The Golden Age Of The B-Film Noir- Paul Henreid And Lizabeth Scott’s “Stolen Face” (1952)

DVD Review

By Film Editor Emeritus Sam Lowell

Stolen Face, starring Paul Henreid, Lizabeth Scott, Hammer Productions, 1952

I am now deep into my retro-reviews of the classic Hammer Productions film noir in which an American producer contracted with that organization to do a series of such efforts using known, although maybe fading, film stars backed by English character actors to do the whole thing on the cheap. My whole operation started with a review of the film Terror Street (distributed in Britain as 36 Hours) and subsequently another entry The Black Glove (distributed in Britain as Face The Music probably a better title since the plot involved a well-known trumpet player turning from searching for that high white note everybody in his profession is looking for to amateur private detective once a lady friend is murdered and he looked for all the world like the natural fall guy to take the big step-off for it) I noted that long time readers of this space know, or should be presumed to know, of my long-standing love affair with film noir. Since any attentive reader will note this is my fifth such review of B-film noirs and hence proof positive that I am now in deep and that I still have the bug.

I mentioned in that review some of the details of my introduction to the classic age of film noir in this country in the age of black and white film in the 1940s and 1950s when I would sneak over to the now long gone and replaced by condos Strand Theater in growing up town North Adamsville and spent a long double feature Saturday afternoon watching complete with a stretched out bag of popcorn (or I think it is safe to say it now since the statute of limitation on the “crime” must surely have passed snuck in candy bars bought at Harold’s Variety Store on the way to the theater). I would watch some then current production from Hollywood or some throwback from the 1940s which Mister Cadger, the affable owner who readily saw that I was an aficionado who would pepper him with questions about when such and such a noir was to be featured would let me sneak in for kid’s ticket prices long after I reached the adult price stage at twelve I think it was, would show in retrospective to cut down on expenses in tough times by avoiding having to pay for first –run movies all the time. (And once told me to my embarrassment that he made more money on the re-runs than first runs and even more money on the captive audience buying popcorn and candy bars-I wonder if he knew my candy bar scam.)

That is where the bulk of my noir experiences were formed but I should mention in passing as well that on infrequent occasions I would attend a nighttime showing (paying full price after age twelve since parents were presumed to have the money to spring  for full prices) with my parents if my strict Irish Catholic mother (strict on the mortal sin punishment for what turned out to have been minor or venial sins after letting my older brothers, four, count them four, get away with murder and assorted acts of mayhem) thought the film passed the Legion of Decency standard that we had to stand up and take a yearly vow to uphold in church led by the priest exhorting to sin no more and I could under the plotline without fainting (or getting “aroused” by the fetching femmes).

Readers should be aware from prior series that when I found some run of films that had a similar background I would “run the table” on the efforts. Say a run of Raymond Chandler film adaptations of his Phillip Marlowe crime novels or Dashiell Hammett’s seemingly endless The Thin Man series. That “run the table” idea is the case with a recently obtained cache of British-centered 1950s film noirs put out by the Hammer Production Company as they tried to cash in on the popularity of the genre for the British market  That Terror Street mentioned at the beginning had been the first review in this series (each DVD by the way contains two films the second film Danger On The Wings in that DVD not worthy of review) and now the film under review under review the overblown if ominously titled Stolen Face  (distributed in England, Britain, Great Britain, United Kingdom or whatever that isle calls itself these Brexit days as unlike others in the series by the same title) is the fifth such effort. On the basis of these six viewings (remember one didn’t make the film noir aficionado cut so that tells you something right away) I will have to admit they are clearly B-productions none of them would make anything but a second or third tier rating.        

After all as mentioned before in that first review look what they were up against. For example who could forget up on that big screen for all the candid world to see a sadder but wiser seen it all, heard it all Humphrey Bogart at the end of The Maltese Falcon telling all who would listen that he, he Sam Spade, no stranger to the seamy side and cutting corners life, had had to send femme fatale Mary Astor his snow white flame over, sent her to the big step-off once she spilled too much blood, left too long a trail of corpses, for the stuff of dreams over some damn bird. Or cleft-chinned barrel-chested Robert Mitchum keeping himself out of trouble in some dink town as a respectable citizen including snagging a girl next door sweetie but knowing he was doomed, out of luck, and had had to cash his check for his seedy past taking a few odd bullets from his former femme fatale trigger-happy girlfriend Jane Greer once she knew he had double-crossed her to the coppers in Out Of The Past.

Ditto watching the horror on smart guy gangster Eddie Mars face after being outsmarted because he had sent a small time grafter to his doom when prime private detective Phillip Marlowe, spending the whole film trying to do the right thing for an old man with a couple of wild daughters, ordered him out the door to face the rooty-toot-toot of his own gunsels who expected Marlowe to be coming out in The Big Sleep. How about song and dance man Dick Powell turning Raymond Chandler private eye helping big galoot Moose Malone trying to find his Velma and getting nothing but grief and a few stray conks on the head chasing Claire Trevor down when she didn’t want to be found having moved uptown with the swells in Murder, My Sweet. Or finally, tall lanky and deceptive private eye Dane Jones chasing an elusive black box ready to explode the world being transported across Europe by evil incarnate if gorgeous Marla Sands in European Express. Those were some of the beautiful and still beautiful classics whose lines you can almost hear anytime you mention the words film noir. The entries in this series are definitively not ones with memorable lines or plots.  

In the old days before I retired I always liked to sketch out a film’s plotline to give the reader the “skinny” on what the action was so that he or she could see where I was leading them. I will continue that old tradition here to make my point about the lesser production values of the Hammer products. Doctor Ritter, played by Paul Henreid last seen in this space leaving on the last plane to Lisbon as the Czech liberation fighter Victor Lazlo with wife Ilsa on his arm to fight the night-takers another day after going mano a mano for her affections with Rick of Rick’s Café Amercian in the classic Casablanca, is a highly-skilled high end if worn out plastic surgeon who meets Alice, played by Lizabeth Scott last seen in this space as the mysterious girlfriend of an AWOL that Humphrey Bogart is looking for in Dead Reckoning, is a worn out concert pianist on holiday as they say in Merry Olde England. The pair had a short tempestuous affair and made big future plans until Alice blew out of town leaving no forwarding address.          

That abandonment by sweet smoky-voiced Alice kind of made the good doctor lose his moorings, go off the deep end once she informed him by phone that she was engaged to be married and had been when they had that tempestuous affair. Heartbroken the good doctor carried on but anyone could see he was off his game. No question. In a crazy minute he decided that we would “help” a young woman criminal, Lily, whose face had been disfigured during the war by giving her a make-over (and assuming against all reason that such a change would change this tramp’s whoring, thieving, conning ways). And guess what the change-over turned that dead-beat criminal into the spitting image of, ah, Alice, dear sweet Alice. Not only did he do that but the lonely doctor married the wench.            

Wrong, way wrong since no sooner had she gotten her new sexy 1940s glamour face ala Lizabeth Scott but that tramp went back to her whoring, thieving, conning ways. The doctor tried to bail out but after confessing to Alice his dirty deed, no soap, our little crook knew the gravy train she had grabbed onto and was not letting go. But you know since time immemorial, at least cinema time immemorial- crime does not pay- that the bad must take that big step-off. Here’s how it played out and you had better bring a scorecard. The good doctor tired of the craziness with Lilly/Lizabeth Scott blew town, London town, okay. This Lilly/Lizabeth Scott followed him on said train getting drunk and crazy along the way. Meanwhile Alice/Lizabeth Scott fearing the worse heads for that same show-down train. Doc and Lilly/ Lizabeth Scott have a falling out in which dear sweet Lilly accidently falls off the train. Leaving Doc and Alice/Lizabeth Scott to walk off together and a happy future.        

This one almost got that Wings of Danger treatment mentioned above, a non-review, but with actors like Paul Henreid and two, count them, two Lizabeth Scotts and a scorecard I figured what the hell.