I. Introduction to the Film Noir Genre.

II. Early and Wartime Noir, Late ’30s-1946.

III. City of Nine Nightmares, the Golden year of Film Noir, 1946-1954.

IV. Late and Retro Noir, 1955-1965 and 1965 and up.

We have the French to thank for appreciating American art that we sometimes bypass in its day: most notably, Edgar Allan Poe; and Film-Noir, the dark film we developed during WWII, and saw through the early postwar period.

Poe, had he lived a hundred years later, might’ve seen his themes of psychological terror, deception, death, and claustrophobia, not to mention variants on the detective story, recast as the movies from c. 1941-1953 that have been considered noir. Nonetheless, there’s also what I’d like to call late noir--c. 1955-1966; and, more familiarly, retro-noir--anything since the mid-’60s but set in the ’30s or ’40s. That includes both remakes, of course, and new titles like Mulholland Drive.

Unlike other movie genres: musicals, Westerns, science-fiction, etc., film-noir wasn’t really planned, it just happened. But not from nothing. The mystery had been carried from print to film from the inception of motion-pictures. Many of these silent-era and early talkies (teens to late twenties) were either of British origin of were influenced by the old-dark-house plots.

In fact, The Old Dark House is a British mystery movie title from the ’30s. And what do we find in these spooky places? A castle/mansion, a bunch of people usually stuck there, a curse, a secret or two, and, oh, yeah, a dead guy (maybe more). The police come around, and nab the perpetrator, unless that dude is actually fingered by a detective, or some other meddling genius.

Unrelatedly, and stridently American, the straight gangster movie was meanwhile ascending the marquees here. Little Caesar and the Roaring Twenties, Edward G. Robinson and James Cagney, tommyguns, bootleggers, mafioso, the legendary Prohibition Era. The emphasis here, as expected, was on action. Gun battles, car chases, fistfights, etc. Sometimes the bad guys had some class or nobility, but everyone, themselves included, knew who they were.

With threads from the mystery movie’s convoluted plots, and the gangster’s ubiquitous mayhem, another sort of movie gathered steam. Maybe because of WWII, although some noirs predate our participation in the War (it had been going on in Europe since 1939 and Asia since 1931 or so), the rottenness of the Depression was still with us. The war became our new destructive crisis.

Into this breech, the highly-regarded The Maltese Falcon and High Sierra date from 1941; both feature Humphrey Bogart, though each stakes out its own path in this seminal year for film-noir. In the Maltese Falcon, we skulk around San Francisco, with its transitory and shifting urban atmosphere; this remains the habitat (as with New York City, L. A., and Chicago) of that noir creature, like a rat in a maze, the hero/anti-hero scurries about a familiar but often hostile, even nightmarish city-scape.

By contrast, High Sierra, opens up a rustic view. This usually proves to be a deceptive sort of liberation from the urban jungle. Bogart’s character ends up cornered, falling from a precipice different only in detail from the city’s rooftop or fire escape.

During the War, there was an intensification of noir. Double Indemnity (1944) gives us a female antagonist (Barbara Stanwyck) who schemes with Fred MacMurray to kill her husband and bilk his insurance company into the bargain--thus the title. Interestingly, Edward G. Robinson, of intense gangster movie roles from the previous decade, has become the savvy mentor to MacMurray. Robinson’s unable, however, to stop the beguiled younger man’s wayward attempt to cheat the system and win his lover.

From the same year, Laura gives us a mystery with its noir. Gene Tierney has to deal with two questionable suitors, Clifton Webb and Vincent Price, while detective (Dana Andrews) throws himself into the ring. That’s a lot of guys, but Tierney accomplishes quite a lot, considering that she spends a good part of the movie being dead (she’s surprised to learn that Andrews is investigating her ’murder’).

The immediate Postwar period (although 1946 includes many movies made in ’45) is laced with noir: from 1946, The Postman Always Rings Twice catches Lana Turner teaming up with John Garfield to off her husband. With a plot similar to Double Indemnity, the setting moves from the toney suburbs of the earlier movie to a semi-rural roadside diner.

A year later, with Robert Mitchum, Jane Greer, Virginia Huston, and Kirk Douglas, we’re back in the California Sierra Nevada mountains with Out Of The Past, with a long flashback, in which Mitchum finds himself in Mexico, looking for the alluring Greer, at his client’s (gangster Douglas’s) behest.

Out of the Past shows several noir motifs: exotic locales (Acapulco, Mexico and Lake Tahoe), an ex-private eye, hiding out (in a picture-perfect small-town life), until his past comes back with a vengeance, thanks to the devious deadly Greer who contrasts utterly with sweet, pleasant Huston. Throw in a labyrinthine plot and a slippery lawyer, aptly named Eels, and Mitchum has his hands full.

We see that whichever side of the law our guy is on, he’s usually on the wrong side of the tracks, with the wrong people, and time stops until he can out-wit, out-fight, or simply out-last his nemesis. He’s not always alone; he often gathers determination, and even owes his survival to a loyal friend, trusty girlfriend or spouse and maybe just a savvy cab driver.

By the early ’50s, this sort of movie, while it didn’t disappear (1958’s Touch Of Evil is widely-regarded as the last of the noirs), became gradually overtaken by social commentary (On the Waterfront) and political intrigue/ espionage crime movie (North by Northwest).

That’s not to say that these, and many other titles of the ’50s and ’60s didn’t have noir traits; the thematic emphasis, however, was usually elsewhere. By the ’70s we began to get remakes of noir classics (The Big Sleep from 1975), and a retro-noir trend (1974’s Chinatown, set in the late ’30s). In an hallucinatory, hypnotic world, David Lynch’s Blue Velvet from 1986 seems to bring the noir ’50s back in one incredibly staggering nightmare.

For about a dozen years that shadowed WWII, faceless cities with numberless dark streets were haunted by lonely, desperate men and women, out to avenge themselves on criminals, or escape those who would hunt them down. For the most part, film noir is a depressing and restlessly violent world. Facts and characters abound, but all is contingent, unreliable.

What’s unexpected about many of these movies, apart from some terrific performances, clever plots, and excellent cinematography, are the uplifting moments in which the hero knows he’s ok, has his/her love, or understands what he’s doing in life. Maybe those revelatory scenes are what the French film critics latched onto; film noir is the cinematic equivalent of an existentialist essay or novel.

The world is not only a difficult, dangerous place, it can destroy our will as well as our person. But to recognize that, and deal with life on these terms, makes us hold on to what we have, or at least, value what we are left with.

Laura, 1944.

********** 10

Laura has a deservedly great reputation as a classic film noir/murder mystery. The leads all give fine performances; the plot, though somewhat complex, works in a tight pattern, and the tone feels just right.

Gene Tierney is the pivotal character, Laura Hunt. Dana Andrews play Detective Lieutenant Mark McPherson. Also featured are Clifton Webb as society columnist Waldo Lydecker, Vincent Price as a playboy hanger-on Shelby Carpenter, and Laura’s aunt Anne (Judith Anderson).

Laura starts off dead, or so we think. McPherson is flummoxed by the case; but manages to fall in love with the presumably dead Laura. Turns out that it’s a Diane Redfern who’s the actual victim, Laura’s okay. So, who has killed Diane, and why? Did the murderer think that she was really Laura?

Oddly, Lydecker narrates the beginning scenes. It’s funny how he holds McPherson in contempt because the Lieutenant is a mere detective. Anyway, having established his credentials--he’s Laura’s platonic lover--he wants to ’help’ in the investigation of the murder.

From Anne, we learn that Laura was in fact engaged to Carpenter. It’s obvious that Lydecker is keenly jealous of the guy. It’s great having Price and Webb--too hammy types--spar with each other. Shelby, ingratiating himself with McPherson, pops in with "I’m at your disposal, Lieutenant."

But, then, Lydecker can’t help throwing in two more cents by saying that Laura had reservations about marrying Carpenter. The three guys convene back at Laura’s. "Is this the home of a ’dame’?" Complains Lydecker of Mark’s relentlessly snide vocabulary. For his part, Mark is exceedingly impressed by her portrait.

Next stop: a swanky club frequented by Laura. Lydecker flashes back to his first encounter with her. She was a waif, just trying to chat him up. He was, well, a perfect Clifton Webb snooty aristocratic snob. He melts as time goes on, more or less becoming her artistic mentor--she’s in the advertising business. At least he’s up-front: "I’m not kind, I’m vicious" he tells her. He’s fairly proud of his protege; "wherever we went, she stood out." Thanks to his tutelage, of course.

Anyway, she backs off; she has a guy, her portrait painter. Lydecker attempts to destroy the guy’s credibility, a campaign which he terms "a labor of love." See, he wasn’t kidding about the vicious stuff. Now it’s Shelby’s turn. Laura gets him a job at her agency; she’s moved up considerably, and has some pull. Diane becomes a model there as well.

Meanwhile, Lydecker has assembled a dossier targeting Carpenter. Then he lets on that Carpenter is running around with Diane; but Laura insists that she’s engaged to Carpenter--so forget Diane. Lydecker, of course, can’t leave well enough alone; he finds her having dinner with Carpenter.

She tells Lydecker that she’s going to the country for a while to relax. Mark talks to Laura’s maid; she’s a great counterpoint to his terse demeanor. A strange bottle of whiskey, left out of place, means that some mysterious person has been there, as Laura doesn’t drink the stuff. Now Anne, Carpenter, and Lydecker show up together. Mark has contrived this rendezvous; he’s up to something.

Going through Laura’s stuff, Mark ends up focusing on that haunting portrait of her. Lydecker correctly figures that Mark is becoming obssesed with her "I don’t think that (psychiatric wards) have ever had a patient who fell in love with a corpse."

But: Shazam! There’s Laura, coming home to find Mark. She had no idea that she was presumed dead. She figures that Diane had been there while she was gone--therefore, Diane must be the dead woman. Mark’s a bit suspicious of her, as Diane was a potential rival for Carpenter. Plus Shelby let her into Laura’s. She knows that Shelby could’ve cared less about Diane, despite what Diane thought.

Interestingly, Mark also asks if she was going to marry Carpenter--nope, she wasn’t...which kind of leaves the door open. "Dame’s are always pulling the switch on you" Mark tells his fellow detective, as they tap into her conversation with Carpenter. At their rendezvous spot, Carpenter’s surprised by Mark; Carpenter’s fiddling with a shotgun--a possible murder weapon.

Carpenter must’ve known that it was Diane that was killed, that odd bottle of whiskey was his...Anyway, he admits to Mark that he was meeting with Diane up at Laura’s. He said someone came to the door--Diane answered--he heard a shot, found her dead, and split. He didn’t know who the killer was, as he didn’t see the shooting. Then he goes on to say what he and Laura had just talked about; that is, filling her in on just these nasty details.

At this point, Laura, Carpenter, and Lydecker are all still suspects. But Mark shows up at Laura’s the next morning, along with the two other guys; Lydecker’s literally floored as he seemingly didn’t about Laura’s reemergence. By now Mark’s interest in Laura is plainly glowing.

Apparently, there’s a sort of back-from-the-dead party for Laura. Even Anne could be a suspect, as she probably wants Carpenter more than Laura. "I can afford him" Anne tells her. Good point. Mark plays a cunning ploy, as he tells someone he calls that he’s just about to make an arrest. Then he just glares at everyone else in the room. He first intimates that that Laura is the killer; but Lydecker, with full histrionics, protests too much.

Mark feigns Laura’s arrest, partly to get reactions from the others, and to give them enough rope to maybe hang themselves with. At the station, Laura’s fake interrogation has the purpose of plumbing the depths of her feelings towards Carpenter. Mark drops her off at home, and then heads for Lydecker’s. There Mark focuses on the grandfather clock, which has a hidden compartment (not with a chopped-up grandpa inside). No, the point is that Laura has the identical clock.

Lydecker’s gets back to Laura’s; Mark is right behind him. She tells Lydecker off; he pronounces her preference for Mark as their "disgustingly earthy relationship." Mark’s retort--which also relates to Carpenter--is that she’s "surrounded herself with a remarkable collection of dopes."

More importantly, Mark finds the missing murder weapon in her clock. Mark starts adding up the clues--and comes up with Lydecker. Eerily, she’s playing Lydecker’s radio show as he skulks about, retrieving the gun, loading it...Laura manages to deflect his shot; Mark and the other cops burst in and nail Lydecker. The end.

Lsura couldn’t be better. A complex love story as well as an intriguing film-noir. Probably the best aspect of Laura is the clever way that Mark’s interest in her parallels the unfolding of the plot. Laura’s merely a victim for the first half of the movie. She’s missed, happily remembered; then, back on stage, she’s rekindlings romances, casting more shadows, and even bringing suspicion on herself.

Mark begins with the obvious problem that everyone, including himself, assumes that Laura’s dead. Then, miraculously, she’s alive. But, she might’ve killed a potential rival, and/or she might marry one of the men already in her life. It takes until the very end of the movie before all of Mark’s obstacles are overcome, and, also, before the mystery is cleared up.

Despite a relatively long run time, Laura flows along like a book you don’t want to put down--and then, you’re sorry to set the bookmark aside. Excellent film noir--not to be missed. 10/10.

Ride The Pink Horse, 1947.

********** 10.

Early Postwar Noir with an exotic location, based on a novel by Dorothy B. Hughes..

Robert Montgomery stars as WWII vet Lucky Gagin, out to avenge his wartime buddy who he believes was murdered by mobster Frank Hugo (Fred Clark). Also on Hugo’s trail in the bordertown is FBI Agent Bill Retz (Art Smith); Gets needs to find Lucky who can lead him to Hugo.

Through Pila (Wanda Hendrix), Lucky gets in with carousel operator Pancho (Thomas Gomez); that’s where the pink horse comes from. Things get more busy, as Hugo’s avaricious girlfriend, Carla (Rita Conde) wants a piece of Hugo--extortion money.

A returning G.I. is the quintessential noir hero; maybe an anti-hero. If war couldn’t finish Lucky (see, he’s ’lucky’) then what’s a low-life criminal such as Hugo going to do? In fact, with Lucky’s survival mode going on, who is a good guy anyway? Who’s on the level? We’ll see.

Coming into San Pablo (a fictionalized Santa Fe, according to TCM’s Eddie Muller), Lucky sits down in the bus depot, and takes out a check, which he tosses into a locker. Looking at a map, he hides the key behind its frame. Walking around town, he finds a carousel. Lucky asks some local girls where a certain hotel is; the littlest one, Pila, knows. Checking in is a problem: no rooms available.

He leaves a note for Hugo, who is on the third floor. Then Lucky forces his way in, and punches Hugo’s flunky who had wanted him to leave. Carla comes in, expecting Frank. She doesn’t seem to care about the guy on the floor. "You must lead a fascinating life." I guess so. The dialogue just ripples. When Carla asks Lucky for a light, he says "Sure. There’s one right there, on the table." Mr. Gentleman.

Downstairs, he runs into Retz, who wants to talk. Retz mentions the upcoming festival. Then he lets on that he’s a G-Man. More importantly, he says he’s after Hugo too; Lucky’s suspicious, and wonders if Retz is actually working for Hugo. Outside, there’s Pila. When he goes to a bar to ask where her mom is he gets the cold shoulder from the locals.

The girls that she was with earlier are courteous, but say that Pila’s "crazy." Pancho gets him out of a jam at the bar. Lucky isn’t exactly comfortable, but at least he’s ok., buying rounds. Pancho then fixes him up with a room. "That’s the kind of man I like, he who has no place." An inadvertent comment on Lucky’s situation, and the alienated noir hero’s condition.

The ’room’ proves to be a mere lean-to; but Lucky seems content. Strangely, when Pila asks if she can ride the carousel, Lucky wakes up Pancho to fire it up. I guess that’s the pink horse she gets on. A juxtaposition: the charm Pila had given him, which Pancho says wards off death, and Lucky’s .45. Out of the darkness, Retz walks up.

Retz tells him that there’s some "mugs" of Hugo’s looking for him. Lucky refuses to relocate to Retz’s room, but thanks him for the heads-up. In the morning, Pila comes with water for he and Pancho. Lucky continues to insult her, her hair "is alright for mice to sleep in." He confides in Pancho that he has a girl back East, but she’s with another guy.

At the hotel, he looks up Hugo. "How’s your friend Mr. Retz?" But Lucky wants to talk about his dead friend, Shorty. Hugo’s take is that Shorty was a worse criminal than he. Hugo doesn’t deny that he pretty much ordered the killing. Since Lucky has the incriminating check used to pay off the hit-men, he says he wants $30k or he turns over the evidence to Retz.

Amusingly, Hugo says Lucky’s "a square blackmailer." So they set up an exchange of money-for-evidence later. Meanwhile, looking more sophisticated, Pila tells Retz that Lucky will soon be dead--she’s sort of a fortune-teller. Retz then tells Lucky "I didn’t figure you for a shakedown job." When he tries to get Lucky to work with him to nail Hugo, Lucky comes back with "don’t wave your flag at me. I’ve seen plenty of flags." Touche, G-Man.

Anyway, Lucky treats Pila to lunch; the first decent thing he’s done for her. Their fruit cocktails are immense. Umm, there’s Carla coming to chat. Here’s where she makes her pitch: she wants to sell him on upping the ante with Hugo, with the extra amount for her. And that’s just the first step. He says no. He admits that he can’t trust her.

His only concession is to offer a drink. Luckily (yes), she splits because Hugo looms in the distance. He compares Pila favorably with Carla. He might even get to like Pila, like just give her one insult for every conversation. The festival’s getting going. Pretty cool parade, with whimsical floats. Well, perhaps creepy floats, if we take in the whole scene, including the danger of various types of mayhem for Lucky, and those around him.

At the rendevous with Hugo, Carla tells Lucky that Hugo’s not really going to give him the money. Well, what he does get is mugged in the dim recesses that Carla’s led him to. Retz, knowing that something’s happened, taunts Hugo with enigmatic news about Lucky. Apparently, Lucky’s at least gotten away. In fact, the thugs are either done for the night or dead. But he’s got a knife stuck in him, which Pila extracts.

She finds Pancho, who helps dress Lucky’s wound. When Pila tells Pancho that one of the thugs is dead, Pancho says "bueno!" He assures Lucky that he doesn’t need a gun "you have Pancho now." While this i going on, the kids are enjoying a free ride on the carousel. But two fresh goons converge on Pancho. Refusing to tell them of Lucky’s whereabouts, they beat him up. Bizarre thing, as the kids keep riding while Pancho is getting pummeled.

The goons leave. Pancho, finding Lucky, tells him what happened. They make a deal: they throw-in to get Hugo, and Pancho gets $5k. Pila tells them there’s a bus out of town later. At the bar, Pila gets the bartender to get something of a disguise for Lucky. He figures he should tell her why all this is happening; she, like all loyal friends, doesn’t care about the details. It’s enough that Hugo is "bad." In his woozy condition, Lucky starts to hallucinate about Shorty.

With excellent timing, Carla shows up. Pila manages to get him out of there somehow. And plants him on the bus. But no one’s going to get back on the job until the Fiesta’s over. In the almost deserted depot, he staggers around, and wants to get back to the hotel; to Hugo, that is. Pila finds out that Lucky’s split from the depot; she wanders amongst the revelers, seeking him.

Then she’s in the hotel. Lucky, staggering like a zombie, isn’t hard to find. Right in front of Hugo’s room. Amazingly, Hugo let’s him in. Probably because he still has the evidence, he’s more valuable alive. Are they really going to do the exchange right there? No, because he no longer has the check. Isn’t that’s what Carla was after when she came up to him in the bar? So she has it. Agonizingly, he can’t really remember. So they start slapping Pila around.

Just at this moment, it’s Retz to the rescue. Hugo’s reaction makes sense: ok, I’m a loser, but look at Lucky, he’s a blackmailer. What! It was Pila who had the check! I forgot that bit too. Carla had looked for it, but she didn’t find anything. Lucky hands it to Retz. That wraps it up. But not before another fine quip from Lucky; when he’s told that Hugo can’t hear what they’re saying without his hearing aid, Lucky says "he can hear this" that is, the ’sound’ of the check passing between them. That’s our denouement.

We do want to know how it ends between Pila and Lucky. Well, now he’s plain nice to her, kisses her slightly, and leaves. Amongst her friends, she’s now the coolest one. No one is sad.

This is a fantastic movie: the setting, atmosphere, plot, casting and acting, pacing, script...The dialogue is studded with gems. But Pink Horse is also fantastic in the sense of its dreamy, folk-tale quality. Clearly, all the outsiders, all of whom are non-Hispanic and non-Native American, are in a different world. On a superficial level, as in a dream, there’s familiar reference points.

But, San Pablo is not Chicago. I can only think of one other noir movie in which the Hispanic characters converse naturally, and at length, with no translation from the Spanish. We see that Lucky, ever so gradually, becomes more at home with the culture. His transformation parallels Pila’s rise in stature, reflected emotionally in her improving relationship with Lucky, and outwardly, with her more sophisticated appearance.

The almost magical friendships that Lucky finds with both Pila and Pancho derive from folk tale helper figures. Retz is more enigmatic, but proves also to be a helper. Carla is an obvious trickster, as her enticements almost get Lucky killed.

The irony of the ending is that, although Lucky’s more or less avenged Shorty’s murder and ’squared’ himself (his attempted blackmail is ignored by Retz), he probably could have successfully blackmailed Hugo. And wind up chained to Carla and Hugo forever.

Lucky actually ends up a lucky guy. He’s taken care of business, and can walk away; and, thanks to Pila and Pancho, he can even go back to San Pablo. 10/10.

The Glass Key, 1942

********* 9.0

"My First Wife Was Second Chef For A Third-Rate Joint On Fourth Street"

Nice title for this film noir. I take it that, unlike a skeleton key, which unlocks anything, one made of glass doesn’t work at all. Great cast for The Glass Key too. Brian Donlevy is reforming politician Paul Madvig, Bonita Granville is his sister Opal; Alan Ladd is Paul’s friend Ed Beaumont, and Moroni Olsen is Ralph Henry, Paul’s political ally. Janet (Veronica Lake) and Taylor (Richard Denning) are Ralph’s sister and brother. William Bendix is the sadistic underling Jeff to Joseph Calleia’s Nick Varna, the notorious gangster. Add on D.A. Farr (Donald McBride) and newspaper editor Clyde Matthews and his wife Eloise (Arthur Loft and Margaret Hayes).

Varna’s getting hung out to dry by the new regime, which doesn’t sit so well with his rackets. "I’m too big to take the boot from you" he tells Paul. It’s obvious that it’s Janet who initiates Paul’s tilt towards her dad’s camp. She’s the "key" to Paul’s future, giving him an opening, but rendering him "breakable". Ed’s taken with her too.

Opal asks Ed for money for her boyfriend Taylor; who’s in hock to Nick. Ed finds Taylor dead. Paul is suspected by a reporter, a mouthpiece for Nick. The D.A. has an anonymous incriminating letter; apparently Nick has more dope on Paul. "That pop-eyed spaghetti vendor!" responds Paul to these allegations. Janet goes to Ed for help in finding her brother’s killer. She doesn’t believe Paul’s involved. Paul and Ed meet up--although they talk about Nick, they’re really arguing about Janet.

Nick tries to recruit Ed to set up Paul for Taylor’s murder. Ed seems to agree--then refuses. Jeff works him over in the most noirish basement hole possible. A gruelling, very long scene. Wisely, once he’s left alone long enough, he creates a diversion by starting a fire, and escapes. Another classic noir scene--he falls through a skylight right onto a restaurant table. Recovering in the hospital, Opal starts asking him a bunch of questions about Paul "If you want to be an idiot, don’t go around with a megaphone!" he responds, annoyed.

Then Janet and Paul show up. Ed checks himself out to look up Opal, whom he fears in into some trouble with Nick. He’s right. They’re all at Matthew’s, using Opal to finger Paul. Eloise tries to seduce Ed. Clyde, financially ruined by Nick, kills himself. Luckily, Paul shows up to get Ed out of hot water. Paul confesses to Ed that he did kill Taylor, accidentally, he says. He’s kept quiet about it to keep in Janet’s good graces.

Now Paul is indicted for Taylor’s death/murder. Ed goes to a dive to find Jeff. Why? To get him to talk--a one on one with a psycho. What a scene; long, tense. Nick shows up; the swinging overhead lamp does its surreal dance of shadow. Jeff, drunk, is loose-lipped enough to blurt out he was the gunman in an earlier murder. As Jeff strangles Nick, Ed gets Nick’s gun, then the cops. In the station, Jeff can’t resist calling Ed a wise-guy, but Ed tells him "You’re gonna die laughing."

Ed convinces the D.A. that Janet killed her brother, but when it comes down to it, Mr. Henry confesses. Paul’s story was correct, but it was the old man who accidentally killed Taylor. Well, that was a clever deception, as Ed apparently knew it was him all along. He figured the old man would confess to protect Janet. A few too many spins around the plot maybe.

Still, the Glass Key was better than I expected. There’s those memorable scenes with Bendix that typify the genre. Also, even though The Glass Key is a bit longer than most noir films, it never lags. Lake’s role is central both to the romance and the Tyler murder aspects of the plot; she’s convincing as a sultry love-interest for Ed and Paul, as well as mysterious enough to have been up to no good. Ladd’s performance is stronger than Donlevy’s, but Ed is the more important character. Calleia might’ve been a little slimier, but he was fine. Granville, like Donlevy the Ladd duo, is somewhat in the shadow of Lake.

Other than the plot having a few too many strands, and a half dozen too many characters to sort out in its web, The Glass Key is first rate film noir..

Fallen Angel, 1945.

********* 9.0

June Swoons, Stella’s Doomed

Another great Dana Andrews film noir. His character is so slimy. Not a gangster, a cop, or a gullible average guy, he’s merely a con-man. The ultimate outsider in a genre that highlights alienation. The two women, Linda Darnell, as the vixen Stella, and the angelic Alice Faye’s June, fill out the typical noir female personas. They’re types, but not stereotypes.

Stella uses men, but they use her as well. June is sweet, but hardly brittle. What bugs me about both of them is that they give Andrew’s Erik so much rope. He doesn’t even bother to spend his wedding night with June; he’s playing the percentages, sidling up to Stella once again. At least she finally rejects him. What if she doesn’t, though? In that case, he’d con his wife out (his ’share’) of her money, annul his marriage, and run off with Stella. Ironically, it was June’s protective sister who wanted her to annul the marriage.

His motivation is simple: he wants the best ’deal.’ The most money, the prettiest woman, the easiest way. Life is very much a game to him; people only matter if they can be exploited. His ammorality is incredible. He threatens to leave both women when he doesn’t get his way; and then pushes each to marry him as though the world’s going to end if they don’t.

Judd (Charles Bickford’s character) is actually more evil, but his motivation’s easier to understand. Stella ultimately spurns him as well as Erik (Andrews), but Judd snaps and inadvertently kills her. Judd’s role is reminiscent of Andrew’s detective character in Where the Sidewalk Ends. Both try to frame others for accidental deaths that they caused.

The denouement in the diner is a great scene. It’s drawn out, full of innuendo and indirection. The advantage slowly but inexorably shifts from Judd to Erik. It’s Erik’s best con-job; an honest one this time. The two have a sort of rapport and respect for each other; they were both jilted by Stella.

A very taut noir crime drama. Fallen Angel is a penetrating look at an insecure personality run amok. It’s let down just a bit by Darnell’s and Fay’s witless trust in Andrew’s scheming, insincere Erik. June is the fallen angel; even through Erik’s off the hook, it’s hard to believe that he’s going to change his ways. 9/10.

Conflict, 1945.

********* 9.0

Bogart Wrecks Buick Twice

What a great plot in this noir thriller. Bogart gives a superb performance as an unloved husband who kills his wife so he can be with his sister-in-law. But he has two problems: his perfect murder doesn’t quite work out, and Evelyn, the sister-in-law, isn’t ready to jump into his arms.

The result is a series of complications for Bogart’s Mason character, culminating in his entrapment by the police and Sidney Greenstreet, as Mason’s psychiatrist/friend. Clues emerge quickly. Since we see events from Mason’s troubled perspective, we’re left wondering if Kathryn, his wife, really is dead, or, more exotically, has come back to life, if only in his mind. In which case he’s going nuts.

It’s interesting that Mason finds himself working closely with the police; you’d think that’s the last thing he’d want. He’s kind of stuck. It makes sense for him to appear as though he were trying to help find the ’killer’; on the other hand, he becomes so confused, irritated, and suspicious by the succession of clues and coincidences that he feels he has no choice.

Greenstreet painstakingly analyzes him, yet he has to maintain the illusion that their psychological conversations are hypothetical. Mason becomes completely flustered when he’s unable to pressure Evelyn into falling for him. He’s unwittingly acting out the narcissistic profile of the murderer that Greenstreet outlines for him. He’s so oblivious to her feelings that he convinces himself she comes back to be with him, not for the obvious reason that she’s worried about her sister.

He probably begins to hope that she actually didn’t die; then at least he can’t be accused of murder. Possibly, as Greenstreet wryly suggests, if she lived she could’ve lost her memory, which would also explain why she hasn’t come forward. That would be perfect; Mason couldn’t be accused of anything, her tumbling off the mountain road explainable as merely an accident.

Even without the murder, he’s hardly a sympathetic character. Kathryn has a haughty way with him; when he apologizes for his latent infidelity right after his injury, she assumes he’s just being opportunistic. Evelyn toys with him as well; but she is after all much younger than he, and understandably reticent about getting involved with him. In other words, in typical noir fashion, women can’t be trusted.

As others have noticed, he shows no remorse for the killing, his concern is only to get away with it. And get away with Evelyn. His last talk with Hollsworth shows not only his decency to the man who suits Evelyn much better, but also gives us a look at a younger, less compromised version of himself.

Hollsworth’s subplot with Evelyn leads in a plausible romantic direction, instead of the tragic path that Mason follows. He’s doomed from the beginning. 9/10.

Journey Into Fear, 1943.

******** 8.0

Joseph Cotten is an American engineer, Howard Graham, involved in an arms deal in neutral Turkey in WWII. Surviving an assassination attempt by Axis agents, he escapes Istanbul by sea voyage; but the enemy continues to stalk him.

With Ruth Warrick as Cotten’s wife, Stephanie Graham. And Dolores Del Rio, Agnes Morehead, Jack Durant, Everett Sloane, Frank Readick, Eustace Wyatt, Edgar Barrier, Hans Conried, Jack Moss, and even Orson Welles.

We start with Banat (Moss) in a hotel room, listening to a gramophone, loading a pistol. Then he’s out on the street. There’s a flashback, in which we see the Grahams check into their Instanbul hotel. Greeting them is Kopeikin (Sloane) the arms dealer.

He insinuates himself into their company. With the ruse of having a few drinks in the hotel bar, he talks Howard into going to a nightclub, where Josette (Del Rio) performs. A magician (Conried) cajoles Howard into joining him on stage. The lights dim, there’s a gunshot. The magician’s shot. Howard’s upset with Kopeikin "You’ve got me involved in a dirty nightclub shooting." Haki (Welles) wants to talk to Howard.

The government is concerned that Graham’s been targeted "you are a military objective!" He shows Howard a picture of Haller/Muller (Wyatt), the Nazi agent supposedly behind the plot to kill him. Anyway, Haki tells Howard that he’s arranged for him to sail on a boat to Batum, as the railway isn’t very safe (his wife’s taking the train, nonetheless). For some reason, Josette and her husband Gogo (Durant) are accompanying him. Kopeikin pops up to give him a gun. He bumps into Josette: he confirms his reason for taking the boat, thst is, that is, someone’s trying to kill him.

Kuvetli (Barrier) introduces himself. Howard goes out on deck with Josette. In the dining room, he meets a ’good’ German (Muller?); Gogo and others give their opinions about the war. Howard then sends a telegram to his wife as they approach Trebizond.

The creepy Banat enters the dining room. Howard, panicky, goes to the Captain, demanding to be put ashore: "there’s a man on this boat who is here for the express purpose of killing me." He further tells them it’s Banat, Muller’s (Jack Moss’s) henchman. The Captain thinks the whole thing is hilarious. They won’t even believe Howard when he tells them that the Colonel himself told him the assassin’s identity. Look who’s skulking about? Banat. Howard’s so wound up that he knocks on Josette door.

Well, why not? There’s a poker game going on. Banat walks in just as Howard leaves with Josette. He convinces her that "business competitors don’t want me to get back to America." She comes up with a plan to search Banat’s cabin for a gun. With superb timing, the goofy captain sneaks up on Howard and says ’boo!’ But he does get to search the bad guy’s digs.

Problem is, Muller/Haller ambushes him "you will be dead within a very few moments after reaching Batum." The good news is, there’s a plan B. Which is that Howard catches typhus in Batum...that doesnt’ sound so hot either. Muller then tells him that Kopeikin is a Turkish agent, sent by the Colonel to protect him. But, if Kopeikin gets wise to Banat or Muller, then it’s back to plan A, that is, assassination.

As if on cue, Kopeikin meets Howard on deck. They exchange info on Muller and Banat; Kopeikin assures him that the best play is to go along with the Nazi guys for the moment. In Howard’s cabin though, he finds Kuvetli dead. Now, a reprise of the opening motif: Banat playing the gramophone in his cabin. Howard asks Matthews (Readick) to help him by notifying Colonel Haki that the Nazi agents are onto him. Apparently, they’ve reached Batum.

Meanwhile, Howard sees Gogo; he wants Josette and Gogo to go ashore with him. Matthews and his wife (Agnes Moorehead) bicker, but at least Howard has a weapon of sorts, an umbrella. Anyway, Howard gets down to the dock, huddling with Muller and Banat. Still following Kopeikin’s instructions, he goes off with them in a Packard limousine. They get a flat. In the confusion, Howard cunningly works a penknife into the car’s horn, which then blares uncontrollably. The goons forget about Howard, who shoves them away, and drives off with the car.

He deliberately crashes into a shop, and escapes the wreckage. Finding his wife’s hotel, he goes up to her room. Strangely, she has a guest, who feigns to be Howard’s friend, Bill. That is, another Nazi. And here’s Banat at the door. They say they’re going to take Howard away.

This is kind of like the first time he was enticed away friom her, at the Istanbul hotel. Banat has a gun on him, but, conveniently, Gogo, possibly looking for a poker companion, looks in suddenly. Gogo’s blasted by Banat, who gets away, out the window. Haki is about as well, in pursuit of the Nazis. He bags Muller, but Banat gets Haki (not fatally though).

This scene takes place on the window ledges of the hotel, in a driving rain, at night. Finally, Banat, grabbing a canopy for support, falls when the fabric rips. All’s well. Comfortably inside, Howard’s writing to Stephanie, finishing explaining how Josette’s "just a friend." No big deal, Stephanie’s waiting for him in a different room. Haki complements Howard for taking on Banat. The end, and a flashy one at that.

This has a great noirish atmosphere. The boat serves as a confining dismal space, usually shrouded in mist and darkness, not unlike the dingy cramped quarters of noir urban environments. there’s a sort of absurdist element here too, with several streaks of dark or disdainful humor.

The plot is loaded with a few too many characters and contrivances; but I think that helps bring out the nightmarish feel. Many of the characters act unpredictably--some folks are too nosy (the passengers) and some just look the other way (the Captain). The Colonel (thanks to the usual subtle Welles’ performance) manages to be both meanancng and reassuring.

Then there’s Kopeikin. It’s odd that he doesn’t reveal his identity to Howard (letting his antagonist do it for him). That’s part of a strategem, I suppose. What I don’t get is why he’d expose Howard to the danger in the nightclub; even if he doesnt know exactly what’s going to happen, he’s got to know that it’s not the safest place for the guy he’s supposed to be protecting. He must have another deal on the side; the colonel makes a big deal out of his country needing modern arms. Presumably, whatever Howard is really up in Turkey must be favorable to the govenment’s plans; otherwise why would they care so much about him?

In short, no one is quite who we think they are. Gogo, for example, has a very murky role. If he and Josette are married, it sure doesn’t seem like it. I’m not sure if we’re supposed to assume that Howard has anything going on with Josette; she’s simply there as a sort of companion--because they’re literally ’in the same boat’ together. Possibly the underlying reason that Kopeikin lures Howard to the club is to introduce him to Josette, who then becomes an accomplice of sorts.

Cotten seems distinctly uncomfortable throughout; I get that his character’s under a great deal of stress, but he seemingly thinks that everyone (except Josette) is out to get him. He’s not merely frightened, he’s just a jerk. Stephanie hasn’t much to do, as she’s absent for much of the movie; Josette, in effect, takes her place aboard the boat. The passengers are more or less either for or against Howard, or have no agenda.

I’m willing to grant Journey Into Fear a very large (Black Sea-sized) suspension of disbelief because the theme’s psychological (concerning mood, atmosphere, and thought), and isn’t really logic-based. That’s not to say that everything isn’t at stake for Howard--he could’ve been killed at several points in the movie--what we see is how he has experienced it, in retrospect. We know that because, perhaps too obviously, as the narrator, he reminds us that it’s his story.

As such it’s a foggy mix of memory and nightmare, laced with palpable fear. 8/10.

Johnny Angel, 1945.

******** +8.0

Two Angels, Two Ladies, (One Nice), And A Singin’ Cabbie

George Raft wasted no time getting us into this New Orleans noir as Captain Angel. His ship comes upon his dad’s ship, adrift near New Orleans, with an African cargo, but no crew. On board the derelict ship, Angel finds signs of a struggle. After confronting the shipping line’s milktoast Gustave Gustafson (Marvin Miller), Angel’s suspicions increase. Doing his own sleuthing, and enlisting the aid of a cabbie, Celestial (Hoagy Carmichael), Angel finds a French girl Paulette (Signe Hasslo) in a club.

Angel figures she’d been aboard the mysterious ship, and must know what happened to his father. To get to her, he has to punch out a bouncer, but Paulette flees. Following a clue, it’s on to another club. He spots Gustafson’s wife Lilah (Claire Trevor) there with an acquaintance Sam (Lowell Gilmore). It seems Johnny and Lilah used to be together. She confides that she can’t stand her husband. Outside, Paulette walks by; a shot rings out as Johnny looks down from a balcony. It’s Paulette’s who’s targeted; she dodges another bullet.

Johnny attempts to rescue her, but the assassin overcomes him. The police arrive; Paulette’s ducked out, actually she’s taking a ride with Celestial. Reading the situation, the cabbie takes her to a hide-out. Celestial brings Johnny to her, "I’ve come for the story." So, what’s the big secret? Well, more suspense. He takes her for a scenic walk. At last she confirms that his dad is indeed dead. Only his father’s killer survived from the crew. She relates that $5 million in gold was on the ship; it was her father’s gold. And, now a flashback, to Casablanca, to pick up the gold trail.

It seems that their fathers knew each other. Since she knew the elder Captain Angel, he let her aboard in Casablanca, even though she didn’t have a passport. She overhears the Captain talking about the gold. One night at sea in the Gulf, there’s a rebellion with crew members who try to take over the gold. We also here Sam’s name mentioned; is he going to be in on this too? Anyway, there’s plenty of shooting. Paulette has to take a shot at an officer who’s one of the rebels. The scenes on board are claustrophobic--plenty of small cabins, stairways, and corridors. On deck it’s equally creepy; they always seem to be fogged in, and the deck itself is a maze of tackle and gear.

The boat is rigged to capsize, and the crew escapes by a motor launch. Someone aboard picks most of them off, then makes for the shore alone. Back to the present: Johnny figures the guy she shot in her cabin is the same one who tried to kill her more recently. The good news is that Johnny and Paulette have fallen for each other. "I don’t want you dead. I want you just the way you are." Well, Johnny finds out more about the getaway launch (it’s registered to Sam). Then Johnny wants to hang around to straighten things out; he tells Gusty he’s not sailing. His next move is to chat up Lilah; he affects to be interested in her again, obviously to get info about Sam.

She’s careless about mentioning the gold. He splits because her husband shows up. They get back to Lilah’s place. She finally figures he’s just hanging around to talk about the money. It’s sort of an ambush, as Gusty shows up "I’ll tell you when to go!" he snarls at Johnny. Anyway, two nutty-looking guys come around to Paulette’s, claiming that Johnny sent them. They take her to the Jewell Box, that is, Sam’s--a trap. He correctly figures that she’s helping Johnny investigate his father’s death. While Sam’s grilling her, Johnny and Celestial are on their way.

Sam takes her out on a landing; he’s obviously thinking to toss her to the sea below. She gets away just as the good guys arrive. There’s a pretty good fight between the two sets of guys; of course our heroes get away clean. Meanwhile, domestic strife at the Gustafsons’. Paulette’s fooling with a stout-looking letter opener...but that’s all we see. Next morning, Paulette shows up aboard Johnny’s ship "It’s you and me now" she decides. They shoot accusations at each other; she still thinks that she can win him back. She promises to take him to the gold.

Is it a set-up? She says the gold is aboard the launch, at a remote mansion’s boathouse. She insists that Sam knows nothing about the gold. Her plan is to load the gold on his ship, sail to Rio, and she’ll meet him there. But he smells a double-cross. And, there’s Gusty, with a gun, waiting for them. And she has stabbed him, so he’s dying into the bargain. So, it was Gusty who killed Johnny’s dad. Incredibly, as Gusty’s about to blast Johnny, Mrs. Drumm shoots the slippery eel. The end.

This was a wild ride. Very atmospheric, and showcasing the epitome of noir lighting and backgrounds. New Orleans has a great blend of the exotic and the urban milieus. The story starts quickly and doesn’t pause for very long--even though Johnny has two love interests to deal with--and rambles to a quick denouement. We can pretty much figure that Johnny will ditch Lilah for Paulette, but the subplots aren’t really meant to be suspenseful. Both women figure into the main plot; so the romance angle works very well.

Gusty is a strange character; he’s weak, but affects to be important, which is his downfall. In a gothic-like dependent relationship with Mrs. Drumm, he’s pitiful. Sam is a more traditional bad guy; basically a simple hood. Then, there’s Lilah and Paulette. They’re polar opposites: Lilah is slick, conniving, insincere and mercenary; Paulette’s shy, but pleasant, put-upon, but trusting and honest. They’re both very attractive. Johnny, on the other hand, is kind of wooden, but definitely someone to be reckoned with, and he contrasts completely with the oily Gusty.

Celestial has an important role--the sidekick--a recurring character in noir; not only is he a sort of bodyguard for both Johnny and Paulette, but he gets in on the fun stuff with his music, singing, and wisecracking. This s one of Carmichael’s better performances. In fact, Raft and Trevor are both in their elements; the tough guy and the femme fatale.

The only thing that bugs me is that there’s almost no official involvement in any of the crimes. There’s one scene where an inquest is mentioned (regarding Johnny’s dad), but that’s it. Johnny is, in effect, the only authority figure. At least we’re spared the rivalry stuff between the cops and the protagonist doing his own investigation; still, it seems a bit unrealistic. After all, we’re not just talking about one murder at sea, but a bunch of murders--not to mention $5 million in gold.

Still, Johnny Angel is a highly entertaining noir. It’s worth watching for the atmosphere alone.

Detour, 1945.

********* 9.0

A very realized noir world, such as we see in Detour, shows the emotional and psychological terror felt by those who can’t bear to face reality. Sort of a horror movie that’s all the more horrific by unfortunately being grounded in the everyday world.

Tom Neil and Ann Savage, as Al Roberts and Vera, are the unlikeliest of pairs, and, in different ways, they end up destroying each other. Certainly Detour leaves nothing behind in building the absolutely evil nature of Vera’s character. Al, by contrast, who is actually more firmly in the hot seat than she, is a sort of Montgomery Clift-type of hapless, passive guy. No question that Vera is the quintessential ’40s femme fatale. Sue (Claudia Drake), on the other hand, is not at all stereotypical; the fact that she’s split for L.A. shows that she’s strong-willed and independent. Al is the one who’s a lost soul.

The cleverly-drawn premise makes Al suddenly complicit in the unforseeable death of his companion, Charles Haskell (Edmund McDonald). The plot gathers strength with Vera’s (perhaps too coincidental) appearance. The unintended consequences of assuming Haskell’s identity fuels Al’s subsequent travails.

He more or less is forced into a series of scams. The most elaborate and daring idea–Al’s presenting himself as Haskell to inherit a fortune–is never realized. That’s probably wise, as it would be too much to continue impersonating the guy when the stakes are so high, and the possibilities for his undoing are limitless.

It’s agonizing to watch him torn up by Vera’s manipulative ploys, which get more daring as the plot unfolds. The scenes in their apartment are so claustrophobic; they circle each other like caged animals. Occasionally, one of them gets wise to themselves: Al almost contacts Sue, Vera almost calls the police (her second attempt proves fatal). Each is afraid of losing the other; Vera because she’ll lose the easy money, Al because he’s afraid of being turned in.

Just when it appears that they they agree to separate, Vera finds out that Haskell is about to be a millionaire, so she wants to wait. The long scene which results in her strangulation by the phone line is masterfully done. It’s such an unlikely occurrence that no one would believe that Al hadn’t intended to harm her.

The frame story works well to set up the plot; judging from Al’s grungy appearance and jittery demeanor, we know right away that something awful is about to be told. Despite a tougher-than-dirt tone, relentless pacing, and very good performances, Detour left some trash on the side of the road.

Al would definitely be a suspect if he’d told the motorcycle cop the real deal; but a medical examiner would quickly determine that Haskell was a dying man. The pills are an obvious clue to the guy’s condition. Al has nothing to hide.

Even if we buy that Al panicked, and felt he had to cover up by pretending to be Haskell, picking up Vera was just nonsensical. He’d just been narrating how he was going to just abandon the car in California. The identity swap really only made sense as long as Al had to use Haskell’s car. Once in L.A. he could go back to Plan A (connecting with Sue).

He knew he needed to keep a low profile, but shoots himself in the foot by picking up Vera. And then, what are the chances that an absolute stranger would turn out to be someone who not only knew Haskell, but also remembered his car? The movie gets much more plausible once those hurdles are overcome. I would’ve been happier, though, had Al not been picked up by the police at the end. There’s no agency in that; just leave him hitch to his way all over again.

Although film noir posits a deterministic world, it also shows that we make our own luck. That is, we make mistakes. Al gets dealt a bad hand by having Haskell die on him, but by not reporting Haskell’s death he plays his hand badly. And he blows it again by not ignoring Vera. Those willful acts, or non-acts, only increase the danger for Al, raising the bet, so to speak.

Apparently, in its original form, the story gave Al a criminal background; that would make his initial decision to cover up Haskell’s death more understandable. This is a tremendously entertaining movie. The faults are a matter of degree; and don’t diminish the overall composition too much.

The Postman Always Rings Twice, 1946.

********* 9.0

One of the best-known film noirs, and sort of the companion piece to Double Indemnity from a few years earlier. These were adapted from James M. Cain stories, featuring a young guy moving in on a beautiful woman (Barbara Stanwyck in Indemnity, Lana Turner in Postman) who’s married to an older man. In both movies, the sputtering romance kindles a desire to get rid of the unwanted husband, so youth can have its day. And the femme fatales seemingly call the shots; as though Fred MacMurray and John Garfield were just innocent by-standers instead of conspirators in murder. Another device common to these movies is the protagonist’s narration.

Unlike the rather distant, austere husband from Double Indemnity, Cecil Kellaway’s Nick is a decent, regular guy (though domineering, as we see). Cora shows a beguiling facade to Garfield’s Frank, but gives him haughty disdain more often than not “there’s nothing cheap around here!” she reminds him. He more than matches her game though, kissing her in their first scene together.

Turner’s Cora is so calculated, her face morphing perceptibly when she’s not talking, reactive and provocative at the same time. No doubt the chemistry between her and Frank is actively volcanic, attractive in its way, but dangerous. Interestingly, she tells him that she married Nick so guys would leave her alone. Their first attempt to escape together ends in an argument over finances, and well, status; she doesn’t fashion “…starting out like a couple of tramps.”

But by this time, the eliminating-Nick scenario comes up for consideration. “Right then I shoulda walked out of that place” Frank narrates. Instead they go back to sneaking around. More plotting. “I’m not what you think I am” Cora tells him, meaning, ‘just because I want to kill my husband, it doesn’t mean that I’m a bad person.’ They have the supreme illusion that love-conquers-all can be taken literally.

Shazam! The electrocution attempt is frustrated by a cat. The D.A. Sackett (Leon Ames) shows up at the hospital, obviously suspicious about the light-falling-into-the-tub sequence. The patrolman sort of materializes at inopportune times. In any case, Cora’s professing her limitless devotion to Frank–but Nick recovers. Meanwhile, time for more beach fun. Frank again figures it’s time to split; actually, he does, working for a bit in the city. Ironically, Nick finds him and talks him into coming back.

So, more of Cora’s stiff demeanor. Nick announces they’re going to sell out and move to Canada to help take care of his sister. Rightly, she argues with him that he’s not caring about her, leaving her feelings out completely. Needless to say, both Cora and Frank are upset. Time for Plan B. For one of a very few scenes, Cora is wearing black. Bad omen? “Let’s figure something out” Frank tells her “If you really loved me, you could…” what? Frank probably muses. A “regular drunk automobile accident” is in the cards.

But officialdom intervenes, this time it’s Sackett and not the patrolman. Frank, Cora, and very drunk Nick shove off anyway in the ’38 Plymouth. On a remote mountain road, they whack him over the head with a bottle, and let him roll down an embankment in the car. Fate is really up to something now–once Frank gets back into the car to make it look like he was in an ‘accident’ too–the car rolls the rest of the way down the cliff.

But he’s pretty much okay. Except that Sackett confronts him in the hospital, accusing he and Cora of staging the accident. Similar to Double Indemnity, there’s a new insurance policy that they both stand to gain from. Sackett then weaves the case around to finger Cora only; i.e., she got him drunk, and planned to kill both of them. Frank signs the affidavit.

Then we get Cora’s attorney Arthur Keats (Hugh Cronin). It’s a little unseemly how he and Sackett get on in such a nonchalant, sporting fashion, as though the law were a game. In court, it’s clear that the two attorneys have made a deal. Frank and Cora are left alone together, “We’ve been double-crossed, Cora” he says. She gives Keats a dressing-down. Strangely, the court reporter isn’t really on the level; it’s Ezra Kennedy (Alan Reed), the insurance company investigator.

Kennedy works for Keats. So, Keats did help in the sense that Cora really hasn’t confessed; the document, though, is a skeleton in the closet. The legal wrangling is fascinating. In short, Frank is cleared, and Cora is merely given probation. Plus she gets the insurance money. The problem is, the law (Sackett) is still lurking out there, the embodiment of fate. Frank and Cora are basically forces them to get married to stay in business, thanks to ‘morals clauses’ etc.

Cora to Frank: “You’ve been trying to trying to turn me into a tramp ever since you’ve known me!” So, she doesn’t want to ride off into the sunset with him now either. While Cora’s gone to see about her dying mother, Frank has a quick fling with Madge (Audrey Totter). The third time he’s wanted to escape, and almost does this time. But, no, Cora, in mourning, comes back. She in black, of course, meaning something else is up.

It’s Kennedy, attempting to blackmail them for the illegal confession. A pretty quick turning of tables, as Frank beats up Kennedy instead. So, they set up an ambush for Kennedy’s accomplice. Cora is really twitching her nose at Frank; she got wise to his fling with Madge. So, now that she’s throwing him over, they’re “right back where we started …we’re chained to each other, Cora” He’s right; so that’s the shape of their love. Plus she’s having their child.

Last time at the beach for them. A sort of game of chicken ensues, they almost try to die by swimming out too far. Another way to look at it is that their contest–culminating in a truce–means that at last they trust each other. Their genuine dreamy talk inadvertently leads to the accident that kills Cora. It should probably end with his ironic indictment for murder.

Well, that’s more or less the result. He finds solace in the fact that Sackett believes that he didn’t intend to kill Cora, but that her recently discovered note implies that they did conspire to kill Nick. That’s a little confusing, as the only note that we see that she hid at the diner simply said “Nick, I’m going away with Frank–I love him.” Definitely establishes infidelity, but nothing more. The other note would be her ‘confession,’ which was burned.

Maybe there’s another note. Still, getting back to the accident, how can it possibly be construed as a murder? Did Frank put the truck in front of them to dodge? Did he put the bridge rail there for the car to hit? Suppose he’s killed instead of her? Unless the accident is obviously staged, as was the one that involved Nick, it’s probably going to be seeing as just an accident.

Also, he was cleared from involvement in Nick’s death. He could be tried for that, I suppose, but there’s no new evidence that we know of. My point is that Cora’s genuinely accidental death is enough; Frank’s not exactly going to feel great having done away with Nick only to have Cora die. Apparently, the amount of justice done here (Frank’s coming execution, which he feels ok about) had more to do with expected outcomes for movies of this sort in their era than with the screenwriter’s intent.

As with Double Indemnity, Postman makes the romance the center and key to the plot; the criminals aren’t outsiders (gangsters, goons) they’re the compromised couple, resorting to murder to selfishly get what they want. That noir leveling mechanism, fate, keeps jabbing away at those who overstep the bounds of civilization (Cora, Frank).

For this genre, it’s fitting that the attorneys, especially Keats, are antagonists whom, although they have good standing in society, nonetheless figure that the occasional underhanded method will wash with desperate outliers like their clients. In other words, there’s little margins for error that can be taken advantage of. We see in a very early scene that Sackett uses his position to brush off the patrolman.

When we get down to it then, despite a steamy (especially for the ’40s) romance with an attractive couple, the protagonists are selfish jerks. That’s not to say that they both deserve to die. For one thing, even the sneaky Keats works a legal miracle to get Cora off the hot seat. Although, I still feel that dramatically it would’ve been more interesting if Frank doesn’t get stuck on death row, that’s not to say that his fate is unjust.

What really cements Postman into the noir block is that there’s no characters who aren’t in some way compromised. Cora and Frank seem incapable of making good decisions; there’s probably half a dozen places in the movie when one or both of them were going to leave, but only mske a show of it; until, like Russian roulette, their last chance blows up in their faces.

One of the essential film noir movies; very entertaining.

Woman In the Window, 1944.

********* 9.0

Woman in the Window is a definitive film noir. There’s the nighttime settings, the unintended crime, the naive protagonist falling fast from respectability into a dangerous underworld, a creepy villian, and a mysterious lady. It doesn’t hurt that the protagonist, Professor Wanley, is played by Edward G. Robinson, the lady by Jean Bennett, and the creep by Dan Duryea. Unlike the similar Scarlett Street, here the protagonist is cut off from his family near the beginning, never to return to them (well, almost never).

As the title suggests, windows, pictures, and images play a key symbolic role. It’s Alice’s (Bennett’s) painting that sets the plot in motion; that she appears as a reflection in the window next to her portrait is an almost supernatural touch. Near the end, as the Professor sits alone, contemplating his misfortunes, he sees the comforting family photos.

But they’re only that–images, reminders that they’re remote and inaccessible., unable to help. Once the Professor finds himself at Alice’s apartment, he’s entered the unknown. Ironically, he’s strongly hinted that he wants to forestall “the end of spirit and adventure” that he and his stolid, respectable middle-aged colleagues have felt. After the jealous Mazard’s (Arthur Loft’s) death, the Professor faces relentless challenges that ruin him emotionally and physically.

Unlike the femme fatales in many noirs, Alice is fairly sympathetic. She never wavers from supporting Wanley (the Professor) in their dilemma; not only with the police but also with Dan Duryea’s Heidt, the sociopathic blackmailer. She does affect double-crossing behavior with Heidt, but only as a ruse to gain his confidence.

His giddy manner betrays that he’s in his element in the criminal underworld; he’s enjoying messing with peoples’ lives. At the opposite end of the law, Raymond Massey, as the D.A. Frank Lalor, cruises comfortably through his investigation of Mazard’s death, knowing what he’s doing, and, more importantly, knows why he’s doing it.

Lalor and his subordinates inadvertently twist the screws tighter on Wanley, their nonchalance and jocularity about the crime mocking Wanley’s hidden guilt. Lalor is a sort of alter ego for Wanley, able to say and act out what Wanley’s fretting about–all the tell-tale details of the crime.

It seems that Wanley feels they do suspect him; his paranoia undoubtedly stoked by the repeated, almost hallucinatory appearance of cops in his path. Interestingly, Wanley, despite Heidt’s threats to go to the cops, is never officially a suspect. Alice could give him up, but won’t. She’s the one fingered by the police, she’s the one dealing with Heidt, and it’s her place that Heidt’s leaving when he’s killed in a shoot-out with the police.

The cruelest irony is that, just as the Mazard’s case is neatly tied up by Heidt’s death, Wanley, figuring that he’s doomed, poisons himself. Heidt is found with evidence that is self-incriminating, all the juicy stuff he has on Wanley dies with him. I would’ve been happy if the hand that revives Wanley had been his wife’s, or even Alice’s.

But, no, we’re left with a Wizard of Oz ending, complete with a parade of doppelganger characters in innocent roles. I’ve got to admit to the ending’s cleverness; but it’s unsatisfying. I’d be more taken in if either Wanley dies, or gets help before he dies. Woman in the Window would be perfect with a different ending; as it is it’s still remarkable, and incredibly entertaining. 9/10.

The Stranger, 1946.

******* 7.0

Interesting film noir. Orson Welles plays the fugitive Nazi war criminal Kindler (aka Rankin), Edward G. Robinson the detective Wilson, who tracks Rankin to New England, and Loretta Young is Rankin’s new bride, Mary. The supporting cast is rather important to the plot, especially Billy House as the gossipy drugstore proprietor Potter. Mary’s brother Noah (Richard Long) becomes Wilson’s confident and accomplice.

The townspeople act as a sort of mob, an ironic comment on the lynch mentality of Nazi supporters. The premise is intriguing, the pacing is taut, and there’s great noir cinematography as well. With all of these elements going for it, though, The Stranger is oddly uneven, mostly because of Welles’ and Young’s performances.

Many critics mention the plot holes; I think these are a function of character flaws which in turn hurt he story’s credibility. Mary is obviously taken in by Rankin. She’s incredibly naive, almost childlike in her devotion to him. That doesn’t prevent her from shooting him at the end, once she’s convinced of his guilt. I can buy that falling in love isn’t the same as knowing someone; in fact, being in love can blind a person to the other’s faults.

Still, Rankin isn’t so much as decent to Mary for one minute. In fact, Rankin acts incredibly suspicious and tentative throughout. Even in the wedding scene he wears the incredulous stare that only an uncomfortable person would; it seems as though he’s looking to escape from every scene. And he does disappear a lot–incredibly on their wedding night–when he’s out disposing of his tail and former Nazi underling, Meinike (Konstantin Shayne).

Rankin’s alibi for his dealings with Meinike is pretty good–his nemesis is an blackmailer/avenger from a jilted lover’s family. At the very least, she’s gets some background on her husband, even if it’s made-up. Still, once he’s killed Meinike, why would she stay with him? Even if it’s just a ‘domestic’ murder, as she doesn’t believe Rankin’s Nazi connection until much later, it’s still murder. Mary’s not a gun-moll ‘dame’ of his, she’s his wife, and implicitly respectable.

Actually, the brother-of-the-suicidal-lover deal could’ve been stretched out a bit. My alternative premise would make this ex-lover the focus of a strictly revenge/remorse plot. Ditch all the Nazi stuff, and just make Rankin an American guy with a shady past. Might make an interesting psychological study, especially with all the noir atmosphere. What does figure in The Stranger is that the actual brother, Noah, pushes the plot from another direction.

The central idea is the fear of Nazism, even after the war, embodied by the war criminals. What evidence is there, though, that Rankin is Kindler? The death camp footage is definitely chilling, but what ties Rankin to it? There would’ve been photos of semi-prominent Nazis, documentation (i.e., tying Meinike to Kindler) etc., as it’s well known how meticulous the Nazis were about keeping records. Instead, Mary is supposed to take Wilson’s word for it all; strangely, everyone else, including Noah, believes Wilson implicitly. Not to mention the fact that Wilson’s a stranger in a small town.

The ending is admittedly a bit over-the-top. But it fits with the movie’s dark tone. As others have said, scenes, actions, and characters are exaggerated in a nightmarish way. The clock tower denouement caps off these tendencies: nothing could look more mythic and folk-tale authentic than getting impaled by a gargoyle’s sword.

Other visual elements are memorable: especially the silhouettes and stark shadows on walls, and Wilson’s mottled reflection in the stairwell. The Stranger also poses the duality that both Rankin and Wilson are strangers, as well as antagonists. It’s as though ‘domestic tranquillity’ can’t be restored until the outsiders are dealt with; Wilson, having eliminated Rankin, now becomes superfluous.

The Stranger is entertaining, and has several captivating scenes, but doesn’t flesh out its characters enough to be outstanding.

The Letter, 1940.

********* 9.0

"I’m On Duty, Ah, Of A Sort...Y’Know?"

Very atmospheric early film noir. The cinematography, in the exotic Singapore setting, along with the moody, enchanting music, adds up to a very entertaining experience. Bette Davis is in top form as the adulterer/murderer Leslie. Her husband Robert (Herbert Marshall) is a stoic presence, the surviving victim of Leslie’s affair with Hammond. It’s bad enough that Robert’s fooled by his wife, righteously assuming that she’s killed Hammond in self-defense, but he’s also pretty much bankrupted by the successful attempt to blackmail their way out of her legal trouble.

Leslie is a loose cannon--she kills her lover because he’s unwilling to betray his wife, the mysterious, menacing Mrs. Hammond (Gale Sondergaard). Though the women really only have two scenes together, that’s enough to anchor the plot. Both the scene in the Chinese quarter where the incriminating letter is exchanged, and the denouement, where the moon hides behind a cloud to cover Leslie’s death from the vengeful widow’s knife, are masterpieces. There’s a sort of fusion of music, shadow, light, and action that draws us into the suffocation of the opium den and the melancholy indifference of the palm trees swaying in the night sky.

Strangely, Robert seems to suffer a lot more than Leslie. He’s not in control of events, and doesn’t know until very late in the game what the letter actually says. His frenetic scheme to start over in Sumatra is pathetic, as he realizes he doesn’t have the money anymore, and, even if he did, things won’t be the same with Leslie. The final nail in his emotional coffin is her admission that she still loves her lover. But love her husband, not so much. Even their friend Howard (James Stephenson) is compromised; his role in the blackmail deal can ruin him.

The go-between in the blackmail plot, Ong (Sen Yung), is an interesting character. Like Leslie, he’s unscrupulous. Behind a veneer of respectability, he’s completely out for himself. Although one can understand the other Chinese as victims of colonial rule, Ong uses the gap between cultures to his advantage. Leslie is never more authentic than in the ’payoff’ scene; clearly out of her depth, she recognizes that Mrs. Hammond is in control, even thanking her for completing the bargain. The knife with the decorative handle has just made its first appearance; it’s shown because it’s going to be used at some point..

When Leslie has it after her last talk with Robert, there’s a couple of possibilities: will she kill herself? Or maybe Robert? Most likely it would be Mrs. Hammond, who apparently had the same idea (using the matching knife). The question arises then: is Leslie’s murder justified? I doubt that we’re supposed to think so; though we might feel otherwise.

The letter is definitely worth seeing--for Bette Davis, the mystery/noir plot and effects, and the psychological tension. 9/10.

Undercurrent, 1946.

****** 6.0

"Some Of My Friends Are People"

Top shelf cast for this psychological film-noir/mystery. Robert Taylor is Alan, a big wheel, courting Katherine Hepburn’s Ann. She’s already got an admirer in Professor Joe Bangs (Dan Tobin) a colleague of her dad, Prof. David Hamilton (Edmund Gwenn). Although Alan has gotten rich off of Government contracts for his aeronautical inventions, his brother Michael (Robert Mitchum) has dirt on him.

She takes an obvious shine to Alan. He’s all charm "Do you see the spark?" he hints, as they experience some static electricity. She’s pretty much overwhelmed, feeling frumpy and undesirable. Nonetheless, we leap ahead at a lurch: she’s married to him. She feels out-of-place in his crowd; more or less treated like a kid or poor relation.

When she vows to fit in better with his friends, he responds, chillingly, "If you do, I’ll kill you" Sort of condescending misdirection. Next, from a sort of motherly aunt type, Mrs. Foster (Kathryn Card), she hears about Michael. Alan goes on about Michael, accusing him of embezzling from their company. Anyway, more or less fortified by a new wardrobe and Alan’s confidence (his mother was an invalid for years before her death), they’re planning a dinner party.

She’s pretty much comfortable now, the gracious host. To Judge Putnam (Charles Trowbridge) she goes on about a book of poetry that she didn’t realize belonged to Michael. Alan knows that however, and goes nuts, instantly jealous. That’s weird, as she hasn’t even met Michael yet. They go down to the family home, near Mrs. Foster’s.

There’s some quizzical looks from the caretaker George (Leigh Whipper) and even the dog. In the stables, a horse rears, and a disturbed guy is going on. When Alan gets back he berates her for playing a piano tune that his mother was playing when she died. Another gaslighting moment, as George tells her that Alan’s mother never played the piano.

She figures out (with George’s help) that it was Michael who played that piano tune. She tells George they have to ’help’ Alan. But out on the West Coast, they run into Sylvia (Jayne Meadows) an old flame of Michael’s. She’s got some angle on him, but she’s kind of secretive. While Alan’s on a sidetrip, she visits his office; but, like everyone else, the assistant there is guarded about Michael.

There’s more subterfuge about him--but this time from Michael himself. She finally runs into him at a family beach front house around the Bay Area, and mistakes him for a caretaker. He points out that it’s dangerous to swim nearby, because there’s a bad "undercurrent." Suddenly, Alan shows up; berating her once again for snooping into the past. A lot of shadows on the wall, tumbled furniture. Michael remains incognito.

Meanwhile, she surmises from gossip that Alan’s intentionally trying to make her look bad. More than that, his motive for marrying her was to have a ’replacement’ for someone who got away--and that he was going to ’create’ a wife to suit his fancy. She goes to see Sylvia to find out the straight dope on Michael.

She finds out that it’s Michael who’s been wronged by Alan. Sylvia thinks that Alan has killed him. Alan wants Ann to go back East. She ruminates on what Sylvia told her. As usual, George knows something. We know Michael is around; even the dog knows. The Alan/Michael reunion scene at last. Michael accuses Alan of killing a former employee who invented the aircraft control device that Alan took credit for. Aha!

Alan admits he’d rather have Anne than his reputation and fortune. It’s an atmospheric, almost gothic scene in the stables, with them arguing while the wind is whipping around, the horse rearing, leaves scattering, the lantern swaying...But Anne never stops apologizing for suspecting Alan of misdeeds. At least she finally gathers that Michael is around. Alan thinks she’s in love with Michael.

Maybe so. More threats from Alan "I said I’d never let you go!" He literally stops her at the gate. "Don’t be afraid, Anne" She just can’t get away from him. Alan stupidly takes the cantankerous horse as they ride with Mrs. Foster to her place. Alan’s apparently thrown by the horse, but--he’s faking it. With Mrs. Foster gone, he tries to push Ann off the path and over a cliff. He almost succeeds, but, interestingly, the horse saves her by trampling Alan.

At long last, she has Michael available. The movie, already a bit long, lingers on this final scene as they tell each other what we already know. Undercurrent has good performances from most of the cast, captivating settings with appropriate atmosphere, and has many good scenes--especially the first scene with Mitchum, and the stable scenes. But the plot never really adds up.

It’s hardly to buy the premise that Ann’s character could fall in love with someone she doesn’t know she’s met until almost the very end. If Michael’s character had a larger role it might’ve been more believable; for example, have Michael reveal his identity to Ann in the California beach house sequence. He really gains nothing by waiting; as it is, he only comes clean with Ann after Alan has tried to kill her.

Which leads to a bigger problem: why would Alan want to kill her anyway? If she was going to throw a wrench in his plans, why would he want to marry her? Her theory that she reminds him of a lost love is a more plausible reason for his love/hate relationship with her. The idea that Alan’s past will catch up with him because of Ann doesn’t necessarily follow. She remained loyal to him most of the way, until his domineering behavior became overtly dangerous.

That would all make for a good straight psychological thriller premise, as he clearly tries to drive her over the edge (in all possible ways, as we see). But what triggering event or cause could their be for his psychotic behavior towards her? In a nutshell, the wartime invention element has nothing to do with Alan’s personal life; Ann’s a complete outsider to all that. I see three possible plots here: a revenge plot between the brothers, possibly with Alan’s delusions complicating things, a love triangle, with Ann coveted by Alan and Michael, and a straight Gaslight psychodrama, with the focus on Alan’s obsession with Ann.

What Undercurrent does is combine elements of all three of these plots. The result is a lot of underdeveloped and incomplete aspects that don’t fit well together. In addition to expanding Michael’s role, it might also have been interesting to give Slyvia more scenes. It seems weird that she has simply accepted the rumor that Michael’s dead--why can’t she drive out to the beach house and find him skulking about? After all, she’s apparently been living nearby the entire time that he’s off the grid.

With Slyvia and Michael more prominent throughout, there would be another shot at a triangle once Ann shows up. It’s just too automatic that Michael falls for Ann just because she’s there, and Alan’s gone.

Undercurrent is worth a look, literally, as there’s plenty of good cinematography here. Just not a lot of drama.

High Sierra, 1941.

******** 8.0

"I’ll Crash Out, I Tell Ya! I’ll Crash Out!"

One of the best Bogart films, if not the best. It’s almost intimidating to comment on it; a seminal cross-over of the gangster film of the ’30s into film-noir of the ’40s. As strong and nuanced as Bogart’s performance is as Roy Earle, the film as a whole doesn’t completely add up. The main problem is Earle’s insant relationship with the migrant family (good ’ol Ma, Pa, and, of course, Velma--Joan Leslie). Earle already has a convincing love interest in Ida Lupino’s Marie, why does he need Velma? Her family never seems to wonder where his money comes from--even though he’s gone as far as to propose to her.

Later on, at least, she does tell him off, but only after he’s been rude to her and her somewhat sappy fiancee. Marie’s character, on the other hand, is believable and interesting. She’s definitely a decent person, and wants just to be valued, and loved. Nonetheless, she’s thrown in her lot with gangsters. In getting close to Earle, she’s with a murderer, no less.

The caper is well-handled, with plenty of tension. It occurs roughly in the middle of the film; giving plenty of time for the set-up as well as the follow-up. Unusually for a film noir, there’s lots of action--maybe the legacy of the gangster genre. A flaming wreck to mark the escape after the robbery, and, later the mountain road chase leading to Earle’s entrapment.

In a way, Earle’s gunshot wound is symbolic of his life; he’s slowly dying. His personality is so dominant that he overshadows all the other criminals: ’Big Mac’ literally dies off, as do Red and Babe; Mendoza (Cornell Wilde) starts off like a big shot, but is over-awed by Earle, and ends up betraying him. I can’t figure out why Earle bothers to rob the drugstore--surely he’s got enough change for a pack of smokes. I guess, at this point, Earle has begun to lose it. The ensuing chase scene is memorable; unlike in many earlier movies, the film isn’t speeded up, but Earle’s coupe really seems to fly.

Incredibly, Earle begins and ends as a sympathetic character. Maybe, for me, it’s because Bogart is just so cool in this film. He’s cruel, and not so bright either; not to mention the fact that he loses in every way. But he’s just so artistic about it all, in that cool way. Not at all suave, but a rough style that commands respect. It doesn’t hurt that Ida Lupino is fetching, loyal, and just right for him. If you throw in Pard, that’s a family.

I like Joan Leslie as well, but she and her family are more of a gimmick, a distraction. The worst thing is Willie Best’s character Algernon, an out-and-out demeaning role. Even in that era of acceptable racism there were sometimes black characters who were given some depth--with knowing, if not witty observations and asides--undercutting the lead characters’ earnestness.

Rarely do I like a film that also bothers me. It’s better than the sum of its parts. This is not the more intriguing unsuspecting noir hero of the late-’40s; Earle isn’t a good guy. If the story were told from Marie’s point of view, then we’d have a conflicted protagonist, and maybe a slightly better movie. Or if Earle really had a history with Velma’s family--maybe he’s her jailbird fiancee--then things would be a bit more consistent. But, this is certainly an important, if somewhat flawed movie.

Fear, 1946.

******** 8.0

One-Word Noir Titles Are Killer

A medical student, Larry (Peter Cookson), is desperate for money; he murders loanshark Professor Stanley (Francis Pierlot), and then guilt literally haunts him. Police Captain Burke (Warren William) sets out to nail him for the murder. A devastating slice of irony reveals that had he waited a bit longer, Larry’s money problems would’ve been taken care of.

We begin by looking in on Larry; talk about a lonely garret...anyway, Larry ponders a letter informing him that his scholarship’s terminated. Then his landlady (Almira Sessions) duns him for the rent. Going up several flights of stairs in another apartment building, he looks in on Stanley. Larry needs money, and pawns his watch. We see the old guy take a strong box from a walk safe. There’s a poker by the fire...but nothing happens.

At a diner, he sees Ben (James Cardwell). Ben reminds him that he’s waiting to hear on some articles he’s submitted for publication. The guys describe Stanley as having "an icebox for a heart." Now it’s Larry’s turn to be the big guy for Eileen (Anne Gwyne), who’s even more broke. Larry, receiving more bills, skulks back to Stanley’s room. He talks his way in. As expected, he grabs the poker: blam! The old guy’s toast. The strongbox yields a load of cash. A late called notices a light on. Larry gets out, and just in time. He’s brushed against become wet paint though.

Back at his humble abode, the landlady knocks. There’s a detective with her. Now he gets a letter...no matter, he’s got to see Burke. Obviously, the cops have recovered the strongbox. Larry’s got no alibi. Aha! He discovers that the letter had a check for a thousand bucks, from his publisher. That would square him all the way around. Back at the bar, he sees that Eileen works there now. Detective Schaefer (Nestor Paiva) noses in on the next stool. No big thing; his next move is to ask out Eileen. On a picnic he gets spooked by a wine label; he’s edgy. That night, with his guys, they’re discussing the murder. Their considered opinion is "who cares?!" But they continue dissecting the crime.

He burns the clothes from the night of the murder. The landlady loves him now, but Schaefer collects him. Burke is sort of a fan of Larry’s article--which, ironically, is on justifiable homicide. Larry’s arrogant enough to back up his "ends justify the means" theory of crime. Burke mentions the wet paint detail from near the murder scene. Now Schaefer interviews Eileen about Larry. Larry pops in; Scared drops what’s probably a red herring--they’ve arrested the house painted for the murder. Things couldn’t bloom better for Larry (other than that pesky murder), as he learns that his scholarship’s being renewed. Another date with Eileen. She obviously cares about him. He tries to talk to her, but Schafer lurking nearby.

Burke is at the murder scene, as Larry goes to him to complain about Schaefer. Perfectly recreating each element of the crime, Burke gets Larry rattled. At HQ, Burke shows him fingerprints on the strongbox; again, probably faked, but this detail ratchets up the suspense. More importantly, they have fibers from a coat (Larry’s?) that stick in the wet paint. Pretty much twisting into horror territory, finally Burke invites him to see the cadaver. Well, aren’t we a medical student? Back at the bar, there’s a magician’s act in progress. The trick looks very much like a guy whacking a corpse with a poker. A street vendor gives him a handbill with a macabre message.

Suddenly, he’s on railroad tracks, walking right into the path of an oncoming train. A worker saves him just in time. He finds his way to Eileen’s. "Relax? How can I relax?!" He starts to talk about Stanley--he admits he killed him. She’s more concerned than freaked out; "if only you’d waited (for the check)". He goes to go see Burke in the morning. Actually, he’s waiting for Larry. "There were only two suspects--the painter and you" But then Burke leaves. The paper says that the painter has confessed! Larry’s off the hook? Hold that thought--he bumps into Schaefer, who implies Is the headline’s a plant Or even if true, the painters "a fruitcake" confused and admitting to the crime for some nutty reason.

He sees Eileen waiting to meet him. But, an act of God intervenes: he’s hit by a car. Or he dreams that he was. Waking up, he greets the very lively Professor Stanley. That worthy gives him a new loan. Eileen appears to be moving into the same building. But, she’s called Cathy. He gets a date once again. The end. Now I see why most commentators hate the ending of Fear.

If it had just stopped with Larry’s last encounter with Schaefer the this would be a dead-ringer (really) for film noir greatness. Then we’d have a suitably ambiguous ending to a nightmarish story; with maybe just enough wiggle room for a noir hero to get out of town and put the past (and Schaefer) behind him. He’s cleared, he’s got is scholarship back, and Eileen is just right for him. It could well be that that to pass the production code, a happy ending had to be tacked on. but there’s a good number of noirs that don’t flinch by giving us tragic endings.

A dream explanation is a cop-out. It’s all the more disappointing in a film with such obvious merit. Apparently, director Zeisler had worked in the Expressionist-influenced film milieu of Weimar Germany (thanks to TCM’s Dave Karger for that background info). These traits show up in a lot of the lighting and motifs here. The black cat seems to be everywhere around the murder site, literally crossing Larry’s path as he goes up to kill Standing. There’s creey light and shadow and confined, convoluted spaces almost everywhere in Fear. Another slew of Expressionist touches confront us the most intense sequence--from Burke’s reenacting of the crime until the train incident. That reminds me in a dramatic way of the killer’s mental torment from Edgar Allan Poe’s "The Tell-Tale Heart"

If we chop off the last few scenes--the car crash device is almost as trite as the dream--we’ve got a great and compelling film noir. Almost makes one want to plow into Dostoevesky’s Crime and Punishment for the source material. Flawed, but still highly recommended.

The Maltese Falcon, 1941.

*********+ 9.5

"It’s the stuff dreams are made of"

The gold standard of film noir, and one of the most discussed movies of its era, The Maltese Falcon is also regarded as the film that made Humphrey Bogart. Sam Spade (Bogart) is carrying on with his partner’s (JerJerome Cowan as Miles) wife, Ida (Gladys George); Miles is murdered while on an investigation for Brigid (Mary Astor). Sam is drawn into an evolving case concerning the priceless statue, the falcon; throwing snares and roadblocks in his path are assorted hoods Joel Castro, Kaspar Gutman, and Wilmer Cook (Peter Lorre, Sydney Greenstreet, and Elisha Cook, Jr.). ...Clever set-up, plotting, pacing, superb performances from a great cast; moody, dangerous atmosphere, and the ever-snappy dialogue.

Effie (Lee Patrick) let’s Sam know that a client awaits him. "She’s a knockout!" She’s Weterby (Astor) trying to find her sister, who might be with a man named Thursby. When Miles shows up fills him in. Miles gets shot that night attempting to rendevous with the mysterious sister and Thursby. He calls hih partner’s wwith the news. Sam goes to the crime scene and talks to decptective Polhaus (Ward Boyd). The mysterious client Wetherby Sam gets home, detective and lieutenant (Benton MacLean) pop in; peppering him with questions about his client. After some give and take, they’re square for the moment.

Thursby’s dead too; headlines say the two murders are linked. At his office, Effie tells sam that Iva is waiting for him; she as much accuses him of killing Miles, then leaves? "Are you going to marry Ida?" Snickers Effie; she hints that maybe Ida killed him. Anyway, the mystery woman Weberly calls and wants to see Sam. At which mmeepmmee she reveals her real identity. There’s more, but she won’t confide any more just now "I need help just now". He knows that she’s still playing him. So, she tells him about Thursby; she’s certain that he killed Archer. Thursby had been a bodyguard for a gambler. Who killed him?

For a small fee, he’ll pursue the matter--whatever it is. Now Cairo comes to see him. He wants Sam to recover an "ornament", i.e., the falcon. When Effie leaves, Cairo pulls a gun on him; but Sam quickly turns the tables. Sam goes through the knocked out would be client...then Cairo comes to. $5k for the statue is still his offer. Maybe, says Sam. Someone’s (it’s Wilmer) tailing Sam that night. He goes back to Brigid; she must be connected to Cairo somehow. They talk about the falcon. She "buys" him with a kiss.

She needs to talk to Cairo; Sam arranges that. Cairo shows up--they’ve both seen Wilmer lurking about. Obviously, the business at hand is about the Falcon. Cairo hadn’t got the $5k, she hadn’t got the Falcon. The cops drop in. "There’s talk going around about you going around with Archer’s wife..." Ok, but that gets him off of killing Thursby. Meanwhile Brigid scuffles with Cairo. The cops get the straight dope, but then a cover story "I hope you know what you’re doing, Sam" says Polhaus.

Everyone but Brigid leaves. She starts to tell Sam about the Falcon "is there any truth at all in that yarn." In Cairo’s hotel he finds Wilmer, who’s shooed off by Polhaus. Then Cairo shows up; "I felt distinctly like an idiot" he says, having had to talk to the police. At sam’s office Effie takes a call from Gutman. Brigid’s waiting. She still has an affected manner. Ida comes to apologize for her accusations; but business calls: Gutman that is. So we see that Wilmer is Gutman’s gopher. "Era talk about the black bird." Obviously, it’s worth a fortune. Sam says he knows where it is.

Anyway, Sam storms out, and huddles with the D.A. and his assistant. He’s trying to clear himself; it’s true that unless he finds the murderer, he’s still a suspect. Next move is to roust Wilmer, and have another bag fest with Gutman. So, once again, let’s talk about the" stupid falcon. We get the crusader background of the falcon. Hundreds of years of tribute, jewels, etc. And it’s whereabouts since 1700. "I haven’t got it--im going to get it. It’s worth $50k to retrieve it. First problem is, same drugged by Gutman, as Cairo and Wilmer look on. Left alone, Sam staggers to his senses. He calls Effie, Brigid is missing (she’d been taken in by Effie).

In Gutman’s place he sees a notation about a freighter docking. When he gets to the waterfront, the boats on fire. Wilmr Jsvoby, near death, stumbles into sam’s office as effiie patches him up. He drops a bundle on the floor. "We’ve got it angel, we’ve got it!" The Falcon. Brigid calls, sounding fearful. Then a scream--have the guys gotten to her? He goes to the hotel lobby and mails the bundle to a p.o. box; thentakes a cab to Burlingame. The address he has is just a vacant lot. No Brigid. Back home, there she is. Unfortunately, so are Gutman, Cairo, and the trigger-happy Wilmer. Well, Gutman gives him $10k. That’s all. Sam says they need a fall guy to explain the murders.

Hey, isn’t Wilmer a good fit for three killings? Sam isn’t above some radical brinkmanship. "It’s our best bet!" Gutman even says he’d thought of that ploy himself. Sam will hand Wilmer to the D.A. on a plastic tray. Plan B and C: finger Cairo, or Brigid? Sam himself is basically untouchable, because he’s the only one that knows where the statue is. It’s Wilmer getting the shirt straw; he pulls his gun, which Brigid, then Sam gets ahold of it. So, the desk: the Falcon for Wilmer. The details of the murders spills out if the fat man’s mouth so Sam can figure out what to tell the cops. Gutman was even responsible for the ship fire.

All three of the conspirators stare down ominously at the pitiful Wilmer. Well, there’s the $10k. This scene is a touch too long. Sam calls Effie to retrieve the falcon. Here we are: do,let’s take a look. It’s it’s a Falcon. But is it The Falcon? No. Sam thinks that Brigid has duped them, Cairo blames Gutman. More importantly, the meeting breaks up. But, what’s this? Sam calls Poulhas: the whole deal on Wilmer and the murders.

With the obvious bad guys gone, he grills Brigid about Miles. (Remember that that he had an instant attraction for him.) Basically, she used Miles to take care of Thursby, and then she killed the private detective. Now her only card to play is to suddenly tell Sam that she loves him. He doesn’t care, but admits that "maybe" he loves her too. "Don’t be too sure that I’m as crooked as I’m supposed to be." Just as they embrace, Polhaus shows up, Brigid’s toast. Everyone leaves. Sam is left explaining the statue,it’s "the stuff dreams are made of." The end.

The Maltese Falcon operates on more than one level. It’s really as much about Sam dealing with his life, the mayhem surronding the murders, as it is about the Falcon, which turns out to be fake. In he largest sense, the story is a mythic quest. The Falcon represents what we (through Sam’s point-of-view) strive for; and, even though it rurns out to be inauhentic, we find out a lot about ourselves along the way. In short--we have the experience of a lifetime. Things don’t turn out as we think, and the objective is less important than the journey for it.

Viewing Bogart’s role itself, he’s anythimg but a traditional hero; or so it seems. About the only one that he shows genuine respect for is Effie. But that’s because she proves to be the only one he can trust. Gutman, Cairo, and Wilmer are out-and-out crooks--of different pay grades. Both Ida and Brigid are opaque connivers. The police more or less get what Sam’s deal is. Like Effie, they’ve got no personal interest in the statue. In other words, Sam disdains people because most of them are working angles, and are therefore insincere and not very decent.

There isn’t even the satisfaction that Sam will get closer to Effie; maybe theye relationship is just fine for both of them. The story more or less resotes the status quo--Sam’s made some money, but his partner’s dead. No statue, no small or large fortune. It seems damning that Sam is kind of blase about Miles’ death; that would be strange, but then Miles shows his true colors right off by flirting with around with the first attrative woman (Brigid) who walks in the door.

I’ve mentioned the talky nature of the last get-together; those sorts of protagonist/antogonist meeting generally work well in this type of movie to show where everyone’s at, and who knows what. But it gets stagey after awhile.

With that quibble, this is an excellent movie. It starts quickly, and only pauses to catch us up here and there. Can’t miss the Maltese Falcon.

Next Chapter: City of Nine Nightmares, Film Noir, c. 1946-1954