The End of the Line

A corrective to anyone who thinks fifties Britain was perennially wet and overcast is this dour early Guido Coen quickie obviously shot during a hot, dry summer in those far off days when everybody smoked, phones had button 'A's and telephone exchanges still had human operators.

Like Fred MacMurray in 'Double Indemnity' crew-cut American import Alan Baxter narrates how he was ensnared by dragon lady Barbara Shelley (in arched eyebrows, painted nails and a polka-dot blouse) with a rich husband of more use to her dead than alive.

Good-looking but garrulous, it feels much longer than it's running time of only 66 minutes.

Alan Baxter never amounted to much of an actor, and by 1957 he was increasingly involved in B and TV productions. In THE END OF THE LINE, he is plainly too old, dumpy and unfit to credibly interest female beauties of the caliber of Barbara Shelley and Jennifer Jayne, and that is apparent from the outset. Plus he is too wooden to convey any real emotional dilemma over the killing of a man he just planned to rob.

BIG minus there.

Charles Saunders does a passable job of directing, making competent use of a predictable screenplay whose best feature is a voiceover that comes in fits and starts and appears to be Selby (played by Baxter) ruminating over his downright avoidable decisions that inevitably lead him to crime.

Barbara Shelley has the plum role as the scheming femme fatale with strings pulled by subtle villain Ferdy Mayne, and the screen comes alive when those two are on it.

Photography is strictly standard.

Not a bad watch if you have 62' to spare.

This recently viewed feature is almost as bland as the washed out, whiter shade of pale print in which it appeared.

Everyone seems to be pulling out all the stops to give it the noir treatment: Alan Baxter is the obligatory American lead, retrospectively relating his ill fated encounters with siren Barbara Shelley, being needled by the sound of a familiar record, but still capable of a few cool colloquialisms, "The smart little number behind the desk," being a case in point. William Talman lookalike, Geoffrey Hibbert appears as a smarmy shady private dick. An unexpected twist creates faint echoes of Double Indemnity and it's all overlaid with a consciously trendy jazz score.

However, a pervading, quintessential Englishness drains the movie of any real grit or cutting edge. Much of the action takes place around leafy, affluent Marlow, with visits to the Windsor Lad pub and it's promo for Courage Ales. The then protracted process of making a phone call via the operator is conducted with decorum and dignity. Everything is so respectable, that even the chase occurs on attractive, rambling rural roads - Baxter's hot pursuit thwarted by a tractor hauling a cart loaded with hay blocking his path. All that's missing is the local yokel, with straw dangling from his lips observing from a nearby gate.

It is all fairly entertaining, but in an inescapably slight and superficial way. 'The End of the Line' manages to avoid hitting the buffers, but in spite of the rustic settings doesn't exactly pull up any trees either!

Alan Baxter or a statue or Alan Baxter? Which would you choose? Which did Charles Saunders actually pick for this rather silly and weak crime drama. He is "Selby" a writer sent over from the US to London to help promote a play being staged by "Bruce" (Charles Clay). As luck would have it, his remote hotel is owned by "Crawford" (Arthur Gomez) and guess what - that man's wife also happens to be an ex-girfriend of "Selby" who absconded with his last few bucks years earlier. She, "Liliane" (Barbara Shelley) and he quickly concoct a plan that will see them rob her wealthy husband and abscond with his collection of expensive jewels. Of course it all goes wrong - and soon poor old "Shelby" is wanted by the police for murder - but frankly, the hugely far-fetched plot had long since lost any lustre by the time we get to this stage. There is no chemistry at all to be had on screen and the writing and pace of the drama are pedestrian and sluggish as the characterisations trip over themselves to keep us guessing who anyone can trust and who is, ultimately, driving the game. It does feature some nice photography of late 1950s London, but that's hardly a reason to watch. Sorry - it's just dull.

I thought that this was a neat, well-crafted thriller with a few surprising little twists here and there.

Good performances by Barbera Shelley, who sadly died of COVID 19 earlier this year; and Jennifer Jayne, who can be seen alongside Conrad Phillips in The Adventures of William Tell, which is being rerun on Talking Pictures at the moment, on a Monday morning at 09:30; and Geoffrey Hibbert, who died in 1969 at the young age of 42. Jennifer Jayne is also no longer with us, having died in 2006 at the age of 74. All three actors are sadly missed for the great contribution that they made to British Television and Film.

The only thing that intrigued me about this film was the narration by Alan Baxter, who played the lead. Why was he referring to himself by the personal pronoun, "you", as if he was talking to someone else?