THE MAN ON THE EIFFEL TOWER (1950)

This American, eighty-seven-minute noir mystery released by RKO Radio Pictures was directed by Burgess Meredith. He also stars, along with two other high-caliber actors, Charles Laughton and Franchot Tone. The original director, Irving Allen, gladly departed after a barrage of tomatoes was thrown his direction, chief among them, Laughton. The film was somewhat of a team effort as it was co-produced by Tone and Allen. A minor but noticeable point, there are no French-speaking actors within a three-mile radius of the Eiffel Tower. Even a local newsboy speaks perfect English. The fine music score by Michel Michelet provides appropriate themes, especially the first ascent up the tower. Ansco Color's overall "burnt-sienna" murkiness certainly degrades the enjoyment of this complicated, suspenseful thriller with a disjointed story and jarring edits. Still, it would not be difficult to imagine that this film might have been a celluloid classic in more capable hands. In my astute assumptions, few will bother watching this film. Hench, a few spoilers below.

The story begins with a mousey Meredith, again wearing thick eyeglasses, a prop that may have made an impression on him. There is at least one other film role where he is cast with “coke-bottle” lenses, though his most noted role was as the bookworm in the television series, The Twilight Zone. Similar to that episode, his lenses get broken after stumbling, this time over a corpse in the dark. Out of the shadows appears a pair of slacks with shoes or feet wrapped in burlap. Perhaps this unexplained detail was to establish an abnormal individual. Let the speculations begin. He taunts Meredith with his commands, and the viewer is (literally) in the dark as to their connection or why Meredith is at this location. Leaving behind numerous fingerprints and a pair of broken spectacles, Meredith is arrested for the murder.

The manic-depressive, egocentric intellectual medical student wash-out, and Meredith's mystery man is Tone. A creepy sociopath responsible for the corpse, the wealthy aunt of the spineless Robert Hutton, who nervously paid to have it done. As a “favor” to tie up any loose ends, Tone also kills the aunt’s maid, hoping to pin both murders on the unsuspecting Meredith. Blackmailing Hutton for a chunk of the inheritance is also part of his scheme. In a subplot seemingly lifted from a separate movie, Hutton completes an infidelity trio with wife, Patricia Roc, and Jean Wallace. Roc is quite aware of her husband's affair with the latter, and the ladies exchange sarcastic barbs, like two sisters who do not get along. 

Mush-mouthed Laughton plays the pipe-smoking Jules Maigret, a fictional French police detective created by writer Georges Simenon. Laughton usually steals every scene with facial expressions and body language, sometimes humorously, as in the handwriting analysis scene regarding Tone’s notes. He does not believe in Meredith’s guilt, so he arranges his prison break to have him tailed. To Laughton’s ire, his men lose him after he jumps from a bridge into the river. I guess it never occurred to them to follow his slow swim along the river’s bank and wait for him to come ashore. Laughton methodically goes about his investigation while Tone taunts and mocks his progress. First in phone calls and messages, then in person, in the tower’s open-air restaurant. Dining together, we first witness Tone’s eccentricity with his diatribe against Laughton. The tower is his sanctuary and a metaphor for being above everyone else. He suggests to Laughton that, with his seeming lack of evidence, he will never be caught.

There are a few exciting moments in the film. The first has a young William Phipps chasing Tone on Parisian rooftops. The climactic tower scene also makes for good filmmaking, but suggesting Tone can climb preposterously fast in leather dress shoes on the angled grids of iron is beyond belief. The only thing more unbelievable is having the introverted, first-time tower climber, Meredith, rapidly chase him up the tower in retribution. The ending is not what you might expect after the killer ascends to the tower’s top platform. Laughton asks him to climb down. Yet knowing Tone’s self-imposed courage and importance, maybe just let him jump.

BENEATH THE 12-MILE REEF (1953)

20th Century Fox distributed this one-hundred-two-minute, big-budget film, the third motion picture made in CinemaScope. This fad was a stand-out element of the film. It alone may account for its box office success, though its two young co-stars probably contributed. The widescreen format enhances some nice underwater sequences by the film's cinematographer, Edward Cronjagerand, and his occasional sunset or sunrise near Tarpon Springs, Florida. But on terra firma, it is a routine romantic drama centered around family heritage amid ‘the most dangerous of all occupations, sponge diving.’ Not firefighters. Not police officers. Not bomb disposal personnel. Intertwined is an ethnic war between Greek culture and sponge pirates, the Conch fishermen. 

As the credits open, the composer of the film may stump you, but the music becomes unmistakably Bernard Herrmann. The harp played a role in a number of his scores, and it is used appropriately during some underwater sequences. There is one scene, however, where the score is nearly overkill as symbols crash and French horns soar as we watch two lowly fishing boats creep out into the gulf during a calm sunrise. But without a doubt, Herrmann’s score enhances the film.

Swashbuckling Gilbert Roland, with shirt unbuttoned forming a V, is in command of the film in its early going, making it more fun. His swagger and confidence are indelibly imprinted on his son, Robert Wagner, who, oddly, along with his on-screen sister, is the only Greek in the film without a hint of an accent. But Wagner’s curly studio permanent is pure family lineage. Completing the trio of spongers is the heavily accented J. Carrol Naish with some humorous lines.

The twenty-three-year-old Wagner catapulted to fame during these years and shared top billing with Roland and Terry Moore. There is little doubt that the two young stars have a destiny. One could rightfully assume they anchored off-screen as well. Moore had a ten-year advance on Wagner’s career, though only a year separated their births. Eventually, Wagner’s popularity overwhelmed Moore’s, but both were celebrities rather than acting powerhouses. Wagner does alright in this role, especially in the first half. They both pretend to be in their late teens, with Moore giggling a lot in the early going. Like a number of others in Hollywood, she seems aware that the cameras are rolling and works hard to make a screen impression after hearing the words, “Action!” from the director, Robert Webb. I am sure their equally young fans were not aware of these occasional shallow performances.

Richard Boone, looking vibrant and fit, plays Moore’s father and the “Conch Master” over his crew. They do not want any Greeks diving in “their waters.” After Roland gathered his day’s worth of sponges, Boone’s crew, on Peter Graves’ lead, intercepts and steals their take. Roland laughs off the theft, knowing he will get revenge on Boone. They come to an understanding. Graves is navigating to marry Moore, but becomes a squeaky third wheel beside the cocky Wagner. Graves is jealous of the young punk and gives him a beating as a warning shot over his brow.

On his final pre-scuba gear dive, Roland succumbs to a deadly case of the bends. Wagner confidently soldiers on. During another sponging, Roland’s family boat accidentally goes up in flames. Graves tries to put the fire out with no success. Angry Wagner then steals the Conch boat and, with the help of Moore, adapts it for more sponge baths...uh...diving. They are a bit giddy, like in an Andy Hardy film where Rooney and Garland pull together a neighborhood show as a fundraiser. On Wagner's first diving experience, he encounters a large octopus. Posters of the day over-emphasize this as the film's major element. It is a very believable, however, with Wagner surviving with only a couple of hickeys. 

The climactic ending brings sudden character turnabouts. Moving in on their stolen boat for another sponge robbery is the conch crew. Boone, previously level-headed and showing sympathy for Roland’s short script, now wants his daughter back, "stolen" by Wagner. Yet to everyone's surprise, including the audience, they have already gotten married. Somewhere. Once alongside, Graves jumps on board, going at it with Wagner again as they go overboard. A lot of splashing later, the young punk ends up saving Graves from drowning in a seaweed entanglement. Back on deck, Boone is hesitant to accept Wagner, but Graves reminds him that he just saved his life. Oh, yeah. To dissolve Boone's displeasure, Wagner confidently exudes, "Look who you got for a son-in-law. I'm a very beautiful young man!" The Greek-Conch hatred dissolves instantly into laughter and acceptance. Sponge Conch, LLC is formed.

Note: Harry Carey, Jr., a frequent co-star on Boone’s popular television western series, plays one of his sons here. Boone’s show, on more than one occasion, also featured two other characters from this film, Jay Novello and Jacques Aubuchon. The studio assigned the brief, uncredited opening narration to the unknown Roy Harold Scherer, Jr., aka Rock Hudson.

TRAPPED (1949)

This seventy-eight-minute film arose from a story written by George Zuckerman and Earl Felton. It was directed by a master of realism, Richard Fleischer, and released by Eagle-Lion Films, the poster child of the semi-documentary. The moody cinematography was by Guy Roe, who would, a year later, film Lloyd Bridges in The Sound of Fury, then later the quintessential B-movie crime noir, Armored Car Robbery. Trapped was produced by the oldest of the "Seven Little Foys," Bryan. Like many low-budget crime films of the era, it uses voice-over narration to inform the audience about the thoroughness of law enforcement. In this case, the United States Treasury Department shut down a counterfeit ring. The score was by the dependable Sol Kaplan, whose opening measures sound like a cross between a weekly television private investigator theme and an old movie serial.

Though there may be familiar faces throughout the film, many of whom became prolific on the small screen, it really centers around the characters of Lloyd Bridges, Barbara Payton, and John Hoyt. As an up-and-coming leading man with a casting agent earning his salary, Bridges gets top billing. He was very busy during 1941-42 with thirty-eight films with mostly uncredited roles, learning the ropes. Leading roles became more common after the war. Not classically handsome, his closely set eyes are offset by a distinctive voice, a winning smile, and an abundance of charisma. The established character actor, Hoyt, has nearly identical screen time, however, and is third-billed. It is a nifty crime tale of treasury agents wanting to enlist the help of a counterfeit operative, Bridges, who is currently a model inmate in an Atlanta prison. With seven more years on his sentence, he could be released much earlier if he cooperates to help find the counterfeit plates and those who are circulating the phony bills. The savvy, arrogant, gum-chewing Bridges essentially tells them what they can do with their offer. 

The screenplay pulls off a couple of clever double twists near the beginning. Nighttime finds Bridges on a bus headed for Kansas City, handcuffed to a Deputy Marshall. A car pulls up alongside the bus in the passing lane, the driver looking for Bridges. They make eye contact, then Bridges grabs the revolver of the dozing detective and commands him to “take the jewelry off” and exits the bus for the sedan, driven by Richard Karnes. The whole “escape” was planned in advance with Bridges, giving legitimacy to a phony AP wire story. The officer’s gun was not loaded, and Karnes is a federal agent. During an overnight stay in a motel, at the opportune moment, Bridges initiates a fist-fight with Karnes. Apparently suspecting as much, Karnes “throws the boxing match” to let Bridges be tracked to Los Angeles.

We first see Hoyt as a frequent Los Angeles nightclub visitor, trying to pour on the charm to the cigarette girl, Payton, Bridges’s girl. She assumes he must own two or three oil wells because of his generous ten-dollar tips. Hoyt is actually an experienced undercover Secret Service agent posing as a racketeer. Bridges vouches for Hoyt and enlists him to help “convert” a real twenty-five grand into a quarter million in fake bills.

Hoyt reports to his superior, Russ Conway. In Conway’s first scene, we see him taking notes over the phone, handwriting gibberish on a notepad. Surely one of the worst executions of fake handwriting in film. Like the undecipherable notes taken in a college class while suspended over a cliff of sleep. Then, a few days later puzzled as to why the exam score was so below average. I digress. Admittedly, play-acting is rarely filmed authentically. In another Conway moment, an oft-used scene showcases the clever and effective undercover work during the phone booth era. In order to touch base on the agency's progress, Conway is seated in a diner as Hoyt strolls in. Conway steps to a booth and places a call to the adjoining booth to get Hoyt’s report. A local call.

The counterfeit exchange is set with “the big guy,” James Todd, who owns the counterfeit plates. Todd is no Ted de Corsia. He is too easy-going, naive, and skittish to be believed as the ruthless boss of operations. Rather humorous that undercover agents are placed in several locations within running distance of the exchange location. I assume the homeowners were notified that a guy would be cleaning their screens, mowing their lawn, or who is hand-lettering words on a grocery store’s front window. Turns out to be Todd’s test run because he was not sure he could trust Hoyt. The fake quarter million is nothing more than authentic cut paper.

To raise the level of excitement, later an old Army buddy recognizes Hoyt in the nightclub and addresses him by his real name. Finally picking up on Hoyt’s persistent denial and knowing his government position, he apologizes, and Hoyt thinks he survived a close call. Except Payton overheard the conversation. She and Bridges then find the microphone in her apartment. Livid Bridges wants the real twenty-five grand as payback for being double-crossed. Hoyt gets the money from the bank, but on route to the spurious hotel, meeting with Todd, Bridges tells him, at gunpoint, to keep driving. They turn off the highway onto an ocean-side cliff. Both cautiously exit the car, then Hoyt kicks the gun from Bridges’ hand, and their stunt doubles take over. Bridges loses the fight, gets booked, and is jailed. Oddly, it is the last time we see the leading man, yet twenty minutes of film remain. All we know for sure is, that no early release is indicated on the warden’s Mobil Oil calendar.

The ending is fairly exciting as Hoyt decided to complete the exchange anyway based on bogus information provided to “Todd the Naive.” Hoyt is compromised again by Payton’s unexpected appearance at the gang’s warehouse. Less exciting is the commonplace chase of multiple agents pursuing Todd between streetcars in a maintenance garage. It is the typical scenario with bullets bouncing off a lot of metal. Todd climbs to the roof of one streetcar but uses its overhead electrified cable to balance himself. The good news, he will not serve any jail time. “What's that smell?”

Note: The only humorous dialogue could get overlooked because of its subtlety. When Bridges is booked at another precinct, Hoyt tells the policeman to keep it secret and book him with a different name. The officer suggests, “How about Briggs? It’s my mother-in-law’s name. I just want to see what it looks like on a police blotter.”

FOLLOW ME QUIETLY (1949)

GULLIBILITY OF A DUMMY

This RKO Pictures semi-documentary noir, directed by Richard Fleischer, is a tidy sixty minutes' worth of crime-solving with a couple of questionable twists. Fellow director, Anthony Mann, shared story credit with Francis Rosenwald. Lillie Hayward provided the screenplay, which, in a couple of scenes, packs an emotional punch. There is hardly a dull moment thanks to the pacing. I find no fault with the well-cast lineup of actors or the wonderful moods set by the shadowy cinematography. The story centers around a serial killer, known only as "The Judge," and his stereotypical messages of individually clipped letters pasted on an otherwise blank sheet of paper. He is also an avid reader. He is both judge and jury as to who is evil, murdering them whenever it rains after the sun's setting. Alas, there would be fewer murders if he lived in Tucson.

A police Lieutenant, handsome William Lundigan, is assigned to track down the killer with the help of his partner, the less handsome Jeff Corey. In the mix is a persistent young reporter, Dorothy Patrick, who works for a tabloid magazine with a sensationalistic reputation. Lundigan is not a fan. Patrick, at times, a facial mix of the more famous Ginger Rogers, Priscilla Lane, and Eve Arden, is pressing him for a scoop on the killings, much to his annoyance.

The most implausible element in the film starts with a detailed, full-body sketch to identify the killer by his suit. Finally, some real progress. The film breaks with police routine—and reason—when Lundigan goes to great lengths to create a faceless manikin based on the sketch, blowing the police department's entire Christmas budget. Lundigan then has the manikin face the wall in their lineup—its back facing the policemen—as Corey bizarrely questions it with the dummy’s “answers” prerecorded, based on clues obtained about the killer to that point. The forty-five-second presentation is a real eye-opener. Somehow. Suspects are rounded up based on rear views and placed beside the manikin. Lundigan becomes the judge as to whether or not a suspect might be the killer. The department is only missing a face to go with the suit.

Wait. This is the most implausible element in the film. The blank-faced manikin's photograph is distributed to neighborhood bookstores—on Patrick's advice—in the hope that the manikin might be recognized as a recent customer. Understandably, the face is rather vague, but one shop owner says this customer wore glasses. Lundigan draws round eyeglass frames on the blank face. Nailed it. This narrows their search to any male approached from behind of average height with round-framed glasses.

Wait. Wait. Lest I forget an earlier scene. Alone in his unlit, dark office, Lundigan audibly questions the seated dummy from behind, trying to work through his toughest case, mentally. It is raining as the camera zooms in on his face, suggesting he is at a breaking point. In walks Corey, telling him to ease up. 'If you want to talk to a dummy, talk to me.' After both detectives leave the office, the “dummy” pivots, then rises, still faceless to the audience, pushing the gullibility envelope in a preposterously risky move by “The Judge.” Obviously, he is not a heavy breather or wearing smoke-infused clothing. A slick scene with a believability factor at absolute zero.

Lundigan and Corey stake out the murderer’s apartment building from an empty room. When we first see the face of the serial killer, Edwin Max, he cautiously approaches the building. This skittish guy does not fit the profile of one who would mockingly toy with Lundigan in his office. With the neighborhood eerily vacant and silent, he dashes off with both detectives in pursuit. The climax is a foot chase in an oil refinery among giant pipes, catwalks, and stairways to clichėd heights. Leonid Raab’s score cranks up to a crescendo as the police arrive and take aim at Max with a machine gun, bursting water pipes left and right. Totally spent from running and with no place to go, Max is cornered by Lundigan. He puts one end of the handcuffs on the killer, but fails to attach the other end to himself. The following scene would not work if he had. He instructs him, 'Follow me, quietly.' When Max attempts to walk under the leaking pipes, however, the pouring water sends him into a violent rage, and he viciously tries to escape, compromising Lundigan’s grip on the handcuffs. The police chalk up Max's fall—and his body outline—to water torture. 

WITHOUT WARNING! (1952)

This seventy-seven-minute Allart Productions film noir falls into the unknown realm, though the year offered little, if any, exciting crime films as competition. It seems sandwiched neatly between larger-budget crime films from the prior and following years. From a story and script by William Raynor, the film does not break any new ground, but Adam Williams's sensitive performance will not disappoint. Most often in supporting roles, we witness his talent as he embodies his character's subtle mood shifts. He is first-rate. Do not pay much attention to the routine, dated police procedural segments, lab work, and the oft-used supporting voice-over narration. Focus on the camera work by Joseph Biroc, the editing by Arthur Nadel, and the powerful score by Herschel Burke Gilbert. The film was directed by Arnold Laven and shot in a semi-documentary style. There are many elemental details to this fine film, but it stumbles over a weak conclusion.

Williams is handsomely creepy as an unassuming, polite independent gardener. His living quarters add a visual to his pathetic existence—a small, run-down house in a low-income rural neighborhood overlooking the distant City of Angels. The serial killer returns exhausted with the startling realization of what he has done, yet a gentle grin emerges from his success. And he is compelled to do it all over again. On his belt hangs a leather sheath containing the sharpest garden shears in Orange County. Each month, another blonde female is found with the killer's same modus operandi. The emotionally scarred paranoiac kills, according to a police psychiatrist, in retribution for his unfaithful, equally blonde wife. One could understand his anger over his wife’s infidelity, but his psychological issues may have been simmering since his youth.

The killer has been very careful to cover any evidence. In that opening scene, he accidentally rips his suit coat and takes it to a tailor. As the next customer in line, the panic on his face indicates he realizes a piece of his coat was left behind in the motel room. He exits and returns home to incinerate the coat with his blood-stained shirt in his cast-iron stove. The guy is running out of clothes on a monthly basis. But mistakes accumulate. Tying the clues together falls on the shoulders of Edward Binns, the police detective in charge. I thought his character was a bit nonchalant, almost smirking, because he thought the murderer would be caught in short order, because his department was just that good. Yet he is no closer to solving the crimes after three weeks of investigation.

Some effective camera work is revealed through a shaky “hand-held” effect as it follows Williams wandering the streets at night, looking for his next “wife” to kill in a seedy part of town. Dressed in the only suit equipped with a pair of garden shears, he connects with his next victim in Sears Roebuck. No...in a bar. She instantly cozies up in her car with him for a night she will not remember. The following morning, Williams exits the car, appearing almost sick to his stomach. Two motorcycle cops spot the car parked illegally under a freeway overpass and investigate. In a panic, Williams gets back to the car with the officer asking what is wrong with “that dead lady.” He is asked to get out of the car, but the officer gets clobbered. Williams takes his gun and later wounds the other officer in pursuit, dumping the revolver beside the highway. Williams has played his hand at this point, and it is only about thirty minutes into the film.

After jumping off the back of a delivery truck, not too inconspicuously, he sprints on foot between rows of commercial loading docks, knocking over crates and dodging trucks to distance himself from the freeway. Mostly shot from an elevated position, Gilbert’s score is especially effective with a jazzy solo piano frantically playing only a few, repeated notes. I have always been impressed with actors of this period who are scripted to run at full speed in slick-soled leather dress shoes on concrete. Of course, unless you were playing a sport, it was what every man wore.

To entrap the murderer, blonde-haired—bleached or otherwise—undercover policewomen are sent to the streets to notice anyone fitting the killer’s tell-tale pattern of behavior. Preferably, before it is too late. Williams connects with one female officer (above) who is not particularly cool with the pressure of undercover work. They are heading to the beach, but he catches a view of a car in the rearview mirror and suspects a setup. Deviously smiling, he keeps driving up a winding road while never answering her persistent questions. She is wondering how the beach is accessible at such a high elevation. He stops. She exits, with only a cliff in front of her. In a clever turn, he pretends he is an honorable guy and tells her she can walk home from where they are, throwing her suspicions a curve. He drives to a spot where he sees her enter the tailing detective’s car. Williams confidently smiles. The police department have their man. Finding him is another matter.

Williams purchased his shears from a local greenhouse. The owner's daughter, co-star Meg Randall, is temporarily helping her father's business. “Creepy McWilliams” cannot help but stare...she has blonde hair. Randall becomes his next potential victim. The ending, frustratingly and implausibly, drags on, nearly ruining the intelligence of the film prior to this point. In addition, his final attempted murder goes against the serial killer’s pattern of late-night murders that had been established. Nevertheless, Binns and his partner arrive to find only a little neighbor girl standing by Williams' house. The reason for the interaction at all is simply for the girl to glance in the direction of Williams, crouching outdoors behind a discarded bookshelf, slightly off the property, with Randall. Perhaps hoping Williams would make a move, Binns and his partner appear to drive away. Randall finally breaks free and yells for help. As Williams begins to apply his shears, they are no match for six bullets. He was such a nice young man. Viewers only care about his fate, so the film ends instantly.

Note: This United Artists release is recommended, yet certainly not flawless. An unscripted filmed section that has no business in this film is pretty ridiculous, as Williams’ unsolved crimes become so famously exciting that people are confessing left and right for the notoriety. Among others, volunteering for incarceration is an elderly woman crocheting in the police department, or a man on the street pleading to be arrested. Any humor is redeemed during scenes with the police lab chemist. Byron Kane, playing a dry-witted police chemist who enjoys being smarter than detectives. He pours in a white powder into a glass flask and then a dark liquid. He offers some to a detective who drinks it without hesitation. Kane makes his coffee in a large Retort flask. 

BIG TOWN SCANDAL (1948)

This fifty-eight-minute Pine-Thomas Production for Medallion Pictures Corporation was released by Paramount Pictures. With three films in 1947, this is the last of four based on the long-running radio drama series, “Big Town,” and garnered a revised title when it premiered on television. All four entries starred Philip Reed and Hillary Brooke as the newspaper’s editor and reporter, respectively. This was not filmed in the early Forties and then held back for release. But it seems like it. It moves along well enough, but it is an outdated view of juveniles and how basketball was played. You will also witness some of the most unbelievable back-screen in-car footage since the Keystone Cops. This entry, with its highly improbable ending, addresses juveniles who find themselves on the cul-de-sac of life's road.

Brooke volunteers Reed to take custody of the boys. He balks initially, but an organized team sport might provide needed discipline for the kids. Fortunately, Reed was an avid basketball player, and coaching is his assignment. Volunteers convert the second floor of a dormant building into a gym of sorts. During the initial practice, Brooke provides a surely dated commentary about Reed wearing a sweater. It went beyond my understanding. Maybe it was a major faux pas when coaching or sweaters were most associated with pin-up models. Reed is unable to hear Brooke’s off-the-cuff remarks, yet she is within earshot of two colleagues. She teasingly says, “Nothing like a sweater to bring out the ham in a man, is there?” One colleague replies, staring into space, all dreamy-like, “I wouldn’t know. My wife never wears it.”

Twenty-two-year-old Stanley Clements is the "teenager" and the savvy leader of the “wayward five.” The group is arrested for the theft at a sporting goods store with skewed intentions for starting a team sport on their own, figuring no one would notice the brand-new equipment. Some notable actors in the gang are Darryl Hickman, Carl “Alfalfa” Switzer, Tommy Bond—the first Jimmy Olsen from the “Superman” serials—and the lesser-known Roland Dupree. Given any gang's use of slang, Bond's nickname among the other four is “dum-dum.” No cruelty intended. The birth defect was commonly referred to then as “deaf and dumb.” Deaf as in the inability to hear, but not dumb as in stupid. Simply the inability to speak, as in “struck dumb.” I digress. Bond regularly plays basketball using hand signals with the other team members. Hats off to the screenwriter or producer for including such a character and making him a positive character in the film. He provides a benefit after the championship game, too.

Clements has big-town dreams of owning expensive things after his basketball rehab and generally going astray. He has a history with a gangster, played by John Phillips. He entices Clements into stealing furs stored in the garage below the gym. Savvy Clements wants a cut of the profits. After his cut, he wants to part company with Phillips. Not that easy. However, if he throws some games, he will receive kickbacks for his lack of effort.

With the championship game on the line, Clements ignores the gangster’s threats and wins the game in the closing second with a one-handed thrust while falling to the court—after taking a bullet for the team. Somehow. From a seated position and a gun under an overcoat on his lap, one might wonder how the gangster could possibly hit anything smaller than a milk truck. The shot only wounds Clements. Ironically, his team is named the “Big Shots.”

Note: Perhaps no single element dates this film more than when on the basketball court. A faint shadow of today’s fast-paced, aggressive play. These play-actors are not professionals, of course, but it casts a light on the average neighborhood play. Layups are the scoring shots. Free throws are done with both hands in an underhanded “bucket shot” form. No one attempts to block an opponent or attempt to steal the ball, perhaps taking the Seventh Commandment too literally.

FORGOTTEN FILMS: TV TRANSITION

Though typically overshadowed by Hollywood's A-list, there were respectable performances by numerous actors and actresses who never became major film stars. A common occurrence was their transition to the new medium of television, often becoming familiar faces in homes across America. These periodic posts offer insight into their transition.

Dane Clark: Bernard Zanville (1912-98)

Dane Clark was a popular American character actor during the Forties, more often than not playing ubiquitous characters thrust into confrontation or engulfed in dangerous situations on either side of the law. Though possessing A-list qualities he never quite overcame his noteworthy supporting roles. Audiences identified with his spirited characters. A 1946 movie magazine named him the most stylish actor in Hollywood. It was a quick and brief skyrocket to fame during his first ten years in movies yet he spent nearly thirty on television. 

Being cast as the average guy was what Clark wanted all along. It gave him the chance to portray people the way they really are, not as a romantic idol. As a contract player for Warner Bros., he gained fame in supporting roles in significant films like Wake Island (1942), Action in the North Atlantic (1943), and God is My Co-pilot (1945). For the forgettable, Never Trust A Gambler (1951), he played a small-time paranoid gambler followed by a significant lead role as Abe Saperstein, the man who organized the Harlem Globetrotters in, Go Man Go (1954). One might have seen him in The Asphalt Jungle (1950), 99 River Street (1953), The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957), or Picnic (1955) except that Clark never screen-tested for these roles, though he was considered.

His versatile television career accelerated by way of a number of anthology series in the likes of The Philip Morris Playhouse (1954) or General Electric (1955). These “mini-movies” benefited from his polarizing characterizations. He garnered a regular role in the series, Justice (1954) and was one of the three lead roles on, Wire Service (1956). He was hitting his stride on the small screen with appearances in numerous popular series like The Twilight Zone (1961), The Untouchables (1962), or Ben Casey (1964). His role on Mannix (1970), brought him into the next decade with a recurring role on The New Perry Mason (1973) as Lt. Tragg, and a lead in the mini-series, Once an Eagle (1976). He had seven different roles in Police Story (1975). His final acting roles were two appearances on Murder, She Wrote (1984).

Note: Clark was born in Brooklyn, New York City, where he graduated from Cornell University and later earned a law degree from St. John's University School of Law in Queens, New York. In hindsight, one might consider, that with his “average” good looks, handsome smile and scrapping persona, the 5’ 10” Clark would be an in-demand actor of the 21st century.