The Big Bluff

W. Lee Wilder's THE BIG BLUFF will never be a threat to his brother Billy's genre-defining classic, DOUBLE INDEMNITY, but on its own terms it's a nifty little quickie with a good story and a nice trick ending.

When it starts, this film looks so cheap -- I mean, Ed Wood cheap -- you're tempted to hang it up, but stick with it. It improves as it goes along. The writing and cast are perfectly adequate and it's more entertaining than a lot of big budget A pictures.

An unusual feature of this film is a reversal of the usual noir femme fatale dynamic. Here it's a sexy guy, an "homme fatal" if you will, who seduces a rich, love-starved widow.

Maltin's book (2003) doesn't even list this film, but it's included in the inexpensive 6-CD "Ultimate Film Noir Collection", which I recommend for its intriguing line-up of public domain B-picture rarities, which range from junk to cult classic B's (DETOUR, THE HITCHHIKER) to even a couple great ones (Welles' THE STRANGER).

Not a bad programmer, nothing new in the con-man department, but with a nifty ironical ending. Con-man Ricardo (Bromfield) romances wealthy heiress Valerie (Vickers) who has a heart condition. Marrying her, he then plots ways of shortening her life. Trouble is Valerie's friend Marsha (Miller) suspects his motives and enlists Dr. Kirk (Hutton) to help track Ricardo who's also keeping company with Fritzie (Bowe) despite her husband. Thankfully, the complications come together at story's end.

Bromfield, looking a little like Clark Gable, knows how to use a cigarette to suggest character traits. He's just slick enough to be persuasive. The ordinarily shrewish Vickers goes against type, her Valerie being a sweet-natured victim; at the same time, little-known Eve Miller shows why she should be better known. And get a load of Rosemarie Bowe (Fritzie) who's got enough steamy allure to melt a polar ice cap.

Oh sure, the overall result doesn't rise above programmer level, but it's done well for a cheap indie. Too bad, however, that director Wilder doesn't or can't invest the filming with more style that would lift the visuals. And, on a niggling note-- this isn't really noir. Specifically, the film's missing such defining features as expressionist lighting, plus a morally ambiguous central character. Ricardo's wicked, but crucially he's not torn between ethical poles. In my book, the results count more properly as a crime drama.

... if they had beefed up the dialogue, replaced the rather wooden actors, and cut the running time from 70 minutes to 50 minutes. It actually has an ironic ending that is worthy of the master of suspense.

You can see where this film is going from a mile away. Valerie Bancroft is a young heiress who has a fatal heart condition. She and her paid companion, Marsha, decamp from New York and go to California for the sunshine and hope that it will improve her life expectancy - she should live a year at the most. While in California, they meet con man Ricardo De Villa. He claims to be a businessman from South America who is using the lull in business to holiday in California. Instead he is broke, wants to run off with the female half of a professional dance team, and does not have the money to do so. Marsha told him about Valerie's heart condition hoping he would cut down on all of the night life with Valerie if he knew. Instead he woos and marries Valerie, hoping that the increase in activity, which she loves, will kill her off early. And even if it doesn't, a year is not so long to wait to inherit Valerie's money. Complications ensue.

Nobody in this film is that bad, but one part is done very badly. That would be the part of the cuckolded ballroom dancing husband, Don. He hardly ever says anything. But he is always looking around corners and either following his unfaithful wife or Ricardo. Another role is done rather hilariously. Don's cheating wife, Fritzie, is always dressed in one of her ballroom dancing gowns no matter what the surroundings. She could be on the beach or in the supermarket and there she would be, conspicuously dressed to the nines.

I would mildly recommend this one.

Dastardly cad Ricardo (Bromfield) inveigles his way into rich but ailing heiress Valerie's (Vickers) life, despite those around her trying to protect her from his suspected predations. The oleaginous Ricardo secretly has a hotter, younger (but married) squeeze on the side, Fritzie (Bowe), an exotic dancer, and they plan to elope as soon as he can extract the cash from his mark. Although it is fascinating to see Vickers in one of her last movies, initially, the viewer needs to contend with some wooden acting, poorly-written lines badly delivered, and choppy editing; still, things improve as they go along, and some of the sets are pleasing to the eye, there are some wonderful little cross-dissolves, the pace picks up, the lighting becomes a little more noir-like, and the plotting gets a bit more intricate. Overall, it manages to keep one just about engaged esp. Bromfield's performance as an amoral exploiter of the weak; a man who is madly in love with white-hot Fritzie, and schemes, almost admirably, to do whatever he can to create the fantasy life he wants with her. Bowe sears the screen with heat whenever she appears, and her and Bromfield have some real chemistry, which keeps the engine of the story ticking over. Hard to wholeheartedly recommend but a mildly diverting short flick (which never bores the viewer) for a weekday evening.

Sibling rivalry can be a dreadful thing; look at Joan Fontaine and Olivia De Havilland. Sometimes, however, it approaches farce. W. Lee Wilder probably should have stayed in New York making purses, but, no, he had to follow his little brother Billy to Hollywood. And in Hollywood, maybe he could have been a passable producer (two early Anthony Mann movies, The Great Flamarion and Strange Impersonation, bear his credit). But, no, he had to direct, showing the world how vast was the disparity between young Billy's talents and his own inadequacies. Billy, long estranged, used to call him `a dull son of a bitch,' and he was being generous: W. Lee isn't merely dull, he's barely competent.

The Big Bluff rehashes a plot that Wilder had used in 1946 for The Glass Alibi. Merry widow Martha Vickers has a bum ticker and only a few months left to live. Off she goes to California with paid companion Eve Miller only to cross paths with slick operator John Bromfield (he brags about business interests in Central America but he's just a gigolo). The prospect of coming into her money at her early death emboldens Bromfield to court and marry her.

But there are obstacles. Her secretary/companion and her physician (Robert Hutton) harbor suspicion of Bromfield's motives. And Bromfield's mistress Rosemarie Stack, half of a sultry nightclub act with her jealous husband Eddie Bee, doesn't cotton to his romancing another woman. But the impatient Bromfield, not content with letting nature take its course, starts tampering with Vickers' pill supply. When, paradoxically, she seems to thrive under his care, he concocts a back-up plan, and the movie jutters along to a twist ending, à la Alfred Hitchcock Presents.

The plot is hand-me-down James M. Cain, done proud by the cheesiness of its direction (it's like a stock-footage festival). Wilder lets his cast get away with the stiffest readings of the literal-minded script (Martha Vickers would never nab many statuettes, but Howard Hawks goaded her into acting as Carmen Sternwood in The Big Sleep). Yet every so often there's a dark glint that keeps one watching: Bromfield and Stack plotting in a shadowy hotel staircase; Bromfield and Vickers toasting with schnapps at Scandia or `lo-balls' at La Rue. Something saves The Big Bluff from sinking to the very bottom of the barrel; it sure wasn't Wilder.