La banda dei falsificatori

Art critic O'Brien is menaced by unseen forces and must find out who and why.

No doubt about it, that train wreck scene is brilliantly conceived and edited. In fact, the whole train sequence amounts to an atmospheric triumph. Catch the passenger car interior when O'Brien opens the door—it fairly oozes closed-in flesh, along with that shrewish wife scolding her hubby on the evils of drink. Few films manage a truly memorable sequence, but this one does.

Otherwise, it's a decent noir, though I agree it's also over-plotted and under-explained. Plus, many of those many narrow escapes are simply too contrived to stick. The movie's more one of compelling parts than a successful whole. Nonetheless, O'Brien handles his part in suitably restrained fashion, besides few actors were better at "drop dead" brush-offs, of which he gets to do several. Looks like the normally fast-talking Irishman was refashioning his image to align with the post-war crime drama craze.

But my money's on the great Ray Collins. Was there ever a smoother actor, from Citizen Kane (1941) to TV's Perry Mason of the 50's and 60's. Here, he delivers in sinister spades. Then there's poor Mary Ware as the loyally devious secretary. I'm sure she was cast for her totally innocent demeanor and looks, the better to hook the audience. But then, oh my gosh, she has to speak her lines.

The movie's subtext is in line with the war's common effort and everyman spirit. The villains act as properly outspoken elitists, first cousins presumably of the recently defeated Nazi's. At the same time, I thought art critic O'Brien's little lecture on the role of "art is what I like" made good sense.

All in all, it's a strongly visual, if somewhat turgid, noir that probably did train travel no favors.

Back in 1946, when this film was released, it got very mixed reviews. The notable Bosley Crowther, in particular, panned it. I find it to be a better than average film-noir with a few twists to make it interesting. First off being the topic -- art forgeries -- not your typical underworld target in films. And, for me, it was enjoyable watching Pat O'Brien in the latter third of his career, after movies became a little more sophisticated.

A test for movie mysteries for me is, is there real suspense, or do clues just inexplicably pop up so that the movie can come to a conclusion. Using reverse on the DVR, I was able to go back several times and see when certain clues came up if it was logical or simply convenient. This film passed that test.

It has a surprisingly strong cast. Claire Trevor is interesting, as is Ray Collins. Herbert Marshall is always good, but one thing to take note of here is his real limp, which in most films is not noticeable (Marshall lost a leg in WWI).

Another thing that made the film interesting was how it portrayed life back in 1946. For example, the very good scene filmed at an arcade was very era-oriented, and certainly more interesting than had the scene just been shot in a restaurant or something of the sort...which most directors would have done. The night dock scene was also nicely done. And, these "location shots", though undoubtedly done at the studio, did look real.

So why do I rate this only a 7? Well, while Pat O'Brien is good, he seems a bit old for the part. For example, in one scene he shimmies down a very long chain that would be rather unlikely for someone nearly 50 years old (and clearly out of shape). And, he's not totally convincing as an art expert. But still, it's a decent performance.

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.

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.

Atmospheric both in Visual Style and Dialog this Film-Noir is One that was Made just at the End of WWII and there are many Lines that Cynically Reference the Conflict with a Snap-Patter that is a Noir Trademark. There are Many Noir Flourishes to Enjoy in this Murky Plot. Amnesia, Drug Induced Mind Control, Low-Brow Settings like a Penny Arcade in Mix with High-Brow Museum Art.

Pat O'Brien does His best as a Slightly Miscast and Overaged Lover that Requires some Physical and Emotional Stretches. But when He is not Romanticizing or Climbing Walls, it Works.

The Highlights of the Film are Noir. The Surreal Train Sequences, the Creepy Docks, and the Night Time Exteriors are Layered in Shadows and Render Foreboding Scenes. A Strong Cast and a Visually Arresting Movie with some Great Quotable Noir Dialog Elevate this Above a Muddled Plot. It is a Crackerjack Film-Noir and One that has been Mostly Ignored and Given Only Cursory Consideration.

Note...Film-Noir was an Organic Style that was Subconsciously Spawned Unknowingly by its Creators in a Collective Conceit Formed Unintentionally by the Artists who Drew from the Ether and Manifested a Sub-Genre of Movie-Making that has Endured. It is was not Pre-Fabricated and that Honesty is Forever On Display in a Genre, that was only Realised After the Fact, and it took French Film Critics to Piece it Together and Fans have been Thankful Ever Since.