is Iron Eyes Cody, letting out war whoops as he starts the fight that initiates the escape. Old habits are hard to break, I guess.

THE MAN IN THE VAULT (1956)

This easily forgotten RKO drama stars William Campbell as an expert but lowly locksmith named Tommy Dancer. Would you trust a locksmith with that underworld name? One cannot judge a book by its cover, but in Campbell’s case, I make an exception. Actually, Campbell comes off well in this one with help from other experienced actors. Anita Ekberg not one of them. Adding authenticity is some location filming, like at Art Linkletter’s La Cienega Lanes bowling alley. Perhaps the only time it was featured in a movie. 

Cute Karen Sharpe, with incredibly bouncy hair, is at the party because she gets want she wants in that crowd. I think that is her occupation. She is spurned by her on-and-off boyfriend/lawyer, played by a Chuck Woolery look-a-like. Pouting, she exits the party. Cocky Campbell has had enough of feeling out of place and also leaves, walking past Sharpe. She offers him a lift in her car but neither seems to have a destination. She asks him if he drives. I guess wondering if he might not have any experience with an automatic transmission or that big round ring on the left side of the dash.

Barry Kroeger, a smirking small-time hoodlum, gets his leg man, Paul Fix, to locate a good locksmith. Kroeger then pressures Campbell to break into a safe deposit box rented by a big-time mobster, James Seay, and make a duplicate key. But Fix double-crosses Kroeger and suggests Campbell take the 200k himself. Temptation is acted upon and Campbell stores the money at the bowling alley for a striking finale.

Fix, after killing Kroeger with an Oldsmobile, goes after the money with Campbell only armed with a bowling pin. Funny? He throws it through a window and sets off the burglar alarm. Smart. Paul is in a fix by then and is quickly apprehended. Campbell’s running is unintentionally comical with arms quickly swinging back and forth, left to right. I burst out laughing. Meanwhile, mob boss Seay is charged with murder and Campbell reunites with Sharpe, the dominant driver. Campbell will have some explaining to do at police headquarters.

Note: The excruciating song, “Let The Chips Fall Where They May” is sung by Vivianne Lloyd in her singing/acting debut and career closer. Why any song was planned for this film is a mystery...like Lloyd’s career. Kroeger throws a party at his home and requests she sing his favorite song. She makes her rounds in the small living room, slinking around chairs and a couch, giving a performance better suited for a nightclub setting. Her high-register crescendos are not very romantic as she blasts Campbell’s eyebrows back, angling them even more, from inches away. It is the most awkward and funny moment in the film. She sings well enough, but the 1950s-era lip-sync is off, coupled with her put-on expressions, made me vault to the kitchen.

THE BIG BLUFF (1955)

The big bluff is John Bromfield, looking dashingly untrustworthy with his rare pencil mustache and nearing the high point of his career. He loves a nightclub entertainer. They are both being pursued by her estranged husband. Untrustworthy is exactly how he sees Bromfield. Thankful that this is only seventy minutes, it is still an intriguing, if implausible, noir. The last ten minutes are the reason to see the film through with a slick double-twist. The film was produced by Planet Filmplays and distributed by United Artists. One word of caution, it is directed by W. Lee Wilder, the less-talented brother of Billy. On the brighter side, Fred Freiberger wrote the screenplay and cinematography by Gordon Avil. Freiberger gained notice about a decade later as a writer or producer for several popular television series.

The black and white film opens at the bedside of a rich widow, played by Martha Vickers, terminally ill with a heart condition. Her secretary and doctor think it best not to tell her, feeling a positive outlook would be best for her. The doctor also suggests a move to a more remote part of Los Angeles for peace and quiet. The views from her window are spectacular if the smog ever clears. Robert Hutton gives a rather comatose performance as the doctor.

While dining out the secretary meets Bromfield who learns about Vickers and her health, aka wealth. He wines and dines the rich widow, then marries. He does his best to wear her down with late-night parties and physical activity. But to his disappointment, all this exercise improves her health. Diabolically, the financially restrained con man speeds up the process by replacing her medication with sodium bicarbonate in a second pill container. The real medicine is his backup to his vow, "I'll take care of her" (for as long as he can stand it). Vickers is annoying, acting like a schoolgirl, constantly gushing over Bromfield, unable to see through his over-the-top behavior. But her secretary has no doubts after noticing two identical pillboxes. The doctor, along with a detective, tests the pills and confirms something is truly wrong with Bromfield. 

Bromfield suddenly becomes nasty to his wife, ranting and raving. It is simply a cover to storm off and arrange a future with his girlfriend, and then return to confess his intimate indiscretions. He puts the "sin" in sincerity. With some carefully planted evidence, the fix is in. And there is that estranged husband.

LOST, LONELY AND VICIOUS (1958)

Starting out as a pseudo-documentary, the narration by an authoritarian figure informs us that life can be troubling for young Hollywood thespians. He makes it a point to mention these are only actors portraying real people. These “actors” are a cast of wannabes who truly qualify as ordinary people because they lack acting ability. Each hoping for their own break in show business. This film is not going to help. Unlike the poster's promotion, they are not "the brightest stars of tomorrow." The main focus of this thin-budgeted film concerns confused youth with Rebel Without a Cause, fresh in Hollywood’s memory. Their dialogue is perfectly memorized, each ready for that one word, “Action!”

Ken Clayton plays the financially spoiled and troubled main character. His very first casting role becomes an overnight success indicating his fellow actors and actresses only have dreams of talent. They regularly meet around one area microphone for that realistic soda shop sound. One, a lumpy guy with a plaid driver’s cap, always standing around eating popcorn and staring. If that is not funny enough, old “Toots” fakes playing the Harmonetta with a bouncy rhythm unrelated to the tune that is playing. Yes. These teens are confused.

Decent location filming is used for a car chase, of sorts. Despite the phony automobile sound effects, it is the only “real” element in the film. But the rising star seems fixated on death, alternating between violence and kindness. Bipolar. He angers a jealous actor with his T-Bird convertible, trying to make him crash on a highway. He nearly hits a girl crossing the street and the script brings them together later in the library. After reconsidering that she might have been crippled for life, she makes googly eyes at this rich, cute guy. She becomes interested in his odd thinking and helps him consider other things besides death—like driving lessons. They even share two Cokes to seal their friendship.

His drama coach and life guide is the notable French actress, Lilyan Chauvin, who seeks counsel from a mental health expert, asking why this talented boy is consumed with death. Could be this picture. In another amateur scene, she tries to break through to him, hoping he will appreciate the talent he has to offer. They have a very close relationship but they never share a Coke. Their long conversations are excruciating to sit through which explains my own thoughts about death.

One dark and stormy night. Okay. It was not stormy. He drives his T-Bird at high speed seemingly ready to meet his Maker. In his possession is his self-portrait painting. He stops at the lake where he first fell in love with the library girl and realizes his life does have a future. His real intention was to toss the painting into the lake and symbolically drown his past. One look at his painting talent indicates it was a good plan. The film ends with some final wisdom from the adult narrator.  

Note: With a budget that would raise no eyebrows and a high school-level interior set, this HOWCO International production would have been more appropriately produced by HOWCOME International. As for the girl in the negligee featured in the above poster, she is not in this film.

CRY VENGEANCE (1954)

Few films of any era are centered in Ketchikan, Alaska. There is not much noir with the location, one reason the film just does not excite. There are no night scenes and barely a shadow cast, except on the poster. By the mid-fifties film noir was getting stale, often using recycled scripts. This film is a good example.

Mark Stevens stars and directs this familiar story about a vengeful San Francisco ex-cop who loses his wife and daughter in a bomb explosion. Being framed for the deaths and spending three years in prison makes him self-obsessed. His face is disfigured in one of the most startling and poorly executed Hollywood make-up jobs, perhaps better executed by any high school drama production. No, that is not an alien leach on his jaw. I would see a cancer specialist. Right away.

The film also stars Douglas Kennedy, the hoodlum on Steven’s revenge list who he believes is responsible for destroying his life. Kennedy is assuming a new life with his young daughter. When they meet, Kennedy tries to reason with him but Stevens goes a bit psychotic talking about how Kennedy is going to suffer.

Adding a bit of scenery to the gray landscape is Frontier Tavern owner, Martha Hyer, the calm and level-headed equalizer for the disturbed Stevens. In one interior scene, she wears an out-of-place spaghetti-strapped cocktail dress while on duty in the rustic, wooden tavern. Ahh...summer in Ketchikan. She and Kennedy are close but she becomes more attracted to Stevens and soon understands why he is in Alaska.

But the showstopper is the unhinged hitman, Skip Homeier, and his bleached white hair, black, thick-rimmed glasses, and bow tie. Pee-Wee Herman’s evil brother. Three minutes into the film he makes a bad impression on Stevens and the audience. His smart-aleck, condescending tone deserves a fist in the face. Pretty visually funny when he slowly pops up in the backseat of Kennedy’s studio prop car. For his amusement, Homeier "skips" a stone across a lake after killing Kennedy in cold blood.

The dialogue is mundane, and lacks snap, except for one brief scene when Joan Vohs, Homeier’s "lush-friend," shows up at the tavern to warn Stevens. She asks the bartender for a drink unfamiliar to Alaskans. A screwdriver. Puzzled, the bartender asks, “Somethin’ loose?” She replies, “Comedy, yet...you drink it, Hyrum!” "The name’s Rusty." "So’s your sense of humor." She eventually returns to Homeier’s room. Sick of seeing her drunk again, his remedy is for her to take one bullet and not see him in the morning.

Knowing nothing of Kennedy’s demise, Stevens’ plan to kidnap his daughter as payback quickly disintegrates. With child-like acceptance, she is glad to see him again and kisses him on the leach side of his face. She asks Stevens to return the kiss like her daddy does. This nearly crushes him. A rather touching and pivotal scene of surrender.

After a slow, mountain car chase, more dusty than exciting, Stevens finally catches Homeier, his real target, on top of a dam. Homeier oddly points his gun down, and to the right, getting off two shots. Nearly hitting the dam. Some hitman! Stevens’ directing took a more direct hit. Stevens’ aim is truer and Homeier stumbles. Cleared of any wrongdoing, morose Stevens returns to San Francisco but leaves the viewer open to the possibility he might return someday (yawn) to start a new family with Hyer and Kennedy’s little girl.

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.