Where Danger Lives

I really liked this movie. Faith Domergue is perfect as the scheming psychotic femme fatale. Claude Rains is excellent as her suave, slimy husband. And Robert Mitchum once again demonstrates his star quality as Domergue's dazed and confused lover, tumbling downstairs in his own stunt and staggering like a flesh-eating zombie toward the inevitable denouement at the Mexican border.

The movie starts slowly with Mitchum strutting his stuff as a doctor in a hospital. Then things get deliciously complicated when he falls for a beautiful, edgy, and manipulative patient (Domergue), who pulls him into her vicious web of intrigue and deception. There is a convincing fight scene with Rains, which leaves Mitchum seriously concussed and at the mercy of Domergue, who persuades him to flee with her to Mexico. Of course, you know they will never get there and the rest of the film follows them as they make their way through the various obstacles.

The Warner Classic Collection print was pristine with superb cinematography, lingering close-ups of the stars, and generally top-notch production. There are a lot of nice plot twists and I look forward to watching it again.

By the time 1950 rolled around, I guess the film noir genre was getting a bit mannered in its delivery. "Where Danger Lives" is a classic example of hack work, albeit with a touch of style, and with Mitchum in the lead, it is, of course, eminently watchable. Claude Rains is superb as well, but unlike Mitchum, he has the good sense to make his contribution a cameo role. (I guess he knows "where danger lives," eh?)

Even Mitchum can't save this turkey, however, although he appears to be trying his best. The contrived and rudimentary plot doesn't help; star-crossed lovers on the run, trying to escape a murder rap and get across the border. On the positive side of the ledger, along with Mitchum, this film attains a generally nightmarish atmosphere of pervasive doom which is occasionally effective; it reminded me of Jim Thompson's novel "The Getaway" which was eventually made into a movie with Steve McQueen. In essence, it is a morality play, with Mitchum the noble doctor having the hots for this crazy psychopath, betraying his "good woman"(Maureen O'Sullivan), and paying for his carnal transgression again and again; this is probably the movie's main ace in the hole.

This nifty part of the movie is hamstrung by absurd plot contrivances and lazy screen writing, unfortunately. Three examples: every time a radio is turned on, you can bet you are about to get another prime nugget of expository information, perfectly timed and delivered on a silver platter. The "Whiskers Week" plot device is even more comically ridiculous, and lastly, with the amount of cops looking for these two, you would suspect that they murdered an entire classroom of small children or something. (Don't get me started on the "mewing cat" or you might get your eyes scratched out.)

Thankfully, this uneven and sloppy movie clocks in at an efficient 82 minutes, so no serious harm done. If you're a Mitchum fan like me, you'll probably want to give it a look; just don't expect too much, and you'll probably find it mildly diverting.

Usually I laugh only while watching comedies but this "thriller" had me in stitches often! Laughing, that is, when I wasn't groaning in disbelief. Ignore the weighty "analysis" by the film noir experts--this movie, despite Robert Mitchum's best efforts to keep a straight face, is laughably bad. Without wasting a moment his character ditches his understanding and classy fiancee (played by director Farrow's wife, Maureen O'Sullivan) for a trashy suicide case. He soon gets hit pretty hard on the head and announces (he's a doctor, so he knows these things!) that he's got a concussion and he's going to be disoriented a lot and eventually end up paralyzed. So we're supposed to believe that he's led down this dark and dreary path by the "femme fatale" 'cause he's had a bad knock on the head--but he's already demonstrated a total lack of common sense and we've lost any identification we might've had as an audience with him. Incomprehensible, really.

The film starts with Mitchum telling stories to young patients, a likable and caring doctor. So why does he fall in love with this mad woman? 'Cause there wouldn't be a movie if he didn't. The film has nice black-and-white photography, good production values...hard to believe this much money was spent on such a lame-brain story.

'A few hours ago I felt on top of the world. Look at me now'

John Farrow's film is one of a small number of interesting noir thrillers the director helmed during the late 40's and early 50's. Included amongst these productions are the bizarre comedy of ‘His Kind of Woman' (1951) also with Mitchum, and the magnificently baroque ‘The Big Clock' (1948), with Ray Milland. ‘Where Danger Lives', a powerful, dream-like piece, has some claim to being the best of these, being respectively less diffuse and grandiose than the other two films. Its strengths lay elsewhere, still founded upon the characteristic insecurities of film noir, but dwelling explicitly on the processes of mental aberration. This successfully induces an unusually strong atmosphere of hallucination - in effect replacing paranoia with psychosis.

Only at the end of the film does the dazed hero realise that he has really been ‘dating the patient' – the deranged Margo. Thematically this respect it is similar to Otto Preminger's ‘Angel Face' (1953) and Brahm's intricate ‘The Locket' (1947), again both starring Mitchum. In all three films the actor confronts femmes fatales with hidden psychological disorders, illnesses of the mind which serve to internalise and, to a certain extent, symbolise the confusions of the noir universe. In this film however, his character is himself mentally confused through concussion, adding a perspective of further disorientation. ‘I may be seem to be talking logically' says Dr. Jeff Cameron (Mitchum) at one point. ‘But what I say won't make any sense'.

At the beginning of ‘Where Danger Lives', Cameron is a man clearly in control of himself, his career, and his love life. Given the concern of the film with health and well-being, it is eminently logical that he should be a doctor (although not a psychiatrist, as Margo's first husband makes a point of establishing). His presence in the hospital is commanding, authoritative even, his future clear. The ebbing away of these keystones to his life - in effect an emasculation after encountering the suicidal Margo - is drastic and troubling. At first he is merely slowed by his own inebriation, then confused by her deceit. This is followed shortly afterwards by the head blow by her outraged husband (played by Claude Rains in his most typically urbane, menacing style), which creates a more profound effect on his mental capabilities.

This is a film dominated by Margo and Jeff on the road, and their crazed relationship to each other. Jeff's concussion and resulting moral confusion, and Margo's hidden psychosis, make them ideal partners in the bewildering and uncertain world through which they travel. Jeff's mental distraction makes him passive, vulnerable, while Margo's compulsions make her determined, wiley and strong. Ultimately it is this distortion in their relationship, in some respect a reversal of the usual sex roles, which gives the film so much of its intrigue. Once Margo and Jeff have found each other, in fact, they play on the same ‘mad' circuit, hurtling towards a crash, like the racers which stunned Jeff visualises buzzing ‘up and down' in his head.

Farrow's direction follows the trajectory of events perfectly. At the start of the film, he shoots Mitchum's tall frame framed within the cold certainties of hospital hallways, uncluttered and unshadowed. By the end of the film he is slumped, hidden and confused within shadowy hotel rooms, or stumbling along dark sidewalks. In between times, Farrow is able to enjoy himself with the surreal episode of the beards festival, (a peculiarly bizarre moment even in the extreme experiences of noir) which works well in the context of the runaway's own mental disorientation.

The most powerful scene in the film is the penultimate confrontation of Jeff and Margo in the border hotel. Shot in one continuous take, Farrow effortlessly manages a number of complicated set ups within the frame as the two protagonists confront each other, and their reduced options, while moving around the set. Margo's final attack on Jeff, her attempted smothering of him (as she had done to her first husband much earlier) is so frightening because Mitchum's big frame is now so handicapped and reduced. Close to the Mexican border, Cameron is also close to unconsciousness, coma, and possibly death as well. The cheap hotel room, the broad, the flashing window sign, the rising tide of panic with a departing prospect of ‘escape' - these are all of course entirely typical of the genre. But by the time we reach this scene it is obvious too that, here at least, real danger lives as much in the head as in the world of police and shady border deals.

This peculiar excursion is skillfully shot by Nick Musuraca in the dark black and white nature of the genre in its era, and is capably helmed by John Farrow, who fruitfully captures these delirious visions. It's by and large a character study of an accomplished man blinded by lust, whose life disintegrates as it falls behind him. Mitchum is the guiltless man who is entrapped, but doesn't understand he's innocent until quite late. Too late? Only the will to live in spite of being so far out of his comfort zone and his senses can save him from this interesting spin on the framed-for-murder predisposition of the formula.

Mitchum, as was his modus operandi, once again put on airs of sleepy-eyed detachment and barrel-chested reserve, but in this case, he is interesting and sympathetic, realistically showing how a smart guy and such an experienced doctor could be in such a weak position. He genuinely and believably connects to the emotional and sensory reality of his bewildered character, whose feelings and senses are constantly in flux. Likewise, director John Farrow effectively taps the outlandish, hallucinatory traits in this customary noir plot: Mitchum spends the last half of the film barreling down the dirt roads of southern California with a concussion, fainting cyclically and awakening enclosed by some of the murkiest landscape the U.S. has to present.

Yes, Mitchum is cast against type as a stable professional, but actually, I think Faith Domergue is equally if not more accountable for the lack of artifice in Mitchum's performance than he is. From moment to moment, and this is most definitely a movie that lives in the present, she genuinely affects him. They're not just saying lines at one another, overlapping their words and movements with some programmed, bottled manner. The sultry, manic, hard-bitten, shifty-eyed edge is real. What's more, Claude Rains as always is superb, in a small role but a pretty important one, where his every motion looks to be controlled over a maniacal wrath all set to gush out, best illustrated by his malicious grin while meeting his wife's lover. And the film's a pleasingly bizarre screwball streak further sets it apart as a unique entry in the film noir canon.