La banda dei falsificatori

A thriller in the popular post-war noir style, CRACK-UP (1946) is not a top-grade film noir, but it does incorporate some interesting ideas, like x-raying paintings to determine if they are forgeries.

Pat O'Brien (ANGELS WITH DIRTY FACES) is a WWII vet and art curator who gives lectures on paintings at an art museum. While trying to account for his actions one strange night, he finds himself pretty deep in some kind of criminal racket. On the lam from the law, he decides to get to the bottom of things on his own. (O'Brien is a street-smart art curator, knowing how to evade the police, sneak into and out of buildings, and arrange meetings in shady places.) He's mixed up in something serious. He knows too much. His life is in danger. Can he trust *him*? Can he trust *her*? Should he be trusting anybody at this point?

There are a handful of secondary characters, but the film doesn't take the time to explain who they are or what their deal is. We only know that they are associated in some way with O'Brien and/or the museum. And we know that one of those people in the room must be the "bad guy". And so the guessing game begins.

Why is Herbert Marshall so interested in O'Brien's activity? What was that person doing on the night of the murder? Is that a crooked cop? Why didn't the cigarette boy recognize him? Who's that lurking in the shadows? Could O'Brien be betrayed by *them*?

The final solution to the art theft mystery seems like too much work, too much risk, and too much bloodshed to be worth it all. (And what good is a painting that's too hot to be displayed for anybody?) But what do I know about great art?

Pat O'Brien is past his 1930s prime and looking a bit William Bendix-y around the edges. He is joined by the lovely Claire Trevor, a film noir staple, as an old friend and his only true ally. The cast also includes Herbert Marshall, Wallace Ford, and Ray Collins. The film has some typical noir touches, and the art theme is unique. Seeing the x-rayed paintings is fascinating, so the movie has that going for it. But the film overall doesn't stand out. It's okay, but not great.

Pat O'Brien is typically known for playing priests, the level-headed foil for James Cagney's explosive gangster. In other words, he's usually the least-interesting character in the film. 'Crack-Up (1946)' marks a welcome change-of-pace for the actor. No longer is O'Brien the calm, collected cleric, but a confused art critic at the end of his rope, doubting his own sanity as he battles murder and conspiracy. He perhaps isn't perfect for the role – the film's lurid moments would have been even more lurid had the lead actor been able to act more deranged – but O'Brien receives good supporting back-up from Claire Trevor, Herbert Marshall and Ray Collins. Director Irving Reis (best known for his "Falcon" series, though he also co-directed the annoyingly manipulative 'Hitler's Children (1943)' with Edward Dmytryk) does well to develop the film's mood, not afraid to dabble in a bit of surrealism to help translate the mental confusion and degradation of his main protagonist. There's also a little Freudian psychoanalysis in there, as was popular at the time, but the distraction it causes to the story is only an afterthought.

The role of WWII in shaping the film noir style should not be underestimated. In 'Crack-Up,' combat veteran George Steele (O'Brien) remarks that his greater fear in the trenches was that his mind might unexpectedly snap "like a tight violin string." These combat-related fears are here transcribed into a society ostensibly recovering from the war, suggesting that the shadow of the twentieth century's most costly campaign was still bearing over America, a sinister spectre of uncertainty and disarray. The film's undisputed centrepiece, though it is never adequately explained, is Steele's recollection of a train crash, a sequence that almost suggests an episode of "The Twilight Zone." As Steele watches the blazing beams of an oncoming train, time appears to stand still. He sits transfixed, calm and emotionless, a deer in the headlights. In classic film noir fashion, both he and the audience know what is about to happen, but all are powerless to stop it. The train barrels towards its predestined fate, a blistering collision of light and flames. Or does it?

Perhaps drawing some inspiration from Lang's 'Scarlet Street (1945),' this film noir concerns itself with the art of art fraud and forgery. The filmmakers' approach to the topic is strictly populist. At the beginning of the film, art critic Steele gives a lecture that openly denigrates the booming popularity of surrealism and "modern art," dismissing the style as being of use only to snobbish social-climbers {an unfair view, since Hitchcock had employed the services of Salvador Dali just one year earlier for 'Spellbound (1945)'}. It is these very same snobs who have planned an elaborate scheme to replace masterpiece canvasses (titled "Gainsborough" and "The Adoration of the Kings," respectively) with worthless replicas, before destroying the copies – not for monetary gain, but because they're snobs, and would like to have the classic works of art all to themselves. If all of 'Crack-Up' was as lurid as the opening sequence and train-wreck flashback, then Irving Reis would have had a masterpiece on his hands. As it is, we are left with an entertaining if occasionally stodgy thriller.

The title of Irving Reis' Crack-Up sums up two elements of its plot: the wreck of a train carrying Pat O'Brien and the psychotic episode he throws in its aftermath. He gives lectures at a New York museum, demystifying art for the masses, who obligingly moan reverently at Monet but hoot derisively at Dali. When a phone call (sick mother) summons him upstate, he boards a train on which he freezes like a deer in the headlamp of a renegade engine hurtling straight at him. Oddly, he survives, but upon his return hurls a fire extinguisher through the gallery doors, assaults a policeman, and babbles incoherently about the accident. Trouble is, Mom's in fine fettle, and there was no crash.

The movie joins him in sorting out the dramatic turns his life has taken. Helping him is Claire Trevor, a fixture in Manhattan art-snob circles. Herbert Marshall purports to help, too, but he keeps his cards close to his vest. Quite candidly not much help are the museum's board and its snooty benefactors, among them Ray Collins, who were never keen about the democratic spirit O'Brien breathed into their mausoleum and use his erratic behavior to halt his series of light-hearted talks. The police, too, have a stake; O'Brien did, after all, throw that punch....

One of the felicities of Crack-Up is that it takes its canvases seriously, putting them at the core of the story. (A similar respect for art, music and theater, and for audiences assumed to have some acquaintance with them, routinely elevated films of the 1940s; times, plainly, have changed.) Of course monetary rather than esthetic value drives the villains here, as O'Brien slowly uncovers an international art scam, which is why he was derailed in the first place.

The train crash itself – a very scary sequence, brilliantly handled by Reis – emerges, in the final wrapping-up, as the weakest point of the movie, a baroque twist too far-fetched to convince. Because of this contrivance, the movie cleaves to the over-plotted mysteries of the 1930s and early 1940s rather than to the emergent noir cycle that, in its look and many of its devices, it otherwise resembles. But then there's the always toothsome Claire Trevor, whose ensembles take inspiration from the uniforms of the just-won war; festooned in military braid and berets, she tilts the scales towards noir. Either way, Crack-Up offers some suspenseful fun spiked with a surprising note of sophistication.

Pat O'Brien was wonderful supporting actor. Having him as your lead was kind of unusual -- not to mention having him play an expert in art. He does a great job, though, as does the whole cast. Claire Trevor, in a way, is the only major name actor. Ray Collins is good but maybe not up to the pivotal role he plays. In a small part, Mary Ware is very effective.

Charlie Chan movies occasionally involved art thefts or forgeries. Of course, there is the black bird in "The Maltese Falcon." But generally, this is an unusual setting for a film noir, which this definitely is.

It's tense but maybe not so tense as it might be. I like Hitchcock but do not worship at his feet. Whoever, had he directed this, it could have been a tight, thrilling picture. He'd have story-boarded it all before filming and we'd have been on the edge of our seats as ti played out.

He didn't, of course, and it's still a really good movie. It's noir with a highbrow twist, just as "Red Light" -- which I haven't seen in 15 years and wish would turn up -- is noir with a religious setting.

There is a scarifying nightmare undercurrent to this postwar thriller that makes it a cut or two above the average. Pat O'Brien is an art curator who gets involved with some unsavory highbrow types, and suffers what may be either a mental breakdown, a train wreck, or both. It was directed by the very able Irving Reis, though Eddie Dmytryk or Robert Siodmak might have handled the suspense scenes somewhat better. John Paxton, who often worked with Dmytryk, co-authored the script. There are a couple of Orson Welles-Mercury alumni in the cast (Ray Collins, Erskine Sanford). O'Brien is oddly cast, and very good in his emotional scenes, though I might have liked this better had Dick Powell played the lead. Claire Trevor is solid as the romantic love interest, yet Gloria Grahame would have done just as nicely. Herbert Marshall plays what had become by this time a Walter Slezak part. The movie is in other words good but could have used a little more fine-tuning and slight adjustments in casting. As it stands it's okay. The payoff isn't nearly as good as the build-up, unfortunately, but there are two lengthy scenes involving O'Brien on a late night train that would have done Lang or Hitchcock proud.