The Argyle Secrets

The Babel of foreign and regional accents in The Argyle Secrets seems too exotic – overdone – until you learn that Cy Endfield directed this short, cheap thriller from his own radio play. There, probably no more than four actors took the many and generic parts, distinguishing them with funny voices. Movies can't get away with that, so a roster of character players – several of them familiar from ‘50s television – was rounded up to fill out the cast. Since the stars are William Gargan (a couple of seasons as Martin Kane, Private Eye) and Marjorie Lord (Make Room For Daddy), with Barbara Billingsley (Leave It To Beaver) visible to those who don't blink, viewers should know better than to expect The Big Sleep.

Actually, The Maltese Falcon is the better template, of which The Argyle Secrets resembles a fifth-generation knockoff. The object in demand is a book called The Argyle Album, a detailed list of war profiteers that's being used for blackmail. A famous investigative columnist, in hospital, tells his younger colleague Gargan about it shortly before he expires, either of poison or a scalpel plunged into his pajamas. In tracking down the album, Gargan meets up with and fends off a motley of grotesques, including femme fatale Lord.

By no stretch of hyperbole can it be called good – it's coarse and jumpy – but now and again it shows flashes of talent (Endfield, two years later, would direct the much better The Underworld Story). There are some neat shots of the waterfront at night (the city's unspecified, but Boston comes to mind) and a tense and well-photographed sequence where an acetylene torch burns through a metal gate behind which Gargan has locked himself for safety.

Alas, Gargan is foisted off as an energetic young turk of the fourth estate, even though at the time he was 42 and looked at least 10 years older. He had started in movies in 1917, chalking up a more than respectable list of credits, but what charisma he may have once displayed had long since dissipated. Sad that the Indian Summer of his career would be spent in those lesser mediums of radio and newfangled TV. But he earns praise for spending the last years of his life, following a laryngectomy, working for the American Cancer Society.

Very rare low-budget film from director Endfield (Zulu) plays like a not-bad student film version of The Maltese Falcon-- the supporting performances aren't always convincing but there are nice touches of visual imagination and good pacing.

Stylish B starring William Gargan and two TV moms - Barbara Billingsley and Marjorie Lord, along with John Banner, and Ralph Byrd.

Similar to the Maltese Falcon, Gargan is Harry Mitchell, a newspaperman who is singled out among a bunch of newspapermen at the hospital to see an injured reporter. The reporter gives him an album cover for "The Argyle Album" but before he can say much more, he is dead, supposedly from a heart attack. Rip back the covers and there's a knife in his heart. Mitchell takes off.

The Argyle Album is an album with the names of people who profited from the war, traitors and people who made deals feathering their nests no matter who won.

Everyone is after it, including Lord and a gang of tough guys. Barbara Billingsley plays the dead reporter's secretary.

There were some neat things in this - spiral effects with swirls when Mitchell is knocked unconscious; and the cop who comes home, says goodbye to Mitchell, a former neighbor, and then opens the newspaper to his wanted photo on the front page.

Reminiscent of another fast talker, Lee Tracy, Gargan's voice box was removed in 1958 due to cancer, and from thereon he had an artificial voice box. While it stopped his career, he became an anti-cancer spokesperson for the American Cancer Association, living for another 21 years.

D. C. insider and investigative reporter Allen Pierce has returned to town, but immediately ends up in the hospital. He tells junior reporter Harry Mitchell (William Gargan) about "The Argyle Album". After leaving the room, Harry returns to find him dead. Harry wants a head start on the story and convinces the photographer to delay reporting the death. By the time the doctor arrives, there is a knife stuck in Allen's body, and the photographer has been stabbed to death. Harry goes on the run and searches for the album without knowing what it is.

I really love the premise. It becomes not much more than a McGuffin hunt. I would like more paranoia and more kinetic action. This movie needs some car chases and a few foot chases. I like some of the villains, but they could be more compelling. The ending is a little anti-climatic. I would have expected a victim of the blackmail come hunting for it. This has a great start, but the movie isn't able to elevate above its B-movie nature.

If, like Ben Mankewiecz the other night, I were to extol the tragic, shamefully HUAC truncated career of writer/director Cy Enfield, this agressively ordinary murder/espionage mystery with way too much dull narration and a rather flat acting job by lead William Gargan would not be my first choice as evidence. Think I'd go with either "Zulu" or "Hell Drivers" instead. Still, it's always nice to see the future June Cleaver get clocked and Enfield brings the thing in at under seventy minutes, which is almost always a plus in these kinds of el cheapo Saturday matinee type deals. C plus.