Mort à l'arrivée

Fans of film noir should see this one, as this film is up there with the best.

It's a story about how a simple act can lead to disaster – in this case, death. If you've not seen it, I'm not about to tell you much except this: it has perhaps the most imaginative beginning for any murder mystery ever devised as Frank Bigelow (Edmond O'Brien) fronts up to the Homicide Bureau in Los Angeles to report a murder – his own! Thereafter, the story traces Frank's attempts to find out who is trying to kill him, and why. One of the best pieces of irony is when, having learnt that he will die soon, Frank runs and runs until he's out of breath and stops, panting, beside a newsstand where there are multiple copies of Life magazine hanging there, just beside him. The director, Rudolph Mate, had a real insider joke with that shot.

And that long tracking shot, by the way, was an excellent example of how to use fast camera work and great editing.

On another level, the movie very much fits the times vis-à-vis the portrayal of evil and where it leads: retribution is always just around the corner for those who transgress society, even if you think you're justified. When you see this movie, you'll know what I mean.

And, for the times, the acting was good, with a standout performance from Edmond O'Brien, and ably supported by the ever-competent Luther Adler (as Majak, the sharp dealer in stolen goods), and Neville Brand, as the psychopathic Chester. The rest of the cast was adequate. The only jarring note (no pun intended) are the peculiar and bizarre wolf-whistles (inserted by some demented sound engineer?) that accompany Frank Bigelow as he looks at women in his hotel at San Francisco. What was the director thinking of...?

That aside, it's a good, fast-paced action mystery that helped to keep the film noir genre very much alive. Have a go...

The tale concerns about a lengthy flashback where the protagonist (Edmond O'Brien) after leaving his girlfriend (Pamela Britton ) goes to San Francisco . There is given an extremely slow-action poison . The starring relates his own murder and becomes himself in detective , spending his ending moments trying to uncover his hit men . As his time runs out , he has only hours to identify , he desperately seeks to discover who is responsible his death . The search for the suspect is further complicated by thrilling facts , numerous intrigues , deceits and confrontation against mobsters (Luther Adler , Neville Brand) .

It's an exciting B-thriller of vibrating pace that unites various elements as the fatalism , cynicism , corruption with a noir vision of America from the time . The original title belongs the notes about the deceased person . Magnificent interpretation by usually secondary Edmond O'Brien as when he is frantically running by San Francisco streets . The scene in which he runs in panic through the streets after learning he has been poisoned was a stolen shot . The pedestrians had no idea a movie was being made and no warning that Edmond O'Brien would be plowing through them . Nice secondary cast , being film debut of Beverly Garland and Neville Brand . The film gets a good black and white (though available colorized) cinematography with some excellent close-ups (the jazzmen) by Ernest Lazslo . Atmospheric music by the classic Dimitri Tiomkin . The movie is well done by Rudolph Mate , a famous and habitual cameraman . It's followed by inferior remakes as ¨Color me dead¨ (1969) with Tom Tryon and 1988 version with Dennis Quaid and Meg Ryan . The motion picture will appeal to dark noir movies fans . Rating : Notable and well worth seeing.

D. O. A. is an intriguing, fast paced movie, rife with metaphor. A mood of chaos and uncertain boundaries is introduced early in the film. At a hotel in San Francisco, businessman Frank Bigelow, seeking little more than the ephemeral pleasure of a brief trip, finds himself in the midst of party revelers. With unsettling frivolity, they roam randomly about their various guest rooms which appear unlocked and opened. The mood of strident, forced conviviality climaxes when they move the party to a local bar called "The Fisherman." As the jazz played in the venue intensifies in volume and rhythm, uneven camera angles catch the various musicians playing to the point that they're breaking sweat and literally, physically vibrating. Bigelow himself is jostled about in the crowd, actually losing his footing for a moment. The setting is that of a little world both frenzied and crazed. Bigelow appears detached as all react excitedly and emotionally to music that he admits isn't his taste.

This memorable key scene portends his disconnection from those around him and represents a crack, however slight, in his life's foundation. Though initially reticent about socializing and imbibing with people he just met, he has unwittingly been thrust into a reality more threatening than is immediately apparent. Later in the film, a jarring example of his full blown isolation occurs when he finds himself in an outdoor, public area. In unbearable turmoil, he momentarily encounters a little girl innocently playing with a toy. She appears in soft lighting, contrasting starkly to the shadows surrounding Bigelow, whose face registers the painful shock of awareness that ordinary activity continues unabated even while he grapples with extreme danger. This is reinforced when seconds later he observes a young couple embracing, compounding his agonizing realization that all simple pleasures are now unattainable to him. Noticeably, when he is literally "up against the wall" his back is touching signage of "Life Magazine" logos. All that once comprised his own life, that which he had considered to be little more than mundane minutiae, is heightened in significance and irrevocably at stake.

Frank Bigelow: "I want to report a murder." Homicide Captain: "Where was this murder committed?" Frank Bigelow: "San Francisco, last night." Homicide Captain: "Who was murdered?" Frank Bigelow: "I was."

It must be the dream of all directors to open a film with a scene or line which carries great impact and remains in the memory. The opening line in D.O.A must rank among the most dramatically effective and intriguing lines that has ever opened a movie. This is the quintessential film noir. Edmond O'Brien as the tough, hard drinking businessman who has grown tired of the normalcy of his life and the clinging Paula. His holiday in San Francisco is an opportunity to break the shackels. The premise that the hero has been given a slow poison for which there is no cure, and only a day or so to solve his own murder before he dies, is exceptional. We also have an array of sultry "bad girls", a seedy villain and a manic hitman. Rudoph Mate directs brilliantly, not missing a moment to twist and turn the action at a fast pace with no dull moments. Scenes of O'Brien running through city streets after he has learned his fate are superb with incredibly realistic wide shots. The fact that his direction is so effective makes one wonder how he could have allowed the lapses of ridiculous canned "wolf whistles" whenever the hero passed a good looking girl in the early scenes. Although these "wolf whistles" are really out of place and very annoying, the film is so effective that we can forgive the indiscretion. This is a classic example of a brilliant plot superbly told in a way that is still gripping 50 years after it was made. D.O.A. defines Film Noir.

I remember seeing DOA for the first time as a kid. It was on the Late, Late Show, a perfect venue for what may be the best of the post-war noirs. As the movie tension mounted, it almost knocked my socks off. After all, how many films in those days ended with a "dead hero" charging around San Francisco, even if he wasn't a cable channel zombie.

Anyhow, don't let those sappy early scenes fool you. They're necessary to set up the contrasting downspiral that ensues. As it happens, Frank Bigelow (O'Brien) may be bored with his accounting job in a quiet little town, along with the prospects of marrying a conventional girl, Paula (Britton), and living out a routine existence there. So, at the first chance there he goes, off to enjoy adventures in the big city, even if only brief ones. And get a load of the available women swarming around his San Francisco hotel. Now that adventure beckons, it's no longer thoughts of Banning or Paula. (But what was musical arranger Tiomkin thinking with those utterly cartoonish wolf whistles, perhaps the movie's only flaw).

So, along with the goodtime gang he's hooked up with, it's off to wild nightspots for the suddenly footloose Bigelow. The trouble is Frank has taken a big step away from the ordered simplicity of his small town and into the unfamiliar world of chaotic city life. And worse, the frenzied chaos of The Fisherman, its strung-out patrons and aggressive atmosphere, clouds the fact that his life will never be the same. In fact, the jazz scene with it's blaring, chaotic close-ups amounts to a superb one-of-a-kind metaphor for the bizarre world the small town accountant has now entered. Just as importantly, it makes anything that happens thereafter seem weirdly possible. As a result, when Frank swallows what turns out to be a deadly neon toxin, it seems perfectly in keeping with this landscape of disorder.

I may be biased, but O'Brien really deserved at least an Oscar nomination for his energetic and nuanced performance, as though Hollywood ever rewarded low-budget B-movies. In fact, I'm ready to enter him in the Olympics, for that 500-yard mad dash down Market Street. What a great natural reaction to the news that he's already a dead man. And filming the sequence with, I suspect, a hidden camera adds a kind of realism to the convoluted remainder of the whodunit.

Another high point is the sequence with the psychotic Chester (Brand). What a great piece of casting. Brand has such distinctive features, which he twists to full effect on the tormented Bigelow. But little does he know that Frank has acquired a peculiar kind of power. After all, what does he need to be afraid of since he's already dead. That scene in the drug store where Chester overplays his hand is another piece of fine filming and staging. I wouldn't be surprised that many in the audience have speculated with what they would do with Frank's kind of power, heavily purchased though it is.

What's so amazing about the movie is how adeptly the theme builds right down to the inevitable climax. We begin with a glimpse of a well-ordered world, but one that quickly descends into the depths of chaos and disorder, as Bigelow travels a nightmare road in pursuit of the where and why of his killer. I take the moral to be a conservative one, something like appreciating the routine and conventional, since it's never certain when an uncaring fate might intervene. After all, Frank really only comes to appreciate Paula and his small town once he's experienced its opposite. It's something that could happen to any of us, since even the most routine act may have unforeseen consequences. That's what's so unsettling about the movie.

Anyway, it's hats off to everyone involved in the making of this memorable noir. It's one of those submerged classics like Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956) that surfaced only after a period on late night TV. Frankly, I still sometimes slip it out late at night, and pull up my socks real tight. To me, it's got that kind of staying power.

(In passing—living in LA, I occasionally pass the Bradbury Building and think of the movie. It looks pretty much the same as it did then, but has since acquired a kind of cachet among movie makers. I like to think it's because of the sweaty, underrated Eddie O'Brien and the unforgettable Frank Bigelow.)