Film Noir

The File on Thelma Jordon

/ Colin McGuigan / 6 Comments

“I’m fed up. Ever heard that phrase? No, you wouldn’t. You’re not married.”

There’s that unmistakeable air of the mid-life crisis which pervades The File on Thelma Jordon (1949). It is clearly stated that the male lead is just 35 years old, but his attitude, his mindset, the cloud of vague dissatisfaction that dogs him all evoke a sense of middle-aged ennui. This is a classic noir setup, the monotony of finding oneself plowing along a rigidly defined rut, the soul-sapping realization that the adventurous promise of youth has yielded to the safe predictability of a humdrum existence. When a man becomes aware of this then the danger signals start to flash insistently. Maybe it’s a timeless affliction, but the postwar male was particularly susceptible to it. The struggles and sacrifices of WWII were supposed to lead to freedom and certainly something better than a dull and unfulfilling life, weren’t they? And this is the premise that underpins the drama which unfolds, the disillusionment felt by a man who finds himself hemmed in.

The File on Thelma Jordon works its way through a range of styles and touches on a succession of different genre conventions. It opens in a semi-comedic style, with Assistant District Attorney Cleve Marshall (Wendell Corey) painted in broad, almost farcical, strokes as he ties one on and revels in self-pity on the evening of his wedding anniversary. If he could be said to be unhappily married, it’s not so much that his discontent stems from his feelings (or any lack thereof) for his wife (Joan Tetzel), more that he is overwhelmed by his overbearing father-in-law.  When Thelma Jordon (Barbara Stanwyck) stops by the chief investigator’s office to report fears about burglaries at the home of her elderly and extremely wealthy aunt she is mildly amused. Soon though, a romance develops between Cleve and Thelma, an illicit one given his marital status and the gossipy instincts of people in general. At this point, the story has moved on via the furtive intensity of such love affairs to become something of a doomed romance picture, before taking a sharp left turn into thriller territory. This occurs when the old lady is discovered shot dead in her own parlor, with Thelma left in a distinctly tricky position – accused of murder in fact. What follows is a classic courtroom drama, one where Cleve contrives to have himself installed as chief prosecutor in the hopes of sabotaging his own case against Thelma. Finally, the story segues into full throttle melodrama with a truly startling climax.

Robert Siodmak could be said to have played one of the most instrumental roles in the development of film noir. One only has to look at the string of superb movies he made through the 1940s, starting with Christmas Holiday and finishing off with Deported, to see the quality of his work and how influential it remains. Even if it does not quite mark the end of that cycle, I think The File on Thelma Jordon counts as his last truly great film noir. As I mentioned in the opening paragraph, the core of the story catches that post-WWII mood neatly: it is shot evocatively with deep chiaroscuro shadows, and plenty of noir visual motifs on show – bars, railings, blinds and tilted angles – and features a marvelously calculating femme fatale in Stanwyck. Siodmak frequently leant into melodrama in his films noir and the tendency is especially evident in this movie. Of course, a good deal of that is likely down to screenwriter Ketti Frings, whose work was notably strong in that direction. Around this time she also wrote the script for The Accused, another noir with a high melodrama quotient, not to mention a plot which is predicated on the notion of poor judgement and questionable choices. As such, visually, thematically and in terms of core concepts this represents a solid basis for a classic film noir.

Barbara Stanwyck and Wendell Corey made three films together, all Hal Wallis productions for Paramount: this one, The Furies and Sorry, Wrong Number, the latter being the only one where they were not romantically paired. Does the relationship work? I would say it does as Corey is very successful at tapping into the more gullible or credulous aspects of his character. He is ultimately the dupe in a complex scheme and much depends on his ability to convey the transition from initial naivety, through suspicion, to eventual realization. In a way, the movie, via the characterization of Cleve, traces something of a circle – he starts out frustrated and disappointed and winds up arguably more disillusioned by the end, albeit in a very different way and for different reasons. Stanwyck turns in a performance of  great slyness and subtlety, the craftiness with which she carries off her part is something that becomes increasingly apparent with repeat viewings of the film, and therefore adds up to another finely judged piece of work from her.

The supporting cast all inhabit their roles satisfactorily too. Paul Kelly essays great sincerity as the investigator who is also Cleve’s friend. Stanley Ridges is deliciously slippery as the defense counsel who has pretty much everyone’s number right from the off. His early consultation with Thelma as both of them fence and dance around their suspicions is played with consummate skill, and again the layering and shading are even more impressive when the movie is viewed more than once. Joan Tetzel (Duel in the Sun, The Paradine Case) ends up slightly overshadowed in a role which is more straightforward than those around her, but she acquits herself well enough. Finally, Richard Rober does another solid job as Thelma’s old flame – he doesn’t get a huge amount of screen time but he was always a convincing noir presence. Without wishing to be glib, I have to to say there’s something almost eerie about the parallel between the shocking demise of his character in this movie and the way his own life was to be cut so tragically short just a few years later.

The File on Thelma Jordon was released on DVD and Blu-ray by the now defunct Olive Films, though it is still available to buy. I bought the DVD myself when it came out years ago and I feel the transfer still holds up well. The only disappointing aspect was the fact there were absolutely no supplements on the disc, which seems unfortunate given the quality of the cast, the director and indeed the movie itself. Even so, this is well worth tracking down if you can lay your hands on a copy. All told, it’s a smooth combination of melodrama and noir where no one comes away unscathed yet also one where the idea of redemption is still present.

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Flamingo Road

/ Colin McGuigan / 47 Comments

“He’s the only man I know that can make a sow’s ear out of a silk purse. Somehow I always hate to see it happen.“

Graft, greed, ambition , manipulation, betrayal… and that’s just a representative sample of the themes and ideas explored in Flamingo Road (1949). The list of descriptors that could be applied to the plot machinations and gyrations of prime melodrama is practically an endless one, all of which goes some way toward explaining how endlessly fascinating the genre tends to be, not to mention how compatible it is with other genres and styles of filmmaking.

The familiarity we all have with those aforementioned themes is part of what makes melodrama such an identifiable form; even if the status of those portrayed is far removed from that of the viewer, the core principles that drive the narrative have that everyman quality that allows an almost intuitive understanding of how the characters act and react. The opening lines of the movie reinforce that sense, reminding us that every town, big or small, has its Flamingo Road, one of those thoroughfares where those with money, power and influence reside. And all the other areas that make up a typical settlement, from civic centers to fleshpots, are to be found in the town of Boldon City. After dangling the promise of easy, gracious living on that titular street, we are transported to “the wrong side of the tracks” to the patch of ground occupied by a traveling carnival, one replete with freak shows and exotic dancers. Lane Bellamy (Joan Crawford) is eking out an uncertain living as one of those dancers, going through the moves under the dispassionate gaze of gum-chewing adolescents. With the show hastily being given the bum’s rush, she finds herself high and dry, so to speak.

When the reluctant and unmotivated sheriff’s deputy Fielding Carlisle (Zachary Scott) is sent to ensure the carnival has upped stakes and left, he finds only Lane reclining on her bunk in a shabby tent listening to the radio. Probably more out of pity than anything else at that stage, he takes her into town, buys her some food and even manages to wangle a job for her as a waitress in the local diner. None of this escapes the attention of the calculating sheriff Titus Semple (Sydney Greenstreet). Gross and glowering, this seersucker-clad kingmaker has lined Carlisle up as rising star in the local political landscape and seeing him mixed-up with a lowly carnival dancer is decidedly not part of the plan. To cut to the chase, the burgeoning romance is nipped in the bud, Lane is not only fired but also tossed in prison on a trumped up charge of soliciting, and the sheriff presses ahead with his ambitions. Yet Lane is made of sterner stuff and she gradually claws her way back into society, latching onto and marrying political boss Dan Reynolds (David Brian). Amid the occasional slights and the snobbery of a small town, Lane continues to butt heads with Titus and both of them warily circle each other as wheels turn within wheels in the background and the scene is relentlessly set for a zero sum game of revenge where the biggest casualties are likely to be Reynolds and Carlisle.

The screenplay of Flamingo Road was adapted from his play of the same name by Robert Wilder. While I’ve not seen the source material, I think it’s safe to say some alteration had to be made and euphemisms put in place to tiptoe around the inevitable production code objections to some of the developments. As I watched this I couldn’t help wondering whether Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus was at least a partial inspiration for the naming of the sheriff. Did Wilder have that tale of implacable and terrible revenge and rivalry between Titus and Tamora in mind when he came up with the character’s name? Either way, the film does descend incrementally into ever deeper darkness as the protagonists cut and parry at each other in their personal arena. The longer it goes on the more it shifts toward film noir. Michael Curtiz had already worked to great acclaim with Joan Crawford and Zachary Scott on the classic noir melodrama Mildred Pierce and leans into some of the same ideas here. He employs tried and tested noir imagery and techniques – reliance on shadows, blinds and frequent deep focus composition, particularly in the last act.

One of the great strengths of the studio system was its ability to make use of a pool of stars and cast them in roles that fit them like a glove. Of course that didn’t always come off and we can all probably think of instances of poorly judged casting. However, a movie such as Flamingo Road clearly demonstrates how successful it could be. The role of Lane Bellamy would have been meat and drink to Joan Crawford in the wake of her career resurgence in Mildred Pierce. The part offered plenty of scope to exploit the persona of style, grit and personal integrity she had honed by that stage. She was a powerful screen presence and needed someone equally strong to act as a foil – step forward Sydney Greenstreet. He was fast approaching retirement but his relatively short cinema career saw him grow into characters where his bulk and brooding threat was never less than memorable. He’s a superb villain, Machiavellian and dangerous with not even the faintest trace of a scruple. Zachary Scott was able to easily occupy roles defined by weakness and dissipation, and if his character’s downward spiral is not charted in as much detail as one might like, that’s down to the constraints of the script rather than any deficiency on the part of the actor.  The tragically short-lived Gladys George played the roadhouse owner in that style of hers characterized by a toughness born of personal honor. Maybe she doesn’t attain the level of pathos she did in The Roaring Twenties but she still turns in a performance that feels very credible. David Brian is terrific in his debut, fully invested in his part and with none of the stiffness that he could occasionally display.

Flamingo Road was available as a good DVD from Warner Brothers and has since been issued on a very attractive Blu-ray by the same studio. The movie is a wonderfully entertaining blend of melodrama and noir that is packed with interesting themes and developments, as such it’s not hard to see why it was picked up and expanded into a TV series in the early 1980s. Recommended viewing.

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Armored Car Robbery

/ Colin McGuigan / 30 Comments

Sometimes a title will intrigue, sometimes it will beguile, and sometimes it’s just self-explanatory. Armored Car Robbery (1950) by Richard Fleischer lets us know exactly what the subject  matter will be right off the bat. I guess if one wanted to be pedantic, the real focus of the movie is on the aftermath of that robbery in the title. Even so, there’s not much doubt about what you’re going to get and the film itself is a model of the same kind of pared back economy. It is most refreshing to spend time with a movie that can tell an absorbing story in a little over an hour without the narrative feeling rushed or unduly compressed.

We are thrown straight into the tale from the off, witnessing the finishing touches to a plan being applied by its mastermind Dave Purvis (William Talman). Nevertheless, even as we  watch him recording the response time of the LAPD to a reported incident at Wrigley Field ballpark, there’s that sense that all will not go off exactly the way he’s reckoned. It’s the way of things in crime movies, and maybe more tellingly the way of things in relation to human interaction. No matter how meticulous the planning, there’s no getting away from the foibles and vagaries of that most incalculable of all elements, the human heart. The illogicality, and in this case perhaps the emotional dysfunction, of humanity is neatly illustrated when the attention shifts to Purvis’ associate Benny McBride (Douglas Fowley). He is first glimpsed in a box seat in a burlesque theater with a big grin all over his face. Why? Because he’s getting a massive kick out of watching his estranged wife Yvonne (Adele Jergens) stripping on stage. It’s apparent too that he’s maybe deriving even more enjoyment from the fact he’s looking at an auditorium full of baying strangers lapping up the view. When we learn that that she wants no more to do with him, the spectacle of a man reveling in the pleasure of strangers watching the woman he can no longer have undressing in public is quite sobering. You just know this cannot end well, and it’s hammered home with greater force when yet another wrinkle is added – Purvis is romancing Yvonne behind McBride’s back. As such, when the heist alluded to in the title hits the inevitable snag, there’s no real surprise to be had. Somewhat perversely, given the tangle of personal affairs, the glitch comes from the outside, the combination of an unexpected error in the timing as well as a couple of stray shots. The result is a dead detective, a mortally wounded McBride and a panicked getaway. The rest of the movie follows on from that, with the tough and rasping Lieutenant Cordell (Charles McGraw) hell bent on running in the hoods who have left his friend dead on the sidewalk. It devolves into what we would now term a police procedural, as clues are painstakingly collated and woven into a net that will be drawn inexorably tighter.

Richard Fleischer’s early films noir are all enjoyably pacy movies, all coming home at around an hour with only Trapped stretching as far as 80 minutes or thereabouts. There’s a directness to them, a kind of relentlessness that drives them on toward a no nonsense resolution. That’s obviously a product of their B status, but Fleischer brought a style to his presentations that wasn’t always apparent in other budget features. His close-up shots are particularly effective, that focus on Fowley’s reaction to his wife’s performance has a certain shock value once it’s known what their relationship is. And the director gets mileage too from having Talman, Steve Brodie and Gene Evans scuttling round piles of lumber and freight on a shadow drenched dockside while McGraw’s squad tries to ferret them out. The later interrogation of Steve Brodie after he’s been picked up is tightly framed, emphasising how little wriggle room he has, and when McGraw thrusts himself aggressively into the shot there’s no doubt whatsoever how neatly he has been snared. None of this requires expensive or complex setups, just a good eye for composition and lighting and the awareness of how to catch a mood and portray it on the screen.

The best of the early Fleischer noirs are the two starring Charles McGraw – Armored Car Robbery and The Narrow Margin – both of which cast the hard-edged actor in what appear to be uncharacteristically heroic roles. So successful had he been as tough enforcer types for Anthony Mann and Robert Siodmak that he seems to have been born to inhabit such parts. Yet these two Fleischer movies use the man’s natural abrasiveness to excellent effect while still placing him on the side of the angels. The gruff, bulldog demeanor is fitting for a man in charge of a dangerous assignment, and one with a strong element of personal interest too owing to the death of his long-serving partner. He never comes across as unnecessarily belligerent, rather he is as forceful as any particular situation demands. William Talman was another of those supporting players who could shade his work according to the requirements of the script. He could be terrifyingly dangerous as in The Hitch-Hiker, combative and adversarial as Hamilton Burger in TV’s Perry Mason, or even selflessly heroic in The Racket. Adele Jergens had the right brassy quality as the femme fatale of the piece; maybe more could have been done with the triangle between herself, Talman and Fowley, but there’s enough on screen as it is and too wide a detour in that direction might well have slowed some of the story’s momentum. In support, one can’t ask for much better than people of the caliber of Douglas Fowley, Steve Brodie and Gene Evans.

Armored Car Robbery is what might be termed a textbook RKO film noir, tough and tight as a drum, and immensely satisfying to watch. I think that studio’s B movies were in a class of their own with high levels of craftsmanship on show on many occasions, and no little artistry to found in some of them too. Armored Car Robbery may be a small movie and a modest one at that, but it’s also straight out of the top drawer.

The Sellout

/ Colin McGuigan / 40 Comments

Initially, I had planned to post something different today, but that can wait. Sometimes circumstances just produce odd little coincidences, we end up viewing a movie or reading a book or story that quite by chance seems to hold a mirror up to events unfolding before us. The very fact this occurs without our actively having sought out some visual corollary makes the effect all the more striking. It is sobering to remember too that 76 years ago people were warning of the dangers of complacency, ringing alarms over the way corruption and graft can creep surreptitiously into the fabric of life, how bullies and self-serving chiselers can threaten and intimidate while hiding behind the cloak of laws they manipulate and soil rather than respect. Even more unsettling is the fact The Sellout (1952) painted its picture of contemptuous authoritarianism as a localized, contained phenomenon. It should give us all pause when we realize that virtually the same unsavory themes are now being played out in real life both nationally and internationally.

Structurally, The Sellout feels like a film of two distinct halves for the simple reason that the action plays out through the eyes of two quite different protagonists – newspaper editor Haven Allridge (Walter Pidgeon) and ambitious state attorney Chick Johnson (John Hodiak). It opens with Allridge, with the stoicism, stability and straight-down-the-line respectability an actor like Pidgeon effortlessly projects. That a man such as this – successful, comfortable and with a solid family life – should end up being rolled by a sly grifter (Thomas Gomez), tossed behind bars in a cell full of lowlifes and humiliated is supposed to shock, and it does so. That he is forced (in a scene that is as suggestively unpleasant as the production code of the time would allow) to witness the degradation of his companion, a man he generously offered a ride home, hammers this point home even more resoundingly. His sense of outrage is palpable and, using the tools available to him through his profession, he embarks on a campaign to expose the rottenness which has been growing steadily in his state. And then, just as he appears poised to land the killer blow, he stops, dropping out of sight for a time before inexplicably deciding to relocate and take up a new job in Detroit. The reason for this sudden reversal is eventually revealed through the diligent and relentless investigative work of Johnson, resolutely assisted by local cop Maxwell (Karl Malden).

Gerald Mayer had made the tense and tightly confined Dial 1119 a few years earlier and he does sound work here, certainly good enough to leave me wishing he had racked up a few more titles in his relatively modest feature filmography before moving into his long and prolific career directing for television. Exposé movies can become dull affairs at times, sometimes due to the limited nature of whatever issue it is that’s being highlighted, or maybe the one-dimensional characters that can populate them. The Sellout avoids those pitfalls due to both the quality of the acting and the (probably unexpected) timelessness of the script. Both Pidgeon and Hodiak bring subtle shading to their characters, the former especially, and aren’t just the impossibly noble figures that one sometimes sees.

A strong supporting lineup is always a boon, adding weight and interest to those scenes where the main players are absent or otherwise sidelined. The Sellout has genuine depth in support with Karl Malden, Audrey Totter, Everett Sloane, Cameron Mitchell, Thomas Gomez and Paula Raymond all making significant contributions at various vital points in the narrative.

However, even a stellar cast working well can struggle to make an impression if the material they are handed is subpar. There is forever a risk of any issue driven picture dating badly, in the sense that the themes explored may be tied inextricably to situations which have since lost relevance. Normally, I would say it’s fortunate that concerns depicted still resonate and clamor for attention today. In the case of The Sellout, I can’t help feeling that any comment acknowledging that fact really ought to be preceded by the word ‘unfortunately’. That said,  this is a fine film, one that is in the unusual position of being an even more worthwhile viewing experience today than would have been so when it was made. With that, I shall leave you, without further comment, with a transcription of the speech John Hodiak makes during the climactic courtroom scenes:

“In the mute parade of these frightened citizens. Weak men and strong men who have become weak and big men who have become little. All frightened. Their very silence testifies to that more strongly than shouted words… Their first protection was the law. Out of the domination of brutal and ruthless men, the law was turned against them. There is another protection: public opinion. Public Opinion finds its voice in the press, the free press. Here, a courageous editor brought his newspaper to the battle: he fought. His blows began to hurt. And little men who’d been fooled or frightened began to stir… to fall in behind his waving banner. But then something happened. Exactly what happened we don’t know. We may never know. But we do know that the voice of the public was stilled. The press had been enslaved… and when the press lost its freedom, these people lost their freedom. And Freedom is no idle phrase, it’s close and personal. It’s the right of Wilford Jackson, Walter Higby, Bennie Amboy. These people… of you and me… weak and strong… big and little to follow our normal pursuits in peace and without fear. Your Honor, the situation I’m covering here today is a symptom of civic cancer. We smell its malignancy not only in the terror-stricken avoidance of civic duty by this parade of bribed and intimidated witnesses, not only in the treasonable misconduct of public officials, not only in the violence, abuse, and even death we’ve observed… but in the growing helplessness of all decent people and their apparent apathy to the tightening grip of these ruthless men. This cancer must be traced down to its roots. It must be cut out or it will spread. And when it spreads far enough… the community will die. I therefore plead that this court free the people of Bridgewood County from the dictatorship of fear by finding cause to bind these defendants over for trial. The state rests.”

Undertow

/ Colin McGuigan / 61 Comments

In an era where entertainment gives the impression of becoming ever more bloated and unwieldy, where books seem to be sold by the page count and thus by weight like some indigestible stodge, where even movies which tell essentially pulp stories have running times that defy both logic and the endurance of the human body, it is a true joy to watch a film which is tight and trim enough to take care of business in just an hour and ten minutes. That ought to be a recommendation in itself yet Undertow (1949) has the added bonus of being a remarkably entertaining film noir, William Castle’s best effort in the genre/style in fact.

The war as a watershed – how many times has one come across that particular bromide? Yet its essential truth is undeniable. The image of the returning veteran, those men who dreamed of better days amid the waking nightmare of their years of service, is one familiar to the noir audience. Such men immediately draw sympathy by virtue of the sacrifices they made and this adds an edge to the dangers and depravities they confront on their return home. By 1949 the war was already slipping back into the misty corners of the past, the world was rushing ahead and wasn’t necessarily in any mood to slow down and wait for men trying to catch up with events that had bounded four years and more ahead of them. Tony Reagan (Scott Brady) is introduced as a classic postwar character. He’s a veteran with a vaguely shady past who has grown as a result of his experiences and is now focused on cementing a future for himself and the woman he hopes to make his wife. He has just bought a share in the hunting lodge business of a fallen comrade in arms, and is on his way to Chicago to propose to his fiancée Sally (Dorothy Hart). His last evening in Reno sees him briefly hooking up with a pal from his gambling past Danny Morgan (John Russell), as well as making the brief acquaintance of vacationing schoolteacher Ann McKnight (Peggy Dow). All of these people will cross his path when he lands in Chicago and also lands in deep trouble.  The classic noir protagonist frequently finds himself skewered on the horns of a dilemma, trapped somewhere between the pull of his past and typically bad choices going forward. This certainly fits Tony Reagan, a man who was told by crime boss, and Sally’s uncle, Big Jim Lee to stay out of Chicago and away from his niece.

There’s to be no hero’s welcome for Reagan; on his arrival at the airport he’s met by cops who run him downtown for a bit of friendly advice from the precinct captain, namely that he shouldn’t waste any time unpacking. That he ignores this tip shouldn’t come as any surprise, nor should the fact that he is soon slugged, blindfolded and shot, all as a prelude to a frame that looks like fitting him very snugly. If the movie has a weakness it stems from the way it sets itself up as a kind of whodunit where there’s no great mystery with regard to the actual culprit. In this case certain character traits as well as the way a vital piece of information was only available to one person don’t so much point the finger at as turn the spotlight full force on one individual, and when you see who that is then the rest of it kind of falls into place. Still, none of that really matters as much of the pleasure derived from following Reagan on his nighttime odyssey through Chicago trying to keep a half a step ahead of the cops, calling in favors and only realizing the full extent of his peril at the last moment.

William Castle, like all studio era directors, worked in just about every genre but the bulk of his work fell into three categories: horror, crime and westerns. The horror movies have traditionally gained more attention from critics and fans alike, which arguably says as much for the enduring popularity of that genre as it does for the movies themselves. If I’m being honest, I don’t believe the quality of Castle’s films overall is commensurate with the level of attention they have received down the years. That may come across as somewhat curmudgeonly yet it’s not my intention to do so – I like Castle’s films for the most part and find the majority of them entertaining, just not necessarily always that good. Still, his better work does stand out and I’d have no hesitation in placing Undertow among those better pictures. At this stage in his career there was none of the gimmickry and clowning that would come to be seen as characteristic of the man. Instead, what we get is a compact and atmospheric piece of budget filmmaking that punches well above its weight.

Shakespeare had Caesar remark that Cassius had a lean and hungry look and was therefore dangerous. Perhaps John Russell ought to have been cast as Cassius then at some point in his career for he surely fitted that description. Even though he had heroic leading roles on TV  in both Soldier of Fortune and then Lawman, his villainous parts on the big screen tend to be memorable and carry an edge of authenticity to them. He turned in a strong performance in De Toth’s Man in the Saddle and I watched him a while back in Hell Bound and was again impressed. The latter has that typical mean streak that can be found in Bel-Air movies and Russell managed to embody that successfully. Scott Brady was a suitable pick for the lead too, only a few years out of WWII service himself, he had the right combination of toughness and sympathy to be believable as someone with underworld connections but also with the nous to realize his future lay in a different direction. Bruce Bennett’s reassuring presence as the conflicted friend adds solidity to the supporting cast; his well played scenes with his boss and particularly the short interlude in the basement workroom of his home help to ground the story. The two female roles were filled by actresses who had very short screen careers. Peggy Dow appeared for a mere three years between 1949 and 1952 , while Dorothy Hart stretched it out a little longer, running from 1947 to 1952 in features and a couple more on TV. Both had a number of good movies to their credit with Dow possibly squeezing more memorable work in during her brief time as an actress.

Undertow acts as a noteworthy example of the kind of well crafted crime and noir movies Universal-International was capable of producing. It’s gratifying that so many of these are now accessible and can be viewed in good quality, something fans of the studio’s output could only dream of a few years ago. Already released in the US in one of Kino’s box sets, the movie is getting an individual release in the UK ( Amazon link – As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases) with plenty of supplementary features via Powerhouse/Indicator in January.

Dial 1119

/ Colin McGuigan / 27 Comments

Give me a small cast of characters, ideally a cross-section of humanity, from the happy and hopeful to the hapless and despairing, lock them into some confined space in a way that shouldn’t be too contrived and I’m generally satisfied. Those limits and restrictions imposed by the situation tend to bring about some excellent drama. So it is with Dial 1119 (1950), something of a low budget sleeper which generates a good deal of suspense and tension from its simple premise. It demonstrates what can be achieved by a smart and focused script allied with a professional lineup devoid of big name stars.

Think of an oasis and the notion of growth and fertility, of life itself, tends to spring to mind. It’s the name of the bar in which perhaps 90% of the action in Dial 1119 takes place, though this particular bar is in reality something of a dead end in more ways than one. Aptly enough, one of the first characters we see is a reporter (James Bell) who has arrived at the weary middle-aged conclusion that his job has indeed led him up a blind alley, that the place he’s at is all it’s ever going to be. He talks of quitting, of throwing in the towel on the whole business, but as a colleague tells him he’s not really serious about it, and payday is just around the corner after all. No, he decides to go round the corner, in a manner of speaking, and drop into his local bar for a drink on the way home. And there’s the woman (Andrea King) drifting toward the dispiriting prospect of spinsterhood at the ripe old age of 28. She’s getting ready to try to stave off that blank future by heading out to meet a man (Leon Ames), although she tells her (off screen) mother that she’s going away on a trip with a girlfriend. She too is headed for that same bar. Then there is the bar itself, a walk up place that claims to offer all the luxuries of the day, from air-conditioning to one of those newfangled TV sets. It’s a dour spot though, with a barman going by the name of Chuckles (William Conrad) who looks like he’s not cracked a smile since he grew his first tooth and who carps about the cheap clientele he’s saddled with. As the small group of customers drifts in and sets about tackling whatever drowsy numbness dulls their particular senses another joins them, an intense young man called Gunther Wyckoff (Marshall Thompson).

The viewer has already seen what Wyckoff is capable of since it’s been made clear that he’s on the run from a psychiatric hospital and we’ve seen him calmly shoot down a bus driver just because he got in his way. While we catch glimpses of the lives of the others in the bar, in addition to those mentioned there is also the alcoholic good time girl (Virginia Field) and the expectant first-time father (Keefe Brasselle), the TV in the background starts to broadcast news of a fugitive who has just killed a man. As the bartender grows uneasily aware that this killer looks a lot like the neurotic young guy who is stationed at the far end of the counter, we too have realized that the situation is poised on a particularly sharp knife’s edge. Before long more violence takes place and a state of siege develops with Wyckoff barricading himself and his ill-starred hostages in the saloon while the police wait outside and weigh up the pros and cons of allowing the killer’s shrink in to talk to him.

Aside from the drama inherent in this kind standoff situation, the film deftly notes the growing and evolving role of the media, especially the broadcast media, at the time. The film opens with a radio announcer telling the time and introducing a dance music show before cutting to a newsroom where the aforementioned disgruntled reporter is tapping out a would-be resignation letter. Soon, after Andrea King’s desperate romantic dreamer has been presented, the action segues into the screen of the TV mounted above the bar of the Oasis. In this way the three major sources of information of the era are shown in succession, and it is the latter which will have the most powerful influence on how matters develop. It provides the means by which Wyckoff’s identity is established by the bartender and then it offers live coverage of the siege from right outside the door, allowing the hostages inside the opportunity to watch the world on the outside watching them, simultaneously highlighting the gradual subordination of the traditional print media in the process. Somehow this feels appropriate given the fact the movie was directed by Gerald Mayer (nephew of MGM supremo Louis B Mayer), a man who made only a handful feature films himself and who would go on to work on a long list of successful TV shows over the following four decades.

Marshall Thompson was top billed as the delusional Wyckoff and he is suitably detached, a dangerous man with a vaguely sullen baby face, killing coolly and with no apparent regrets. Without wanting to delve too deep into spoiler territory for anyone who hasn’t seen the movie, I found the neat subversion of the classic noir scenario of a returning veteran traumatized by his experiences and struggling to adapt to post-war life to be most interesting. Should anyone wish to comment on or make any observations on that aspect, they are welcome to in the comments section below, but I’m going to refrain from doing so myself in the body of the piece here. Small films with correspondingly small casts frequently operate as ensemble pieces and I think this is generally true of Dial 1119. Even if everyone gets an opportunity to hold the spotlight at some point, the one who most consistently draws the attention is Virginia Field. It’s something of a foolproof role as written but still needed a capable actress to pull it all together. Field comes over as faded, jaded yet incorrigibly sassy at the same time and she also gets to make the pivotal move during the climactic scene. Andrea King’s part offers less scope,  but it’s well played. Leon Ames is superbly insincere in a fairly standard part, while the ever reliable James Bell carries around the quality of watchful intelligence that has bolstered many a movie. Sam Levene could play any role under the sun – though for some reason I tend to visualize him mainly as a cop – and he’s suitably earnest as the doctor. Noir stalwart Richard Rober played the actual cop while William Conrad, as usual, managed to do quite a lot with very little.

Dial 1119 was an MGM production, not a studio generally noted for its contributions to film noir. It was released on DVD years ago by Warner Brothers in one of the later film noir collections, paired on disc with Phil Karlson’s The Phenix City Story. A lot of WB sets from around that time have proven to be unreliable, but so far my own copies of this noir box all remain functional, thankfully. It might not be all that well known yet it is a terrific little tough luck chamber piece which packs a lot into its hour and a quarter running time. Highly recommended.

The House on Telegraph Hill

/ Colin McGuigan / 45 Comments

The fact that it is not a proper genre, per se, means film noir is in the fortunate position of being able to cross over all kinds of boundaries. This allows it to shift from its most characteristic low-rent, modern urban milieu to various points in history as well as a wide range of locales. In short, it is versatile enough to hook up with just about any genre one cares to mention. The woman in peril picture is a sub-genre that has a strong connection to the Gothic romance of literature. It typically sees a young woman, often of humble background, who is suddenly thrust into an alien situation or environment, one where the initial attractions are soon stripped of their charm only to reveal some ugly threat beneath. Both in visual and thematic terms, there is ample opportunity to apply the classic noir setup and The House on Telegraph Hill (1951) does so very attractively.

The story has its roots in a very understandable desire to escape the past, to eke out a more promising future, and to do so by assuming a totally different identity. Everything begins in Europe, in the death camp of Belsen to be precise. A young Polish woman Viktoria (Valentina Cortese) endures the horrors and deprivation of the camp and when liberation arrives she impulsively grabs at the chance to make a new start. She takes on the identity of her dead friend Karin in the hope that this will facilitate her move to the USA, where that friend’s young son is being raised by relatives. Since the boy was too young to have any memory of his real mother and no other direct family members are still alive, the deception looks like it may succeed. It seems even more likely when she ends up marrying the child’s guardian Alan Spender (Richard Basehart) and moving to San Francisco to live in the titular mansion overlooking the city by the bay. After the living hell of Belsen this opulent life in California seems almost too good to be true, and so it proves to be as the realization gradually dawns on her that someone is determined to kill her.

A Gothic mystery, or romance, conjures images of the past, of imposing and isolated houses under lowering skies that serve to confine as much as protect. So it is with The House on Telegraph Hill, where despite the contemporary setting the residence itself feels like it is an extension of a bygone age. This is the source of both its allure and its peril – the house is wonderfully realized, ornate and oozing old world luxury within while the exterior has a brooding aura. It draws Karin, and the audience too, with the promise of comfort and security and simultaneously acts as a trap of sorts, a jail with expertly carved balustrades and pillars standing in for the more customary stark iron bars. The location work on the streets of San Francisco add a touch of modern realism to the movie – especially in the excellent sequence where Karin’s car races uncontrollably down those steep hills after the brakes have been tampered with – but those interior scenes are the most atmospheric.

Robert Wise had cut his teeth and learnt his craft at RKO editing for Welles and then getting his chance to direct a couple of dark fairy tales under the supervision of Val Lewton. By the time he made The House on Telegraph Hill he had almost a dozen movies as director under his belt. The opening scenes at Belsen have a suitably grim and gritty tone, similar to what he had captured in the prison sequence in Two Flags West a few years earlier. The pace does flag a little after that and while the build up to Karin and Alan’s marriage needs to be shown, and is done reasonably briskly, it still slows things down somewhat. Nevertheless, once we move to San Francisco both the tone and pace remain remarkably consistent and focused. Lucien Ballard’s cinematography is used to great effect here and he evokes suspicion and unease from such normally mundane images as a branch tapping against a window pane at night or a figure silhouetted in a doorway. Sol Kaplan delivers what I would term a muscular score, admittedly one which some may find overbearing a times.

Hitchcock liked to use the generally innocuous glass of milk – see Notorious or Suspicion – as a conduit for something altogether less wholesome, as did Peter Godfrey in The Two Mrs Carrolls for that matter. Wise opts for a glass of orange juice and gets some mileage out of a game of chicken as a result. Richard Basehart started out playing vaguely unhinged types and the fact is he had a certain look about him that encouraged that. There was something about his fair features and impenetrable eyes in those early years that was slightly unsettling and that business with the orange juice, which allowed for and demanded close-ups, leaned into that quality. I believe The House on Telegraph Hill was the film where Basehart and Valentina Cortese met, and they subsequently married. She excels in the concentration camp scenes and their aftermath, touching on the right blend of determination and despair. All told, she does good work and convincingly grows into the part of woman whose increasing confidence is continually being undermined by her fear and a gnawing sense of guilt over the deception she is engaged in. William Lundigan was an actor I have always felt was a bit colorless – that said, he did appear very creditably in Richard Fleischer’s hugely enjoyable noir Follow Me Quietly. Robert Wise had already directed him in the slight but fun Mystery in Mexico and uses his grounded, modest air well in this film. He provides a kind of equilibrium amid all the melodrama. Fay Baker is someone I feel might have had a better or more prominent career based on her work as the nanny/housekeeper, but for one reason or another it wasn’t to be.

The House on Telegraph Hill was a 20th Century Fox movie and has the characteristic gloss of the the studio’s output at that time. It was released years ago on DVD as part of the Fox Noir line and while I’m not sure if it ever made it to Blu-ray there really is nothing to complain about in terms of quality with that old disc. It’s a professional and atmospheric piece of filmmaking and if it’s one of Wise’s less celebrated movies it deserves to be better known.

Cry Danger

/ Colin McGuigan / 22 Comments

The frame up and revenge are classic noir ingredients, saps suckered into taking a fall and then looking to square it with those responsible have kept the motors humming on many a dark crime drama. Cry Danger (1951) is based on these themes, with thoughts about loyalty and love tossed into the mix as well. The movie is a bit like an old friend in the sense that it is packed to the rafters with familiar elements, and like an old friend I’ve visited it a few times over the years. I guess that’s another characteristic that applies to most films noir; they never seem to wear out their welcome no matter how many times they’ve been viewed, the setups and situations becoming something akin to reminiscences among acquaintances.

I mentioned revenge in the opening sentence, but the fact is that Cry Danger is more concerned with a quest for justice than anything else. Rocky Mulloy (Dick Powell) has just caught a break, even if he’s not thinking of it in those terms as he steps off the train in Los Angeles. He’s fresh out of prison, having served five years of a life sentence for his part in a killing and robbery. Why is he back on the streets so soon? Well aside from the fact he knows he was not guilty of the crime, a witness has just turned up who could corroborate his alibi from all those years ago. Delong (Richard Erdman) is a one-legged ex-serviceman who is only now able to back up Mulloy’s claims that he was drinking in a bar with a group of Marines when the heist was going down. Mulloy is naturally sore that he’s essentially lost those years but he’s also keen to find the real perpetrators, both for his own vindication and to secure the release of a friend who has also been jailed for the crime. In a neat twist, it’s revealed very early on that Delong never spent the evening drinking with Mulloy, never even met him before. He’s just a guy on the make who reckons that helping out like this will mean he can come in for a cut of the $100,000 take which was never recovered. Mulloy’s search for justice takes him to the trailer park where his friend’s wife and his own former fiancée (Rhonda Fleming) is living, and then back into the murky world inhabited by crooked bookie Castro (William Conrad). By the end, after more crosses than there are factors to describe them and some gratuitous violence on the side, Mulloy digs his way to an unpalatable truth.

Cry Danger was the first movie directed by Robert Parrish. He’d served a long apprenticeship in the editing and sound departments and worked on a number of films for John Ford. By 1951 he was therefore in a strong position to take what he’d learnt and craft his own pictures. Cry Danger saw him off to an impressive start and he made a series of mostly good, and in a handful of cases truly excellent, films throughout the decade. This was also the first of four productions for Parrish where William Bowers was involved in the writing. And the script here is one of the strengths, tightly paced and twisty without becoming unnecessarily complex, it benefits from some marvelously snappy dialogue that catches the flavor of the hard-boiled idiom. Unlike a lot of films noir, there isn’t a great deal of overt social commentary. There’s not, for instance, much if any background provided for Mulloy, nothing to hint at how this man got himself tied up with bookies and crooks in the first place. The one concession to the consequences of life in the post-war world is the portrayal of Delong. This disabled veteran makes only the briefest reference in passing to the loss of his leg, but there is a suggestion that his prodigious drinking has its roots in that injury. A good deal of that too is treated in a light and offhand manner, though there is one point where the possibility or advisability of his trying to quit is raised. The wistful look, one tinged with a shadow of desperation, that passes over Delong’s face alludes to some inner suffering. Nothing much is made of this but it is there for the viewers to take on board should they wish to do so.

Dick Powell had grown confident and comfortable in roles such as this, a tough and smart guy who has some blind spots when it comes to friends. The clever patter rolls of the tongue easily and he has an excellent foil in Richard Erdman who was just as quick on the quip. Rhonda Fleming is arguably too attractive to be entirely believable as someone living out of a trailer park, though the fact her husband is doing time kind of justifies this. The path of her relationship with Powell’s character is complicated and, bearing in mind how everything is resolved in the end, it’s quite a subtle piece of acting on her part. As such, Cry Danger is certainly one of those movies where repeated viewings help to emphasize just how carefully she played the role. I’ve already referred to Erdman and it will probably suffice to say that his deadpan wit adds considerably to the film and makes it all the more enjoyable. In support, William Conrad never looks like someone trustworthy although he never comes across as all that menacing either – corrupt and devious, but not all that threatening. Regis Toomey was born to play cops and did so on numerous occasions. He had that weary practicality about him that felt authoritative and he uses it effectively as Powell’s ever present shadow.

Olive Films released a restored print of Cry Danger well over a decade ago now and it still looks fine. It’s a slick and pacy noir with the kind of plot that avoids overdoing the complications yet offers Powell the type of cool but tough part he excelled at playing. Highly watchable.

Pitfall

/ Colin McGuigan / 39 Comments

The daily grind, routine and repetitious. This is something most people can relate to, an integral part of all our lives just as much as sunrise and sunset. What does it represent though? Is it boon or bane? Well it certainly encapsulates the concept of security, and not just in a financial sense. That familiarity, that precise knowledge of where one is going to be at a given hour, perhaps even a given minute, of any day of the calendar offers reassurance. Yet reassurance is necessarily wedded to restrictiveness and at some point the balance between those two points of reference might just start to slip. That’s what happens in Pitfall (1948), a frank analysis of the way post-war suburban security and comfort could start to smother. Everything about it characterizes the classic film noir setup, the slow drift into dissatisfaction, the allure of the forbidden, the unwise choices and the way rapidly snowballing consequences threaten to smash everything in their path.

Johnny Forbes (Dick Powell) is a man who ought to be happy with his lot in life. He’s got a devoted wife (Jane Wyatt) and a bright young son. He’s got what appears to be a successful career in insurance and lives in a neat and attractive suburban home. What could be better than waking up to a breakfast that has been prepared and laid out before him, with his family around him, the sun pouring through the window and the promise of another relatively carefree day ahead. That’s how it should be, but the pain of predictability is etched into the hangdog features of Johnny Forbes as he contemplates it all. Both his demeanor and his conversation betray a man ripe for rebellion, a guy who has wearied of respectable averageness, of being part of the backbone of society. Such a man is just a step away from recklessness, he’s practically sleepwalking into peril. A visit to an embezzler’s ex in order to see how much can be recovered is all it takes. The ex in question is Mona Stevens (Lizabeth Scott), a model in a dress store. The hook that snags Forbes comes in the form of a trip to the marina to see the boat Mona’s boyfriend bought her with the money he stole. Just a smile from the girl and then a quick ride in the speedboat are enough – Forbes is soon asking her out for drinks, and it doesn’t take much imagination to realize where all this is heading. The affair itself only goes so far though, and not necessarily due to any moral qualms on the part of Forbes at this stage. A bigger issue is the fact that the private eye employed by the insurance firm to track down Mona Stevens in the first place (Raymond Burr) is besotted with her to the point he not only roughs up Forbes, but is also prepared to destroy anyone who stands in the way of his desires.

André de Toth made a handful of films noir and I think this is the best of them, although a strong case can be made for Crime Wave too. He perfectly captures the sheer ordinariness and regularity of suburban life, its bright and brisk order imparting a feeling of living on a well maintained social conveyor belt. Everything operates like clockwork, including the people. Dick Powell perfectly captures the ennui of a man gradually becoming just another obedient automaton. Everything about him screams normality, his quiet tailoring, his discreet briefcase, and the inevitable slow slide towards middle-aged and middle-class mediocrity that accompanies all that. This is no disillusioned veteran either – he was no decorated war hero like the father of his son’s friend, he rode out the war in Denver, Colorado – just an everyday guy who has come to the appalling conclusion that this is all he’s ever going to be. When he wrinkles his nose at the comic books he reckons have given his son nightmares it’s hard not to see a bit of resentment in it for not being one of those colorful figures himself. It is to De Toth’s credit that there is never any overt call to pass judgement on this man, no nudge towards any moral superiority or cheap finger pointing. Film noir works best when characters are portrayed as people with flaws who sometimes makes poor choices that the audience get to witness. Navigating life can be an ambiguous business at best and the better noirs seek to capture that incertitude rather than encourage self-righteousness.

The portrayal of the two female characters in Pitfall is interesting, and the movie offers good roles for both Jane Wyatt and Lizabeth Scott. There are those who say film noir must have a femme fatale, that it’s one of the vital ingredients. I’m not sure that’s true, and I’m also not sure if Lizabeth Scott’s Mona Stevens should be characterized as such. Yes, she draws the men in the movie into danger, fatally in one case at least and the ending leaves it open as to whether or not that’s going to apply to another as well. Still, if she is a femme fatale, she is surely a reluctant one and arguably a victim of both her own weakness and the limited options open to a woman like her at that time. She acts as a magnet for negative forces, drawing danger to her without actively wanting to. Jane Wyatt as the wife is a tougher, more grounded and practical creation. All the way through she remains focused on the security of the family unit. It’s quite a clinical piece of work by Wyatt and the cool way she appraises the benefits and drawbacks of each new development that assaults her existence contrasts with the reckless opportunism of Powell and the emotional helplessness of Scott. Raymond Burr gets the creepy obsessiveness of his character across well, manipulating everybody and maneuvering them like chess pieces towards an endgame that will profit only him. The scene where he stalks Scott in the salon where she works is masterly in the way he humiliates her in plain view yet maintains a wholly innocent air. His bulk and physicality is employed effectively too, filling and almost overwhelming Powell’s office when he visits.

1948 was a particularly strong year for film noir in Hollywood, maybe one of the strongest, and Pitfall sits comfortably among the leading pack. Nobody puts a foot wrong in this movie and the script has no flab or slackness about it. It is a tight, direct story that asks plenty of questions but offers up no easy answers. In short, it’s a good movie and one worth watching.

I Walk Alone

/ Colin McGuigan / 59 Comments

You know, Noll, I think you’re afraid now. And I’m not. Frankie with his bootleg liquor, me with those checks I forged, you with this set-up here. Everyone trying to get something for nothing. Frankie paid, I paid. It’s your turn now…

Checks and balances, adding a bit here, taking away a bit there. The books and the by-laws, a new post-war landscape where the sheen of legality is little more than a patina, a glossy veneer to add on top of the old rackets to create the illusion of respectability. I Walk Alone (1947) trades heavily on that highly polished hypocrisy, presenting a world of glamorous nightclubs where sharp suits and elegantly gowned ladies in superficially smooth surroundings seem to have taken the place of the rough and tumble hoods of Prohibition. Still, the high class tailoring and drapery only offer a limited disguise for the muscle, corruption and decadence. The world depicted here, at least that which is seen through the eyes of the protagonist, is one which has been flipped on its head, where none of the old certainties hold any longer and hoods hide and mask their actions with a web of financial chicanery. Plus ça change…

Frankie Madison (Burt Lancaster) is just out of prison and he’s sore. He has served 14 years and now he’s looking to collect on what he feels is his due. To that end he heads to the glitzy Regency, an upmarket nightclub run by his old partner in crime Noll Turner (Kirk Douglas). The fact is Frankie and Noll made a deal just before the former was picked up and sent up the river to split their profits straight down the middle. However, in all those years the only thing Frankie ever received from his old partner was a carton of cigarettes every month, not even one visit. He figures he’s owed, and there’s a little voice just starting to murmur insistently that maybe Noll plans to gyp him out of the rich pickings that have since come his way. Why? Well for one thing there’s the nervy attitude of his friend Dave (Wendell Corey), a man who has been becoming gradually more neurotic over the years and who visibly pales whenever any mention of the unfortunate fates of those who had crossed up old acquaintances crops up. Then there is Noll himself, genial and velvety in his solicitude yet watchful and calculating at the same time. When he arranges for his torch singer mistress Kay Lawrence (Lizabeth Scott) to charm Frankie and coax information from him over a carefully staged intimate dinner all the pillars of a setup have been put in place. Slowly the full extent of Noll’s self-serving duplicity dawns on Frankie, and he’s soon to discover that the, arguably more honest, strong-arm tactics he would once have relied on to get results are now hopelessly inadequate when faced with an updated criminality, one that subverts the law to serve his purposes.

I Walk Alone offers a classic noir framework: a man who has been away for an extended period of time returning to a world that is recognizable on the surface but which has in fact been radically altered at the core. If one is to see mature film noir as an artistic reflection of the post-war perceptions of the returning veterans, then this is something of a textbook example. It’s hardly a stretch to see parallels between Frankie Madison’s sense of being frozen out and the struggles of a whole generation to rediscover its place and role in a society that must now have felt odd and alien. There are two scenes which takes place in Noll’s office underlining the societal shifts that have taken place and the frustration of trying to deal with this.

First up, there is Frankie’s confrontation with Noll when he learns how he’s been stiffed and is getting the brush off. He resorts to his old two-fisted approach, laying one on his former buddy and storming out fired up with indignation and plans for retribution. Then later, having cobbled together a ragtag bunch of would-be enforcers courtesy of another old confederate (the instantly recognizable pockmarked Marc Lawrence), he sets about muscling what he’s owed out of Noll. However, this is the point where he comes face to face with what can only be viewed as a corporate minefield, an impenetrably complex series of cutouts that serve only to emphasize the absolute inefficacy of Frankie’s brute force methods in this brave new world. To witness his enraged impotence is akin to watching a bull elephant in its death throes, and the humiliation is compounded and completed when Mike Mazurki’s hulking doorman hauls him out to the back alley to hand him the beating of a lifetime.

Nevertheless, this acts as a catalyst, striking the scales from the eyes of Dave and Kay and helping to galvanize Frankie into taking genuinely effective action. As such, the movie tosses a lifeline of sorts to those ruing the passing of a more straightforward age. There is the hope held out that the conmen and the chiselers would get their comeuppance, that some sort of justice would prevail, which may be considered as diluting the noir sensibility. Maybe, or maybe the late 1940s didn’t fully encapsulate, or not as fully as we’re led to believe at any rate, the kind of existential despair that is frequently cited as the basis of noir. Perhaps the world today where gaslighting fraudsters and incompetents sit unchallenged at the top of the heap is the real noir era. Perhaps.

I Walk Alone was the first collaboration between Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas, and the fact they played so well off each other makes it easy to see why they appeared together with such regularity over the following four decades. Lancaster’s star rose faster and he was receiving top billing at this stage whereas Douglas was still working his way up, albeit strongly, in supporting roles. Lancaster uses his physical presence very effectively, and there is that vulnerability too beneath it all that was brought out very successfully in these early Hal Wallis productions. Douglas is less imposing in physical terms but he has that menacing air, principally via his voice and those sharp eyes. Lizabeth Scott is fair but that’s about it, her smoky-voiced allure is always welcome though and she was made for slinking around nightclubs singing throaty odes to ill-starred romances. Wendell Corey did a nice line in whey-faced fear, that and indignation were his strengths and he gets to exercise both as the guilt-ridden bookkeeper.

After a few early efforts as director Byron Haskin spent two decades as a cinematographer and effects man. I Walk Alone signaled his return to directing and from that point on, barring a few blips, he embarked on a remarkably solid run right up until Robinson Crusoe on Mars in 1964.  It is a very entertaining movie, well cast and beautifully shot by Leo Tover. It both links to and contrasts with the old 30s gangster movies and the film noir mood and aesthetic of the time. Until Kino brought the movie out some years ago it was one of those titles that appeared to be destined to remain mostly talked about or featured in books on noir rather than actually seen. Happily, that is no longer so and I recommend giving it a look.