Notturno di sangue

Nocturne is directed by Edwin L. Marin and adapted to screenplay by Jonathan Latimer from a story written by Roland Brown and Frank Fenton. It stars George Raft, Lynn Bari, Virginia Huston, Joseph Pevney, Myrna Dell and Edward Ashley. Music is by Leigh Harline and cinematography by Harry J. Wild.

When Hollywood composer Keith Vincent (Ashley) is found dead in his swanky abode, the police feel it is a clear case of suicide. But there is one exception, Joe Warne (Raft), who feels it just doesn't add up. When it becomes apparent that any number of lady friends of the composer could have killed him, Joe drives himself onwards in pursuit of the truth.

Comfort food noir. Nocturne is a Los Angeles based detective story that doffs its cap towards Otto Preminger's far superior "Laura". Raft is in suitably understated hard-bitten mode as Joe Warne risks more than just the wrath of his bosses when he becomes obsessed with finding a woman called Dolores. He is convinced she has committed a murder and the gap on the wall where a row of ladies photographs hang only fuels his obsession still further.

As director Marin ("Johnny Angel") balances the opposing lifestyles of the principal players, taking us for a trip through the varying haunts of Los Angeles, the dialogue is pungent enough to overcome the failings of the script. A script evidently tampered with by Raft and leading to a rushed and not entirely satisfying finale. But as a mystery it works well enough as the acid tongued dames are dangled in the narrative to keep the viewer as interested as our intrepid detective is.

Marin does a grand job of mixing suspense with action, even opening the picture with a doozy of a plot set-up that is born out by some lovely fluid camera work, and while Wild's ("Murder, My Sweet") photography and Harline's music barely break the boundaries of mood accentuation, the tech credits are admirably unfurled to ensure the picture remains in credit. It helps that the support cast is a roll call of strong "B" movie players, and Raft fans get good value from an actor who was desperately trying to get away from the thuggish characters he was by then becoming known for. 7/10

This would have been a better film. It opens with that stunning shot of L.A. then slowly zooms in on the composer in his hilltop home for a mesmerizing beginning, but spends the rest of its running time spinning its wheels. Part of the problem is the confused script which lacks urgency and never brings the story into any kind of focus. There's the occasional flash of excitement or an injection of atmosphere, but then it drifts. It's a film with a very short attention span; it doesn't seem to care much about its own story and seems to be in search of anything it can find to distract it.

And then there's Raft. He was adequate in the similarly well-shot 1945 noir Johnny Angel, also directed by Marin, because in that film he's motivated by a thirst for revenge against the man who killed his father, a simple and rather easy emotion to play. But here he's a detective who's supposed to be obsessed with finding the murderer of the playboy composer, who is killed in the middle of writing one of his songs (a nifty little premise) though the police believe it's a suicide. This is a trickier set of emotions to play and Raft can't pull it off. Why does he care so much? Is he a frustrated musician? It's never explained. There are no layers to Raft, no sense of vulnerability, no dimension or mystery - he's about as wooden as they come. He's only effective when he's acting tough - pushing a guy into a pool or taking on some thug twice his size. When he's asked to do more than that he's not so much lost as he is simply unwilling or constitutionally incapable. He just doesn't have it in him.

One of the pleasures of noir is watching a tough guy getting in over his head and discovering to his horror that there are some foes he can't lick, or allowing his commitment and dedication turn into obsession. A Bogart or a Dick Powell or a Ralph Meeker or a John Payne or a Dan Duryea or even a Mark Stevens could've supplied the necessary psychological complexity to make the detective in Nocturne a memorable and tragic figure. Raft, unfortunately, isn't in their league.

One last thing: the most interesting presence in the film is piano player Joseph Pevney, who later went on to become a very busy TV and movie director. He's only in two or three scenes, but he makes the most of them.

Tough and dogged detective George Raft investigates a composer's death. It was ruled a suicide but Raft doesn't buy it. Despite being ordered off the case, he continues to look into it and tracks down some of the women the composer had "relationships" with.

George Raft gets a lot of flack for being stiff or playing the same role over and over, but I happen to like most of his movies that I've seen. He had no pretenses about being a Shakespearean actor. He knew what he was good at playing and worked with it quite well. His earlier WB successes in gangster movies and the like were always fun. Here he's playing a film noir detective, which isn't too far removed from those older roles come to think of it. He's quick with a snappy comeback and doesn't back down from anybody. It's a part Raft plays with ease but that shouldn't be taken as a put-down, as is often the case. Several tough female roles in this one. Lynn Bari and Virginia Huston (in her film debut) get the juiciest parts but honorable mentions should go to Myrna Dell as a wisecracking maid and Mabel Paige as Raft's mom, who helps him with his investigation.

Good script with some punchy noir lines, interesting characters, and a good ending. A nice fight scene, too. By the way, the film's title refers to the song the composer writes for his latest conquest. The guy wrote songs for all the women he screwed. They had a classier kind of douchebag in the old days, I guess.

A spectacular aerial nightscape of Los Angeles opens Nocturne, finally gliding down over a cliffside house and zooming right into the living room. There, a playboy songwriter sits at the piano while giving the brush-off to the latest in his string of lady friends. (She's veiled in black, but get a load of her instep.) A shot rings out....

Nocturne has a great, hard look; coupled with a nice feel for its milieu (piano bars, courtyard apartments, photography and movie studios), it adds up to one of the more vivid L.A. movies, especially when the dry winds rattle the leaves and stir up the rubbish. If in the end Nocturne doesn't quite redeem its promise, it's not for want of trying.

Part of its problem lies in its star, George Raft, as the police detective assigned the case. A 40ish bachelor who lives with Mom (scene-stealing Mabel Paige), he has a sharp eye for willing women, including his suspects. No one ever mistook Raft for a great actor, but sometimes he fits, sometimes he doesn't. Here he's so-so, a smart-mouthed Dapper Dan who leaks not a clue as to why he's always in hot water for insubordination and excessive force (it would have been a terrific Dick Powell part).

Raft's sleuthing takes him through the dead man's stable of exes (all of whom, for reasons that stay unexplained, he used to call `Dolores'). Among them Raft meets up with a sister act: hard-boiled brunette Lynn Bari and sweet blonde Virginia Huston, who sings in a night spot where Joseph Pevney (later to direct Shakedown, Meet Danny Wilson and Female On The Beach) entertains from a rolling piano, muscled from table to table by big, dumb Bernard Hoffman. But Raft keeps following false leads and encountering dead ends....

One of the chief pleasures of film noir must also be counted among its drawbacks: all too often, there's a lot more style than sense. With Nocturne, that's hard to overlook, so it falls just short of being a classic installment in the noir cycle.

From the initial scene chronicling the murder central to the plot of Nocturne as seen from the killer's vantage point, this movie has much to sustain the viewer's interest. Whenever a stock line or situation makes you feel this is a typical hardboiled cop flick, another plot twist or cinemotographic trick changes your mind. Portions of the movie shot after hours in a deserted photographic studio remind the viewer of Harrison's Hitchcockian associations with palpable suspense. George Raft shows surprising likeability as the lead, and Lynn Bari lends sparky support as one of the ranks of the victim's past conquests-or was she?-who just might hold a clue to the identity of the deadly Dolores. If you have a chance to see this film, grab it-although it was a successful and high grossing film at the time of its release in 1946, it is extremely difficult to rent, view, or purchase today. And the music, so evocative of the forties' nightclub allure, is great.