UNDERTOW (William Castle, 1949, USA)

 

Tony returns from the Pacific Theatre to fight his own war on American soil. Betrayed by an engagement ring, he’s framed for a murdering his ex-crime boss Big Jim while on his way to make peace with him, the kingpin's niece soon to be Tony’s future femme. This mediocre crime drama relies on trite characterizations and coincidence to complete its final act, and William Castle’s direction is bland and lukewarm. DP Irving Glassberg’s compositions are formulaic, mimicking noir style without deeper expression. 

Tony Reagan (Scott Brady) returns from the Pacific to sign a business contract with his dead buddy’s father, to become business partner in a little fishing lodge outside Reno. Tony was involved with the Chicago Syndicate in the years before the Second World War, but he’s turning over a new leaf. A chance meeting with the ingenue Ann McKnight (Peggy Dow), a Chicago schoolteacher, gives him a friend when he needs one most. Tony is going to marry Sally (Dorothy Hart) but wants Big Jim’s permission before the union. Unfortunately, a fatal conspiracy lands Tony on the lam, and he must rely on both his new friend and his childhood cohort Reckling (Bruce Bennett), a Detective who believes in his innocence. There is little surprise who did the framing, and it doesn’t take a genius to know that the large rock on Sally’s finger is a dead giveaway. It’s frustrating that Tony fails to recognize this sooner! We get a femme fatale, fistfights, shootout, chases, kidnapping and a large black man who takes three slugs point blank before beating his benefactor’s murderer to pulp. This all sounds way more exciting than its execution. 

The acting is mostly dull, as Scott Brady exudes little charisma. The rest of the cast lacks charm or interest, acting as caricatures as opposed to complex people. The exception is Peggy Dow whose naivete and honest beauty is disarming. Even Dorothy Hart as the fatal fiancé isn’t given any juicy scenes or dialogue. The actor’s failure is mostly the fault of a tepid script. 

Of course, it all ends happily ever after for our hero and his new schoolmarm but not so much for Sally and her underhanded beau. 

Final Grade: (C)

THE MAN WHO WASN'T THERE (Joel & Ethan Coen, 2001, USA)

 

Ed Crane is a stranger to his wife, an invisible ghost who haunts his own house, a barber destined to an eternity of cutting hair, which always grows back…even after death. Ed sees his routine dreary future laid out before him: a loveless marriage, a mortgage, a mundane but steady job as second chair, and decides to take his destiny into his own hands. Knowing his wife is having an affair with her boss, he anonymously blackmails “Big Dave” into paying him ten thousand dollars. But things just don’t turn out right for Ed; he accepts his punishment with little remorse, taking full responsibility for his actions, and stoically receives his final judgment. Ed tries to make amends by helping his friend's daughter (the beautiful Scarlett Johansson) to become a piano virtuoso, he wants to make something good happen in the world to balance the misery and death he has wrought, and his intentions are honest and true. 

The Coen brothers capture the 1950s in beautiful black and white cinematography, utilizing stark lighting and period detail that imbue the film with a classic noir façade. But the Coen brothers seem to have contempt for their characters, allowing their quirky style of inane dialogue and absurdity to taint the narrative. Every minor actor works too hard to be unique, every situation is just a bit too foolish, and the plot is just a bit too contrived. When Big Dave’s widow begins to speak of alien abductions and conspiracies, this awful tragedy begins to play like some poorly written abstraction, undermining the serious philosophical issues that could have been explored. Billy Bob Thornton remains impassive, his craggy face a landscape of existential alienation, and it’s his great performance that gives substance to this moral ether. 

Final Grade: (B)

POINT BLANK (John Boorman, 1967, USA)

 

Walker trudges through the shadow of the valley of Death but he fears no evil...because he is the evil. He is a vengeful spirit whose very name implies motion, and though he demands his $93,000 his war is not with a single man, but an ideal. And it’s a war he cannot win. Walker is led by his Virgil, a guide through the fractured maze of his quest, and even this companion proves duplicitous and part of the inner circle of Walker’s Hell. There is no epiphany for our protagonist, only narcissistic justifications as he acknowledges that the people who betrayed him were once his friends, until he descends full circle toward a nihilistic fate and becomes a shadow. Even the film's title is a double entendre, as its meaning refers to very close range or, apropos to the dream-like quality of this tale, a tabula rasa of our protagonist's raison d’etre. 

The plot: Walker (Lee Marvin) is double crossed and shot down, left for dead by his wife and best friend, his $93,000 now forfeit. But he survives and stalks those responsible, seeking monetary reimbursement over retribution but he discovers that those responsible are just cogs in a faceless machine. But did he survive? John Boorman crafts violent poetry, transforming this boilerplate scenario into a spiritual travelogue. He minimizes establishing shots and transitions, utilizing flash-forward and flash-back compositions to disorient and confuse, showing us Walker’s perspective instead of telling us exposition: it’s a puzzle without edge pieces. DP Philip Lathrop’s use of color and shadow is brilliant, a chiaroscuro technicolor nightmare. The sound design and editing also convey the narrative ambiguity, as Walker’s experiences may only be happening in his death dream, as he lies dying in a crumbling prison cell in Alcatraz. 

The acting is first rate as Lee Marvin’s stone-cold stare and explosive outbursts are offset by the peripheral cast, who become the ghosts of his destructive journey. Keenan Wynn as Yost, his mysterious guide, is taciturn and ethereal, appearing without explanation. Angie Dickinson is Chris, Walker’s sister-in-law, a woman of compassion and strength but ultimately helpless to her paramour. In one great scene, she pummels Lee Marvin, slapping his face, pushing and punching his chest, until she falls exhausted to the floor. This scene last nearly a full minute and Lee Marvin doesn’t blink, and Angie Dickinson didn’t pull her punches. Wow. 

Walker’s beginning comes to an end, where his peregrinations were birthed in gunpowder, betrayal and bloodshed. The money delivered like mana from the heavens lies in a circle of light, untouched by Walker as Yost with his deadly henchman offer employment before walking away. His Pyrrhic victory is a fade to black without profit, a purgatory. Is he destined to repeat this performance for eternity? 

Final Grade: (A) 

PLUNDER ROAD (Hubert Cornfield, 1957, USA)

 

Five men discover that it’s easier to commit the perfect crime than it is to get away with it! Hubert Cornfield depicts his characters in motion like obligate ram ventilators, drawing their very essence from the ether of movement. When the characters pause, they begin to suffocate in a thick atmosphere of anxiety and tensions. Legendary DP Ernest Haller lights this rain-soaked noir in low-key, highlighting the rain like piercing arrows completing their arcs, and frames the hardened anxious men in close-up and two-shots, which propels the story as we get emotionally closer to this quintet. 

The opening moments depict the highway's racing white lines as strident music underscores the credits, setting a fast and furious tone. We soon witness two trucks speeding through a rainstorm, with five men heading towards an unknown fate. There is no introduction to these characters as we come into a story that is nearing completion, and we wonder why two of these men sit in the back of a box truck with an unknown substance suspended by springs and pulleys. It obvious this must be nitroglycerin, and they are about to heist some unspoken cargo. They rob a train of ten million dollars in US Mint gold bars, and everything goes perfectly according to plan. But this isn’t the story. The tale is in the getaway and their plan to cross the country in separate trucks full of gold bullion while the entire nation is looking for them! 

Eddie (Gene Raymond) is the hard yet soft spoken leader, a man pulling his first and last robbery. The other gang members include Skeets (Elisha Cook Jr.), Munson (Wayne Morris), Roly (Stafford Repp), and Frankie (Steven Ritch). Eddie’s gal Fran (Jeanne Cooper) ain’t no femme fatale as she an active member who appears in the third act. The film allows minimal exposition of each character, their hopes, fears, and dreams of the big payoff, and the casting is perfect as each seems to be compassionate and humane, even if they have felony rap sheets. When a murder of an innocent witness happens, it’s gut wrenching and done without sadistic pleasure. As they split into three groups to meet in LA, only one group makes it. At least Elisha Cook survives this film! 

Once Eddie and Frankie are in LA, Fran helps them smelt their third of the gold into car parts (hubcaps, bumpers, and such) and then install these parts onto a luxury Cadillac! What a great fucking plan! Sure to get past any checkpoint. But what is their ultimate scheme? Even if they board the boat to Lisbon, how do they convert solid gold to cash without drawing attention? Ultimately, they need not worry long term because the LA Freeway traffic is bumper to bumper. 

Final Grade: (B+) 

STREET OF CHANCE (Jack Hively, 1942, USA)

 

A bruised brain and two blinking eyes set one man’s fate on either the road to salvation or the long, lonely walk towards the death chamber. Director Jack Hively’s work is perfunctory, while the pacing drags a bit as the mystery is slowly revealed. DP Theodor Sparkuhl’s low-key lighting and chiaroscuro compositions, with an excellent crane-shot in the denouement, elevate this above it’s preposterous substratum. The construction of the plot is absurd as our protagonist is a double amnesiac, with no explanation as to how he becomes a new person in the months before the story begins. So, when he’s concussed in the first moments of the film, he reverts back to his original identity. This dude should wear a fucking helmet. 

Burgess Meredith is wonderful with top billing as Frank/Danny, a man whose entire world has seemed to change around him while he’s stayed the same. This skewed perception is played with subtly and intelligence as he attempts to discover why his reality is subverted and deformed. When he returns to his old life from which he has been missing for the last year (unbeknownst to him), he’s chased by gun toting men in dark suits. The setup leads us to believe he’s being chased by gangsters, as if he was a witness in an important trial, but these men turn out to be cops. He’s the wanted man! Nice twist. Of course, he searches for the person he was, and his only clue are the initials DN on his cigarette case. Another grand coincidence brings him into the arms of Ruth Dillon (Claire Trevor) where he learns he’s on the run for murdering her employer. Is he innocent? Even if he committed this murder as Danny Neary (DN), which is after his first brain trauma, is he legally and morally guilty as Frank Thomas? The story doesn’t delve too deeply into these themes but instead focuses on self-discovery and poetic justice. A film that does investigate such philosophical issues is Nagisa Oshima’s DEATH BY HANGING (1968). 

The third act introduces a paralyzed matriarch whom Frank/Danny believes may know the identity of the killer, so he devises a simple yet effective means of communication. But why did he want to return to the scene of the crime since he has no memory of it? The film doesn’t allow Frank to unlock his past with triggers, such as the return of a memory when he visits a particular place or examines a specific item (which would have made more sense). The story is designed to make us believe that the scheming brother of the deceased and the ex-wife, who stand to inherit $250,000, are the masterminds who framed Danny. But blinking eyes and 26 letters reveal the fatale as femme, Danny’s paramour Ruth. As Frank struggles to take her pistol, she’s gut-shot and dies in his arms, while his last words are a lie to appease her departing spirit. But doesn’t anyone know first aide? 

Final Grade: (C+)

THE MAN FROM LONDON (Béla Tarr, 2008, Hungary)

 

Maloin sits upon his dreary tower, his dull pounding monotonous life like the repetitive rumbling of clacking steel thunder, until a suitcase of stolen money offers reprieve from his purgatory existence.

This existential drama unfolds in the shadowy murk of morose close-ups and sullen camera movements, each face reflecting the terrain of life’s harsh temper, each deliberately paced tracking shot a brief revelation of emotional turmoil and angst. Director Béla Tarr deconstructs the Crime/Mystery genre and turns expectations upside-down: he shows us the mundane between the action, closing the viewer out of the physical and only revealing the metaphysical (that is, beyond the senses).

The plot is simple, much like the Coen brother’s masterpiece NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN, only Tarr imbues his characters with realistic and empathetic attributes, reveling in their flawed humanity, and the journey becomes an internal inferno, a hellish struggle to live a better life. As Maloin’s family begins to self-destruct from this vicious secret, the thief and police inspector, both hot on his trail, begin to uncover the truth: he knows it’s only a matter of time before the money is discovered in his possession. He learns the source of the stolen money and the thief’s hiding place; instead of some unbelievable action sequence, Tarr shields us from the confrontation, which we expect to be peaceful.

Through a lens darkly we see the world shaded in Tarr’s unbeautifully gritty black and white cinematography, and even in this lost world of pathos a human being can still act morally…and do the right thing. Otherwise, we become animals ruled by greed and instinct, whose path to hell is paved with good intentions.

Final Grade: (B)

CHICAGO CONFIDENTIAL (Sidney Salkow, 1957, USA)

 

DA Jim Fremont must balance his upward mobility with the downward spiral of the underworld, where a drunken bum holds the .45 caliber key to his political future. I worked for several District Attorneys during my 23-year career and not one was an action hero like Jim Fremont, Esq.! Sidney Salkow’s taught direction propels this forward like a gunshot in its brief 75-minute trajectory, limiting talky exposition and focusing upon action. DP Kenneth Peach isn’t flashy or stylish, but his compositions don’t get in the way of the story either. It’s perfectly utilitarian. 

Union Boss Artie Blane (Dick Foran) is framed for murdering an accountant who was on his way to a secret meeting with DA Jim Fremont (Brian Keith), ledgers in hand. As the evidence accrues against the defendant, Fremont can use this conviction as a springboard to land the Governorship. The narrative friction begins with his discovery of evidence that could overturn the conviction. Fremont’s moral and ethical dilemma soon leads to fisticuffs, kidnapping, and shootouts! The story upholds the Rule of Law as Fremont doesn’t hesitate to do the right thing, even if his career suffers as a result. The trial conviction hinges upon two alibi witnesses, Blane’s fiancée Laura (Beverly Garland) and neighbor Sylvia (Beverly Tyler) but their testimony is subverted with a tape recording of Blane’s voice, a gimmick that proves he wasn’t in Laura’s apartment. This evidence is presented by the DA during cross-examination, and one wonders why the trial wasn’t delayed until proper forensic analysis was completed. It’s an appealable mistake by the defense attorney, especially in a Death Penalty case! However, to soothe Laura who proclaims her man’s innocence after conviction, Fremont has the tape analyzed. Turns out it’s a fake! 

Brian Keith portrays the District Attorney as a forthright family man, and we never truly believe he will put himself before the life of a man he now knows to be innocent. Beverly Garland is strident yet honest, playing her character with intelligence and compassion. But it’s Elisha Cook Jr as Candymouth Duggan, the derelict who wanders the waterfront and finds the revolver used in the accountant’s murder, that steals the film. He becomes the cornerstone of the story, and as expected, when he’s removed the gangster’s scheme collapses under its own weight. Which doesn’t help Duggan, as he’s soused when the bad guys drop him from an overpass directly in front of a moving train! Fuck, that’s a brutal death. The final shootout as police Tommy Gun the bad guys is also fierce but deserved. And in the end, Fremont frees Blane and becomes headline news.  

Final Grade: (B-) 

THE GREAT GATSBY (Elliott Nugent, 1949, USA)

 

James Gatz grasps the American Dream through racketeering, bootlegging, gambling and other vices, reinventing himself as a blue-blooded old sport, yet his fatal mistake is in transcending his caste and betraying the one person who matters most: himself. Elliott Nugent’s humdrum direction and pacing transforms the great American novel into a typical melodrama with a noir flourish, which sounds more exciting than it actually is. DP John Seitz, who has photographed some of the greatest film noirs, composes in a utilitarian fashion lacking a convincing style and failing to create atmosphere or tension. The effects photography in the crash scene is laughably amateurish, looking more like a Poverty Row production. 

James Gatz, now Jay Gatsby (Alan Ladd) is a Jazz Age powerbroker, his Victorian mansion home to swinging parties and drunken revelries. The story arc is concerned with his rise and subsequent fall, which is told mostly in flashback. Where the novel introduces us to Gatsby through the perspective of his neighbor Nick Carraway (Macdonald Carey), the screenplay instead gives us an immediate omniscient viewpoint into his past. As the story unfolds, we get several long flashbacks that detail his relationships and regrets. The novel keeps Gatsby great and mysterious, a stranger that verges on kinship but the film rejects any narrative ambiguity or subtly. By shifting point of view, the magical tempest is diverted harmlessly into the ground like electricity through a lightning rod. 

Alan Ladd as the titular protagonist is excellent in portraying a man who needs to be more than he is, small of stature but big on success, who judges himself through the eyes of others where money is the measuring stick to status and respect. Ladd’s performance is often subtle and shy, yet full of fury when threatened. The supporting cast is adequate and fulfill their roles functionally, but they remain bland and expressionless. Except Shelly Winters as the jilted paramour, whose shrill voice and fierce anxiety dominate her few scenes, and Elisha Cook Jr. as Gatsby’s wartime cohort, who actually survives the final act. 

Gatz willingly becomes the fall guy for his muse and learns too late an axiom of life: Happiness isn’t having more, it’s wanting less. 

Final Grade: C 

THE BOSS (Byron Haskin, 1956, USA)

 

Matt Brady becomes a kingpin who is soon bowled over by his own excess. Byron Haskin’s direction is utilitarian in focusing primarily upon the protagonist who is too often cloistered in smoky offices scheming with other good ol' boys, yelling orders on the telephone, or diminishing his “ugly” wife. Legendary DP Hal Mohr lenses this talky exposition competently enough, yet it’s when the action starts that his talents shine. 

Matt Brady (John Payne) returns from The Great War to his unnamed middle-class town in somewhere, USA, where his brother Tim (Roy Roberts) is the political heavy. Matt’s childhood pal Bob Herrick (William Bishop) rides along on his coattails, after his buddy funds his Juris Doctor. We get the sense that Matt’s oppositional defiant personality helped him survive the trenches yet earned him little loyalty or friendship from his confederates. And herein lies that film’s problem: John Payne portrays his character in such a one-dimensional execrating tone that it becomes tiresome and predictable. There is no character arc of self-reflexive discovery or salvation, especially in his personal life, that makes him interesting. Protagonists need not be likable, but they sure as Hell must be compelling! 

Dalton Trumbo has a decent allegory buried here but the screenplay instead concerns itself with the superficial. If we knew a bit more about his wartime experiences, or about his childhood escapades with Bob, the viewer may be compassionate towards the animal he has become. When his brother Tim drops dead after an argument with Matt, we expect this as a springboard for consuming guilt that may explain his toxic conduct, but it’s only mentioned in passing as a throwaway accusation. And in a head-scratching bit of casting, Matt apparently marries Lorry (Gloria McGehee), an ugly and threadbare streetwalker who is actually quite beautiful. Yet everyone in the film treats her character as a pariah, including herself. This leads to a four-sided love triangle that is never fully exploited. There are complexities that don’t quite rise to subtext and remain buried under the weight of the pugnacious, shouting script. 

However, Hal Mohr makes the film visually exciting when the fisticuffs begin, filming in medium shot with long takes as fists fly, bodies are slammed, and shots are fired. He lenses a great tempest in the first act as Matt and his returning retinue engage in a barroom brawl, but alas the film takes a slow dive from there, descending into talky exposition. Early in the third act we get the Union Station massacre, as Matt orders an informant captured while passing through his town. Of course, when you rely on psychopaths with Tommy Guns to carry out your orders, you get a blood bath. Then, as his fall from gracelessness is nearing completion, we get Matt throwing one of his expatriates into the thrumming maul of a huge cement mixer. All wonderfully composed in noir-ish shadows and skewed angles! 

Mohr designs a final shot of Matt Brady as a silhouette dominated by the shadows of prison bars, his phallic cigar now impotent, dropped smoldering on the pavement. For Matt, here is only well-deserved comeuppance. 

Final Grade: C

MAD DETECTIVE (Johnnie To & Wai Ka-Fai, Hong Kong, 2007)

 

Bun is cursed not with the preternatural ability to interact with other people's “inner personalities” …but in not being able to see his own. Suffering from a debilitating mental illness, Bun is released from the police force after severing his ear and offering it to the retiring commissioner. He spends the next few years in seeming isolation, accompanied only by his imaginary wife. When he is needed by a young detective to solve a heinous crime, he refuses his meds and psychiatric advice to once again use his abilities and sacrifices himself for a higher cause. 

This is an interesting character study that peers deep within Bun’s convoluted mind but ultimately doesn’t reveal his secrets. Directors Johnnie To and Wai Ka-Fai erect the film’s structure around Bun, we see mostly from his skewed perspective, we experience the ghostly personalities that haunt the world; these deadly sins that push the characters towards vice, decadence, and finally the ultimate sin…. betrayal. To and Ka-Fai forgo the need for tricky camera shots and hyper-editing and let the narrative develop more intimately, they give us insight into Bun’s personal life such as the sad dinner, the seat across from him forever empty. This imbues us with empathy for our protagonist; though mad, he may be the only sane person in the entire drama because he stays true to his own uncorrupted nature. 

The final surreal shootout is homage to Orson Welles' LADY FROM SHANGHAI, shattered mirrors and dark reflections, like sharks mad with their own blood, devouring themselves. Unlike Welles' protagonist Michael O’Hara, there is no escape for Bun, his fate the nihilistic void of an eternal restful peace while the world remains restless, full of violence, bloodshed, and injustice.

Final Grade: (B+)

THE LADY FROM SHANGHAI (Orson Welles, 1947, USA)

 

A shiver of sharks, sensing the urgency of blood, soon devour each other in an orgy of gluttony. Orson Welles directs and stars in this violently comic noir masterpiece against the gorgeous Rita Hayworth as his counterpoint, a Circe who attempts to transform him into a vertebrate without backbone. DP Charles Lawton’s work is fantastic, from his deep focus outdoor compositions and sweating close-up, skewed high angle shots and chiaroscuro lighting, to the fractured multiplicity of the final act. His work is one of the most inspired of the entire film noir style! Inserts and close-up were ordered by the studio after Welles’ principal photography so two of the greatest cinematographers added to this masterpiece, DPs Joseph Walker and Rudolph Mate. 

Welles plays the fall guy, Irishman Michael O’Hara and nails the guileless incompetence of the protagonist who is willingly led astray by the wicked Femme Fatale Rosalie Bannister (Rita Hayworth). Michael knows she’s bad news and calls himself a “big boob” yet subscribes to the newspaper anyways, so to speak. He narrates the film in retrospect, so unless this is SUNSET BOULEVARD, we expect he somehow survives the murder wrap and escapes the hot seat. But is he acquitted or still awaiting his final testament? An almost incoherent murder plot results in a farcical trial that stretches credibility but delivers absurdity and humor: defense attorney Arthur Bannister (Everett Sloane) takes the stand under the DA’s direct questioning, then cross examines himself! A surprise subpoena for Rosalie forces her to withstand the accusations of the prosecution and assure the conviction of O’Hara, her suspected lover. 

The story is far-fetched and outrageous but that becomes part of the charm. The true value is in the technical compositions and direction: though Welles didn’t retain Final Cut, his surviving vision is wonderful to experience. The fast-paced overlapping dialogue adds narrative immediacy and wonderful wordplay, while the thick sweaty close-ups exude porous immorality. Of course, Rita Hayworth is shot with soft filters that add an angelic glow to her countenance, a devilish contradiction to her true nature. The cinematography includes twisting high angle vertiginous shots, and characters that are hidden in shadows that conceal their moral identity. The carriage scene at the beginning breaks editing convention with a continuous shot, panning up and down in focus, as the two strangers discover their fatal attraction. The shattering climax is a technical achievement that is as beautiful to watch as the platinum blonde antagonist. 

Final Grade: (A)