German-born filmmaker Robert Siodmak fleed Adolf Hitler twice throughout his career, journeying to and flourishing in France after Joseph Goebbels called him out in the press, and later in Hollywood as the Nazis spread through Europe. It was in the U.S. that he made the pictures he is now most fondly remembered for: tough, dark and distinctly unpretentious film noirs like The Killers, The Dark Mirror, Cry of the City and Criss Cross, many of which are considered some of the best the genre has to offer. Before he was allowed the chance to place his stamp on his works, Siodmak churned out screwball comedies like Fly-by-Night and even a Universal horror film, Son of Dracula. His first venture into noir came in 1944 with Phantom Lady, a film that leaned more towards Hitchcockian thriller territory than the hard-boiled crime dramas that would come later.
Every great noir needs a chump, and we are introduced to Phantom Lady's unfortunate patsy Scott Henderson (Alan Curtis) as he sits slumped at a bar. He has tickets for a show but his date has stood him up, so he innocently asks the only female in the bar, played by Fay Helm, if she will accompany him. The woman, whose name we don't learn until much later in the film, is clearly emotionally unstable, initially turning down Scott's offer before agreeing under strict terms: they won't reveal their names or discuss anything personal. They go to see the show, where the mystery woman's rather outrageous hat is also being worn by the star on the stage, Estela Monteiro (Aurora Miranda), enraging her and amusing the diminutive band drummer Cliff (Elisha Cook Jr.). The night ends with a hurried goodbye, and Scott returns home to find three policemen waiting for him. As they lead him to the bedroom, his wife lays dead, strangled with one of Scott's own neckties.
Of course, Scott has a perfect alibi, but he never learned her name, and everybody they encountered that night - a bartender, a taxi driver, and even Monteiro - all deny seeing the woman. Facing the death penalty, Scott's only hope to unravel the mystery is his beautiful and loyal secretary Carol (Ella Raines) and sympathetic Police Inspector Burgess (Thomas Gomez). Phantom Lady's biggest failing in trying to replicate the genius of Hitchcock is the near complete absence of suspense. The wrongfully-accused thriller was done far better by the man himself over a decade later with The Wrong Man, and when Scott's old pal Jack Marlow (Franchot Tone) shows up halfway through, all sense of whodunit goes flying out the window. Still, Phantom Lady gets by on sheer class. Siodmak elevates the plot-hole ridden story with his trademark weaving of light and dark, and influences brought over from the days of German Expressionism makes this a more visually stimulating experience. It's also a lot of fun: the outrageous plot shares more in common with an Argento giallo than a Raymond Chandler paperback.
Despite possessing all the handsome features expected of a male star in the 1950s, actor Richard Widmark ended up playing some of the most loathsome and outright disgusting characters of his era. After his star-making turn in Henry Hathaway's terrific Kiss of Death, Widmark found himself typecast as villains and anti-heroes in the subsequent years, before reinventing himself as a hero later in life. Looking back at Widmark's career, his performances are savage even by today's standards, and he perhaps never played a character so utterly vile as that of mobster Ray Biddle in Joseph L. Mankiewicz's No Way Out. Biddle is both gangster and racist, the worst type of person, and starts the film being wheeled into a hospital with his brother after a robbery gone wrong.
The Biddle brothers have both been injured in a shoot-out with the police, but elder brother Johnny (Dick Paxton) is more seriously ill than it would appear. Tasked with taking care of the hoodlums is Dr. Luther Books (Sidney Poitier), an intern who has just earned his license to practise medicine and the first African-American doctor to work at the hospital. Concerned with Johnny's slurred speech and erratic behaviour, Brooks suspects a brain tumour and starts a spinal tap, only to be bombarded with racist abuse from Ray. Johnny dies soon after, and Ray naturally accuses Brooks of murder. After consulting with chief medical resident Dr. Wharton (Stephen McNally), they both agree on the diagnosis, and also that an autopsy is the only way to know for certain. But state laws only permit an autopsy with a family member's approval, and Ray isn't going to give it. With racial tension across the city brewing, Brooks and Wharton visit Ray's ex-wife Edie (Linda Darnell) in the hope that she can make Ray see sense.
By keeping the majority of the story within the hospital setting, Mankiewicz and co-writer Lesser Samuels (who would go on to pen the great Ace in the Hole for Billy Wilder) keep the animosity at a personal level. The film would go on to earn an Oscar nomination for Best Writing, Story and Screenplay. Brooks must remain stone-faced as he is abused by Ray after genuinely trying to save his brother's life, and Poitier is magnificent in an very early role. His relationship with Ray, who refuses to see sense even when given proof, is incredibly raw even by contemporary standards. Ray is the catalyst for the trouble at the film's centre, and his actions cause a rippling effect throughout the surrounding neighbourhoods, with the inhabitants of an-all black area gearing up for a fight with the whites from Ray's neck of the woods. This highlights the fact that the themes the film is keen to explore aren't just confined to the hospital, but represent a problem of a much wider scale. It's a film that is sadly still relevant today, over 60 years later, and Widmark's ferocity only makes the experience all the more powerful.
Alfred Hitchcock earned the title of 'master of suspense' with some good old fashioned grafting (he had been making films since the silent era) combined with an understanding of the possibilities of cinema - and an eagerness to explore them - that few directors shared. Ask most film goers to name a Hitchcock film and the answer will likely be Psycho, Rear Window, The Birds or North by Northwest. Few will name The Wrong Man, the tightly constructed and thoroughly engaging little thriller from 1956, made after fluffier works To Catch a Thief and The Man Who Knew Too Much. This is perhaps because The Wrong Man is the filmmaker's least Hitchcockian effort, toning down the sugaryness (he labelled his movies as like 'slices of cake') and playing the story straight with little artistic flair. Even his obligatory cameo is reduced to mere narration at the film's opening.
Many of Hitchcock's thrillers revolve around a case of mistaken identity, which naturally forces the protagonist to make a break for it in the hope of proving his innocence before the police catch up to them. This time, however, the story is true. Based on the plight of Christopher 'Manny' Balestrero, a hard-working jazz musician who found himself identified by many witnesses as a hold-up man, The Wrong Man is Hitchcock's closest brush with realism. Shot on the streets of New York and using locations from the real-life story, there is more of a naturalistic feel to the film that what we are used to from the great director. Hitchcock still squeezes in some subtle camera tricks, depicting Balestrero's situation as disorientating, claustrophobic and increasingly hopeless. But with an actor of such effortless charisma as Henry Fonda at his disposal, Hitchcock mainly opts to tell the story through his lead actor's incredibly expressive face.
Hitchcock documents Balestrero's journey from being incorrectly identified by some terrified clerical workers when trying to take a loan from his life insurance policy for his wife's (Vera Miles) dental work, to his frustratingly unfair trial. The film is used to highlight flaws in a system designed to seek justice, in which an accused isn't allowed to give evidence to prove their innocence (as a truly innocent man doesn't need to prove anything), and a jury under oath makes their minds up before the trial even starts. It's a catalogue of errors from the very start, forcing Manny to seek out his own witnesses to prove he could not have committed the crime. The final reveal also comments on the folly of placing too much trust in eye-witness testimony, and the fact that many are still wrongly jailed due to failings in the system make the film's musings all the more poignant. One of Hitchcock's most underappreciated gems.
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.
It may be difficult to believe now, but there was once a time when Hollywood icon Humphrey Bogart played second-fiddle to a bigger star, usually lumped with the role of deadbeat gangster or short-fused psychopath. In movies like Angels with Dirty Faces, The Roaring Twenties and this, High Sierra, he find-tuned himself into the fast-talking leading man he would later become in the likes of The Maltese Falcon, Casablanca and The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. With High Sierra, his name appeared below that of the magnificent Ida Lupino, but the film starts and ends with Bogart, and he appears in near enough every scene. He plays Roy 'Mad Dog' Earle, a career criminal freshly sprung from prison who soon realises that his generation of the respectable, honourable gangster is quickly dying out.
After serving eight years for armed robbery, Roy receives a governor's pardon arranged by his old boss Big Mac (Donald MacBride). He is to use his experience and expertise to oversee a heist of a swanky new Californian resort hotel, and heads into the country to hook up with his new crew. On his way into the mountains, Roy meets the young and pretty Velma (Joan Leslie), and decides to use the money stolen from the hotel to pay for an operation to correct her clubfoot, and win her affections in the process. Only his new team-mates Red (Arthur Kennedy) and Babe (Alan Curtis) are young, brash and green, and inside man Mendoza (Cornel Wilde) can't be trusted to keep his mouth shut. The only saving grace is Babe's sort-of girlfriend Marie (Lupino), who seems to be the only one of Roy's new rag-tag gang of thieves who can be trusted. She falls in love with the old-school Roy, and after the robbery naturally goes wrong when somebody gets shot, the two must flee into the hills and live as fugitives.
Director Raoul Walsh, working with a script by John Huston and W.R. Burnett, seems to have believed that both the gangster and the gangster movie were slowly dying out back in 1941. This isn't true of course, as gangster films are just as popular today as they have ever been, but this air of melancholy helps distinguish High Sierra from the countless other genre pictures of the era. Lupino and Bogart are both superb as the damaged, lonely criminals. Roy has his heart set on the younger Velma, who represents everything he isn't and never will be, while failing to realise that Marie may actually be the woman he's looking for. Only Marie is just as broken as Roy, and the ageing gangster is looking to make a clean break and a fresh start. When the subjects of gangster movies and film noir crop up, High Sierra doesn't tend to get mentioned much, but it's a terrific and often gripping crime drama, with an engrossing romance at its very core.
The infamous Hollywood blacklist, which saw writers, actors and directors alike accused of harbouring Communist sympathies and forced others to name names or else face exile from the business altogether, may have been one of the darkest times the industry has ever faced. Yet, it also inspired great anger in the movies, and writers and directors channelled this frustration into some of the best movies of the era, taking the opportunity to delve into and pick apart the underbelly of the so-called perfect American society. Director Joseph Losey and screenwriter Dalton Trumbo - the latter already on the blacklist and working under a pseudonym - combined to create one of the darkest and most fascinating film noirs ever to come out of Hollywood with the inexplicably obscure The Prowler.
After seeing a strange man lurking in the backyard of her hacienda, Susan Gilvray (Evelyn Keyes), the wife of a radio personality, calls the cops and is greeted by partners Webb Garwood (Van Heflin) and Bud Crocker (John Maxwell). It's a routine visit, but Webb falls for the striking Susan, and is soon back to pay her a follow-up call in the hope of seducing her while her husband is at work. The two start a passionate and dangerous affair, but Webb becomes frustrated as Susan cannot bring herself to leave her husband. Retreating to his squalid, cramped apartment, Webb ignores Susan's calls while hatching a 'perfect crime' - to become a prowler himself and take out the man standing in his way of happiness in the process. But there's no such thing as a perfect crime in the world of noir, and the couple are soon under suspicion and on the run.
One of the key aspects to the film noir genre is the idea of the femme fatale - the beautiful blonde or brunette who, frustrated and bored with their current situation, start to manipulate events with devastating results, and usually duping some poor love-struck sap in the process. The Prowler is in many ways incredibly similar to Billy Wilder's masterwork Double Indemnity, but with the gender roles reversed. Here, it is Van Heflin's Webb Garwood who is the schemer, and he does so with such arrogant relish that I found myself almost willing him on. The cogs start turning the moments he lays eyes on Susan, and they turn ever faster when he takes a peek at her husband's generous will. He is a truly hideous, wretched creation, played with incredible naturalism by Heflin. The devious intentions glisten in his eyes from the moment he turns up at Susan's house for the first time alone.
Trumbo, who produced some of his greatest work while on the blacklist (and winning two Oscars), clearly enjoyed dissecting a trusted American institution and showing its ugly side. It's shocking to see Webb, a police officer often in uniform, act with such malicious intent in a time when America was still promoting the idea of the 'American Dream'. Webb knows what his dream is and goes about taking it with all his might, mirroring the proud capitalist ideals of his country. It's incredibly subversive stuff for the genre, and is even bold enough to let Susan, an adulterer carrying a child conceived out of wedlock, off relatively easy for her sins. It's a miracle it got past the Hays Code, and its somewhat taboo subject matter and the matter-of-fact way in which it goes about its business is probably why it isn't better known. Yet this deserves to find a new audience, as on top of being one of the most intriguing film noirs out there, it's also significant both historically and culturally.
The poster for director Joseph Losey's M promises to deliver "the greatest motion picture you've ever seen!". This, of course, isn't true; in fact, it isn't even the great motion picture entitled M you'll ever see. The original movie of the same title, directed by Fritz Lang, is possibly one of the finest pieces of cinema ever made, and one that reflected the political turmoil of Germany at the time as the Weimar Republic start to collapse under the increasing power of the Nazis. Douglas Sirk, a German working in Hollywood, was first approached to helm the remake, but wanted to scrap the original premise but keep the focus on a notorious child-killer. This could not happen, as such a grisly topic was banned in Hollywood, but would be allowed if it was a remake of a classic. Sirk held his ground, and so M was handed to Losey instead.
Martin W. Harrow (David Wayne) is a reclusive serial killer who has already gained notoriety throughout the city after a few dead bodies were found, minus their shoes. Inspector Carney (Howard Da Silva) feels the pressure of expectation, resorting to desperate measures by fleecing the regulars at a known criminal hangout in the hope of stumbling upon a clue or lead, as the city's residents are in high-paranoia mode, reporting anyone acting remotely suspicious or seen walking with a child. One old man is hauled in after helping a young girl take her skates off after a fall. Syndicate boss Charlie Marshall (Martin Gabel), seeking an opportunity to divert the attention away from his own criminal activities, rounds up his gang of crooks and brings in drunken lawyer Dan Langley (Luther Adler) in the hope of tracking down the murderer himself.
Any American remakes of foreign masterpieces will always be looked upon with some degree of disdain, and I must admit that I went into M expecting a pointless re-hash of what came before. However, under the disguise of a film noir, Losey's M is a damn good movie, with the panic-stricken city eager to turn over their neighbour in the hope of sleeping easy at night easily comparable with Joseph McCarthy's Communist witch-hunts terrorising Hollywood at the time, which saw industry giants pressured into naming names and exiling their co-workers onto the Blacklist. As Harrow, Wayne is subtly effective, sweet-talking his victims and luring them with his whistle. More focus is given to his character than in Lang's film, and Wayne manages to invite more sympathy than Peter Lorre's incarnation as he is eventually hauled in front of a public jury. It certainly doesn't have the dramatic weight or technical wizardry of the 1931 version, but Losey's effort stands out as one of the most gripping noirs of its era.
Thieves' Highway was the penultimate American film director Jules Dassin made before finding himself banished from Hollywood and placed on the infamous Blacklist. Informed in 1948 of his fate but handed enough time to squeeze out Night and the City (1950) for Fox, Dassin was just one of many cinema giants cut down in their prime (although he would go on to make the masterpiece Rififi in France in 1955), and the bruising film noirs he made during this period were some of the finest the genre has ever seen. Thieves' Highway's world of the produce market may not seen the ideal setting for American's own brand of stylish brooding, but this is one of the toughest and darkest noirs out there.
Nico 'Nick' Garcos (Richard Conte) returns home from the war to find his father crippled after a road accident which resulted in the loss of his legs. After demanding the truth, Nick learns that the crash occurred after his father made a deal with unscrupulous market dealer Mike Figlia (Lee J. Cobb) and was run off the road. Seeking vengeance, Nick first of all demands back the truck his father sold to Ed Kinney (Millard Mitchell), but instead ends up going into business with him on a load of in-demand Golden Delicious apples. Following a 36-hour truck drive, Nick arrives in San Francisco and almost immediately find himself at odds with Figlia. Exhausted, Nick is cared for by good-heated prostitute Rica (Valentina Cortese) while Figlia shrewdly plunders his stock.
Cortese's performance is the beating heart of the movie. A well-rounded, decent person at odds with the shifty-eyed criminals that pepper the marketplace, she is magnificent in the role, a shining light in the midst of an entourage of shady characters. This includes Conte's lead, who while eager to do the right thing at first, soon sees terrible, naive decisions force him into desperate measures. The produce market, with its battered, growling trucks and beaten-down drivers, provides a perfect noir setting. You can hear the cogs of capitalism and industry grind as the underpaid blue-collared types risk life and limb for the chance of a payday. It's littered with the same sense of pessimism and cynicism that made Dassin's Brute Force (1947) such a powerful movie, and will leave you feel somewhat beaten down by the time it's over. American noir at its toughest.
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.
Billy Wilder - the American director whose body of work sailed as closely to perfection as one can get - reportedly referred to Ace in the Hole, a rare flop for Wilder, as "the runt of my cinematic litter." Dismissed by critics upon release for its cynical depiction of the tabloids and law enforcement, it has since been re-discovered and lavished with praise for foreshadowing a world in which we are bombarded with sensationalised news stories that are now never more than a thumb-swipe away. Kirk Douglas plays Chuck Tatum, a hard-drinking, troublemaking reporter exiled from New York to New Mexico, where he plans to recoup at a low-circulation local paper until he lands a story that will have his big-city former pals clawing at each other for his services.
After over a year without the big break he was counting on, Tatum bitterly takes to the road to cover a rattlesnake hunt. On route, he stumbles across a weeping woman while filling his car with gas and, when a police car whizzes by, quickly sniffs the air for something big. It turns that a local man called Leo Minosa (Richard Benedict) has become trapped in a cave while looking for local Indian artefacts. Remembering W. Floyd Collins, who had the nation gripped while in a similar situation, Tatum seizes his chance and quickly sets up shop, convincing Minosa's unhappy wife Lorraine (Jan Sterling) to stay and play the weeping damsel for the cameras and microphones, and strikes a deal with corrupt local sheriff Kretzer (Ray Teal) to support his re-election bid
A more recent film to cover similar ground was Nighcrawler (2014), starring Jake Gyllenhaal as a more outwardly slimy reporter, manipulating events to his own benefit. The difference with Ace in the Hole is that Tatum does, by the end, discover a shred of humanity without losing his ferocity, as Leo's situation starts to look increasingly dire. Before his moral epiphany though, he shapes events with a Machiavellian wickedness, delaying the rescue and therefore allowing the story to garner national coverage, and using the strong-armed sheriff to shoo away any rival newspapers. It turns into a media circus, literally. Tatum stands on a mountain admiring what he has created while people flock to the scene in their hundreds and carnival rides are set up. A band even performs a song about Leo to the crowd and sells the recordings.
Partly down to Douglas's astonishingly acid-tongued and energetic performance and partly Lesser Samuels, Walter Newman and Wilder's ferocious script, Ace in the Hole rests easily on par with the likes of The Lost Weekend (1945) and Some Like it Hot (1959), although it falls short of Double Indemnity (1944) and Sunset Blvd. (1950). He didn't get much wrong in his career, but Wilder's evaluation of the filmis certainly dumbfounding. Unrelenting in its foreboding of where journalism was in danger of heading, Ace in the Hole is gripping storytelling. Douglas stampedes through the scenery like a branded bull, and his characters increasingly desperate actions remain shocking even now, 65 years later.
When Jules Dassin was placed on the Hollywood Blacklist in 1950 during the making of Night and the City, the director was on a roll. Along with Night and the City, which he filmed before being banned from the production studio, bringing his flourishing career to an immediate halt, Dassin also made The Naked City (1948) and Thieves' Highway (1949), now classics of the noir genre, and Brute Force, possibly the weakest of his noir quartet but a thrilling, insightful film nonetheless. Although set entirely inside prison walls - with a few flashback cutaways - Brute Force is pure pulp noir, featuring a towering lead performance from Burt Lancaster and a tour de force by Hume Conyn as the film's main antagonist.
Joe Collins (Lancaster) has just done a stint in solitary. Being lead back to his cell by chief of security Captain Munsey (Conyn), Joe maintains his innocence and that the knife he was found with was planted on him. It turns out that Joe is indeed innocent of his alleged crime, and along with his friends from cell R17, knows who the culprit is. Their own brand of justice involves guiding the offender with flame-throwers onto a huge plate press while the guards are distracted by a brawl. With so much violence occurring inside the prison walls, Warden Barnes (Roman Bohnen) is put under pressure to control the inmates through strict discipline and the guards enforcing their authority. This catches the attention of the ambitious Munsey, and the likeable Dr. Walter (Art Smith), who although constantly inebriated, can see the bubbling tensions and inevitable explosions of violence that are due to come.
The film's title is suitably apt for the attitudes of the two opposing factions. Joe and his crew plan their escape by taking the prison with an arsenal of weapons at their disposal, while Munsey, using the warden's wavering support as an opportunity to rise through the ranks, starts to manipulate the prisoners into becoming informers and gleefully beating upon a prisoner when he refuses to talk. It's about the ugliness of brute force, and disastrous results that come from employing it. Munsey is a small man, but delights in imposing his authority on the weak and the restrained like a bullying victim getting revenge on the big boys who stole his lunch money. It's riveting throughout, but could have done without the flashback scenes, where it is revealed that the gang are all locked up as a result of some femme fatale or other. It builds to a ferocious climax, where the inmates fight the guards, ending on a note as suitably grim as it's portrayal of the durability of the prison system.
Fritz Lang's last American film before he returned to Germany, Beyond a Reasonable Doubt suffers from the director's clear lack of interest. Lang was reportedly dismayed by the lack of visual creativity allowed by American producers (which was also clear in his penultimate American noir, While the City Sleeps (1956)), and so shortly after returned to his homeland to make the visually lavish double-bill Tiger of Bengal and The Indian Tomb (1959), dubbed the 'Indian Epic'. Beyond a Reasonable Doubt, an intriguing little noir starring Dana Andrews, is by no means a bad film, but is clearly the work of a man handicapped by the system and a film that is pessimistic in its execution.
Lang had already exposed the fragility of the justice system in his German masterpiece M (1931), and Beyond a Reasonable Doubt begins in suitably grim fashion with the silent execution of an inmate. The plot is a great idea (to think what Hitchcock would have made of it) but the execution is plain and predictable. Although Andrews' performance is solid and the movie sometimes threatens to push the boundaries set by the censors at the time, it simply goes through the motions until a twist reveal in the last 15 minutes livens things up a bit. You most likely won't see it coming, but it ends the film with plenty of plot-holes to pick at and left me scratching my head at exactly what point the movie was trying to make. A rather flat end to a solid period of film noir for the German master.
In 1955, a young man of seemingly limitless - but as of then unrecognised - talent, wrote, produced and directed a short B-grade film noir called Killer's Kiss. The film, apart from some excellent technical aspects, is relatively average, and would probably be all but forgotten had the young man not been Stanley Kubrick. Killer's Kiss only really shows glimpses of the greatness that would come from the much revered director, but no doubt this was down to - as Kubrick's many roles behind the camera would indicate - a lack of backing from the film industry. But Killer's Kiss proves to be a snappy little noir, with a truly thrilling climax.
Over-the-hill boxer Davey Gordon (Jamie Smith) has just been beaten by young, up-and-comer Kid Rodriguez. He decides that he's done with being a human punch bag and prepares for a life of farming with his uncle. Sharing his apartment block is the beautiful Gloria Price (Irene Kane - who passed away just over a month ago), a taxi dancer who, on the night of the fight, was being groped by her sleazy manager Vincent Rapallo (Frank Silvera), who she knocked back. While resting after the fight, Davey hears a scream from Gloria's apartment when Vincent attacks her. After chasing him off, Davey and Gloria start a relationship, yet they both need to collect the money owed to them by Vincent before they can move away and start a life together.
This ticks all the juicy boxes for your typical B-movie noir - a dangerous dame, a bum who is in way over his head, cynical narration, a case of mistaken identity. The film makes up for it's pretty bland plot and dull leaning man with an exciting rooftop chase that comes at the climax, and a well choreographed fist-fight in a room full of mannequins. While the film as a whole shows little of Kubrick's unparalleled talent, it does display his eye for visuals. Kubrick was a painter with his camera, and here we get some glorious German Expressionism-inspired moments, as well as showing us the real New York in the 1950's in a scene outside Vincent's club. It's a pretty forgettable movie overall, but no doubt an important stepping-stone in Kubrick's journey to becoming a cinematic master, as The Killing came the next year, which was the first in a long line of masterpieces from the director.
While the 'film noir' genre was still in its earlier stages (back then they were generally referred to simply as melodramas), This Gun For Hire, an exciting, violent thriller from Frank Tuttle, probably shares more thematically with the Pre-Code gangster thrillers. There is no femme fatale to manipulate the film's anti-hero, nor is the lead a hard-bitten private dick or a dead-beat trying to make some cash. In fact, there isn't really a lead at all. It's arguably three inter-linking stories that intertwine and finally come to a head at the climax. Such is the curiosity of This Gun For Hire, one of the finest examples of the B-movie noirs.
Stoic hitman Philip Raven (Alan Ladd) guns down chemist Albert Baker (Frank Ferguson) and his innocent secretary, and takes what he came for - a chemical formula. His employer, the effeminate and cowardly Willard Gates (Laird Cregar), pays Raven in marked bills and then reports the bills stolen from his company. Nightclub entertainer Ellen Graham (Veronica Lake) is in town to audition for a nightclub spot owned by Gates, but is pulled aside by a senator hoping to gain information on Gates, who is under investigation for treason. Graham's boyfriend, LAPD detective Michael Crane (Robert Preston) is assigned to the case of Raven and the stolen money, but Raven has plans for revenge.
Although only fourth-billed, this made a star of Alan Ladd. His dead-eyed, cold-blooded gun for hire is what you take away from the film. Like Richard Widmark as Tommy Udo in Kiss of Death (1947), his character displays such a shocking lack of ethics, quite alarming for its day. His brief moment of humanity comes when he chooses to spare an child who sees his face after a murder. Yet Ladd makes him undeniably compelling, even when he's smacking his girlfriend around for messing with his cat. Veronica Lake, an actress who has yet to completely win me over, does a decent job with a rather unexciting character, performing a couple of nice musical numbers (even though she is lip-synching) while performing magic.
Made during WWII, the overseas menace plays a definite part in the film. While by no means a political thriller, the chemical formula that Raven unwittingly steals is for poison gas, intended to be sold overseas to the highest bidder by Gates' mysterious, wheelchair-bound boss Alvin Brewster (Tully Marshall). America's need for corny patriotism damages the film in the end, used as a tool to allow its mean anti-hero some one-dimensional sympathy. It's my only real problem with the film, which without the ending, could have been up there with the greats of film noir. It's still a damn fine film, as hard-edged as you would want your noirs to be, with a truly enigmatic character (and actor) at its centre.
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.
Laura was a project, based on a pulpy novel by Vera Caspery, that director Otto Preminger had to fight 20th Century Fox Mogul, Daryl Zanuck, to get made. It was a film that everyone else involved in did not believe in and assumed would be a failure. Yet the film went on to be a huge success and was a source of influence for countless film makers and endures as a classic of the golden era of Hollywood. On the face of it, Laura was in the mode of film noir, with the conventional detective investigating the murder of a glamorous and enthralling woman-as-femme-fatale; the film offers the usual twists in narrative structure and the dubious relationships and men surrounding the central figure, and their obsessions, or neuroses; but visually the film separates itself from the dark shadows and brooding atmosphere of the conventional noir films, and brings an obsessive, illuminating Freudian drama of sexual emasculation and the fundamental flaws of masculine desire.
Dana Andrews's investigating detective McPherson, is assigned to the murder case of Laura Hunt (Gene Tierney), an assured, successful woman, surrounded by seemingly rich and powerful men, who was gunned down in her apartment. As he uncovers information about Laura, helped by a portrait hanging on her living room wall, McPherson, like the men he interviews, becomes obsessed with the woman, as her delightful character, and her determined but innocent-like attractiveness envelops him. Clifton Webb's overtly dandy Waldo, a successful columnist, displays his love of Laura through his detailed recollections of their relationship, whilst the charming yet alarmingly vacant Shelby (Vincent Price), a man having affairs with noticeably more than one woman, is the more darkly sinister of the two, and often (perhaps innocently) implicates himself in the murder. About halfway through the film there is a huge narrative shift, which at first is jarring, as the audience is not sure if this is the fantasy or dream of McPherson, but the revelation shifts the story, questioning the reality of the two main suspects.
As McPherson is drawn into the elusive Laura's lifestyle, the central focus of much of the narrative is set in the presence of a painting of Laura hanging in her room. It is an idealisation of the woman - she appears dominating in the picture - an image that is captured not by Laura, but by the men around her. This image is easier to handle that the real thing, it is a passive version of the woman. Whilst a lot is put upon the sexual power that Laura has on these men, it is the neuroses and imbalanced psyches of the men. But Laura, as we discover, is a more individual, independent woman, who perhaps does not require the desire of others. So the fantasised painted version of her can be contained and controlled. A reading could suggest that the power that Laura has over these men somehow perpetuates the incitement to murder, but in fact it would be easier to read that it is the breakdown of the masculine that is the determining factor in murder, and not necessarily a woman who is unsure of her decisions when it comes to settling.
The performances are phenomenal here. Andrew's hard-boiled detective is excellent, with his proto-Columbo style of investigation, playing games with the suspects, and forcing them into corners. Price and Webb are brilliantly over-the-top - Price giving a sinister performance through the disguise of charisma. But, inevitably, the titular character, through the mysterious, seductive beauty of Tierney, is awesome in a tricksy way. She is not necessarily the traditional femme fatale, she is not consciously playing these men, yet at times the audience is unsure. Is she twisting the delusions of these men to her will? Or is she as sweet as she sometimes appears? It is an almost perfect performance.
The influence of this film is undisputed. The James Elroy novel, The Black Dahlia, whilst loosely based on a true-life crime, was undoubtedly broadened by Laura's influence. The Black Dahlia has the central theme of the obsession by an investigator of a dead woman. These themes of obsession must have been directly correlated by David Lynch and Mark Frost when they wrote and conceived of Twin Peaks which began with the death of a high school girl, and the subsequent investigation unravels levels of obsession in a small community, much of which extended from this one girl. It's a wonderful, twisty, and often surprising story that illustrates that the power of women is not always a product of feminine knowing, but the failures and compulsions of weak, lonely men.
Although it wasn't released until after similar films of the genre, Stranger on the Third Floor is considered to be the first 'true' film noir. The classic tale of an innocent man out to prove his innocence is given a slight spin with a short central section depicting Ward's descent into panic. This is punctured with a quite strange dream sequence that is filmed quite nicely given the obvious budget limitations. These limitations tend to damage the film's potential impact, with McGuire's quite outlandish performance making it disappointing that director Boris Ingster couldn't afford a better lead. With very literal narration, he flails around as if locked in an operatic Russian silent, feeling it important to inform the audience "I'm tired," after yawning and stretching.
The extremely dull first two-thirds of the film spend most of the time tip-toeing around the strongest plot thread, which is Jane's search for Peter Lorre's creepy stranger. Lorre saves the film, having been a veteran of German Expressionism, is perfectly suited to the film's overwrought, dramatic style. His soft voice and small stature make him barely imposing, but subtly unnerving. Running at just over an hour, Stranger was never intended to be challenging, but a simple thriller, and that's exactly what it is. But it's also frightfully pedestrian, offering none of the sleaze or sweat I usually love from B-grade noirs. It certainly had a key role to play in the development of one of the most successful genres in American cinema history, but this, combined with Lorre's memorable but sadly brief appearance, are the only reasons why this film is fleetingly remembered.
When an immigrant is found shot to death in the docks, the cause of death is given as gun shot wounds. The coroner, however, notices signs of something far more sinister - the pneumonic plague. Lt. Commander Reed (Richard Widmark), a doctor with the U.S. Public Health Service, is brought in to investigate the matter and contain any possible signs of infection. With the backing of the mayor, Reed faces scepticism from the police, and namely Captain Tom Warren (Paul Douglas), with whom he is forced to conduct the investigation with. With a prediction of 48 hours until the disease starts to spread, Reed and Warren are forced into a desperate rush to find the killers with next to nothing to go on.
In contrast to the usual genre traits of film noir, Panic in the Streets makes the fine comparison between crime and disease, being very much one and the same. In order to prevent a deadly outburst, Reed must trace the dead body back to the intimidating Blackie (played with chiselled brooding menace by Jack Palance, he credited as Walter Jack Palance), who in the climatic scenes, scuttles across the floor as he desperately tries to evade the pursuing police like the rats that brought the bubonic plague to Europe in the 1300's. It's almost a strange subject to tackle within the confines of film noir, but if anything, heightens the intensity of the film, and with Elia Kazan's fine direction, the film becomes a fine metaphor for inner-city crime spreading like a cancer.
Coming three years after his shockingly evil turn in Henry Hathaway's Kiss of Death (1947), that earned him an Oscar nomination, here Widmark is our hero and the man standing in the way of mass infection. Rather than the quick-tongued, hard-drinking and chain-smoking anti-hero's of most noirs, Reed is the one voice of sanity, fighting the system and finding comfort with his wife (played by Barbara Bel Geddes) at home. The few scenes that see Reed talk with his wife are a stark contrast and a welcome break from the documentary-style realism of Reed's investigations, a technique carried on from Jules Dassin's ground-breaking The Naked City (1948). Beginning with a smoky card-game played out with sweaty heavies (including Zero Mostel in a fantastic slimy role), the New Orleans' streets are shot in high contrast black-and-white, with sweeping cinematography that brings to mind the majestic tracking shot from Touch of Evil (1958).
Although it pains me to say it - given his unforgivable outing of his friends and colleagues in the House Committee on Un-American Activites as being communists, leading to the black-listing and career deaths of many great artists - Kazan is a master of his medium. Yes, it's far from being one of the all-time great noirs, but Panic in the Streets is simply a finely polished and expertly paced thriller, squeezing out tension from the tiniest of moments, and bringing real originality to the genre. This is the not the Hollywood noir of Humphrey Bogart, but an honest and gravelly depiction of a city from the mayor down to the scum, with a apprehensive lone hero beating at its heart.
Every great noir needs a chump, and we are introduced to Phantom Lady's unfortunate patsy Scott Henderson (Alan Curtis) as he sits slumped at a bar. He has tickets for a show but his date has stood him up, so he innocently asks the only female in the bar, played by Fay Helm, if she will accompany him. The woman, whose name we don't learn until much later in the film, is clearly emotionally unstable, initially turning down Scott's offer before agreeing under strict terms: they won't reveal their names or discuss anything personal. They go to see the show, where the mystery woman's rather outrageous hat is also being worn by the star on the stage, Estela Monteiro (Aurora Miranda), enraging her and amusing the diminutive band drummer Cliff (Elisha Cook Jr.). The night ends with a hurried goodbye, and Scott returns home to find three policemen waiting for him. As they lead him to the bedroom, his wife lays dead, strangled with one of Scott's own neckties.
