From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- The Lady In Shay’s Pond

Joshua Lawrence Breslin, Josh, to all but crazed aficionados of his by-line in the publishing world, and recently “retired” from the rigors of the public prints in such progressive and radical newspapers and journals as the East Bay Other, The Eye, Climate Change Quarterly, The National Digest, and Thompson’s Review, has agreed to share some of his insights into the ways of the world in this space. Oh, and by the way, he happens to be a long-time friend, raconteur,, and mad monk compadre of mine ever since we set eyes on each other up in some noble San Francisco hill in the summer of love, 1967 version, when he donned the name and persona of the Prince of Love and I, Be-Bop Benny, and from then on we were together “on” Captain Crunch’s magical mystery tour yellow brick road bus. Enough said-Markin

Joshua Lawrence Breslin comment

I had not seen Peter Paul Markin in a while when he invited me to make some comments in this space. The immediate cause of our recent reunion was his appearance at a conference up in Portland, Maine near my old growing up, and current, home town of Olde Saco. The subject of that conference, unlike the million and one anti-war, anti-imperialist, anti-oppression (name your flavor of the month) conferences that we have wound up at together, was on film noir/ crime noir, a subject we both have shared as a life-long passion. And while I am foggy on exactly how Pee-Pee (except for a short time in the 1967 summer of love when I, and everybody else, called him Be-Bop Benny, the name I have always called him) came by his passion mine actually came out of my early professional work, when as a cub city desk reporter for the Portland Daily Gazette (now long gone), I covered the police beat and needed a break from that mundane assignment to relax and deal with some “real” cinematic and literary crime. Especially after reporting on this one story, the story of the Lady in Shay’s Pond that drove me deep into the genre.

Funny, everybody today thinks, you just go to some swanky journalism school, or school of communications like over at the university, and presto you are a print/internet/television instant icon. Not so in the old days, the now old early 1970s when after getting “off the bus” out on the West Coast I headed back east to make my name, and fortune. Although I had no journalism degree I had always wanted to be a journalist and had done some free-lance work while “on the bus” for different West Coast alternative newspapers and journals that Captain Crunch had connections with through Ken Kesey’s circle of friends. So I wrote a few things about this and that, mostly in a drug coma (or in the throes of love, it could be six-two-and even on either proposition) for The Los Angeles Free Express, The East Bay Other, Ramparts, etc. Nothing big, nothing fancy but I had the bug, had that small scratch resume, and had a notion that if I worked the back roads of journalism I could find some niche to start off with without the degree that I was, frankly, too old and too antsy to go back to school for.

I actually got my East Coast start up at the beloved Schoodic Times, a weekly local newspaper that covered the Bar Harbor area and points north. I was the all-mister-everything there. You know writing up how some Mayfair swell was giving a party for his little girl, Bessie, and he or she, mainly she, wanted all the known world, the known swell Bar Harbor world to know, that hard fact. With each and every participant’s name listed. Correctly listed, or there would be hell to pay. Or maybe covering the monthly town meeting in bustling Schoodic Point or some other meeting convened to vote on (vote against, mainly) some public welfare issue. Or write up some ad copy (mainly in tourist –heavy summer) for Aunt Betty’s Diner, explaining exactly why this local “hot spot,” a piece of authentic New England charm was a “must eat” stop on that hard-earned yearly two weeks’ vacation.

Best of all was covering the “crime” scene news. You know how lobsterman Woodson and lobsterman Eppings went at it tong and nail over who rightfully owned some derelict untagged lobster trap. And that tongs and nails fight wound up in front of the local justice of the peace. That last type work, little of it as there was, and mainly off tourist-heavy season (everybody was on their best behavior for the “guests”), is what got me that first real job at the not missed Portland Daily Gazette. Remind me to tell you about those Schoodic days some time. They really were something else but now I have a murder, or some murders, to solve so let me press on.

Now everybody figures, and figures maybe rightly, if you land in a big city newspaper, say Boston, New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco, you are among royalty and have entre everywhere. Just snap, flash the badge, point to the camera man and presto you have your story. Ain’t necessarily so, and most definitely was not in my case. I was thrilled, thrilled beyond words, as I recall that I was going to be a cub reporter on the city desk at the Gazette. I figured a couple of articles and I would be talking to the mayor, the governor, the president, who knows, on a first name basis just like the big boys and girls.

Forget that. Podunk (sorry Portland) cub city desk reporter meant you were at the bottom of the feeding chain. Below, well below, the drunken career copy editor who they stashed there because at one time he had won some prize for some odd-ball thing that nobody exactly remembered but is agreed upon by all not to bring up. Below the Woman’s Page lady busy manicuring her fingernails waiting on the latest recipe to file, the latest tidbit about what a certain very much married Mr. So-and-So and Miss Somebody were seen doing at some social event, or writing up somebody’s a party complete with a detailed list of what went on and who participated (I hoped that she spelled each and every name correctly, or else she was doomed). Below the publisher s daughter who was “stashed” there to keep her out of harm’s way (read: away from the night life at Jimmy Jake’s Blues Club down at Olde Saco Beach in high French- Canadian ooh-la-la summer) before she marries the son of the Augusta (Maine) Journal. And that cub reporter below also meant nothing but to mainly cover the police “beat” press room at the main station on the off-chance that every known Mafioso don, every know jack-roller, every known mug, yegg, drifter, grifter, and midnight shifter intended to descend on Portland in a fit of hubris.

Or maybe to cover, just maybe, that one time, off-hand odd-ball murder, or really before it was all over, murders, that has the whole town stirred up for months. That’s the one that broke me out of the bottom of the chain, out of writing novels at my police station desk to keep my eyes open. Yes, that day, October 23, 1973, the day they dragged the lady out of Shay’s Pond over in Ocean View.

That day I was just writing my fifth re-write of chapter three of my novel, The Third Wife, a novel to end all novels, to put Hemingway on cheap street, to let Fitzgerald go back and sulk, and have another drink with Zelda, to nuzzle Mailer out for that great American Novel prize when the police call came in. [We knew when a call, silly, obtuse, or important came in, because a green light flashed three times in the press room to alert us, quaint.] Some kids had been traipsing in the woods over at Shay’s Pond in Ocean View and come across a very badly decomposed body of what latter turned out to be a woman who had been strangled, a woman known in Ocean View although not as a full-time year-round woman but a “summer guest” (with the emphasis squarely on summer, and squarely on barely tolerated) as the native Mainiacs like to call them.

I didn’t know much about Ocean View then, although it was only a few miles south of my old hometown, Olde Saco. But it might as well have been a million miles away. Although they didn’t have gated communities then as they do now Ocean View was strictly for the Mayfair swells. Not, maybe as swell as the old time Bar Harbor set with their two last name middle and last names and stuff like that but strictly swells and strictly no murder capital of the world swells. In fact the town had no police force (except for summer rent-a-cop college boys, really just life-guards, who wanted to impress the junior girls swells and maybe catch an off-hand “wild girl” waiting to break-out before marrying another two last name middle and last name guy.) So the State Police out of Portland, along with a couple of special deputies from the Portland Police Department who knew the area, had to deal with the body, deal with the publicity (or rather keeping a lid on it), and deal with solving the crime, or what they thought was the crime. One cop in particular, Detective Garcia, had worked on a case there before (it didn’t come out until after it was all over that the case was over some “he said, she said” things between a big time stockbroker and his estranged wife, kid’s stuff, strictly kid’s stuff).

Here is what the “Staties” picked up right away after a couple of days hard work. The woman, Eleanor, the young wife (twenty-six) of J. Eugene Murry, yes, that J. Eugene Murry, the CEO of Murry Industries, the ancient big defense contractor, had been reported missing by Mr. Murry back in late August, whereabouts at the time unknown, possible destinations unknown, last known companion (s) unknown, cash in hand, plenty, love of J. Eugene Murry, nil. Of course Mr. Murry might just a have been the slightest bit more helpful since he had a rather large mansion over on not-gated but might as have well have been Atlantic Street, Mrs. Murry had called him from that locale several times asking for (and receiving) money in early August, and she was seen by various mansion employees with one (or more) males, young males, closer to her age that Mr. Murry’s.

All that, of course, didn’t come out until later after the case was nailed. Oh, ya, and Mrs. Murry, or someone who sounded very much like Mrs. Murry had called Murry Industries, specifically Mr.Murry’s personal secretary asking for (and receiving) cash six times between late August and the discovery of the body in the pond. The last time just four days before the very, very decomposed (I had to avert my eyes when I first saw it) came to the surface, or whatever dragged it to shore.

With that last bit of information in hand the previously laconic Mr. Murry determined to hire a private detective to get to the bottom of this case. See the regular cops were going too slowly for him all of a sudden. Yes, Mr. Murry was that kind of man. He didn’t care what his wife did, or didn’t do, in public or private, as long as she remained Mrs. Trophy-Wife but now that she was gone, long gone, something had to be done, and done quickly. And, no, no, a thousand times no J. Eugene Murry did not kill his wife, and his alibi, naturally was that little blonde personal secretary who was feeding somebody dough to keep her away.

Now this private detective thing, the stuff of crime noir legend is nothing but a shill. Look, most of these guys can’t tie their shoes, can’t spell murder, and couldn’t make it on the police force (because (a) they couldn’t keep quiet about the graft, (b) didn’t give Johnny Rico or some guy enough protection, or (c) couldn’t keep quiet about the free doughnuts and coffee in the locker room provided by Milly’s Diner) and got the boot. And not knowing any other gainful profession set up shop in some flea-bag office building with failed dentists, repo men, and insurance coverage chiselers. Hats off to Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler but that is the stuff of dreams, opium dreams from what I can gather.

I guess our Mr. Murry just went to the nearest telephone directory and placed his finger on the first name he came to, Alan Albert, because that is who Detective Garcia (who knew Albert when he was on the Portland force before he was canned for taking more than his cut of the protection money and “forgetting” about the Precinct Six captain, a fatal mistake) introduced me to him as Mr. Murry’s new private hired help. His main previous work, upon interview by me, was some rough-edged divorce work. That work, keyhole peeper work, rather than solving police platoon-sized murders, is what keeps most private dicks in coffee and cakes, and the wolves from the door.

But here is the funny part, funny after the big pin in the balloon I have put in the private- eye sleaze business. Alan Albert actually did solve the crime, crimes actually, the heinous crimes of murder, although not in the two-fisted, take a couple of slugs for the cause, maybe save a damsel in distress, or get bopped by some femme fatale out for her own kicks way. Here is how.

When Albert went over to be interviewed by Miss Grayson (the name of that, ah, blonde, very personal secretary belonging to one Mr. J. Eugene Murry) he recognized a photo on her desk as belonging to a girl he once knew from the Sea and Surf Club over at Olde Saco Beach (I remembered that club, and its mainly hell motorcycle “wild men” well). That girl in the photo, Emily Greer, happened to be a very close friend of Miss Grayson, according to what she said at the time. Upon request, after being given the job of finding Mrs. Murry’s killer (or killers), Alan was given a photograph of Mrs. Murry. He noted, although he kept quiet about it then, the striking resemblance between Eleanor Murry in the photograph and Emily. Enough to follow a certain lead.

See this Emily Greer, wild as hell, a “motorcycle mama” is what we called them in old Olde Saco time (and maybe they still do), was at one time the girlfriend of that Detective Garcia who introduced us a few days back. But after squeezing the Detective for all kinds of stuff, including getting her brother to walk on a murder rap, she dumped him and left him for some white trash biker from Ellsworth. But Detective Garcia still had it bad for his Emily. So, every once in a while she would squeeze him, squeeze him hard for information about the swells in Ocean View. See he had worked that stockbroker and wife feud that he had investigated into a little affair with the slumming wife (the “sleeping around and caught" cause of the stockbroker “he said, she said” argument that he broke up). So he gave up the Mrs. Murry information from Mrs. Stockbroker to Emily, and presto, Eleanor Murry is nowhere to be found. And, as it turned out, a few other “summer guests” would also turn up in that stinking Shay’s Pond.

Private Detective Albert and Public Detective Garcia, after rounding up Miss Grayson (real name, Alice Greer) at Murry Industries Headquarters (she was feeding the so-called Mrs. Murry dough out the door to her sister, Emily) and placing her safe and sound at Police Headquarters took a little ride over to the Sea and Surf Club to collar Miss Emily. No guns, no fights, no car chases, no whipping chains, just a plain ordinary “come with us, sister” arrest. And if you saw spiteful Emily you could see that she would have taken a couple in the chest if he she had been sober just then, but you could also see that she had the wherewithal to dunk those five bodies found in that small pond, without remorse.

So you see why I got into “real” crime noir after all this matter-of-fact-stuff. Let me tell you about some real crime stuff up in old Schoodic Point, a titanic fight between two lobstermen over the spoils of a daily catch. That will get the hairs in the back of your neck up. Oh, I guess I have run out of time. That is a story for another day

The Night Of The Living Dead- “Edmond O’Brian’s Crime Noir –D.O.A.

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry from the crime noir classic D.O.A.

DVD Review

D.O.A., starring Edmund O’Brian, directed by Rudolph Mate, Cardinal Pictures, 1950

Hey, over the couple of years that I have been periodically reviewing crime noirs I’ve seen it all. Bad gees getting away with murder, almost. Good gees getting the wrong end of the deal and just barely getting a little justice in this wicked old world before the scales turn, slightly. I’ve seen tough guy detectives take every beating imaginable before they, at the last second, grab the brass ring. I’ve seen more two-timing twisted sister femme fatale dames pile the corpses high and some skirt crazy guys grinning saying they were just misunderstood, almost. Ya, I’ve seen it all, brother. Well, not quite all, as the film under review, D.O.A., starring rugged looks 1950s actor Edmond O’Brian makes fatally clear. I‘ve never done a review a where the dead guy is still walking. That is usually saved for a genre, horror films, that don’t interest me, almost.

Let me back up (as is done in the film to explain that last point, otherwise this would be an exceedingly short review of an exceedingly short film). Average notary (for our purposes) Frank (played by the aforementioned Mr. O’Brian) needs a holiday bad. Bad from his closing in honey ready to make her kill (marriage and white picket fence cottages for two, okay). So naturally being a California desert guy and wanting to go wild he heads for be-bop 1950s San Francisco (just as the beat geist begins its climb up those seven hills, or whatever number there are). But Frank picked a wrong day, a wrong weekend, wrong month, hell, and a wrong millennium to “break out.”

Seems a regular work-a-day notary (accountant too) can know just a little too much. So in the language of the genre, he has to take “the fall.” And he does, as a nefarious guy who has something to hide slips him the mickey. But what a mickey, a totally fatal, no cure, done, dead, if still walking dose done while, well, while he is preoccupied picking up one of those high-flying “beat” hanger-on women that were filling up the town just then. So that is why our boy Frank is a dead man walking. And the rest of the film, the fast-paced film, by the way, with great black and white shots (especially of a be-bop jazz group blowing that high white note to kingdom come in the fog-bound ‘Frisco night- shades of some Jack Kerouac dream song, or maybe Allen Ginsberg, a young Allen Ginsberg), is spent frantically unfolding how Frank got himself killed. And some remorse over not treating his honey back in the desert so good.

A great film but I still have this lingering question. Since he knew (including getting a second medical opinion on the question) he was doomed in a day or two, a week at the most, why was not reveling in wine, women and song, especially that high-flying frail from the bistro, instead of almost getting himself “killed” (early) trying to find the truth? And you will be scratching your head also after you see this one. And you should.

Out Of The 1950s Crime Noir Night-French-Style- Jules Dassin’s “Rififi”

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the French crime noir Rififi.

DVD Review

Rififi, starring Jean Servais, directed by Hollywood black-listed director Jules Dassin, 1955.

Recently I went out of my way to honor the French cinematic crime noir tradition in reviewing Jean Gabin’s Touchez Pas au Grisbi, a film right out of the Hollywood gangster shoot-em-up and ask questions later genre. The film under review, Rififi, reflects another French cinematic homage to a different aspect of that tradition, the well-planned (almost) heist saga. In fact, given the approximately one half hour depiction of the heist itself, I would argue that it more than put paid to that homage. Maybe the fact that the film was directed by American red scare black-listed director Jules Dassin was key to those dramatic, skillful and realistic scenes. While reading his Marx in the morning Dassin, maybe, spent a few afternoons at the local two films for the price of one movie theaters of the day watching, intensely watching those heist scenes.

So, as I have already telegraphed,, this one revolves around a heist, a big jewel heist, naturally at an almost impossible to bust, high tech (for the day) protected establishment. Of course to take on such a risky task you either have to be very smart (street smart) or desperate, or both. Enter one Tony, just out of stir, with no prospects, no dough, and no pension (occupational hazard of the profession). And with about seven chips on his shoulder, number one chip being two-timed (who knows maybe more) by his woman. (Ya, I know, two-timing women, and the crazy way they turn smart (street smart) guys goofy in the plot lines of crime noirs, are a dime a dozen.) Tony is ready though to go for the brass ring. And he grabs it, almost.

See, while two-timing women may be a dime a dozen, two-timing women who take up with rival boss gangsters and live to tell about it, are not. So said rival boss gangster, once he cops to the fact that our Tony has “scored” is ready to move heaven and earth to get the jewels, and get them cheap. Cheap? Ya, easy, just kidnap one of the heist guys’ kids and that will have them squealing and handing over jewels ASAP. Well no, not at all. Remember Tony is not going back to stir, no way. And come hell or high water he is not leaving his buddy (and his buddy’s wife) in the lurch. Without giving the whole thing away let’s just put it this way, Hollywood or Paris, film wise anyway, crime does not pay. RIP Tony.

Out In The 1950s Crime Noir Night-French-Style- Jean Gabin’s Touchez Pas au Grisbi

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for Jean Gabin’s Touches Pas au Grimsby

DVD Review

Touchez Pas au Grisbi, starring Jean Gabin, 1954

Hey, I have been touting crime noir films for the past couple of years so why not review, as here with Jean Gabin’s 1954 Touchez Pas au Grisbi, a French crime noir in honor of, well, the name of the genre. And a later generation of French directors who went crazy for Hollywood gangster epics in such films as “Breathless” and Don’t Shoot The Piano Player. Especially when said this crime noir stars Jean Gabin, last reviewed here in a very different film, Children Of Paradise.

Well, let’s cut to the chase (literally, as this plot unfolds). It seems that long- time crime boss Max (Gabin) has pulled a caper (heist, okay) to set himself and his confederate Riton up for a well-deserved retirement from the rackets. And everything was going along just fine until old buddy Riton got a loose tongue over some show girl (played by a very young Jean Moreau) and spilled his guts out to her about how he could keep her in clover. Problem is that young showgirls are as fickle and calculating as any other woman mixed up with bad actuarial table criminals and she has another crime boss on the hook, one Angelo. Naturally she mentions the loot to Angelo and sets off an explosion of maneuvers by him to get the kale, and by Max to keep it.

The cat and mouse of this pair drives the rest of the movie with old Max showing one and all why he was (and is) the king of the hill, even if he may have lost a step or two. Angelo’s big mistake (besides thinking that Max was over the hill and easy pickings) was kidnapping Riton, an act that set Max on a fight to the finish. See the film to get the details of that fight to the finish. What is important though is the use by the director here of the many tough guy moves made by Hollywood gangsters in the heyday 1930s including a few off-hand beatings of opponent gangsters to get information, a few off-hand slaps at show girls (by Gabin of all people but that is part of being a boss and no chump), and a car chase, natch complete with machine guns ta-ta-ta-ing. Ya, the French picked up the genre very nicely. Gabin might be a little too suave (except for those off-hand girl slaps) to be an American 1930s gangster but he fit the more demure 1950s just right.

When The Frame Won’t Fit- Won’t Fit Big Time- Jimmy Stewart’s “Call Northside 777- A Film Review

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for Call Northside 777.

DVD Review

Call Northside 777, starring Jimmy Stewart, Lee J. Cobb, Richard Conte, directed by Henry Hathaway, 20th Century Fox, 1948.

Hey, I ‘m just like the next guy I don’t want to see a right gee step off, step off big time, on a murder one rap and maybe a quick jolt, although in this case he caught 99 years (99 years of hell by the way) but these crime noir film noir police procedurals leave me cold. No guy wronged by some wicked femme fatale or some wrong gee getting his just desserts for being a blight on the community leaves me decidedly chilled.

Worst is a story where the right gee wronged is championed by the fourth estate (ya, the press for the clueless) in order to see that some rough justice (and an increased circulation) is done in that aforementioned wicked old world. And then to have mild-mannered, intrepid, if off-handedly seen-it-all (at first anyway), Jimmy Stewart come out of left field to save the day, save the gee, save motherhood, save apple pies and save the American way of life, well, like I say give me a wrong gee or a wicked femme to chew on anything.

Here is the skinny on this one though for those who like this kind of crime noir plot line (and there must be plenty given the large number of film and television police procedurals far more sophisticated that this slightly soapy one). Frank nobody from nowhere 1932 high-wire “wet” Chicago steps into a frame, a frame set just for him, when a copper is killed in the “line of duty.” He gets that quick 99 and that is the end of it, right? No, Ma has to see that her boy, her innocent boy, is set free after she has scrubbed floor for eleven years to buy a little piece of mind. So she ponies up some dough for information about the murder, the press (in the person of Stewart and Editor Lee J. Cobb) takes an interest and bing bang bing (added no little by modern photo enhancement technology) an hour or so later Frank nobody from nowhere Chicago 1944 is free, free as a bird, And likes it, likes on the outside just fine. Yawn, I wonder what femme fatale Gilda is up to these days.

Out In The Two-Timing Femme Fatale 1950s Crime Noir Night- “Armored Car Robbery”- A Review

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the crime noir film Armored Car Robbery.

DVD Review

Armored Car Robbery, starring Charles McGraw, William Talman, Adele Jurgens, RKO Radio Pictures, 1950

Forget what I ever said about the classic two-timing femme fatales. And who knows maybe three-timing, or more. Once you go down that road what is to stop a dame, any dame , and why, at any small number when you are looking, forever looking, to step up in class, to latch onto the big dough guys who will take you out of the dime-a-dance scene you are mired in. So forget frails like Mary Astor in The Maltese Falcon who was ready to make any guy, any two guys for that matter, take the fall as long as she got her damn bird, and the stuff of dreams. With dough enough to keep her in style, and the small-time grifters off her back. Forget Rita Hayworth in The Lady From Shang-hai who had half the male world, the smart guys too, lining up to take the fall, and just ask where to take it until in the end even the smart guys cried “uncle.” Forget Jane Greer in Out Of The Past twisting up every guy in California, some smart guys too, and guys who supposedly knew what was what wound up hiding out until the coast was clear, maybe for about a century hiding out nursing their wounds , once she got done with them. And forget one more, just one more, that no femme list is complete without, Ava Garner trying to get some guy, her everlovin’ husband no less, some supposedly badass guy, to take the fall for her on his deathbed in the film adaptation of Ernest Hemingway’s The Killers. Ya, forget them all as just slightly nervous misunderstood frills that had a couple of bad breaks along the way. Sweet little Yvonne (played by Adele Jurgens. Ya, I know, the name doesn’t exactly ring bells in the fatale world, good or bad)in this sleeper of a crime noir under review, Armored Car Robbery (Ya, I know as well, they seemed to have run out of interesting titles on this one) puts them all to shame. I might be over- touting the thing but hear me out.

Naturally no femme fatale worth her salt is driven by anything but the desire, the very strong desire, to get out from under whatever menial labor she is stuck doing, from serving them off the arm in some hash house to beating drunks for drinks and donuts in some two bit-bar fly scene. Yvonne here is strictly an independent operator working her fanny off (no pun intended) as a stripper ( maybe today the more politically correct term would be a sex worker, or some other more exotic description, although I am willing to stand corrected on that) in a low-rent Chicago burlesque house. Naturally such places, as Damon Runyon, Studs Terkel, and a few other guys have informed us, do not draw serious high-rollers or serious smart guys. So, through this and that, Yvonne winds up married, unhappily married as it turns out, to Benny who is nothing but a small-time grafter down on his uppers as the film opens. Strictly from Jump Street and strictly a guy who takes orders, not gives them.

And that is where this film gets interesting because while Bennie is nothing a but small-time hood he knows a certain smart guy, Dave Purvis (played by William Talman, probably better known as the ever-losing District Attorney in the 1950s Perry Mason television series and not a classic ladies’ man by any means which means he too has to keep grabbing dough), who has a plan, a big heist plan, which the reader can figure out from the title of the film, involves robbing, well, an armored car. Why? As the late old time yegg Willie Sutton has often been quoted as saying in all kinds of contexts –“that’s where the money is.” Big half a million dollar dough (big 1950s dough, now just tip money for the big guys). Bennie (and a couple of his confederates) are in, in to get under from under in the Yvonne department, to keep her in style, some style anyway. But here is the beauty of the thing, and what puts Yvonne right up there with the more well-known fatales, she is running around, married to Benny or not, running around no questions asked, with one Dave Purvis. See Yvonne knows what every true-blue two-timing femme fatale knows-go with the brains of the operation. And so her fate is set.

Of course even a kid wet behind the ears knows that the magic mantra behind every crime noir is that crime, well, crime doesn’t pay. The only difference usually is in what manner it doesn’t pay (and how bad the femme fatale makes some guy, or guys, fall). Here the heist gets blown by a simple call to the police by a witness. The stick-up (at a ball park during baseball season which is probably a separate chargeable crime itself ) is blown but not before a fatal shoot-out of a police officer in pursuit. Benny also gets shot-up in the melee. And that is where Lieutenant Cordell (played by ruggedly handsome, jut-jawed, and straight-as-an-arrow Charles McGraw with the perfect police officer’s face) comes in to see some rough-hewn justice is served. See the officer killed was his longtime partner and as we already know from detective Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon a guy has to do something about the murder of his partner, private or public cop. From there it is only time before Dave and Yvonne, once Benny expires from his wounds, are cornered in a dramatic airfield shoot-out. But here is the clincher- when Dave earlier , dough in hand, told Yvonne that Benny had gone to his just rewards she showed all the emotion of one who heard that a fly had been swatted dead. Didn’t I tell you she was poison? Ya, I did.

Out In The Robert Mitchum Crime Noir Night-Kind Of- “The Racket”

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for Robert Mitchum’s The Racket.

The Racket, starring Robert Mitchum, Robert Ryan, 1951.

Elsewhere in this space I have noted my love for film noir. The black and white photography, the story lines, the sparse and functional language. However, not all film noir is created equal and that is the case here. Robert Mitchum along with Humphrey Bogart, Kirk Douglas and Orson Welles were the masters of this genre. However this one falls flat as Mitchum plays the old-fashioned steady reliable no nonsense cop
untainted by the corrupt public officials around him. Robert Ryan as an old fashioned small time crime boss who is not hip to the new ways of doing criminal business is a wooden stereotype as are his henchmen. The plot, such as it is, revolves around the tension between these old foes. If you want to see Mitchum when he reached for the noir stars see Out Of The Past. Then you will know what I mean when I say not all film noir is created equal.

Out In The1950s Low-Down Be-Bop Crime Noir Night- Lizabeth Scott’s “Two Of A Kind”

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the 1950s crime noir Two Of A Kind.

DVD Review

Two Of A Kind, starring Edmond O’Brien, Lizabeth Scott, Columbia Pictures,1950

One of the unspoken premises of the crime noir (other than the by now obvious one that crime doesn’t pay, or at least not pay for those at the bottom of the crime chain) is that there is a “code of honor” among thieves. Code there may be, although that premise is open to serious question as the film under review, Two Of A Kind, explores but it has been honored more in the breech than the observance. That said, this is a rather nifty little B-side film that can’t quite decide whether it is a light-hearted, flirty camping on the crime noir genre or wants to go full bore in the low-rent be-bop crime noir night.

Why? Well the plotline certainly promises a “big score” on the crime front even though guns and rough stuff are, mostly, in the background. No nasty armed robberies or off-hand murders here. This one is about a scam, a beautiful everybody gets plenty of dough and can retire to Rio scam. On paper. And for a while it seems to be getting up a full head of steam toward that goal. But like all scams, or almost all scams, a little what the hell happened reality sets in.

Here husky-throated and fetching, 1950s-style blond fetching, Elizabeth Scott as Brandy, a girl who has to look out for herself in any way a 1950s girl can, and a wealthy man’s lawyer, Vincent, have cooked up a scheme to grab ten million in dough by stealth. But what they need, desperately need, is a third party to play the role of this wealthy man and his wife’s long lost son. Enter small time grafter, Lefty (played by crime noir stand-by Edmond O’Brien) who is down on his uppers and whose “resume” fits the bill as the son, except he needs a little work to flush out the role- he needs to get his finger smashed to smithereen to look authentic. (Ouch, even fifty years later.)

And he goes for it, smashed finger and all. And goes, by the romantic interest way, for Lizabeth Scott (who like I said before is a girl who had to look out for herself and has already pinned herself to that lawyer so there will be some trouble, no question). And she, off-handedly, goes for him along the way. So the plan is unfolding beautifully, including working on a dizzy young dame who has entre to the wealthy man’s home, when all of a sudden the tables are turned. The old guy doesn’t tumble for the scam and all bets are off. But see nobody goes to the slammer on this one. Nobody gets shot up, or even ruffled up (except said lawyer has to get out of town) so the big build-up turns this one into a comedic crime noir. Is there such an animal, or is it against nature? Still this one was one of the better B-film noirs based on the dialogue and the little twists around the scam. Oh ya, in case you forgot, crime doesn’t pay.

Out Of The 1940s Crime Noir Night- American Psycho 101- “Born To Kill”- A Review

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the 1940s crime noir Born To Kill.

DVD Review

Born To Kill, starring Claire Trevor, Lawrence Tierney, Warner Brothers 1948

No question the possible combinations of criminal conspiracies and conspirators in any crime noir are almost infinite. Here stone-cold killer meets stone-cold femme fatale (well mostly stone cold that is) in one of those crime noir efforts that you can’t really root for anybody to break out of the trap- the crime doesn’t pay trap that is a signature message of these vehicles. That is the plight of the ”inmates” of the film under review, Born To Kill, that despite its title is not a relentless slice and dice at every clip crime noir out of the 1940s. But neither is it one that will have you bursting out crying at the end.

Here’s why. One very stone-cold killer (played frankly, a little woodenly given later pyscho killers that the movies have produced, by Lawrence Tierney) with a very short, make that a very,very short fuse, gets offended by some guy in Reno trying to “make time” with some frail that he is interested in and in a fit of pique beats him senseless, and dead. A familiar crime theme although not usually is Reno. The frail comes in and observes the foul deed and she too must fall. On advice of a friend, who should have fled from this guy on day one and counted himself lucky, our American pyscho is told to scram until things cool down. So he beat it to the coast, ‘Frisco, of course. And through that set of circumstances he meets our stone-cold femme fatale (played more convincingly by Claire Trevor). Nothing good can come of this combination and nothing does.

Why? Well our pyscho has post –World War II American-sized dreams of riches and power and he expects to gather it in through his association with our dear femme fatale’s sister who controls a media empire (newspapers back in the day, okay). Except, well, of course, an except Ms. Femme Fatale has gotten under his skin and he under hers. Remember now our boy has a short fuse so you know that nothing but murder and mayhem are going to come out of all this if he gets a little bit miffed. And he does by of all people the guy who was trying to help him scram back in Reno (played by perennial bad boy Elisha Cook,Jr.) Go figure. As for the rest, see the film and learn yet again that even pyschos get their just desserts-if only in the movies.

Out In The Be-Bop 1940s Night- Bonnie And Clyde For Innocents-Farley Granger’s “They Lived By Night”

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the 1940s film noir, The Live By Night

DVD Review

They Live By Night, starring Farley Granger, Catherine O’Donnell, Warner Brothers, 1948

Usually crime noir does not have an overriding social message, well, except the old chestnut that crime doesn’t pay, although for the rich a little maybe. Otherwise the genre back in the days, especially in the 1940s be-bop heyday of the genre, was pretty much police procedural stuff, and get the handcuffs out. Or maybe, every once in a while a stray femme fatale came carrying her scent and her sway across the room and turned some otherwise rational guy a little screwy. And anyone, any guy anyway, except maybe that screwy guy, will tell you that is just par for the course. And then get the handcuffs out. A film like the one under review, They Live By Night (a little over the top title by the way, bringing out visions of weird aliens, the space kind, or all night sex and drug romps), however, perhaps a little more melodramatically than necessary, tries to break some moral ground as well. And that proposition as presented in the film was none too pretty, then or now. Basically that once one runs down the criminal road, alone or with help, young or old, maybe even guilty or not guilty, the doors to salvation (read: rehabilitation in penal lingo) are closed. Ouch!

And the plot line and unfolding characterizations as the story proceeds go a long way toward driving that hard, if perhaps questionable, premise home. Bowie (played with a studied unworldly naiveté and socially immature confusion by a young Farley Granger) is a young lifer, the details of his imprisonment, except that he came from a broken home and was on his own early in life, do not concern us except to form the underlying basis for his eternal damnation. Wrong step number one. He broke, and was consciously broken, out of the big house along with and by a couple of very nasty career criminals. Wrong step number two. In gratitude, and frankly because he had developed a certain criminal panache while in stir, he aided the pair as the driver of the getaway cars when they went, naturally since they were not going to work in some diner for dimes and doughnuts, on a robbery spree to keep them in clover. And he got his share of the take, no questions asked. Not much to be sympathetic about. So far.

Here is where things get dicey. During the getaway part of the great jail break-out the trio was helped by one the career banditos’ brother (said bandito played by Howard DaSilva, a guy you do not want to cross, ever, especially if unarmed. Yes, especially if unarmed). And the brother, of course, had a daughter, Kee Kee (played just a little too naively and dreamily by Catherine O’Donnell), a young daughter a little unworldly in the world of fringe lumpen crime. Alone with a two-bit drunken father (and long gone mom) Naturally a young, good-looking and spirited criminal guy (who does those bank jobs just to get some dough to get himself straight with the law as he tells it to her later) and a young naïve, kind of tomboyish girl (although through the magic of cinema she gets to be pretty fetching by the end of the film), both socially immature and both desperate to find their place, some place, some small happy place in a world that they did not make, are “made” for each other. And that is where the moral part of the story comes.

By a process of elimination by the middle of the film Bowie and Kee Kee are trying, trying fitfully but trying, to break out of the old crime wave pattern and have little white picket fence existence, if not here maybe down Mexico way where the living is cheap, once Bowie gets straight with the law. But that fantasy was not to be. Bowie was forced (remember what I said about Howard DaSilva) to do that one hold-up job too many and the pair had to go on the lam. Wrong step number three. You already know what that means. They had dough, and each other, but the cards were stacked against them as no one will help them slip down Sonora way.

In the end, the lonely end, one of the banditos’ kin (on the other bandito’s side) “dimes” on him. There is more background to it like the kids getting off-handedly married, a no bells and whistles ceremony by the way, learning about sex enough in their wanderings to conceive a child, and desperately try to hang onto their cardboard dreams of a normal life. But the fate sisters were not kind, not this trip. Like I said, a little on the melodramatic pledging eternal love every other minute high side but a story that I could relate to having come within about two minutes of such a fate myself. Actually make that about one minute.

Out In The Be-Bop 1950s Crime Noir Night- Fred MacMurray’s “Pushover”-A Review

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the crime noir Pushover

DVD Review

Pushover, starring Fred MacMurray, Kim Novak, Columbia Pictures, 1954

Okay, once again, here is the drill, the crime noir drill anyway, crime does not pay. Got it. Ya, but what they didn’t tell you, not that it would have helped, what about when some stray femme fatale, all blond and curvy, not Marilyn Monroe blond and curvy but still a nice package, comes at a guy with her one hundred dollar an ounce perfume scent, in 1950s dollars scent, and her come hither smile. And gets a guy, guys, usually rationale and business-like stick-em-up bank robber guys or guardian of law-and-order guys, kind of screwy and dreaming funny dreams. And have , in the end, the latter doing screwy stuff with enough moxie to face the chair, or face a stray bullet or two, with kind of an ironic smile just for another whiff of that expensive perfume. Ya, they don’t tell you about that part. But I will, because in that just mentioned end, the film under review, Pushover, is all about that crazy stuff a good-looking dame can make a guy, maybe any guy, do. And even Karl Marx, and his kindred, haven’t figured a way around that one.

I might as well start at the beginning. Harry, like a lot of guys, didn’t like nine-to- five work, although such guys, like the rest of us, needed dough for this and that, so he did what came natural to such guys-rob a bank (with a confederate of course). He got the dough okay, a couple of hundred thousand (not much today but serious money in the 1950s, serious easy street money until it ran out and you needed to plan another caper), but the heist got fouled up, as usual, when some bank guard (seemingly unaware that the bank was probably insured and, in any case, that it wasn’t his dough) decided to play hero. Harry threw a couple of bullets his way and that was that.

Except in 1950s law and order America, and now too, killing bank guards sets the citizenry aflame and so the cops have to press hard on this one to stop the bad press. And here is where the fatal perfume scent comes in. See, Harry, like many a guy has a woman, a “kept” woman in the parlance of the day, Lona (played by Kim Novak), who he keeps coming back to for one more whiff of that scent that he has paid for. (And other stuff too but remember this is a 1950s movie so we won’t mention s-x.) And that is where the law gets a break. Somehow they find out about Lona and have her followed. Why? You know why just as well as you know the cat will go after catnip.

Lona is followed by a kind of cynical, hard-bitten, seen it all career cop, Paul (played by Fred MacMurray), whose “job” is to get close to her. Well he does, but he doesn’t figure on that scent. The scent that will lead him, and gladly, down a crooked road. See Lona had her own agenda.
Her own agenda being to get Harry’s dough and run off, maybe to Mexico, where the living is cheap and nobody, nobody with any sense, asks questions. But in any case somewhere far away, some white picket fence cottage for two far away. Paul resisted the idea for a while but you know it would be a very short film if he didn’t succumb. And if you saw Lona, and the whole package, you would know why too.

Of course the best laid plans of mice or men go awry, real awry. The plan is to set up Harry, bump him off under the usual “trying to escape” police gag, grab the dough and scram to that little dream cottage future. No problem, easy as pie, just like clockwork and all the other clichés. Not. The thing unravels by the minute and every improvisation by Paul only gets turned around against him. As his fellow cops finally get around to figuring out he has gone “rogue” he has gotten into such frenzy about the dough that he kind of fatalistically pushes on. And in the end takes those stray cop bullets that have his name on them kind of smiling, an ironic smile. See what a dame will do to a guy, a rationale guy. But what are you going to do.

Note: Fred MacMurray should have seen this coming. It is not like he hasn’t been down that blond femme fatale road before. He took a couple of stray bullets for a smile from Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity so he was forewarned. He had better stay away from those blonde dames with big crooked plans. I suggest a brunette.

Out In The Be-Bop 1950s Crime Noir Night- Dana Andrew’s “Where The Sidewalk Ends”- A Film Review

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the crime noir Where The Sidewalk Ends.

DVD Review

Where The Sidewalk Ends, staring Dana Andrews, Gene Tierney, Gary Merrill, directed by Otto Preminger, 20th Century Fox, 1950

I guess if you get into a crime noir crazed mode as I have been over the past several months then nothing should surprise you as far as plot line, photography (black and white of course), or actors are concerned. No way, no way in hell, would when I started out this jail break-out reviewing process of the old time films from the mid-1940s to the mid-1950s mostly would I have believed that I would be reviewing a film like the one under review, good, bad, or indifferent, with the title Where The Sidewalk Ends. And no way, no way in hell, would I have believed that I would be, seemingly endlessly now, on a Dana Andrews run. Bogie, no question, Robert Mitchum sure, even Dick Powell in a pinch but Dana Andrews? Oh well, at least he has classic good girl (no femme fatale here even though she is a model) Gene Tierney to keep his eyes on once he gets control of his anger.

With all that build-up you may thing that this one is one for the ages like The Big Sleep or Out Of The Past. No way. First of all it is just a police procedural with a little twist, a bad copper/good copper little twist. See “real” crime noir gumshoes are strictly private, not messing up on the public payroll. And certainly not messing up like Detective Mark Dixon, the role played by Brother Andrews. See he is a cop, a big city cop naturally, whose father was a big-time city crook and he is trying to live that idea down. Live it down by busting up the bad guys, literally and physically, in some cases. And most definitely with no concern, no pre-Miranda concern at least, for the niceties of constitutional law.

One thing will lead to another when you try to cut the corners on edge city and so our boy takes a tumble. Seems a “mark” in a big city gambling operation won too much dough and wanted to go home with it. Well the hard boys, or what passes for hard boys in this one, said no go, no go way. And so the mark is taken care of in the way the hard boys do, although they need a fall guy and he just happens to be the “roper.” Needless to say when Brother Andrews come to investigate the roper’s role in the killing his way-his two-fisted, no knock, no guff from hard boys way, he just happened to get a little carried away. And so mark and roper are joined together, R.I.P.

But wait a minute what about Brother Andrews’ pension and his delight with his job. Here is where the tale gets just a little too weird. He decides to use his little problem as a way to get the hard boys, especially their leader played by Gary Merrill, to take a tumble. The problem is when you start down that road, that cover-up the fix is in road, though you don’t know where things are going to fall. And who is going to take the fall. And who takes the fall, or at least the prime candidate, is none other than the taxi-driving father-in-law of that very dead roper. Now I don’t, personally, care if this or that average cab driver takes a fall for some off-hand murder, those guys charge too much anyway and they always want a tip, even the quiet ones. But this particular cab-driver has a, well, fetching model daughter played by Gene Tierney, who would be very upset, very upset indeed, if papa wound up in stir for a long time.

Also needless to say Brother Andrews is starting to go for said daughter in a big way. So he has to clean up the mess with the father, the mess with the mob, and his own misbegotten mess before the film ends. Tough work, very tough work indeed. But here is where it gets really weird, especially if you have read any newspaper from 1940 to this very day, this cop who gets the bad guys, straight up no questions asks, gets dear cabby papa off from the caboose, and throws an off-hand wink toward darling daughter, decides that he has to take the fall for his improper police procedure. Gone is that pretty little pension, and gone, long gone is the suspicion of disbelief on this one. Where are Sam Spade and Phillip Marlowe when you need them.

Out In The 1950s Be-Bop Crime Noir Night- Humphrey Bogart’s “Beat The Devil”-A Film Review

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the anti-film noir Beat The Devil.

DVD Review

Beat The Devil, starring Humphrey Bogart, Jennifer Jones, Peter Lorre, directed by John Huston, 1953

When Humphrey Bogart was in his prime, say from the time of Petrified Forest in the late 1930s until say 1947’s Dark Passage, he was hands down king of film noir hill. No question. There were prettier faces (Clark Gable), there were better actors (Spencer Tracey), there were actors with more angst per ounce (Montgomery Cliff) but for sheer gritty, grizzled, gnarly (nice, huh) film presence Bogie was the one. Of course even those who have not kept up with their history know that every king (or queen) has his (or her) day. And then-done. Well, not exactly done but since actors, like some generals, only fade away and hang on for just as long as studios think they have “start” quality to put in the bank. In the film under review, Beat The Devil, our man Bogie is in such a quandary. Clearly, on the screen, it is almost painful to see his physical decline from his prime (only slightly hidden by “make-up magic”) if not his ability to throw off a few off-hand devil take the hinter-post lines in this one.

Fortunately this film, directed skillfully to enhance the black and white features, by John Huston, is not desperately in need of “high” Bogie to carry it along. The story line, about a motley crew of “desperados” seeking fame and fortune in post-World War Africa is fairly straight forward and mundane. Unfortunately, for them, they are stuck in an out-of the-way port in Italy. The keys to the kingdom that this crew is trying to corner in the heated up Cold War world- uranium (or some other equally precious commodity, if thinks turn out badly). If in earlier times gold or diamonds stirred men’s (and women’s) greedy thoughts just then in that red scare night it was that particularly important produce. However not for one moment can any of the parties (and those like Ms. Jennifer Jones and her down-at-the-heels British husband who wonder what this crew is doing out in the sticks) take one eye, much less two, off the others. And that, more than the thin plot line, is what carries the day here. The collective day, with likes of Robert Benchley, Peter Lorre and Ms. Jones, playing off against Bogie’s world-wary, world-weary performance. Add into the mix a little off-hand undone infidelity for the good of the cause and that makes a very interesting mix. If you need classic “high” Bogie then go to Casablanca, To Have or Have Not or The Big Sleep. But if you want to see him play against type and in an ensemble performance watch this one.

Out In The Be-Bop Crime Noir 1940s Night- “Dark Passage”- A Film Review

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the film Dark Passage.

DVD Review

Dark Passage, starring Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Warner Brothers, 1947

No question that grizzled beaten-up Humphrey Bogart and a young coyly beautiful Lauren Bacall heated up the 1940s screen, heated it up as much as two people could and keep their clothes on, in their first film pairing, William Faulkner’s screenplay adaptation of Ernest Hemingway’s To Have Or Have Not (only loosely based on that short novel by the way). They also played together in the Raymond Chandler Phillip Marlowe detective noir classic, The Big Sleep and in Key Largo. In this Dark Passage pairing though, while still in thrall with each other off-screen, the steam is fading, fading fast. But not, perhaps, because of their familiarity to movie-goers as much as the plot line they had to perform under.

Let me explain a little. Vincent Parry (played by Bogart) is in stir up at Quentin for the foul murder of his wife. But, see, like they all say, he didn’t do it so he lams out of Q on his own to see if he can get out from under the life sentence he has received. So naturally when the cops are on his trail up shows come hither Irene Jansen (played by Bacall) to help him out. Seems that, for reasons of her own, she followed Vincent’s trial closely and is convinced that he might be innocent. So she hid him out at her place for a while until things got too hot. But getting out from under this life sentence is going to be harder than you would think. So while riding in a cab to another hide-out he is picked up by a friendly, very friendly cabbie who just happens to know a back alley plastic surgeon who will change Vincent’s face enough so that he can work without notoriety. Simple right.

Well the long and short of it is that while the facelift might have seemed like the answer to his problems everybody and their brother is on to him in the end. And as to finding the real murderer. Well she inconveniently falls out the window of her high rise apartment. While Vincent is there trying to talk sense into her. So, knowing he can’t win, new face and all, he lams it for parts south, way south.

You can see what I mean by the awkwardness of the main plot line. And what makes said plot lines even worst is that Irene has a big crush on Vincent, under either old or new face. Except, and here is the real crime, we do not see either face until fairly late in the film and by then any sense of the magic of To Have Or Have Not or The Big Sleep has dissolved into the be-bop 1940s crime noir night. Too bad.

Out In The Be-Bop 1940s Crime Noir Night- Ya, Crime Doesn’t Pay-So What- James M. Cain’s “The Postman Always Rings Twice”- A Film Review

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the early film adaptation of James M. Cain’s The Postman Always Rings Twice.

DVD Review

The Postman Always Rings Twice, starring John Garfield and Lana Turner, MGM, 1946

Ya, sometimes, and maybe more than sometimes, a frail, a frill, a twist, a dame, oh hell, let’s cut out the goofy stuff and just call her a woman and be done with it, will tie a guy’s insides up in knots so bad he doesn’t know what is what. Tie up a guy so bad he goes to the chair kind of smiling, okay maybe just half-smiling. Yes, our boy, our never let your feet stand still for a minute on the road boy Frank (played by John Garfield) in the 1940s film adaptation of James M. Cain’s classic masterpiece crime noir, The Postman Always Rings Twice, had it bad, bad as a man could have it. Bad a man could have from the minute Ms. Cora (played by a very, very blonde Lana Turner) walked through the Twin Oaks café door in her white summer blouse, shorts, and then de rigueur bandana holding back her hair. She may have been just another blonde, very blonde frail serving them off the arm in some seaside hash joint but from second one she is nothing but, well nothing but, a femme fatale. I swear, I swear on seven sealed bibles that I yelled at the screen for Frank to get the hell out of there at that moment. But do you think he would listen, no not our boy Frank. He had to play with fire, and play with it to the end.

See not only is Ms. Cora a Ms. but a real live 1940s Mrs. married to Nick, the owner of Twin Oaks. And Nick is nothing but an old guy, an old penny-pinching guy with small dreams getting smaller, whom Cora married on the rebound from, well, from something, something bad from the look of Nick. Yes, Nick is definitely nothing but a third party “has been” once the chemistry starts between Frank and Cora, starts to really get going as will often happen once you take those midnight swims in the white-flecked, our homeland the sea, pacific, Pacific Ocean just above slumming Los Angeles before the criss-cross roads took away many of the scenes. If Nick was smart he would watch his back very carefully because I smell murder in the air, hellish highway murder, once our sweet go-getter Cora coos to Frank that it is, and I quote, “the only way.” The only way to that white picket fence heaven old Nick is too cheap to buy her.

Needless to say, if you have read any of James M. Cain’s crime novels or short stories, there have to be a few twists and turns in the plot before the inevitable, and I mean inevitable in its fullest sense, road to perdition narrows and there is no escape from the grim fate that those who play with fate usually have to suffer. Here the inflamed lovers botch the first attempted murder of Nick but arouse so much suspicion from a very conveniently located neighboring District Attorney that they will not just get to go about their merry ways.

Moreover, have you been paying attention? Cora’s got her hooks in Frank so bad that you know there will be another attempt. And there was, and it was “successful.” And they got away with it after some nifty legal maneuvering that would do any modern defense attorney proud. Except you know as well as I do, and if you have ever read any previous crime noir review of mine, you damn well know that it can’t just be left like that. Crime, brothers and sisters, does not pay even for the mere legally not guilty. And that is where Frank’s smile, or half-smile, comes in. Because in the end he faces the chair not for Nick’s death, but for her’s. And all he cared about by then was whether she would in death forgive him. Ya, our boy Frank had it bad, real bad and that is what makes this a classic crime noir, no question. But Frank don’t feel bad there are about three billion guys who have gone through those same hoops for a dame, including this writer, although I personally tend to sultry brunettes not blondes.

Out In The 1940s Be-Bop Crime Noir Night, Sort Of-“The Woman In The Window”-A Film Review

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the crime noir The Woman In The Window.

DVD Review

The Woman In The Window, starring Edward G. Robinson, Joan Bennett, Dan Duryea, directed by Fritz Lang, 1944

Okay, okay I know this one is a crime noir by Fritz Lang and I will bow down, bow down profusely, over his use of interesting cinematic techniques, his photography, and his attention to detail that were his hallmark traits. That done though what is there to yell about in this noir? Sure there is a femme fatale, sort of, played here by Joan Bennett who whatever her ruby red-lipped, bedazzled charms for 1940s male audiences, or female audiences for that matter, does not compare, compare at all, to such femmes as Lauren Bacall, Rita Hayworth, or Jane Greer.

And sure there is a murder, sort of, committed by a learned New York professor of psychology, no less, played by, well played by, Edward G. Robinson, better known for his great 1930s gangsta movies. And there is a blackmailer, sort of, to complicate the plot, played by Dan Duryea. And there is a circling around the wagons to find the murderer by law enforcement, headed by clever, sneaky clever Raymond Massey. That is natural for this genre. But didn’t I already, sort of, review this film before under the name Scarlet Street with this same cast of characters. Fritz Lang directed that one as well and provided us with his hallmark traits. And the crimes were real there, if not rightly solved.

Maybe I had better give a little plot to show what I mean. The good professor, the good middle-aged professor, (Edward G. Robinson) is having something like a mid-life crisis as his wife and kids leave town, New York town, to get away from the bustle of the city. On the way to his Mayfair swell club (on a 1940s professor’s salary?) he is entranced by a portrait of a beautiful woman in an art gallery window (hence the title of the film). Well one thing leads to another and while he is a little drunk after dinner he has what turns out to be an adventure, a theoretical adventure, which will have him facing the gallows before dawn. Seems our lady of the window (Ms. Bennett) appears in “real” life, is in distress due to some caddish lover, and is in need of our professor’s services as her gallant knight. In short, he kills, kills in self-defense really, the cad.

Of course, under the circumstances, they have try to commit the perfect crime by covering up, covering up as it turns out in such a poor way that any school boy could sent them to the electric chair on day one of the investigation and have time for lunch. To add to their cover-up distress woes, a blackmailer (Brother Duryea), a worldly-wise (at least in comparison to their amateurish antics) wants dough for his silence. Ya, I know, the suspension of disbelief part associated with any movie just doesn’t quite make it. And it doesn’t have to because at the end the good professor merely had just too much to drink. So back to the drawing board on this one, except now we get our noses rubbed into the theme song of this genre. Crime doesn’t pay, awake or asleep. Sorry Fritz, but you will always have Metropolis as your immortal work.

Out In The Be-Bop 1940s Crime Noir Night-Fatal Attraction- “The Strange Love Of Martha Ivers"- A Film Review

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the crime noir, The Strange Love Of Martha Ivers

DVD Review

The Strange Love of Martha Ivers, Barbara Stanwyck, Van Heflin, Kirk Douglas, Lizabeth Scott, Paramount Pictures, 1946

Ya, a woman can get under your skin, no question, no question at all, in 1940 or 2010 makes no difference. Now two guys tugging away is an even tougher story, especially when the dame is a heartless femme fatale like Barbara Stanwyck who plays the woman under their skins in the title of this crime noir, The Strange Love of Martha Ivers. Now Barbara Stanwyck was never my beaux ideal of a femme fatale, I run more to the Rita Hayworth hot-blooded Gilda-types (with that strand of hair over the eyes) but I could see where guys, normally sensible guys, would be running through hoops in order to win her favors. And she would give them the "kiss of death," that hard-hearted kiss of death mentioned above. Take no prisoners, none.

A little plot line of the story goes a long way to figuring out those charms, those decidedly not girlish, not 1940s girlish anyway, charms. Rebellious Martha, an orphan being brought up to be a lady by an old-school rich aunt wants none of it and keeps running away, aided and abetted by ragamuffin, wrong side of the tracks Sam, played by Van Heflin. As the film opens she is being brought back after one such caper, scolded by her aunt assisted by Kirk Douglas’s father, Martha’s tutor (Douglas plays Walter, the other love interest in this dance of death combination). When dear cruel auntie (played by Judith Andersen, who knew how to play that kind of role to a tee) tries to confront Martha just as she is getting ready to fly the coop again with Sam, with Walter swore to secrecy, she just happens to fall down the long flight of stairs. After less than one shed tear the trio (Martha, Walter, and his dear old money-grubbing dad) work up a story and stick to it, stick to it to well because to make it stick ultimately they have some unnamed vagabond lug eventually go the chair for their misdeed. Meanwhile Sam, figuring that Martha has gotten cold feet, blows town on the next train out, a circus train.

Fast forward eighteen years. Sam, passing through town, decides to see what has happened since he blew town. Well Martha and Walter have gotten loveless married (loveless on her part, naturally) to seal their part of the pact with death, Walter for crazed-out love, Martha to keep him on a leash. Martha who turns out to be a pretty good businesswoman basically runs the town now. But here is the kicker, guilt-ridden about how they obtained their ill-gotten gains our blessed married couple think Sam is here for a shake-down thinking he saw what happened that long ago night when auntie went crashing down the stairs. Of course Sam had no idea of the sort until things start to unravel around his new-found girlfriend, sweet, husky voiced Lizabeth Scott who has her own troubles with the law. The long and short of it is that Martha is still carrying the torch for Sam, Walter is getting more drunken crazy for Martha and sweet hard-luck Liz looks to be holding an empty bag when Martha puts her whammy on Sam.

There can be no happy ending here, right? Well, right but only part right. This murder most foul has put a death grip on Martha and Walter, a death grip that is triggered by Sam's reappearance but also that nasty little deal of creating a fall guy for their misdeeds. So you know, know just as well as I do that the fates are against them. As for Sam and Liz, well they get out with the skin of their teeth but they get out. Once again, you know the routine; crime doesn’t pay, one way of the other it eats away at you. Got it.

Out In The Be-Bop 1940s Crime Noir Night- “Black Angel”-A Film Review

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the crime noir Black Angel.

DVD Review

Black Angel, starring Dan Duryea, June Vincent, Peter Lorre, directed by Roy William Neil, Universal Pictures, 1946

Here is the skinny. Not all crime noirs are equal. The proof? Now over a score of reviews in this space on the genre. Some speak for themselves, some are unspeakable, and some like the one under review here, Black Angel, need a little prodding. In this case the prodding is in paying kudos to the director, Roy William Neil, for great photography in service of a lukewarm plot and so-so performances by the lead performers, very so-so in the case of veteran actor Peter Lorre as a night club owner with a past to hide.

Here is the story. Martin Blair (played by Dan Duryea) had a wayward wife as some men will, a frill songstress who liked jewels and lots of them from any source willing to provide them. Catherine Bennett (played by June Vincent) had a wayward husband, as some women will, who found his way to Martin’s wayward wife. Said wife along the way is foully murdered and Ms. Bennett’s husband fits the bill. Fits the frame neat, very neat, almost all the way to the electric chair. Except that Mr. Blair, a talented drunken piano player and Ms. Bennett a stay at home chanteuse team up as a song and, ah, piano duo, to figure out who really did commit the murder. All the portents point to Marko (played somewhat stiffly by Peter Lorre, no stranger to this type of role). But that is just a ruse. The real killer is well, see the film.

You can see where the problems are just by this rough outline of the plot. A plot that suspense disbelief- not- with anyone who has taken a glance at a newspaper and the likelihood that such a pairing would ring true. But such is Hollywood. The only thing that keep this one from the "has been" bin is the directing/ photography by Neil. Some of the shots just jump out, crime noir jump out at you. Too bad the plot line (which was based on a novel by the great crime story writer, Cornell Woolrich) didn’t add to those fine shots.

Out In The Be-Bop 1940s Crime Noir Night- The Rich Really Are Different –“ Fear In The Night”-A Film Review

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the crime noir Fear In The Night.

DVD Review

Fear In The Night, DeForest Kelley, Paul Kelly, directed by Maxwell Shane, Paramount Pictures, 1947

Okay here is the familiar rote. Not all crime noir is top shelf, top shelf like Out Of The Past or The Maltese Falcon. By now that proposition has been pretty well established after more than a score of crime noir reviews in this space. Still some of these things can be sleepers, of a sort. Take the film under review, Fear In The Night. On the face of it looking at the unfamiliar cast, the no-name director and the B-movie quality of the production one would throw this one in the has been bin. And mainly that would be right, except that the story line possibilities, never fully exploited, save it for the justly deserved extinction of many of the films in this genre.

Let me show you. A bank clerk (played by Deforest Kelley), an average just trying to get ahead in this wicked old world 1940s marble building bank clerk, has a terrible dream, a nightmare really and cannot figure it out, cannot figure out why he would have, dream or not, murdered an unknown stranger. Moreover in the fresh light of day he cannot figure it out when many parts, too many parts, of the dream wind up being reality. So said clerk takes his problem to a very convenient brother-in-law who just happens to be a homicide detective (played by Paul Kelly). After a ton and one half of skepticism the detective finally sees that this is one bank clerk who is in serious trouble. And solving this riddle is what makes this thing kind of twist and turn a little before the real bad guy is caught.

And the real bad guy, or rather his maniacal plan of operation, is what could have made this thing jump better than it did. Seems a Mayfair swell, a very jealous Mayfair swell, with a young wandering wife finds out she has been keeping company with someone else on his time. So he, the Mayfair swell Mr. Belknap by name, sees red but knowing that crime doesn’t pay or rather that he doesn’t want to pay for the crime sets our bank clerk up, sets him up big-time, through hypnosis. That little off-beat technique makes all the difference in the world. And the theme that could have better explored the social tensions in this film as we know all too well as of late- the rich don’t want o pay for nothing from taxes to their crimes-never gets it full workout. Why? Well, easy on that one. Something that also has become a mantra in this space. Crime, well crime in crime noir, doesn’t pay. Just ask our Mayfair swell.

Out In The Be-Bop 1930s Night-When Primitive Man “Wins”- “Petrified Forest”-A Film Review

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the 1930s gangster classic, Petrified Forest.


Petrified Forest, starring Humphrey Bogart, Bette Davis, Leslie Howard, Warner Brothers, 1936


Okay here is the genesis of this review. Recently, being on a something of a film noir tear, especially a crime noir tear, I reviewed a little light puff of a noir film, Moontide, where well-known 1940s French film star Jean Gabon tried to break into the Hollywood film racket with a role as a tough hombre, seen-it-all dockworker who is really, just ready, to settle down after all the wine, women and song escapades have worn thin. And settle down in 1940s movie parlance (and maybe life too) was with a good woman and a white picket fenced house (or in this film a barge, it’s near the sea, see). The good woman, a kind of eternal working-class version of everywoman also happened to be down on her luck, and in that film was played by Ida Lupino.

Well, seeing Ms. Lupino in that role got me to think about a similar role that she played trying to be a good “wifie,” (and “mother” to the dog Pard) to Humphrey Bogart in High Sierra. In that film the grizzled Bogart played a serious desperado, a three-time loser desperado, Roy Earle, looking to “retire” to that picket-fenced house except the cops would not let him. Let him, especially after a certain messed-up resort hold-up caper went awry. And when Mr. Earle bought it, as it had to be since crime does not pay, grizzled wised-up gangster or not, Ms. Lupino was left to keep his memory fresh and keep moving on.

Of course all of that high Bogartism got me to thinking about other grizzled gangster roles (and grizzled detectives too) that the bad boy actor Humphrey Bogart played, and that led naturally to the film under review, Petrified Forest, where as Duke Mantee Bogart put in his bid for king of the gangster hill. In fact this film (he had also played the role on Broadway, I believe) first established him for that challenge. The story line here has him on the run from, what else, a busted bank robbery, and every cop in the Pretty Boy Floyd, John Dellinger, Bonnie and Clyde American untamed West was looking for him and his confederates. He winds up in a flea-bitten café located, where else, next to the Petrified Forest, a great symbol of humankind’s age old struggle to deal with nature, and to break with the primitive past.

And that isolated, flea-bitten café setting is important because there is a young serving- them-off-the-arm waitress, Gaby, played by a very young Bette Davis, as the owner’s daughter, trapped there, full of dreams, literary dreams, and a very, very strong to desire to put those silly tree rocks behind her. And, as the film opens, a very well-turned out gentleman/intellectual/ hobo/alcoholic, Alan, played by Leslie Howard, on his uppers trying to get off that dusty road. And that little tension, a tension that was palpable to audiences in the 1930s, between Bogart’s gangster take-everything-you-can-grab-and-grab-it-quick and Howard’s ordered intellectual world gone awry with the times, the 1930s despair times what they were, is what drives the theme of this one. Alan, knowing his time has passed, in any case, makes a pact with the devil to insure Gaby’s future hold on her dreams. And while Bogart, perhaps, played more memorable roles later he certainly was believable as the primitive man gangster trying to claim his rightful place in the modern world. Naturally, in movie life he must pay, pay big-time, with his life because we all know, or should know, that crime does not pay.