The Lady Confesses

Mary Beth Hughes and Hugh Beaumont are scheduled to be married as soon as his wife, missing seven years, can be declared dead. Then she shows up at Miss Hughes' apartment, says she's never going to give Beaumont a divorce. That evening she is strangled. Everyone seems to have a fine alibi, but nightclub owner Edmund MacDonald won't admit to seeing Beaumont at his club, even though three other people did.

Film Noir was a genre made for PRC, the cheapest of Poverty Row producers. It required fewer lights, the inevitable Venetian blinds meant there were no views outside windows to show, non-star actors were cheap, and the director of this one, Sam Newfield, although certainly competent, was the brother of PRC's studio chief. Jack Greenhalgh was a skilled cinematographer, so that left the problem of a script, and that was where PRC usually came up short.

Helen Martin's screenplay doesn't show a lack here. I couldn't figure out whodunnit until they told me, and the main actors are good. It's no classic, but I certainly enjoyed it.

By the humble standards of both director Sam Newfield and bottom-rung distributor P.R.C., The Lady Confesses (irrelevant title but catchy) shapes up as an outstanding little film noir. The screenplay is reasonably gripping and intriguing, the players (particularly the four leads: Hughes, Beaumont, MacDonald and Drake) are all on the ball, and more importantly both director Sam Newfield (I'd rate this as his best film) and photographer Jack Greenhalgh give it their best college try, using lots of effective close-ups, framed against noirishly glossy, black backgrounds. Even Emmett Vogan (minus his usual trademark glasses) comes across with reasonable conviction, while Dewey Roninson makes the most of his comparatively large role as an over-buoyant bartender. My only complaint is that all three of Claudia Drake's pleasing song numbers are either cut short or interrupted by the demands of the swift-moving plot.

Okay, not much can be expected from quickie director Sam Newfield or an independent outfit like Alexander-Stern. Then too, the production never does rise above bare-bones status. However, the script does show imaginative twists plus dashes of snappy dialog. In short, the 60- minutes manages to be better than expected, even if the lighting bill couldn't exceed a buck fifty. So who killed meanie wife Norma, who, all in all, should have stayed dead. That's the whodunit part. But, in a neat twist, the last part turns unexpectedly into a nail-biting suspenser.

Got to admit I didn't recognize cult favorite Hughes in dark hair and even, surprise, surprise, playing a good girl, which she does well. Then too, there's Beaver Cleaver's dad, Beaumont, playing what else but somebody's husband. At least, he doesn't have a couple kids to amusingly cope with. Anyhow, kudos to the writers for rising above the usual formula, and maybe to Newfield for noirish direction. All in all, the little flick's a cut better than the standard programmer.

The Lady Confesses doesn't have a lot going for it, except for plot, and even that's pretty hackneyed. But it's foolish to expect more from a 64-minute cheapie from Producers Releasing Corporation starring Mary Beth Hughes and Hugh Beaumont (later to grasp immortality as The Beaver's dad). Nonetheless, there have been worse programmers.

After a seven year absence (unexplained to us), Beaumont's wife suddenly shows up, putting the kibosh on his plans to marry Hughes. Soon after her return, alas, she's found garotted. Beaumont, the prime suspect, has an alibi: he was passed out in the dressing room of a nightclub singer. Hughes, in the plucky style of the 40s, cops a job as a roving photographer in the club to dig up clues. What she turns up, however, brings her into peril....

The Lady Confesses has been called noir by virtue of its era and its setting, but it's really more of a quick-and-dirty mystery thriller with its roots in the previous decade. The director, Sam Newfield, started out in silents and directed a whole passel of forgettable Westerns before catching up with the emerging noir style of the post-war years. He retains the dubious distinction of having directed Beaumont in nine films.

This film makes "Detour," also released through PRC, look like "How Green Was My Valley." Yes, it's THAT cheap and phony looking. Yet, the performers are good and the plot has cool twists.

I loved seeing Mary Beth Hughes as a lead. She got third or fifth billing in so many better known noirs. At PRC, she was the leading lady she could be.

Hugh Beaumont is fine as her boyfriend with a past. The scenes of him and other men in silhouette are right off the cover of a dime novel.

The ladies in the movie are all fine. We have Ms. Hughes. Claudia Drake is very effective as a café singer. Much of the action takes place in the joint where she sings: the Club 711. And Barbara Slater is appropriately nasty as Beaumont's wife. She's been gone, thought dead, for seven years and has just reappeared as the story begins.

I have to say, the title makes no sense. No spoilers but I'm not sure why it was chosen. (I see that one of its working titles was "Ladies of the Night." That would have been too controversial. It also would have been too obvious, too blatant. And, again, it would not have really fit.) Also, the print I saw was terrible. I'd have rated it higher had it been restored. And I hope it will be!