Who Was That Guy With Jane Russell And Why Is He A Noir Guy- With Jane Russell And Robert Mitchum’s “His Kind Of Woman” In Mind  

DVD Review, sort of

By Sarah Lemoyne

His Kind Of Woman, starring buxom and bubbly Jane Russell, jut-jawed barrel-chested Robert Mitchum, stone-cold evil gangster Raymond Burr and pussycat Vincent Price, directed by legendary director John Farrow, 1951  

Seth Garth, my dear friend and mentor help! No, not on advising me about what Sam Lowell, my newfound nemesis is gibbering about but how to tackle a film noir that is not a dark and mysterious presentation and one without a bad girl lure femme fatale. Sam, by the way paid me a left-handed compliment when he at least had the sense to understand that I have a future in the film review business whether he personally likes me or not. (Despite the lack of femme fatale I am sure than many a guy, maybe gals too like my companion, partner Clara who swooned over her, over lead female actor Jane Russell, Howard Hughes’ then, ah protégé, when we watched the film under review His Kind Of Women together one night when Greg Green assigned the review, commentary to me and Seth was out of town, was up in Maine trying to cajole Allan Jackson to come back and do the introductions to some 1960s throwback series about a couple of working class stiffs, maybe Robert Mitchum hunk -type guys who were still keeping whatever the 1960s faith was still around.)

Maybe I had better explain why I am in this conundrum, why I need once again like some maiden is distress Seth’s help in figuring out the intricacies of the film review profession. I know as I will explain a little below the cutthroat nature of the business, know it and through dueling with one Sam Lowell, back in the dark ages supposedly the max daddy, Seth’s term, of the critical world, especially after writing what was then considered the definitive study of film noir which everybody back then consulted to get an idea of what to write. Except “expert” Sam “forgot” to explain a film where there is a heavy who needs to be brought down not by the coppers but by a private citizen, usually a private investigator, a bad ass no holds barred criminal chieftain, where there is a guy, Mitchum, who could take a punch but who also certainly could have his buttons pushed by a femme fatale, where there are some funny, I can’t believe I am saying this about a noir, moments provided by a tin can actor on vacation, Mark Cardigan who I guess was the real deal swash-buckling hero when I looked up his bio on Wikipedia, played by usually scary bad boy Vincent Price, and most importantly for my purposes no femme fatale although Clara and I agreed that Jane Russell could have led almost any man by the nose-and made him like it.

That last point the real sticking point since in my very first film noir review a few weeks ago of another Robert Mitchum minor classic Where Danger Lives I made a very big point, a very big point against male interpretation of the role of a woman in a film noir as evil incarnate, made that point directly counterpoised to Sam Lowell’s silly theory of such efforts. There I noted that the Robert Mitchum character in that film, a budding young doctor named Jeff, had about seven places where he could have turned back, could have avoided almost taking the big step-off for a crime he did not commit and which his damsel in distress Margo had committed for her own insane, literally insane, reasons. Seth helped me through the finer points of that view, said he almost came to believe in my version against his old friend Sam’s demented sense that “the weaker sex” could only act as lure to some skirt-chaser, some long gone daddy sniffing jasmine scents and helpless against all male humankind history going back to Adam, maybe before, to resist.

Seth who has thoughtfully guided me along the way, and Sam too before he became my nemesis, said that when in trouble for a “hook, for a way to drag the reader kicking and screaming into your storyline. Look when all else fails to the tried and true Hollywood formula that has saved many a film with a worse plot that this one, has saved half of Western literature too if you really look deeply at the situation-boy meets girl. Bingo, thanks Seth in absentia, thanks too Sam if you will accept thanks. It may not fulfill my dreams of taking over the mantel of millennial film noir diva but it will let me float for another day until I get a better handle on some of these B-noirs that flooded the movie houses in the heyday 1940s and 1950s.

Of course it makes perfect sense to use the hook of the boy meets girl thing and if I hadn’t been so focused on the noir aspect and Clara hadn’t been Clara oohing and ahhing Jane Russell trying to make me jealous to counter her jealousy of my imaginary “romance” with grandfather Seth I would have seen it right away. Hell, I should have known when Robert was putting his moves on Jane in some dirt-water cantina buying expensive B-girl cheapjack champagne waiting for further instruction under mysterious conditions and she brought her own bottle up she was no femme, that this would work as a boy meets girl vehicle. When they wind up flying on the same small plane to renegade Baja California down in sunny Mexico then the deal was done, finished.

Let’s take a step back though. The reason Robert was hanging around some low-rent dive on the border was to head to Mexico on some unexplained but lucrative assignment which would get him off of cheap street. Jane was trying to woe that paper tiger hero actor Mark Cadigan to make her own way to easy street. Perfect. Along the way they take meaningful glances but for a while Robert is more intrigued by why he is down south of the border getting high society resort treatment and a fistful of cash. Trying, reasonably to figure out who he has to kill to keep afloat. Jane, for a while too was trying, God knows why, to lure Mark to the altar and easy street but was getting some resistance since Mark’s wifie was gumming up the works.

Jane’s case was easier to resolve when wifie showed up not wanting a divorce Jane was then mainly on the plane or something like that and was free to get her hooks, get her hooks deep into Robert. Robert’s was a tougher haul once he found out from a government agent who subsequently wound up very dead for his efforts that he had been in the employ of one Nick Ferraro, everybody remembers the minute his name comes up who he was and how much graft he poured around, slugs too,  a bad hombre who ran the rackets in Chi town, Seth’s term, before being deported, played by pre-Perry Mason Raymond Burr. And trying might and main to get back to his own easy street via a little plastic surgery and Robert’s identity. Nice, except poor Robert takes a fistful of beatings, some of them bare-chested, barrel-chested I think his physique is called, which made me swoon a little quietly when Clara went to the bathroom. Not to worry Mark, Mark Cadigan, the papier Mache hero of many a Hollywood swash-buckling adventure saved the day-sort of. Saved the day as a gesture for love, for romance as Jane and Robert lighted up the screen with some torrid kiss at the end after Nick had gone to sleep with the fishes. This effort should get me at least one more noir assignment although I wish like crazy Seth was around to see if this is the right angle.