Author: Colin McGuigan

Dial 1119

/ Colin McGuigan / 27 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

War Arrow

/ Colin McGuigan / 28 Comments

Something about the mid-range westerns that Universal-International was producing in the 1950s points to that hard to define quality which makes the genre so attractive. It’s partially down to the look, the color and locations, and partially the no nonsense style of storytelling. It’s not always easy to come up with a movie that offers entertainment while quietly making some point about a given issue. Universal-International movies often managed this, and the westerns directed by George Sherman during his time at the studio from the late 1940s on are a good example of this. In particular, his films that give some prominence to Indian or Native American affairs sidestep the ponderous or pretentious  pitfalls that have bedeviled many a well intentioned movie. War Arrow (1953) will not be found on any ‘best of’ lists and there’s no reason why it should; it breaks no new ground, nor does it do anything especially startling. However, the film is enjoyable, it uses its strong cast effectively, and Sherman’s characteristic sympathy for the Native American is subtly and seamlessly blended into the narrative.

War Arrow is one of those westerns that takes its inspiration from some real historical event, in this instance the recruitment of Seminole tribesmen as cavalry scouts. I say inspiration here because it is a movie after all, not some attempt to represent real history. The film starts out with Major Brady (Jeff Chandler) and two sergeants (Noah Beery Jr and Charles Drake) on their way to Fort Clark, Texas. They have been sent to help in the struggle to contain the raiding parties of Kiowa that have been sweeping the state. They come across the grisly aftermath of one of those raids, with corpses and a burnt out wagon strewn like broken and discarded playthings on the scorched grass. Quite what three individuals are supposed to achieve where the full complement of a fort have failed is anybody’s guess. Their arrival is greeted with some suspicion by the local commander Colonel Meade (John McIntire), a feeling that will gradually be distilled into open hostility as he sees his approach sidelined and his authority not quite usurped but certainly undermined by Brady’s willingness to think outside the box. Meade is an adherent of the West Point manual, rigid in his views of both military tactics and the local tribes. Brady, on the other hand, is an opportunist at heart, a man who is prepared to take a more unorthodox path, and to improvise where necessary. His plan is to employ the kind of guerilla methods the Kiowa themselves have perfected, fighting fire with fire in a sense. And he’s keen to go a step further, to use the dispossessed and dislocated Seminoles as a sort of semi-official, roving commando. As the friction between the two schools of military thought grows in intensity there is another complication elbowing its way into Brady’s life.  The widow (Maureen O’Hara) of one one of the fort’s officers who is missing presumed dead has caught his eye. In itself, that ought not to represent a great problem were it not for the fact that she appears uneasy, and perhaps unconvinced, over the fate of her husband, while the frankly radical daughter (Suzan Ball) of the Seminole chief is also showing signs of interest.

Sherman was a director who knew the genre and how to bring in a movie according to the studio’s requirements. Universal-International seemed to suit him and his time there saw him do some of his best work. I won’t claim that War Arrow represents him at his best, but it is an example of how he could produce a solid piece of entertainment from fairly ordinary material and get worthwhile work from his cast. His depiction of the Native Americans is as sympathetic as one would expect – granted the Kiowa do not come off well and act as bogeyman villains open to outside manipulation, but the Seminole fare much better. The script is by John Michael Hayes, someone who hadn’t much of a pedigree in westerns and who I tend to think of more in relation to his work for Hitchcock in the 50s, and it presents the Seminole in a strong light. They come across as indispensable to the success of the campaign planned out by Brady. They are seen as gutsy and committed, and a good deal more honorable than the frequently petty and hidebound Meade and his junior officers. Sherman gives plenty of time to this aspect, and shoots the battle scenes and skirmishes in a way that is both exciting and which highlights the contributions of the Seminole.

Jeff Chandler typically was good in military roles, either in westerns or contemporary war movies. Gravitas and authority came easily to him and these qualities could be tempered by thoughtfulness, inner conflict or iron determination as required. The part of Major Brady is a relatively straightforward one, an easy run out for him in essence and he carries it off with his usual smooth accomplishment. Maureen O’Hara made a number of films for George Sherman, including the director’s last Big Jake, with variable results. Personally, I think the actress did her best work in the genre for Ford, but this isn’t a bad effort and she is better in the latter stages where her character is given a little more depth. Suzan Ball was the other female star and she is marvelously forthright and assertive, although probably anachronistically so. It’s an attractively spirited performance and serves to emphasize the cruel tragedy of her short life – cancer would claim her just two years later at the age of 22. I think it’s fair to say that any movie benefits from the presence of John McInitre, a class act who could play it mean or sympathetic and who manages to inhabit the obduracy of his character here. Charles Drake and Noah Beery Jr add some lightness to proceedings, while Henry Brandon – still a few years away from his most memorable role as Scar in The Searchers – is the Seminole chief Maygro, with Dennis Weaver and Jay Silverheels filling the other native parts.

It always pleases me to sit down with a George Sherman film, especially one of his westerns. Even if War Arrow isn’t among his top titles, it still shows his professionalism and his sensibilities as a director are apparent, not least with regard to how he viewed Native Americans. The movie shouldn’t be that difficult to track down on DVD although the German Blu-ray, originally released by Koch Media, that I picked up years ago sadly seems to have drifted out of print.

I’m offering this as a contribution to the Legends of Western Cinema Week being hosted by Hamlette’s Soliloquy and others.

The House on Telegraph Hill

/ Colin McGuigan / 45 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robbers’ Roost

/ Colin McGuigan / 51 Comments

There is an interesting concept or ploy at work in Robbers’ Roost (1955), one which provides an intriguing setup for the movie but which ultimately fails to achieve what its architect envisaged. The character in question claims at one point that he is employing the principle of setting a thief to catch a thief. I don’t think that’s actually the case though or it isn’t an accurate description at any rate – sure there are two bands of criminals involved, but they are being used more as a counterbalance to each other than a trap. If anything, the idea is to play the two ends off against the center, thus neutralizing the threat of both. At the center stands a man with his own personal reasons for becoming involved. Adapted from a Zane Grey novel, the movie loosely prefigures the idea that would form the basis first of Kurosawa’s Yojimbo and then of Leone’s A Fistful of Dollars.

It begins with a lone rider (George Montgomery) checking the brands on horses after entering a new town, the kind of thing a man might do were he searching for someone. He proceeds to scan the wanted posters nailed on the wall, but there’s something furtive in his scrutiny, something a little too eager perhaps and then that quick turning away lest anyone catch sight of him doing so. Is he the seeker or the sought? Maybe a bit of both, but the viewer will have to wait a while before any real light is shed in that direction. The focus shifts to the two rival gangs of thieves mentioned above. They are led respectively by Heesman (Peter Graves) and Hank Hays (Richard Boone), and it’s the latter group that our protagonist throws in with. He claims to go by the dubious name of Tex and is reluctant to divulge any more personal details. Both these gangs have been hired by a local rancher, Bull Herrick (Bruce Bennett), who has been left paralyzed as a result of a riding accident and he has hit on the idea that the best way to keep the rustlers from decimating his herd is to employ them and trust to their mutual hatred ensuring they keep an eye on each other. A sound plan as far as it goes, and it does seem to be going the right way till they decide to cooperate in thinning out his herd and then there is the inevitable falling out – the myth of honor among thieves proving to be as fragile as all other myths. Throw in complications provoked by the presence of Herrick’s sister (Sylvia Findley), as well as the fact Tex has his own scores to settle, and the plot thickens satisfyingly.

Robbers’ Roost relies heavily on the twists and turns of its plot and characterization is relegated to a bit of an afterthought. The bad guys are bad just because they are and Montgomery’s ambiguous hero is on the side of the angels simply because he does mainly good deeds. Now I’ve never read the novel which the movie is based on – although I have picked up a free eBook of it so that can be remedied – and as such I’m not in a position to say whether the script cut much out. Nevertheless, as the movie stands the main interest is seeing how the gang conflict will play out and how Montgomery’s Tex will fare. I think one of the main strengths of the film is the extensive location shooting, an element which grows more prominent as the story progresses. To be frank, the early scenes around the town, and to some extent those around the Herrick ranch, are not especially inspiring. Sidney Salkow was a middling director at best, a safe pair of hands with extensive experience in B movies and supporting features, but no great visual stylist. That said, the Durango locations look quite splendid and the second half of the picture, with its abundance of action and outdoors shooting, makes for a particularly enjoyable watch.

George Montgomery is on fine two-fisted form, riding tall in the saddle and walking tall to boot, he looks and sounds like a classic western hero. His character is carrying a secret, the movie does need a touch of mystery to keep everything ticking along, and he catches some of the reticence necessary in such a role. There’s nothing all that notable about his performance – the script doesn’t demand that, to be fair – but there’s nothing wrong with it either. In short, if you’re a fan of his westerns, then Robbers’ Roost will do just what you expect. As the pair of villains, both Peter Graves and Richard Boone are fine, although the latter has the showier part and was the stronger actor in general. As I said above, neither one sees his character develop beyond that which we see at the beginning. It’s worth pointing out, however, that there is always much pleasure to be derived from any flat out villainous turn by Richard Boone. It feels as though Bruce Bennett, ever a reliable supporting actor, is being set up to play a more significant part but he essentially disappears in the second half, reduced to peering belligerently from a window as friends and enemies alike ride off to squabble over his sister and his stock. Leo Gordon and Warren Stevens fare much better as opposing rustlers, but William Hopper (TV’s Paul Drake from the Perry Mason show) must have been left wondering what he’d been hired for.  Sylvia Findley is the only woman in the movie, and apart from this her sole acting credit is in Hugo Fregonese’s long neglected Black Tuesday. There must be some reason for that.

Over the years I’ve come to the conclusion that the condition a movie is in when viewed has an effect on the way we perceive it. Watching the German Blu-ray of Robbers’ Roost brought this home to me once more as I felt a lot better about the film than I had in the past. There is a lot of day-for-night shooting and that aspect never looked great on the old DVD copy I’d seen before. The Blu-ray has everything looking cleaner, clearer and sharper, just like watching a different movie. All in all, this is an unpretentious little western, nicely paced, well shot and pleasingly acted. I’m glad I revisited it.

Cry Danger

/ Colin McGuigan / 22 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

Pitfall

/ Colin McGuigan / 39 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

Last of the Comanches

/ Colin McGuigan / 57 Comments

Remakes come in for plenty of bad press – lazy, unnecessary and creatively bankrupt are some of the charges leveled. Granted some of that may be justified on occasion, as with most things in life, it is generally best to avoid blanket dismissals and instead approach these on a case by case basis. As such, let’s take a look at a remake, or reimagining, which I feel works very well. Back in 1943 Zoltan Korda, working off an adaptation of Philip MacDonald’s novel Patrol, made Sahara with Humphrey Bogart in the lead. It was a tense, spare wartime affair and the basic premise was good enough to see the script revisited by Kenneth Gamet a decade later, resulting in the André de Toth directed western Last of the Comanches (1953).

Last of the Comanches is a movie with a gradually narrowing perspective, where the shift outdoors into what ought to be the wide open spaces and all the freedom such a move implies actually brings greater restrictions. Fleeing the smouldering remains of a frontier town razed and massacred by rampaging Comanches, a ragtag troop of half a dozen wounded and weary soldiers under the command of Sergeant Trainor (Broderick Crawford) makes its way across the desert in search of respite and refuge at the nearest fort, 100 miles or more away. Aside from the obvious need to evade the raiding parties of Comanches, the greatest problem facing these battered fugitives is the lack of water in the blistering heat, a matter which is only further exacerbated when they meet and are joined by the passengers of a stagecoach. What are the chances then of their survival in the wilderness when faced with the twin threat of diminishing water supplies and a well armed enemy that vastly outnumbers them?

Normally, one would say the prospects looked more than a little bleak. However, they get thrown a lifeline in the form of a lone Kiowa boy who is also keen to stay out of the clutches of the Comanche. Despite being initially rebuffed, he is able to guide them to the ruins of an old mission where a reputed well holds out the hope of relief from at least one of the dangers. The presence of that elusive source of water tucked away in the heart of the barren wasteland also hands Trainor’s little band a bargaining chip. The Comanches are every bit as parched and in need of water, so whoever defends the mission is in a position of strength irrespective of numbers, so long as the water lasts, or at any rate, for as long as the limited nature of the supply can be kept a secret…

Every studio’s westerns had a certain look to them and it was usually most apparent in the mid or lower budget pictures. It’s hard to define exactly but if you’ve watched enough of all the major studios’ output, it is often possible to spot which one produced a given western just from that look or tone. Universal-International westerns, for example, tend to be almost instantly recognizable for their saturated palette and detailed sets. Paramount had a vibrancy to the colors too but more of what I’d term stateliness to their backdrops. Columbia is the studio whose westerns I think look least attractive overall, although there are clearly titles where this isn’t so; Randolph Scott’s films with Budd Boetticher all look very fine for instance. Nevertheless, a lot of their mid-range titles, especially those with a lot of interior work look somehow drab, not so much for the colors as the flatness of their set design and dressing. Those which made greater use of exteriors and location work fare much better, and Last of the Comanches falls into that category. Andre de Toth’s compositions and angles create unease and a sense of space compressed and limiting, while Charles Lawton lit and shot the whole thing with real flair, actually getting the day-for-night filters to produce genuinely evocative images for a change. As is often the case, placing a small central cast in a highly restrictive setting acts as an excellent conductor of tension and suspense. The fact that it’s attractively staged and is accompanied by a generous helping of fairly regular action sequences adds to the appeal.

Broderick Crawford doesn’t always draw me to a movie but, somewhat like Longfellow’s little girl with the curl,  when he was good he was very good indeed. When he made Last of the Comanches he was in the middle of a ten year run that contained far more hits than misses, from All the King’s Men right through to the curiously compelling The Decks Ran Red. His brash, bulldog demeanor was and machine gun delivery fit in perfectly with his role as the inventive and stoic sergeant. You get a sense of a man very much in possession of himself, faults and all, and all the more capable as a result. Barbara Hale was the only woman in the cast and I found it rather refreshing that despite the isolated setting and the presence of so many increasingly desperate men around her that none of the growing pressure emanating from the bluff and deception at the heart of the plot was siphoned off by some cheap exploitation of sexual tension. That said, I can’t help wondering if that hurt the box office take? Hale’s resilience plays successfully off Crawford’s gruff abruptness, but perhaps another more conventionally attractive male lead, or even co-star, might have opened the story up to a wider audience? Of the other cast members, there’s a lot to enjoy in Mickey Shaughnessy’s lumpy toughness and the edginess of Lloyd Bridges. Interestingly, the latter appeared Korda’s original take on the story in Sahara. There’s also a lot of pleasure to be derived from finding the immediately recognizable and almost supernaturally solemn Milton Parsons becoming virtually unrecognizable in beard and western garb.

Last of the Comanches is something of a neglected western. De Toth’s movies with Randolph Scott, Gary Cooper, Joel McCrea, Robert Ryan and Kirk Douglas certainly get more attention. I don’t know if that has to do with the casting, that the film is a remake (though I don’t believe that aspect should be used as a criticism since the frontier setting is ideal for such a story), or the fact that it’s a fairly simple and direct tale without a lot of subtext. Personally, I like it for its pacing, the often strikingly attractive visuals, and the purity of its storytelling.

Trooper Hook

/ Colin McGuigan / 48 Comments

He fights his way, I fight mine. We’re just a couple of dogs haggling over the same bone. Only it happens to be his bone.

Whenever anyone tries to tell you that the westerns of the classic era were simplistic, one-sided shoot-em-ups that glossed over the complexities of the era they depict you could do worse than point to a line such as that highlighted above. The truth is of course that there are numerous examples of westerns in the classic era, especially in the genre’s golden years of the 1950s, which took a grown-up approach to the various injustices suffered, to the prejudices and fears of all involved, and thus embraced the consequent nuances of a fascinating period of time. Trooper Hook (1957) is a movie whose limited budget places no constraints on the intelligence of its script, or on the sincerity of its central performances. And it also exposes the redundancy of boilerplate dismissals of the genre’s depth by those who allow self-righteousness and a judgmental turn of mind to blind them.

Executions and reprisals, a harsh and uncompromising way to begin any story, but one which sets the tone for what will follow. That is not to say Trooper Hook is a movie of gratuitous or even excessive violence, rather it is a picture which frankly examines an enmity which is implacable and deep seated. The executions are of the straggling survivors of the first wave of an army assault on an Apache settlement. The battered and beaten soldiers are backed up on a bluff above the village as the Apache leader Nanchez (Rodolfo Acosta) calmly has them shot down one by one. Almost immediately, the next wave of cavalry troops descend on the Apache, round them and their families up and burn their settlement to the ground. Among the prisoners awaiting transportation to the fort, and ultimately the reservation, is a white woman and her young son. This is revealed to be Cora Sutliff (Barbara Stanwyck), the only survivor of a raid who was subsequently taken prisoner and whose child is the son of Nanchez. Unsurprisingly, after years of captivity and rough treatment, she is largely unresponsive. Of course any long term hostage or captive is going to struggle to integrate themselves back into the society from which they were snatched. However, Cora’s future is even more in doubt since the world she knows is one riven by hatred. She endured and to some extent overcame the hostility of the Apache women but now is confronted by the equally ugly contempt and rejection of her own people. And then there is the boy, Cora is strongly protective of him, his father will not rest till he gets him back, and the whites largely want nothing to do with him. All but one man that is. Sergeant Hook (Joel McCrea), is a veteran campaigner, one who has known loss, hardship and desperation himself, and thus is a man loath to sit in judgment of others. His task is to escort Cora and the boy back to the husband she hasn’t seen for many years, and to head off any threats that arise, whatever direction they may come from.

Charles Marquis Warren was what I’d call an occasional director, devoting more time to writing and producing and doing so with great success, particularly on television with both Gunsmoke and Rawhide. His direction of Trooper Hook is fine as far as I can see, drawing a sense of intimacy from the interior scenes, especially those taking place in the stagecoach, and touching on that frequent western image of apparently tiny and insignificant human dramas playing out against the backdrop of a massive, primal landscape. Cinematographer Ellsworth Fredricks captures that expansiveness in the scenes shot on location in Utah, with his camera high among the craggy peaks alongside grimly impassive Apache warriors coolly observing the dash of the stagecoach far below on the dusty, arid floor of the canyon. Visuals aside, the strength of the movie lies in its theme of acceptance amid seemingly wall to wall  hatred, as well as or maybe allied to the maturity of outlook that forms its core. It was adapted from a story by Jack Schaefer (Shane, The Silver Whip, Tribute to a Bad Man, Monte Walsh) so it’s pedigree is strong – this is taken from one of his short stories I haven’t read, but I intend to set that omission on my part right.

Much of the maturity underpinning the movie comes not only from the writing but also the casting. The two leads were over 50 years old at the time – Stanwyck was 50 and McCrea 52 – and both of them, in the last of a half dozen movies they made together, bring a lived-in credibility to their roles. Stanwyck achieves an extraordinary stillness in her early scenes, a watchful withdrawal that feels appropriate for a woman who at that point had to all intents and purposes been assimilated into the Apache tribe. Such is the layering of the role though, and therefore the performance, that her detachment is also right for someone who is just beginning to realize that hers is not to be a sweet homecoming, that her very survival will be taken as an affront by many. The way she tries to talk herself into believing the husband she has not seen for an age will accept not only her but her son too is a masterclass in pathetic self-delusion, and the despairing gaze she casts in McCrea’s direction as she babbles out this fantasy is telling. McCrea’s ageing soldier is decent, dignified and authoritative, all the qualities that make the western hero such an admirable figure; I think I’d actually go further and say he comes close here to epitomizing the traits and values that made the post-war US so admirable. The strength of Hook derives from his honesty, his warmth and his defense of the weak, his refusal to buy into cheap bigotry or cruelty. If only there were more of his type around in the world today.

The film is imbued with this generosity of spirit, it’s reflected all through the cast. Earl Holliman’s itinerant cowboy, forever short of cash yet long on good nature, is another openhearted individual, prepared to take huge risks to ensure the safety of those who did him a good turn. It’s there too in the quiet courage of the passengers, particularly Susan Kohner, just off making The Last Wagon for Delmer Daves and only a year or two away from her Oscar nominated turn in Sirk’s Imitation of Life. Royal Dano is barely recognizable as the grizzled stagecoach driver but he too carries a strong sense of honor beneath that gruff exterior. By way of contrast, the ever reliable Edward Andrews essays the type of oily venality he brought to many a part. And John Dehner deserves credit for his portrayal of a man who cannot find it within himself to rise above his prejudices. That’s a tricky role, one that could easily slide into villainous caricature yet such is Dehner’s professionalism that he instead paints a picture that earns pity and scorn from the viewer in equal measure.

The only issues I have with the film are the somewhat redundant use of Tex Ritter’s song to punctuate the action onscreen, as well as the editing of the version I viewed. There is a choppiness to that editing, with scenes ending so abruptly that they are highly suggestive of a cut down print. I know there are some who don’t rate Trooper Hook so highly, but I’m an unashamed fan of the movie. There is so much of what I love about the classic western encapsulated here – the ability to tell a story that is rich and deep, that has meaning and soul, within a relatively simple framework. But more than anything there is that straightforward belief in the ultimate triumph of all that’s fine in the human heart, that steadfast faith in our capacity for being better despite the malice that may  threaten us at times.

I Walk Alone

/ Colin McGuigan / 59 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Fallen Idol

/ Colin McGuigan / 66 Comments

Is it possible to encapsulate the cinema of a nation in just a word or a phrase? I guess received wisdom, or maybe some sense of deference to the depth and breadth of most cultures, would nudge many people towards a negative answer. Still and all, I think that sometimes the essence of a nation’s approach to filmmaking (and the artistic temperament that lies back of that) can be neatly summarized thus. While this idea has occurred to me before, it was while I was revisiting Carol Reed’s The Fallen Idol (1948) the other day that I found myself mulling it over again. The movie itself is one of the director’s finest, a study in suspense and longing, a powerful melodrama observed primarily through the eyes of a fanciful child and shaded accordingly. And so it was that as I watched the drama play out the word “quiet” floated insistently into my thoughts. Somehow that quietness, or restraint if one prefers, that pervades the film felt like it was actually a byword for the best offerings of British cinema.

Belgravia, a location that exudes solidity, tradition and indeed diplomacy. Those imposing structures with their sense of permanency and the home to many an embassy have something of that quiet dignity I referred to about them. There’s an orderliness to it all, and what better way to put a human face on that concept than to represent it in the shape of a very proper English butler. Such a figure is familiar to almost everyone via literature, film and television if not in the flesh. He exists as a link of sorts, offering a vague connection between the present and some distant semi-feudal past, between high born aristocrats and the ordinary citizen. He is, in short, soft-spoken, impassive, dignified and authoritative, a paragon of decorum. Or is he? Is it right or reasonable to label any man a paragon of anything other than the mass of foibles and feelings that make up his inner self? Baines (Ralph Richardson) is the butler in the household of the ambassador of some unnamed nation. He is efficient and intelligent, diligent and charming. And his private life is a tangled mess of bitterness, betrayal and seemingly impossible passion. His marriage is a barren and loveless wasteland, a stale and frequently argumentative co-existence with a wife (Sonia Dresdel) who has grown suspicious and discontented. On the surface, his relief from this emotional desert comes via the whimsical and easy-going rapport he has developed with Philippe (Bobby Henrey), the lonely and over-imaginative son of the ambassador.

Nevertheless, as is so often the case in life, the image presented to the world at large tells only half of the tale. The Baines who ensures the smooth and comfortable running of his employer’s home, the spinner of yarns for the eager ears of a credulous and adoring Philippe has another outlet for the emptiness he experiences. He is quietly and discreetly engaged in an affair with Julie (Michele Morgan), a typist at the embassy. This fact is revealed by accident when Philippe innocently follows his hero one day and chances upon the lovers meeting quietly in the mundane setting of a nearby tea shop. Such is the simplicity and ingenuousness of childhood that the nature of the relationship is lost on the youngster and he happily and unquestioningly accepts that Julie is Baines’ niece. Still, the complications of the adult world must inevitably intrude as suspicion and desperation lead to confrontation. In that adult universe, jealousy and longing make for an explosive combination as the truth is inexorably brought to light. The audience see the argument between Baines and his wife all the way through and know how it resolves, but the boy (reflecting the half-understood perceptions of the very young) witnesses only part of it, fascinated and frightened by the heightened emotions laid bare before him. As he scrambles up and down the fire escape, peering in dread through the windows while the argument rages within, he misses out on the crucial moment and sees only the lethal consequences. Carol Reed’s direction is superb not only during these set piece scenes, but all the way through. The subsequent investigation, the possibilities that gradually emerge, the doubts and fears of all concerned are conveyed with marvelous subtlety. The master stroke of course is the way the entire thing is viewed and presented through the prism of a child’s faltering awareness and mounting despair.

Aside from that marital spat that leads to tragedy, the quietness of it all dominates. While I feel this is a quality that pervades British cinema of the era, it is clearly a deliberate stylistic choice on the part of the filmmakers here. Many key exchanges are only half heard, uttered softly and intimately, with the kind of discretion that is the specialty of lovers or close confidantes, or indeed professionals who live by a code of caution. The conversations are frequently sotto voce, heard in snatches and presented with the contrived nonchalance adults sometimes adopt to shield the very young from the harsh complexities of life. This air of calculated concealment sets the mood for the picture precisely because it is a story seen from the standpoint of a small boy. It’s evident in the interactions of the trio of policemen, not least Denis O’Dea’s gently probing inspector, though ably supported by a watchful Jack Hawkins and a humorous turn from Bernard Lee as the interpreter whose talents appear questionable.

Ralph Richardson delivers a performance that is that is wholly authentic, displaying an outward bounce and buoyancy to charm and beguile a wide-eyed Philippe – so memorably portrayed by Bobby Henrey. Richardson sails rather close to eccentricity in these moments but he does so in such an attractive fashion that it doesn’t especially matter. He layers the character beautifully too and that sad little scene played out in the tea shop is heartbreakingly poignant in its restraint, and arguably because of it. It’s not just some stiff upper lip pose either but rather it’s a barely suppressed emotional crisis held in check largely due to the presence of the young boy who couldn’t possibly comprehend or grasp the powerful passions ebbing and flowing across the table before him were they to be let loose. Michele Morgan does fine things with her eyes and voice to supplement all this but it’s Richardson who owns the scene, who wrings truth out of the simplicity and ordinariness of the setting; that turning away when Julie exits, the fiddling with the newspaper, the shuffling round the shop his eyes downcast as he struggles to master the despair that threatens to overwhelm him is suffused with gut-wrenching pathos. But so very quietly.

The Fallen Idol was the first of three adaptations of works by Graham Greene that Carol Reed brought to the screen. The Third Man is undoubtedly the most highly regarded of those, but The Fallen Idol is every bit as good in its own way. Actually, when one pauses to remember that those two movies preceded by Odd Man Out were all made one after another between 1947 and 1949, it really does serve to highlight Reed’s greatness as a filmmaker. I don’t believe there’s any doubt that this is a movie everybody should make the time to see.