Film Noir

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.

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 Midnight Story

/ Colin McGuigan / 52 Comments

“Nothing is more wretched than the mind of a man conscious of guilt.”

 Titus Maccius Plautus

Guilt, doubt and suspicion are some of the key ingredients of dramatic tragedy. One of Aristotle’s four pillars of tragedy is suffering and the aforementioned features can certainly be said to form the basis of that. The concept of guilt runs all the way through The Midnight Story (1957), every major character is assailed by this feeling as it hounds, worries and tears at them insistently. Of course all tragedy really only has a point if it follows its natural path towards a sense of catharsis, a relief or clearing up granted to the characters, not to mention the audience, a lightening of the dramatic load. If guilt and all its gnawing associates can be viewed in a classical context, it can also be seen in religious terms too, especially from a Catholic perspective. In such cases the catharsis we move towards is frequently expressed as a form of redemption. The Midnight Story manages to fuse all of these ideas into a beautifully constructed film noir that draws the viewer deep into dark and despairing places before finally emerging in a brighter, more hopeful landscape.

The opening is stark and shockingly abrupt, the caption informing us that the studio set represents an approximation of a side street on the San Francisco waterfront. A priest strolls out of the shadows towards the camera, his attention suddenly caught by a voice softly calling his name. We zoom in on his eyes as they register curiosity, maybe recognition and a touch of fear. This is  Father Tomasino and we’re witnessing his final moments as a knife-wielding assailant, seen only as a shadow cast against the tarpaulin of a truck, strikes him down. It’s one of those crimes that outrages people, particularly those who knew and respected the victim. One such person is Joe Martini (Tony Curtis), a young traffic cop who grew up in an orphanage and owes his job and much besides to the murdered priest. Martini wants the killer and he vainly presses his superiors to let him in on the investigation. At the funeral he notices a man who seems to be more deeply affected, tormented even, than the other mourners. There is something about the intensity of this man’s grief that gives Martini pause and indeed leads to him temporarily turning in his badge in order to pursue his own inquiries. The person who has attracted his attention is Sylvio Malatesta (Gilbert Roland), the owner of a seafood eatery and a familiar figure on the waterfront. Deftly and swiftly, Martini inveigles his way into Sylvio’s life, becoming a friend, employee and even a guest in his home.

Guilt haunts the characters from start to finish. There is obviously the overarching guilt that stalks whoever the killer may be, but Martini carries it with him too all the way. As has been stated, he owes almost everything to Father Tomasino and there is surely a sense of guilt that, despite his job as a protector of society, he was unable to be there to ensure the safety of this man. One of the orphanage nuns he speaks to advises against going around with hate in his heart, but I’d argue that his guilt and shame, a feeling of inadequacy (albeit misplaced) due to his not being there at the crucial time, is his true motivation. Then that same feeling steals over him as he works his way into the affections of not only Sylvio but his family too. This is exacerbated by his falling for Anna (Marisa Pavan), the niece from Italy, and her clear devotion to him. All of this is further heightened by the accompanying doubts and suspicions: suspicions about Sylvio that ebb and flow with the depressing regularity of the ocean tides, and those corrosive doubts about the propriety of his own actions, the dubious morality of exploiting the love and trust of innocents regardless of the cause which is supposedly served. Soon every look and gesture is brought under the microscope, no word or comment is so trivial as to be discarded, no alibi can be relied upon or taken at face value. Everything has to be questioned, everyone suspected in some way. And still the guilt persists.

Besides probing its central theme, The Midnight Story functions both as an engrossing whodunit and as a snapshot of working class family life. There is irony in the fact Martini has only been able to achieve the bonding and acceptance that grows out of membership of a family though deception. In seeking justice for the death of his mentor and friend, not to mention a quest to make amends for imagined failings, Martini risks the loss of all that he most desires. The notion of only being able to win by losing everything is a sour-tasting one indeed. Consequently, there are moments of genuine, heartbreaking darkness in this movie, although it does aim for a redemptive quality, and I think it succeeds in that respect. The crushing burden of guilt is finally lifted in the end by the confession and then the quiet nobility of the final scene, where the feelings of the innocent are spared, absolving them of further undeserved shame, Martini simultaneously washing away his guilt for the deceit perpetrated.

I think it’s fair to say The Midnight Story is Joseph Pevney’s best film. Working from a story and script by Edwin Blum (The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Stalag 17), he clearly had an affinity with both the themes explored and the subtle blend of film noir and melodrama. Those intimate little scenes in the Malatesta home, often around the dinner table, but not exclusively, reveal some fine character work from a hard-working cast. The spiritualism inherent in the story and its development is never far from the surface, sometimes overtly but frequently buried a bit deeper in the rambunctious and passionate instances of simple family interaction where the real sense of redemption resides and thrives. The final fade out encapsulates that eloquently as inner strength, belonging and renewal all collide and give meaning to everything that has gone before on screen.

Once again, Tony Curtis is given the chance to prove how adept he was at straight drama and he carries it off successfully. I have probably mentioned this before, but I think it’s worth restating: when actors gain a reputation as skilled light entertainment or comedic performers they seem to get stuck with that label and regarded as capable of only that type of work. Sure some play up to it, and Curtis did choose poorly in his later roles yet it seems a pity that his dramatic work, which is generally very strong, is neglected or at best downgraded as a result. The sincerity and determination of his character is never in doubt and he handles the ups and downs experienced, depending on how his investigation happens to be progressing, most convincingly. Marisa Pavan, who only passed away last December, is very soulful and controlled as Anna. It is this control and emotional caution she displays that gives added fire to the scene where she succumbs to her true feelings as the dangerous game her betrothed appears to be playing is laid bare. There is solid support from Ted de Corsia and Jay C Flippen as the senior cops, the former typically bullish and aggressive while the latter gives another of his slightly dyspeptic avuncular turns.

And that leaves only Gilbert Roland. His was long career and one which saw him get better as the years passed. The leading roles were not to be his at that stage but the presence of the man lent gravitas and truth to many a film. The part of Sylvio Malatesta was an extraordinarily difficult one to carry off, but he does so with considerable aplomb. While there is plenty of scope for his trademark bravura, the part is in fact complex and multi-layered, gradually revealing itself in increments over the course of the movie. The inner torments of the man, the history he hauls around inside himself, are subtly presented, held carefully in check and only occasionally allowed to make their presence known. Frankly, he gives a beautifully judged performance that is fully three dimensional – his work here is the rock which anchors the movie and provides real substance to the story.

This brings me to the end of my trawl through a selection of Joseph Pevney directed movies this summer. It’s something I’ve been wanting to put together for a while now and I’m pleased to have finally done so. I only hope it’s been as enjoyable for visitors to follow along as it has been for me watching and writing about these titles.

Human Desire

/ Colin McGuigan / 42 Comments

Fate and free will, two philosophical concepts that go to the heart of the human condition and form the basis of a good deal of religious thinking and debate. They loom large in the world of film noir too, though that shouldn’t come as any great surprise since art and our perception of our place in the scheme of things are inseparably linked. Fritz Lang’s Human Desire (1954), made as he was approaching the end of his time in Hollywood, posits both fate and free will as drivers of his characters and invites viewers to make up their own minds on which exerts the more powerful influence. I’m of the opinion that Lang himself regards both of these concepts as being in play simultaneously and that there are certain points at which individuals have the opportunity to exercise their free will in order to determine which path of fate they will lock themselves into.

If one were to seek a visual metaphor for fate as a fixed and predetermined path, then a railway line is as good a one as any. Sleek and clean, indicative of precision and order, the lines forge the way ahead, carrying their passengers to a destination that lies at the end of the track as sure as a compass needle points to north. Yet the lines run in more than one direction and points do exist where it’s possible to shunt from one to the other. Human Desire opens with those railroad lines and the locomotives that carry all kinds of people to all kinds of places, starting and ending with absolute certainty at predefined locations that can no more be avoided or cheated than birth and death themselves. In between though, the choices are available, laid before the driver as he advances and by extension before those he brings along with him on the journey. Jeff Warren (Glenn Ford) is an engineer on the railroad, back home and back in his old job after serving in the Korean War. He is very much a regular guy doing a regular job, following those clearly defined lines in life in many ways. There’s nothing particularly special about him, he’s no medal adorned hero nor does he profess to have any ambitions beyond the desire for an uneventful life. However, a movie with this title must necessarily focus on desires affecting all kinds of people and even changing according to circumstances. Carl Buckley (Broderick Crawford) is an old acquaintance, a man who has risen to assistant yard master while Warren was off at war. He’s a blunt, brutish character, loud of mouth and quick of temper who manages to get himself fired for quarreling with his supervisor.

Desperate to get his job back – he’s only got a few more years to do before he qualifies for a pension after all – he badgers his wife into interceding on his behalf with a big city businessman who he figures has sufficient clout to see him reinstated. His wife Vicki (Gloria Grahame) is much younger and it’s immediately clear from her reaction that there is some history involving herself and the corporate bigwig that goes beyond the fact her mother was once his housekeeper. This is the catalyst for the snarl up in the lives of all concerned that follows. It’s made clear that Vicki gets Carl his job back by offering sexual favors. Even though he brought about this situation and essentially forced his wife into a compromising position, Carl is affronted, savagely beating her and making her an unwilling accessory to murder. A sordid business all round and one whose spreading ripples draw in Jeff Warren, who just happens to be riding the same train when the killing takes place and subsequently finds himself fatally attracted to Vicki.

Does one slaying inevitably lead to another? Do abusive, dehumanizing relationships become habit forming and addictive? Are the patterns woven by rotten choices and poor judgement indelible? Or can a virtual lever be pulled at the crucial point and send a life back onto a track that hauls it away from destruction? All of these questions are posed during the course of Human Desire and are answered at least in part by the close. While I’ve no wish to take any credit away from scriptwriter Alfred Hayes, adapting Jean Renoir’s own adaptation of an Émile Zola novel, it seems clear enough that these are themes Lang addressed on multiple occasions and thus carry the director’s imprint too.

Glenn Ford’s everyman qualities are to the fore in Human Desire. He plays Jeff Warren with a directness and simplicity that befits an uncomplicated working man who is unexpectedly snared in a web of temptation and desire. He is faced with the dilemma of succumbing to the vagaries of fate or using his free will to chart an alternative course. Ford’s ability to present frankness alongside a hint of personal dissatisfaction and discomfort works well under the circumstances. I see a touch of resentment early on in his realization that men like Buckley have prospered while he was doing his duty in Korea, it’s just barely there but I think it helps color some of his subsequent actions and decisions. In contrast, Gloria Grahame’s mistreated femme fatale is anything but straightforward, veering from victim to manipulator, cowering one moment and goading the next, and effortlessly alluring throughout. Her work alongside Ford here makes for an interesting companion piece to their previous collaboration with Lang in The Big Heat. Crawford too is neatly cast, by turns shambling and violent he’s a doomed figure haunted by his inadequacy and too ineffectual to challenge his own fate. On the other hand, Edgar Buchanan and Diane DeLaire as Ford’s landlord/colleague and his wife provide an alternative take on marriage. Their affectionate devotion in effect represents the other route available to Ford, in stark contrast to the dysfunctional dynamic of the Grahame-Crawford mismatch.

Human Desire ought to be easy enough to view these days. I have the UK Blu-ray from Eureka, a dual format release that looks terrific, and there is a Kino version available in the US as well. The main supplemental feature on the Eureka Blu-ray consists of an interview with Tony Rayns which fills in some background information on the making of the movie as well as comments on scriptwriter Hayes. I’m not sure the contributor fully gets the film though and he raises a number of points I found myself taking issue with, not least that tiresome critical gambit of looking at movies in terms of what they are not rather than what they are. Anyway, his is an interesting perspective, even if I don’t share all his conclusions. Personally, I’ve always been fond of Human Desire for its thoughtful exploration of themes and motifs that frequently grace Fritz Lang’s movies. Well worth checking out.

Night and the City

/ Colin McGuigan / 27 Comments

“I just want to be somebody… “

Why does film noir continue to resonate? Why does it continue to pull in viewers, beguiled by its shadow drenched nightmares? That is does exert a draw on audiences is beyond question and part of it is maybe down to the look, the attitude, the charm of something at once recognizable yet lost in time. Still, I feel there’s something else at play for film noir is a very human form of filmmaking; it is predicated on the frank acknowledgment of weakness and frailty, perhaps growing out of character flaws, ill fortune, poor choices, or even some unholy trinity of them all. In a way, there is something about the lack of definition regarding film noir that points to its core appeal. There has been decades worth of conversation and controversy over when noir began, when it ended, what it actually is and whether it can even be referred to as  a genre. And at the end of it all, there remains no definitive answer, just schools of thought one might subscribe to. As such, is it possible that film noir is in essence a cinematic expression of uncertainty and confusion, mentally, morally and spiritually? Somehow it feels appropriate that the main character of Night and the City (1950) should say those words quoted at the head of this piece, struggling to articulate an ambition that he cannot fully visualize, much less define with clarity.

Movement and position matter. Anthony Mann frequently had his characters striving to rise, forging a path upward with mixed results, while Abraham Polonsky famously had John Garfield racing down from the heights. The characters in Jules Dassin’s Night and the City, on the other hand, start off at the bottom and remain resolutely anchored there. In a sense, nothing really changes throughout, at least not as far as Harry Fabian (Richard Widmark) is concerned. The opening and closing sequences see him racing through the streets of a broken post-war London, a grandiose chiseler with danger hot on his heels and the hope of sanctuary and salvation, even if it’s only temporary in nature, awaiting him in the form of Mary Bristol (Gene Tierney).

Harry Fabian is what can only be termed a dark dreamer, immature both emotionally and ethically. Mary loves him, that much is clear, not so much for what he is as what she imagines he could be, and Harry in a way is also in love with that projection of what he dreams he could be. The problem though is that neither Mary nor more importantly Harry himself is quite sure of who or what he might be. He is, as his neighbor observes, an artist without an art. We encounter him first as a strictly small time operator, a tout steering mugs to the clip joint where Mary sings, scratching around in the detritus of a city still partly bewildered in the wake of its wartime pummeling for any scheme that might turn a fast buck. Human nature being what it is, he’s not the first nor will he be the last person with his eye on the quickest way to reach easy street. The problem with this approach to life lies in the fact the route there is typically mined. Thus when Harry happens upon what seems like the perfect opportunity to muscle his way into the world of professional wrestling he fails to anticipate the the traps awaiting him. Blinded by his enthusiasm and unaware of how his smug efforts to play all of his rivals off against each other is actually weaving a Gordian knot of epic proportions, Harry is doomed by his own slickness.

It feels kind of appropriate that Jules Dassin would make Night and the City just as the appalling HUAC episode was reaching its peak. Zanuck had dispatched Dassin to London to shoot the movie where he would be beyond the reach of those congressional committees. By the time the movie was completed, the director was firmly on the blacklist and could no longer take any part in the editing process. Nevertheless, the result is portrait of bleak romanticism, where passion, ambition and duplicity all charge headlong towards an emotional intersection and the resulting collision leaves few survivors standing. I have seen assessments of the movie, both contemporary and subsequent, that lament the dearth of sympathetic characters, citing this aspect as a weakness. Such evaluations leave me wondering if I was watching the same movie. Perhaps it’s just me, but I’ve never seen the need to conflate admirable with sympathetic. I’ll concede that there are few truly admirable figures on show, but that does not mean there are none who are sympathetic. If anything, I would assert that almost all of the principals earn some sympathy.

Widmark’s role is almost as difficult to categorize as film noir itself. Fabian is neither hero nor villain in the proper sense of the words, nor would I be entirely comfortable referring to him as an anti-hero. Right up to the tragic moment which precipitates the climactic hunt, he does some contemptible things as he attempts to plug the leaks suddenly appearing in his plan, but the people he’s deceiving are no saints themselves so it’s hard to condemn him too much for that. As the various threads of his schemes become ever more entangled it’s a bit like watching an accident unfold in slow motion. Aside from his mounting desperation, a few moments such as the early scene in Tierney’s flat where the frustration of both  is emphasized, as well as the later exchange with an implacable hotel manager serve to add layers to the character and knock off some of the corners. I don’t believe either Dassin or screenwriter Jo Eisinger had any intention of passing judgment on Fabian and certainly don’t encourage the viewer to do so – he is merely presented as he is. His maneuvering does bring about tragedy, but that occurs indirectly. By the end, when he lies spent and bereft the appearance of Tierney framed in a doorway like some angel of the dawn affords him the opportunity to seek a form of redemption through personal sacrifice. Whatever one may make of the gesture, it does indicate a man who is not merely self-absorbed. What’s more, even though he may be abandoned and betrayed by almost everyone, there’s no getting away from the fact this woman loves him in spite of all his flaws – that in itself places the character on a different level.

That said, Tierney’s part is a relatively small one. Her important scenes bookend the movie and she’s only on screen intermittently in between. It seems that Zanuck was keen to have her in the cast and her role is a pivotal one despite the lack of screen time overall. By humanizing Harry Fabian and adding another dimension to his character, Tierney helps to ground the movie and give it greater emotional depth. The other major female role is that of Googie Withers, the discontented nightclub hostess who is trapped in a relationship for purely financial reasons, something which would not have been uncommon for a woman at the time. Sure she is underhanded and motivated by selfishness, but it’s not so difficult to understand how circumstances have driven her in that direction, nor do I believe it should be so hard to empathize with her efforts to extricate herself from a wholly unsatisfactory marriage. Her husband, played by the oppressively bulky Francis L Sullivan, is another figure who is far from perfect. Insecure despite his clout and dominance in the way such large men often are, he pulls strings and manipulates Harry Fabian like some malign puppeteer out of a desire to see him brought low and in so doing maybe hold onto the woman he so badly needs. It’s a performance that manages to be simultaneously dangerous, vindictive and pitiful.

Many of the other supporting players are portraying characters who are associated in one way or another with the wrestling world. This milieu is appropriate even if it’s not an area that has been extensively featured in film noir – Ralph Nelson’s Requiem for a Heavyweight is the only other notable example that I can think of off hand. Boxing tends to be the go-to sport and I find the choice here a telling one. Boxing might be susceptible to certain abuses,  it may attract corruption, but it still retains some inherent nobility, similar to the way Greco-Roman wrestling retains a link to the classicism of the ancient world and something finer. On the other hand, the crass vulgarity of professional wrestling exists on a much lower plane, a true moral wasteland. It’s that very cheapness, that sense of debasement which lies at the heart of Fabian’s flawed scheme and also forms the basis of the conflict between Herbert Lom’s shady underworld promoter and his scrupulously honest and dignified father. It’s highlighted too in the contrast between the easy superiority of that old athlete (Stanislaus Zbyszko) and the barely articulate coarseness of Mike Mazurki’s hulking and murderous pro.

Night and the City had two cuts, the shorter US version, which Dassin seems to have preferred, and a slightly longer British version. The UK Blu-ray from the Bfi, which now appears to be out of print and consequently is rather expensive, offered both cuts – I think the US Criterion also has both versions too though. I don’t know how popular a view this is, but I find I prefer the longer British cut of the film; perhaps the noir credentials are slightly weakened or some might say compromised yet I like the way it shades the character of Harry Fabian in another light. I find it provides another layer of tragedy and thus heightens the ambiguity of the experience. Nevertheless, this is prime film noir regardless of the version one favors and top filmmaking in anyone’s book. Widmark was only about a half dozen or so movies into his career at this point, already in the middle of a remarkable run of performances in very fine films while Dassin had just come off a short streak of excellent films noir. Under the circumstances, it’s hard to see how this one could miss. A first class movie all round.

Viewing Notes – Woolrich

/ Colin McGuigan / 102 Comments

Cornell Woolrich was the king of nightmare noir, his fables of fate and downright rotten luck, where everything than can go wrong does go wrong,  follow his hapless characters on a perpetual downward spiral. The accompanying sense of dread and doom makes for first rate film noir and a fair number of his novels and stories have been adapted for the screen over the years. I’ve featured a few on this site:

The Leopard Man

Phantom Lady

Black Angel

Night Has a Thousand Eyes

No Man of Her Own

Recently, I found myself viewing a handful of other screen versions of his work and thought I’d just post a few brief comments on them rather than full scale write-ups of the individual titles.

The Guilty (1947)

Jack Wrather was an oilman who decided to try his hand at producing films. While working on The Guilty he met and then married the leading lady Bonita Granville, a former child star who had drifted into B movies. She played identical twins in The Guilty, one of whom is a good girl while the other is most certainly not. The lead was taken by Don Castle, an old friend of Wrather’s whose career didn’t seem to be going anywhere after he’d returned from WWII service. Castle had what I’d term an effective noir persona, a slightly weary charm that felt as though it were only a step or two ahead of desperation. Granville is good enough in her dual role, and the ever reliable Regis Toomey makes for a credible cop. Director John Reinhardt makes the most of the budget and flashback heavy story, wrapping the whole thing up in little over an hour.

I Wouldn’t Be in Your Shoes (1948)

A year later both Castle and Toomey would appear together again in this adaptation, scripted by Steve Fisher and directed by William Nigh, for Monogram Pictures. The flashback technique features once more in this doom-laden tale that opens in the death house with Castle portraying another lucked out type, a dancer who can’t seem to catch a break. He spends his last few hours before that last lonely walk thinking back over how he got where he is. Meanwhile, on the outside his wife lurches between hope and despair as she tries to use what time is left to prove his innocence. Cats, shoes and obsessive love all figure strongly in a satisfying little movie.

Street of Chance (1942)

This movie opens with the main character getting clobbered by some debris falling from a building site. He’s not badly hurt but he does black out temporarily and subsequently discovers he’s not the man he thought he was. In brief, he’s suffering from amnesia and has been living a double life with two very different women, Claire Trevor and Louise Platt. In itself, this is hardly an ideal situation but it takes on that nightmare quality characteristic of Woolrich stories when he comes to realize he’s a wanted man, hiding out and on the run for a murder he has no recollection of committing. This is a strong premise (adapted from the novel The Black Curtain) and directed by Jack Hively, a man who called the shots with  George Sanders as The Saint on a number of occasions. Amnesia generally makes for an intriguing basis for noir and typically offers up lots of possibilities for drama and tension. Any picture with Claire Trevor is usually worthwhile too so the ingredients are undeniably promising. Overall, this is an enjoyable film although I have to say I don’t believe Burgess Meredith was leading man material – while I enjoy his work in character parts, I find he’s too quirky and frankly strange to be the lead. This same story was adapted again for television as part of The Alfred Hitchcock Hour and directed by Sydney Pollack. That version had Richard Basehart in the lead, another figure with strong noir credentials and I think he’s actually a better fit for the role.

There was a time when it was practically impossible to see these movies, and the thought of being able to do so in good quality was almost the stuff of fantasy. However, thanks to the efforts of Flicker Alley, Warner Brothers and Kino respectively all of them can now be enjoyed with excellent transfers. None of them could be classed as major films, but they are all very enjoyable and entertaining detours into the world of Woolrich.

Man-Trap

/ Colin McGuigan / 42 Comments

By the 1960s film noir had had its day, at least that’s what the critical consensus tells us. Anything after that gets variously referred to as post-noir, neo-noir etc. I don’t know, age has made me less interested in labels and I find myself paying only scant attention to them these days; they are useful for marketing purposes and the like, but I’m not selling anything. So, all of that is just in the nature of a disclaimer lest anyone should object to my hanging the tag film noir on Man-Trap (1961) – I did so because the subject matter, resolution, personnel and general feel pointed in that direction for me.

There’s a brief opening section, a prologue of sorts, which takes us back to 1952 and Korea. The purpose is to establish some facts that will influence the story to be told. We learn that Matt Jameson (Jeffrey Hunter) is a decorated war hero who got a medal pinned to his tunic and another piece of metal inserted in his skull while saving the life of his comrade in arms Vince Biskay (David Janssen). Years pass and Matt is trapped in an unsatisfying job and a marriage to the boss’ daughter Nina (Stella Stevens) that is even more toxic. He’s essentially been consigned to a suburban hell, an American nightmare of disillusionment and disenchantment. So, when Vince turns up, apparently out of the blue, brimming with roguish charm and a business proposition, Matt is moderately receptive to say the least. Vince has been hiring his services out to the highest bidder in Central America and in so doing has hit on a scheme to profit from political unrest and bag a cool $3 million dollars. As Matt’s relationship with the alcoholic and promiscuous Nina deteriorates, his desire for his secretary as well as the promise of full financial independence drives him to fall in with Vince’s scheme. All of this leads to a botched heist and a radical change of plan as the law, hitmen and domestic discord all begin to apply pressure.

Man-Trap is full up of the kind of bad choices, ill fortune and empty opportunities that characterize film noir. Perhaps it doesn’t have the classic look, but that arguably evolved over time anyway and the slightly flat, TV movie appearance of the visuals is not entirely out of keeping with other late era offerings. Aside from a couple of television shows, this was only Edmond O’Brien’s second feature as director after his collaboration with Howard W Koch on Shield for Murder. It’s only a partially successful effort though, the low budget is always noticeable and the script isn’t all it could be. On the plus side, the heist sequence and its aftermath through the streets of San Francisco is well filmed and quite exciting. O’Brien manages to fit in some imaginatively framed shots here and there, but the writing remains problematic – the screenplay is an adaptation of a John D MacDonald (Cape Fear) story, which maybe creates unrealistically high expectations. The high point is the heist and the momentum is never regained after it takes place. That wouldn’t have to be a problem if the film wound up faster, but there’s still a whole lot of storytelling to get through before the credits roll.

I also get the impression that either O’Brien or the screenwriter Ed Waters wanted to make the movie a critique of the state of middle class America as much as a thriller, but ended up with those elements orphaned and only partially addressed. Matt and Nina’s rotten marriage feeds into this but it’s the portrayal of the appalling neighbors which hammers it home. This suburban degeneracy is peopled by a gallery of grotesques, sad swingers who spend their time boozing, leering and gossiping. It’s a snapshot of the moral decay simmering below the surface of the backyard barbecues. Maybe  it’s the presence of Jeffrey Hunter that had me thinking how it was vaguely reminiscent of aspects of Martin Ritt’s No Down Payment, though that is a far superior movie on every level and indeed almost like a Douglas Sirk film with the varnish scraped off. Man-Trap can’t aspire to that and although these aspects are diverting enough, I feel it might have worked better all round had it avoided them and kept its focus tighter.

As for the acting, Jeffrey Hunter does reasonably well as the dissatisfied Matt, uncomfortable and unsettled for much of the running time, but the developments in the latter stages of the movie don’t succeed. Everything takes a detour into the type of ill-starred territory one would associate with a Cornell Woolrich tale yet it lacks the suspense that give such fatalistic fables their teeth. David Janssen, however, is excellent throughout. He nails the charm and duplicity that define the character of Vince, beguiling and bedeviling just about everyone he comes into contact with. On the other hand, the real weak link for me was Stella Stevens. She does well in the early scenes where her coquetry is to the fore, but the more her angst and desperation grow, the less convincing she becomes. In the end, it feels like a very transparent performance and it hurts the film as a result.

Man-Trap was a Paramount production and got a release in the US via Olive Films some years ago. That was a solid transfer, crisp and attractive in the way black and white ‘Scope movies tend to be. Olive are now defunct of course so I’m not sure how readily available the film is these days. All told, it’s a picture that works in places – Janssen’s characterization, the heist – but falls down due to scripting issues and some unsatisfactory work from the leading lady.

Storm Fear

/ Colin McGuigan / 24 Comments

Confinement breeds volatility. And confinement, be it physical, emotional, spiritual or social, is a key element in film noir. As space is limited, so is the room for maneuver and so are the options available to the protagonists. This is provides a situation ripe with dramatic potential – take a small group of characters menaced by an external threat and simultaneously squeezed by internal pressures and sit back to watch what happens. This is the essence of Storm Fear (1955), and it’s a formula which has been employed on and off by filmmakers in productions as diverse as Day of the Outlaw, The Small Voice and Key Largo.

Storm Fear has its characters in uncomfortable places all the way through, right from the beginning when young David Blake (David Stollery) and Hank (Dennis Weaver), the hired help, come in from the snow, into the remote mountain cabin. David’s mother Elizabeth (Jean Wallace) is guarded and somehow restrained while her husband Fred (Dan Duryea) is even more detached. The mood and atmosphere of the cabin and its occupants is wrong, discontent and dissatisfaction pervade like some insidious form of emotional dry rot. Fred is a man bowed and broken by personal and professional failure, a shuffling, shambling figure forever burrowing deeper into the oversized scarf he twists and kneads, his comfort blanket in a world from which he has retreated. Elizabeth is a martyr to duty and disenchantment, going through the motions in a barren and loveless marriage. Suddenly, this chill facade is shattered by the arrival of Fred’s brother Charlie (Cornel Wilde). Charlie is a hood, a no-good type with a long history of crime following him around, and on this occasion he’s also got two accomplices in tow (Lee Grant & Steven Hill). He is on the run after a bank raid has netted him a sack full of money, a bullet in the leg and a looming murder rap. All of that ought to amount to a fair amount of pressure within and without yet there is the added complication of the tangled relationship which links Charlie, Fred and Elizabeth.

Cornel Wilde made his debut as a feature director with Storm Fear. He was also the producer and had Horton Foote adapt the novel of the same name by Clinton Seeley for the screen. In fact, Wilde assembled some impressive talent behind the cameras, with Elmer Bernstein providing the score and Joseph LaShelle taking care of the cinematography. As a result, this movie has a polished and highly professional look. Wilde paces everything well, drawing ample tension from the lengthy scenes within the cabin as the characters fume and feud. The climactic scenes out on the mountain, as the cold and weariness takes their toll, open things up somewhat, but that’s only in a superficial sense. The stark landscape and harsh conditions impose their own restrictions and in classic noir fashion the poor choices these people have been making throughout their lives narrow all their avenues of escape. It’s not so much a matter of being unable to stop what’s coming as being unable to outrun what went before.

Wilde’s acting is solid, he adds a slight stammer to his character’s delivery to indicate his core insecurity. It’s an affectation of sorts but it fits the character and he never makes it feel forced. Jean Wallace, who was married to Wilde, is especially strong in a difficult and multifaceted role. She is called upon to range from guilt and remorse to resilience and resolve. It amounts to a tricky balancing act on her part and she carries it off successfully all told. I guess most viewers will be accustomed to seeing Dan Duryea take on showy parts. As such, his portrayal of Fred Blake could be regarded as something of a departure. It’s a comparatively quiet role, contemplative and reproachful to the point of being ineffectual, with a hint of puritanism lurking below the surface. I’m not sure it works though. Lee Grant, making a rare screen appearance in the middle of those lost years when she was victimized by the blacklist, is almost unrecognizable as the bleached moll with a considerable thirst. I’ve seen largely positive reactions to Steven Hill’s turn as Wilde’s psychotic sidekick, but I can’t say I appreciated his work here. Hill was an alumnus of the Actors Studio and that is very apparent here. I’ve never been a fan of method acting although I’ll concede some such as Montgomery Clift made it work for them. Hill, a little like Rod Steiger at his most excessive, never leaves the viewer in any doubt that he is giving a Performance, and not for one moment did I feel he was anything other than an actor playing a part.

Kino released Storm Fear in the US years ago and it’s a handsome looking production. LaShelle’s crisp cinematography comes across well and the pacy, self-contained story never outstays its welcome. It’s a late-era film noir that harks back to the previous decade’s focus on personal rather than wider societal conflicts. While I have some reservations about a few of the performances, there are a lot of good things going on and the movie is certainly worth a look.

So Evil My Love

/ Colin McGuigan / 20 Comments

Guilt, corruption and obsession. That’s a heady mix for any movie, though it could be said to be nothing out of the ordinary for film noir. So Evil My Love (1948) is a kind of film noir, more Gothic melodrama I suppose yet it’s still dark and fatalistic enough, both visually and thematically, to just about make the cut as far as I’m concerned. It is something of a hybrid in more ways than one. Leaving aside any discussion of its noir credentials, the movie is one of those Hollywood funded and produced pictures that were made on location in the UK, and in this case making use of a cast of largely British and Irish actors – although all of the principals were working mainly in the US at this point. While there is much to enjoy and admire in the movie, there is a weakness which I feel ought to be mentioned. It has a marvelous visual sheen and well judged sense of atmosphere, but there’s also one central performance that I regard as deeply problematic, though fortunately it’s not as harmful overall as the issue that blighted Caught for me.

On a ship carving its way across the ocean from Jamaica to England a lone figure stands on deck, either oblivious to the spray on her face and the pitching deck beneath her or perhaps enjoying the experience. Olivia Harwood (Ann Todd) has been recently widowed, the death of her missionary husband leaving her with no option but to return home. She allows herself to be reluctantly coaxed into ministering to the ill on board the ship, chiefly one Mark Bellis (Ray Milland). On arrival in Liverpool it is immediately apparent to the viewer that Mark Bellis is perhaps not all he seems. He is ostensibly a painter, but his cautious probing to discover what, if anything, he revealed while in the throes of fever and then his determination to avoid the authorities set the alarm bells ringing. The fact is Mark Bellis (though that is merely one of the wide range of names he makes use of) is a genuine good-for-nothing, a swindler, a thief, a master manipulator, and apparently a murderer too. To such a man, a lonely, vulnerable and most likely gullible widow provides tempting game. And so it is he goes to work on Olivia Harwood, slowly worming his way into her heart while he sets about organizing his next robbery. However, the failure of that endeavor sees him altering his plans, and the beginning of his methodical and relentless corruption of Olivia. Under his tutelage, she finds herself not only taking advantage of an old friend, but also betraying and undermining her, taking a path that will inexorably lead to blackmail and murder.

The film has bags of atmosphere, with ponies clipping along cobbled thoroughfares, discharging their silken passengers outside addresses that might be mean and unforgiving or forbidding in their splendor. Wherever the characters go, their surroundings seem to crowd them regardless of whether they are immense or cramped. Somehow there is a sense of all the hypocritical baggage of the late Victorian era forever pressing and suffocating. This feeds into or fuels the feeling of fatalism that pervades the movie. Right from that first scene on the deck of the ship there is an unmistakable air of characters trapped or hemmed in by a destiny shaped by their own weakness and frailty. Mark Bellis is unquestionably a bad lot and that is never in doubt, but it is Olivia’s downward spiral that is the focal point of it all. Director Lewis Allen made only a relatively small number of movies (just 18 over a period of fifteen years) but there are some real gems in among them – The Uninvited, The Unseen, Desert Fury, Suddenly and Another Time, Another Place are all good or better in my opinion.

This is was a fairly productive and successful period for Ray Milland, coming only a couple of years after his Oscar winning turn for Billy Wilder in The Lost Weekend and he would follow this up with a pair of strong films noir for John Farrow in The Big Clock and Alias Nick Beal. This type of role, an oily and calculating charmer, was a good fit for Milland. He had the polish to carry it off convincingly and was also able to tap into a rich seam of desperation when the whispers of his typically dormant conscience grew more insistent. Geraldine Fitzgerald is characteristically fine too as Olivia’s ill-fated friend, brittle and foolish, quick to trust in her hunger for companionship and kindness, and touchingly meek in her willingness to accept her guilt.

Nevertheless, as I alluded to above, there is an issue that damages the movie seriously. The behavior of Ann Todd’s character simply fails to convince me. She is right at the center of things, the heart of the movie in truth, and both her actions and the core characteristics need to ring true for it all to work. And for me this does not happen. I can accept that obsession and infatuation is capable of driving people to places they would not normally go, but I find Olivia’s sudden decision (remember, this is the widow of a Victorian missionary we’re talking about here) to betray her friend’s confidence and the consequent acceptance of the necessity for extortion to be so abrupt as to defy credibility. What’s more, there is then far too much inconsistency on display, the character’s morality and motivation shifting almost from scene to scene. This is a writing issue of course rather than an acting matter – the script is adapted from a story by Joseph Shearing (a pseudonym used by Marjorie Bowen) who also provided the source material for Blanche Fury and Moss Rose. The latter film does have some contrived or unrealistic elements, but there’s not that inconsistency which troubles me here.

On the other hand, there are some excellent supporting turns to help restore the balance. Martita Hunt is chillingly intense as the overprotective grande dame. It is a bit of a stretch to see Raymond Huntley as her son – he was only four years her junior after all – but his cold lack of compassion is neatly done. Moira Lister sashays in and out of the tale as a trashy model whose vanity and vulgarity bring matters to a head. Leo G Carroll’s low-key detective lurks around and does his bit to draw the net tighter. And Maureen Delany, Hugh Griffith and Finlay Currie all have small yet memorable parts.

All told, So Evil My Love is a movie that works in places. There is no doubt that it has style, and some of the acting is excellent – Geraldine Fitzgerald rarely fails to impress me, for example. Still, Ann Todd’s role is an issue. That zigzagging from demure respectability to coquettish scheming and back again on the way to grim vengeance is something I just can’t buy into. Others may well regard this as less problematic. As it stands, I guess it amounts to two thirds of a good movie, or maybe three quarters if I’m in a more generous frame of mind.

Caught

/ Colin McGuigan / 22 Comments

Seeing as Max Ophuls came up in some of the comments on the previous post, I decided to go back and have another look at one of his movies that I have struggled with in the past, namely the 1949 production of Caught. As a rule, I have enjoyed what I have seen of the director’s work, but this film has never worked for me. Anyway, with his name fresh in my mind, as well as the knowledge that the movie seems to be well regarded by many other viewers, I thought I should give it another chance. In brief, and this will be one of my shorter posts, I still have major issues with the movie. To be honest, the fact that I made it to the end was as much through a sense of obligation as anything.

The whole thing is an examination of wish fulfillment and the consequent importance of being very careful indeed of what one wishes for. It opens with two sisters in a shabby tenement mooning over glossy magazines and browsing for dreams, a gem encrusted necklace here, a platinum bracelet there, and so on. As ever, money and the power it bestows matters very much to those who have little of it. Leonora (Barbara Bel Geddes) wants the security and the comfort that comes with wealth, and it does come her way as the result of an invitation to a party on a yacht, an invitation she very nearly turns down. This is the thing with Leonora – she wants things and then doesn’t want them when their real cost becomes apparent. When she makes the acquaintance of Smith Ohlrig (Robert Ryan), a tycoon with a deeply disturbed character, she is soon on the fast track towards the high life on Long Island. However, this is where it all goes wrong for just about everyone involved. Ohlrig is a domineering, controlling and cruel man, an obsessive soul at war with himself and the world in general. Leonora soon comes to see the stew she’s landed herself in and, wisely one would say, moves out and ends up working as a receptionist in a slum neighborhood for Dr Quinada (James Mason). From here the movie devolves into a series of sorties back and forth for Leonora as her indecision along with a deep-seated conviction that she has to “improve herself” at all costs winds up being a good deal more expensive in emotional and physical terms than she’d bargained for.

Max Ophuls’ direction is a pleasure – his camera swooping, swinging and panning, following his characters and sometimes sweeping past them to draw attention to the variously opulent or cheap surroundings while they debate, argue or simply muse out of shot. It’s a distinctive style and Lee Garmes’ cinematography adds to the eye-catching visuals. Attractive as all this may be, it’s not enough to paper over the paucity of genuine character at the heart of the movie. Robert Ryan’s Howard Hughes inspired sociopath is a showy piece of work, neurotic and foul and yet also somehow pitiful in his inadequacy. However, there’s a big hole in the middle of it all for me, and that’s the result of the role played by Barbara Bel Geddes. I started off feeling for her as she struggled to dig herself out of the poverty trap. The fact is though that she’s a playing a woman with essentially no character, a whiny, vacillating type who seems to revel in helplessness and indecision. This is the person who is the main focus and it’s very hard to like a movie where the central role presents such a moral vacuum. And the less said about the “happy ending” we’re asked to buy into, the better. James Mason’s first Hollywood starring role is fair, but he’s given little to do to stretch him –  he does have at least one good scene in the garage confrontation with Ryan and Bel Geddes. The support is mainly an attractively homespun turn from Frank Ferguson and a well observed peek at degradation and dissipation by Curt (“Tough, darling, tough.“) Bois.

Max Ophuls made far better films than this – The Reckless Moment, again with Mason, came shortly afterwards and is superior in every respect, and there are his great French movies such as  The Earrings of Madame de… and La Ronde. I honestly wish I could like this film more, but it just does not do it for me.