Review #1,324: 'The Dark Mirror' (1946)

There were few directors so suited to the film noir genre as Robert Siodmak, whose lengthy career produced everything from B-movie horrors (Son of Dracula) to exotic adventures (Cobra Woman) and forgotten westerns (Pyramid of the Sun God). However, he is best remembered for his work in the noir genre, which spawned tough, pretension-free crime dramas such as Phantom Lady, Cry of the City and Criss Cross. His movies often employed a kind of gimmick as a hook, with his finest film The Killers jumping back and forth in time to keep the audience guessing. One of Siodmak's lesser-known pulpy efforts, The Dark Mirror, leaned towards psychoanalysis as well as the more familiar sleuthing from a craggy-faced, weather-beaten detective. The advancements in mental health studies was all the rage with many screenwriters during the 1940s, and although much of what is said is utter nonsense, it helps give this lively noir a refreshing edge.

Quick-witted detective Lt. Stevenson (Thomas Mitchell) takes on the case of Dr. Frank Peralta, who is found dead in his apartment with a knife in his back. Investigations advance quickly, and after interviewing various witnesses, all the clues points to one woman alone: Peralta's lover Terry Collins (Olivia de Havilland). Many saw her leave the scene shortly after a loud thud was heard from the apartment, and the doctor's appointment book confirms a rendez-vous with the attractive young lady at the time of the murder. Yet when Stevenson corners Terry at her work after various witnesses make a positive identification, she has an alibi that cannot be disputed. Utterly perplexed at the mystery, the veteran dick visits her home to pose a few more questions, only to discover that Terry has, as you probably would have guessed by this point, and identical twin sister, named Ruth. One committed the crime and the other is innocent, but both exercise their right to keep their trap shut to avoid incriminating themselves.

Refusing to believe in such a thing as 'the perfect crime', Stevenson brings in Scott Elliott (Lew Ayres), a doctor who frequently encountered both women at their place of work, and who also happens to be an expert in the study of twins. The Dark Mirror doesn't convince when it comes to psychologically evaluating the sisters, but if you can suspend your disbelief and roll with the film's coincidence-reliant plot, this is one of the most engaging noirs the genre has to offer. It's also helped a great deal by the central performance of de Havilland, who takes great delight in playing with the siblings' differing personalities. Their interactions are made even more delightful thanks to some seamless visual effects. The use of clever split-screens make it seem that two different actresses are indeed speaking to one another, putting efforts to recreate the effect as recent as the 1990s completely to shame. There a noticeable tonal issues, particularly with some musical choices heard after Stevenson's wisecracks which grate with the film's darker moments, but The Dark Mirror is yet another of Siodmak's quirky noirs deserving of more recognition.


Directed by: Robert Siodmak
Starring: Olivia de Havilland, Lew Ayres, Thomas Mitchell, Richard Long, Charles Evans
Country: USA

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #1,096: 'The Brute Man' (1946)

Jean Yarbrough's The Brute Man. remembered as the final film to star horror icon and all-round tragic figure Rondo Hatton, has a backstory infinitely more interesting than the movie itself. With Universal Pictures adopting a new policy against releasing any more B-movies, The Brute Man was shipped off to PRC (Producers Releasing Corporation), one of the smaller production companies known as 'Poverty Row', which would release the film without any mention of Universal's involvement. Some say that Universal distanced themselves out of sheer embarrassment of their exploitation of Hatton, an actor suffering from acromegaly who died before the film was even released.

Reprising his most famous role for the third and final time (after the Sherlock Holmes story The Pearl of Death and Yarbrough's House of Horrors), Hatton's The Creeper is back on the loose in an unnamed city (probably New York), and seeking revenge on those who wronged him. Without giving too much away, the Creeper was once a handsome football star, much like Hatton himself, before an accident disfigures him, and the police are on high alert when bodies start turning up with their backs broken. In the film's attempt to inspire some sympathy for the killer, the Creeper falls in love with beautiful blind pianist Helen Paige (Jane Adams), the only person not be instantly repulsed by his appearance.

As a slice of B-movie horror, The Brute Man is forgettable and formulaic, and with a run time of less than an hour, there's a remarkable lack of depth. The performances are blank and stagy, with the exception of the sweet Adams and 'King of the B-movies' Tom Neal, the latter of whom would go on to star in film noir classic Detour (1945) and get away with murdering his wife once his acting career stalled. However, the film's biggest crime is its treatment of Hatton. He is forced to act through incredibly uncomfortable scenes such as an entire restaurant full of patrons fleeing in horror from the sight of him through a window, and play a character who is as morally disfigured as he is physically, despite those half-arsed attempts to show a gentler side. Shame on you, Universal.


Directed by: Jean Yarbrough
Starring: Rondo Hatton, Tom Neal, Jan Wiley, Jane Adams
Country: USA

Rating: **

Tom Gillespie

Review #1,051: 'The Blue Dahlia' (1946)

George Marshall's The Blue Dahlia marked the third time leads Alan Ladd and Veronica Lake starred together in a film noir - following This Gun for Hire and The Glass Key (both 1942) - and, more notably, the first time that legendary author Raymond Chandler penned an original screenplay. Chandler's infamous struggle to finish the screenplay after the studio refused to shoot his original ending - while filming was rushed through in fear of Ladd having to return to the Army - works both in favour of the film and against it. On one hand, The Blue Dahlia is a rather scrappy, messy noir, lending it a certain ruggedness, and on the other hand the film's climax seems rather sudden and out of the blue.

Three discharged Navy officers, Johnny (Ladd), Buzz (William Bendix) and George (Hugh Beaumont), arrive home after serving in the South Pacific. Before Johnny returns to his wife Helen (Doris Dowling), the three stop for a drink and almost get into a fight when Buzz, suffering from shell shock and a metal plate in his head following a war injury, demands that a fellow officer turn off the loud 'monkey music' that causes him to suffer from delusions. At his home, Johnny returns to discover his wife drunk and having a none-too-discreet affair with nightclub owner Eddie Harwood (Howard Da Silva). Livid, Johnny threatens her with a pistol before leaving and eventually hitching a ride with Joyce Harwood (Lake), who just happens to be Eddie's ex. When Helen turns up dead the next day, Johnny finds himself on the run from the law with a mystery to unravel.

While it was understandably overshadowed by Howard Hawks' masterpiece The Big Sleep released the same year, The Blue Dahlia is a solid piece of film-making, bolstered by a suspenseful central murder mystery that keeps you guessing until the very end. Ladd is suitably stoic and hard-boiled as the protagonist, but the film undoubtedly belongs to Bendix as the unpredictable and somewhat tragic damaged war hero, with the film's opening scene establishing just how loveable yet threatening his character can be. Chandler didn't warm to Veronica Lake, famously dubbing her 'Moronica Lake' and suggesting she works best when she keeps her mouth shut and sits pretty. His comment was certainly unfair - Lake was an enigmatic screen presence - and Chandler punishes her with a rather slight amount of screen-time and a character who fails to offer any real impact on the plot. Still, this is a clever, engrossing noir, with special mention also going to Da Silva, one of the victims of the Hollywood blacklist.


Directed by: George Marshall
Starring: Alan Ladd, Veronica Lake, William Bendix, Howard Da Silva, Doris Dowling, Hugh Beaumont, Will Wright
Country: USA

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #708: 'House of Horrors' (1946)

One of many 60-minute B-movie horrors that Universal churned out in the 1940's, House of Horrors remains one of the most fondly remembered due to the hulking presence of Rondo Hatton. Originally a journalist and apparently a handsome man, he developed acromegaly which began to disfigure him in adulthood. He started getting extra work and bit-parts as faceless thugs until he appeared as 'The Creeper' in the Sherlock Holmes film The Pearl of Death (1944). Universal planned a series of films starring Hatton as The Creeper, but after this and it's sequel The Brute Man (1946), he sadly died of a heart attack brought on by his disease. He was far from a good actor - he does little but grunt and talk in child-like speech - but his presence is undeniable, and probably saves House of Horrors from obscurity.

Living alone in his rotting studio, sculptor Marcel De Lange (Martin Kosleck) is on the verge of selling his best work to a high-rolling collector. Unfortunately, the potential purchaser brings along notorious art critic F. Holmes Harmon (Alan Napier), who dismisses Marcel's work as a travesty, causing the sale to fall through. Penniless and on the verge of suicide, he spots a body wash ashore one night. The body is that of the Creeper, a known serial killer with the face of "the perfect Neanderthal," (as Marcel dubs him), so Marcel brings him home and nurses him back to health. Fascinating with his appearance, Marcel begins to sculpt the Creeper and exploit his blood-lust by setting him up to murder his enemies.

At just 65 minutes, House of Horrors, also known as Murder Mansion and Joan Medford is Missing, doesn't demand much at all. This is a formulaic genre picture that manages to squeeze an extraordinary amount into it's slender running time, and remains suitably entertaining throughout. Kosleck, for all his ham-fisting, manages to inject a tragic quality into his character, at first humble and optimistic, and later hateful and blood-thirsty. But it's Hando that steals the film - his Creeper snaps a woman's spine just for screaming in a scene that more than hints at rape (a big no-no in the 40's). Though there's no background or personality given to the character, that lurch-like appearance more than compensates. A forgettable genre film that is certainly worth an hour of your time.


Directed by: Jean Yarbrough
Starring: Martin Kosleck, Rondo Hatton, Robert Lowery, Virginia Grey, Alan Napier
Country: USA

Rating: ***

Tom Gillespie

Review #599: 'The Killers' (1946)

This film noir from 1946 was loosely based on an Ernest Hemingway play of the same name, introducing the world to giant powerhouse Burt Lancaster. The famous 20-minute opening that has two contract killers, Max (William Conrad) and Al (Charles McGraw), arrive at a small-town diner looking for a man named the 'Swede' (Lancaster), is now one of the most widely celebrated scenes in noir, going against type by having it's (anti)hero killed before the film has really begun. As Ole 'Swede' Anderson lies dead, life insurance investigator Jim Riordan (Edmond O'Brien) takes a special interest in the case, interviewing friends and ex-colleagues that leads back to sultry femme fatale Kitty Collins (Ava Gardner) and a $250,000 heist.

While it ticks all the traditional film noir boxes, the main aspect that makes The Killers stick out amongst many other noirs of the period is the cinematography, which is straight out of the school of German Expressionism (German-born director Robert Siodmak would have grown up with the likes of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920) and Metropolis (1927)). Filmed by Elwood Bredell, long, dark alleyways swirled with steam, silhouetting suited strangers, pepper the film, adding a real sense of style to the proceedings, and adding to the mystery and blindness of Riordan's mission, of which he has little to go on. The aforementioned opening scene, which was later homaged by David Cronenberg in A History of Violence (2005), is a masterwork of tension-building, as two suited thugs press their violent sensibilities onto the simple townsfolk. Producer Mark Hellinger helped create some of the finest noirs of this era, including They Drive By Night (1940), Brute Force (1947) and The Naked City (1948).

Carrying on the torch lit by fellow noir masterpiece Double Indemnity (1944) and succeeded by Sunset Blvd. (1950), The Killers is tough, unpredictable and dark, representing everything the genre is so lauded for. Anchored by an impressive physical performance by Lancaster, it is really O'Brien who takes the centre stage, playing the shrewd investigator who would become the fabric for many a noir dick, full of confrontational dedication and unconventional methods. But it is Ava Gardner, who plays one of the most devious femme fatales in history, that lingers in the memory, perhaps never looking more beautiful. When the climax comes into force, it becomes clear that the plot is actually very basic, but the film wraps it up in double-crosses, bruising monochrome boxing matches, and some fine dialogue, written by Anthony Veiller and an uncredited John Huston. One of the finest of its genre.


Directed by: Robert Siodmak
Starring: Burt Lancaster, Ava Gardner, Edmond O'Brien, Albert Dekker
Country: USA

Rating: *****

Tom Gillespie