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
