The End of the Line

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.

The End of the Line is a British 'B' film from 1957 and involves an American writer staying in England while he finishes his work but his experience there ends up being a lot more than he had expected. The story is fairly basic, with only a minor twist toward the last third of the film, but otherwise the script isn't all that memorable. As for the performances, Alan Baxter is quite underwhelming as the lead, although I don't hold it against him and feel he was simply miscast. The remainder of the cast are serviceable. The look of the film was fine, although some of the interiors were overlit. Overall a very average film.

I found this to be a reasonably entertaining second feature..It is really a who did my do it rather than a whodunit. Alan Baxter is the parachuted in American lead.Rather interesting to see that he arrives at Victoria on the Golden Arrow London to Paris train.The train used to go on to the ferry at Dover and then go back on the rails at Calais. The problem with Baxter is that he really isn't quite the star needs for the role.The voice over narration is sort of a combination of Phillip Marloweand Sam Spade.However that said it still keeps you guessing and is undeserving of its current low rating. Probably this is due to Baxters rather low key performance and his lack of empathy with his leading lady.

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.