D.O.A.: Small Town Man Visits Big City, Murder Follows

Frank Gerstle, Edmond O’Brien, “D.O.A.” (1949).
The doctor delivers some astonishingly bad news.

Frank Bigelow needs to find the truth,
but he's driven by a deeper motivation

By Paul Parcellin

When you think of noir, it’s probably not 18th century British author Samuel Johnson who first springs to mind. But his most famous quote really nails the crux of “D.O.A.”: “When a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.”

Apt words for Frank Bigelow ( Edmond O’Brien), the cursed hero of “D.O.A.,” who is under a death sentence, but not the kind that involves a rope. His is a story of rotten luck, an obsessive search for the truth and the mind’s nimbleness as the final grains of sand funnel through the hourglass.

But first, the top reason to see “D.O.A.” is the opening sequence, perhaps the greatest setup in all of noir. Bigelow arrives at Los Angeles City Hall at night, as if drawn in by its illuminated spire, a beacon in the dark. He enters and makes the long trudge through the hallways leading to police headquarters and the camera follows him all the way. Arriving at the homicide bureau, he reports a murder.

Bigelow tells his story.

“Who was murdered?” the head detective asks. 

“I was,” he says.

Thus begins one of noir’s most definitive existential crises. A man living under a death sentence has mere hours before he expires. What will he do with his remaining time, we wonder? The lowdown comes in a long flashback in which we learn that the past few days have been a frenzied struggle. Bigelow, a small town accountant, first got sucked into a dark vortex of doom some months ago, long before he realized his predicament. He accidentally landed in the middle a scheme to sell stolen iridium, a valuable metal. He’s innocent of any wrongdoing, but fate cares not about culpability. 

Details of the story behind this delayed-action murder get a bit complicated and difficult to digest as the story winds toward its harrowing conclusion. But the backstory is less important than Bigelow’s frenetic struggle to get to the bottom of the mystery that torments him to distraction. 

At the story’s core is a powerful obsession with finding the truth and a frenzied investigation that seems imperative, yet pointless. He could have gone to the police immediately but chose to go it alone. You might correctly assume that Bigelow’s head-first dive into the nitty gritty of the case is his way of shutting out thoughts of the Angel of Death’s inevitable visit.

His downward spiral begins when he leaves his loving girlfriend, Paula (Pamela Britton), behind in their small desert town. Frank plans to let down his hair in the big city, San Francisco, while deciding whether or not he will walk the plank with Paula — a plan that, frankly, is a bit on the cruel side. She hates the idea of him cavorting around town, yet feels she has no choice but to let him go get his freak on.

House band, The Fishermen, drive the beatnik crowd wild.

Once in the confines of his big city hotel room he’s up for a bit of sinning, and it turns out he’s come to the right place. By chance, he meets a group of traveling salespeople who are partying like it’s V-J Day, and he’s invited to join the fun. 

“Jive-crazy” hipsters dig
the crazy beat at
the Fisherman jazz club.

Drink flows freely and this group of inveterate squares lands at a beatnik jazz bar, of all places. It’s the film’s most surreal and fun sequences as the hep crowd grooves to the frenzied beat of a live sextet blowing hard bop.

Clearly, it’s a square’s idea of what a jazz club is like. The joint is a cartoonish den of iniquity where loose morals and uninhibited self-expression are on display, a place where oddballs and commies probably smoke “marihuana.” Above all of that, it’s a spot to meet “jive crazy” girls, and Frank’s game for that.

Of course, he’s out of his element here. The music makes his head spin, but the possibility of connecting with some counter-culture female companionship makes it tolerable. When at last he’s about to hook up with a mysterious blonde, someone slips him a radioactive mickey that sends his life into a tailspin.

It’s as if he’s being punished for his carnal cravings, and the penalty for straying from his girlfriend is death. But beyond that, we wonder who fed him a nightcap of hot nuclear soup. 

We’re left to ponder whether the raucous group that brought him to the bar had any part in the scheme. After all, the head sales nerd persuaded Bigelow to join the group and organized the bar hop. He’s got his wife in tow and at one point he gives Bigelow the stink eye for getting too cosy with the missus — a rather weak motive for murder, but people have killed for less.

It’s not until the next morning that Bigelow realizes that something is off and gets himself examined. The terrifying verdict is in: he’s been dosed with a slow-acting luminous poison and has only several days left to live. 

A couple of medical establishments confirm that he’s a goner, and at first he’s in denial. From the dimly lit confines of a physician’s office, Bigelow bolts into the vast, sun-filled concrete cityscape that is somehow as claustrophobic and airless as the doctor’s office. He’s a man trying to outrun fate and it’s hard not to gasp for breath along with him as he scrambles toward points unknown. 

Pamela Britton, O’Brien. Frank and Paula meet all too briefly.

A cool factoid is that the shots of Bigelow running down San Francisco’s Market Street were taken without city permits. Those he bumps into are not hired extras but pedestrians who are visibly confused about the jostling they get. Director Rudolph Maté shot the film on a small budget, around $500,000, and made the most of limited resources. 

Frank ponders Life.

We witness Bigelow go through the stages of impending death in an extremely compressed timeframe. Pausing at a newsstand bedecked with copies of Life magazine, he watches people interact, but he seems all but invisible to them. He’s like an apparition who observes others but cannot interact with them. His initial terror dissipates and he seems to be wistfully picturing a world in which life will go on without him.

Once the initial shock is absorbed he accepts the bitter reality and snaps into action. In his final hours he’s determined to find out who poisoned him and why they did it. And then … who knows what? Maybe he’ll bring the killer to justice or perhaps he’ll take matters into his own hands. Along the way he acquires a pistol, so both options are open.

This is a drastically different Bigelow than the one who embarked on his junket to San Francisco. He’s focused, emotionally high strung and determined to get answers. 

The film's climax takes place in the Bradbury Building in downtown Los Angeles.

His investigation takes him abruptly from the Bay Area to the City of Angels, and at every turn he encounters another mug or two-timing dame. As the dust begins to settle it becomes clear that there’s a network of people behind the plot against him. But why would they go to so much trouble to kill an accountant from jerkwater USA?

The film’s answer is a bit more complicated than it needs to be, but not quite as byzantine as “The Big Sleep,” perhaps the most convoluted plot in all of noir. 

Neville Brand as Chester. He takes
Frank Bigelow for a wild ride.

Bigelow traces the iridium dealers, meets the widow of the man who tried to warn him about impending danger and tracks down the shady characters behind the illegal sale. He gets taken for a ride by psychotic thug Chester (Neville Brand), and survives a shootout in a pharmacy. 

Bigelow’s mind has become wonderfully focused as the shadow of death hovers over him. He later expires in the homicide bureau after spilling the story to a roomful of enthralled detectives.

Facing certain death can clear cobwebs from the brain, all right, but too often clarity arrives at the eleventh hour.  It’s ironic that had he not gone through this ordeal he might never have realized his feelings for Paula, but by then it was too late. Alas, romance often doesn’t work out in noir. 

Frank Bigelow gains a sliver of self awareness only to die an untimely death. That’s a Pyrrhic victory you might say, and Samuel Johnson would undoubtedly agree.

Originally published in the Nov./Dec. 2024 issue of The Dark Pages. Check out The Dark Pages newsletter at: www.allthatnoir.com/newsletter/

Paul Parcellin writes about crime films and TV. Follow him on Bluesky: @paulpar.bsky.social 

Whiteout Noir: 6 Films With Cold Blooded Crimes In Wintery Places

Ward Bond, Robert Ryan, "On Dangerous Ground" (1951).

Murder has a different look atop a crisp blanket of snow

By Paul Parcellin

Winter is upon us, and in many places snow has either fallen or soon will. So it’s time to consider noirs that feature arctic blasts of frigid air and piles of the white stuff. Can’t think of any? Understandable — there aren’t a lot of them.

Snowfall plays a dramatic role in a handful noirs and it’s a surprisingly natural fit. The arresting beauty of a snowy landscape is a natural foil for manmade concrete and steel jungles where noirs are typically set. 

But with beauty comes danger. Those frozen vistas and iced over waterways can be deceptively peaceful settings for robbery, kidnapping and homicide. Thickets of unspoiled nature are apt havens for villains on the lam from crimes committed in the big city. 

What’s more, expanses of wilderness blanketed in deep, heavy snowpack can be as isolating and barren as the sands of the Sahara.

Here are six noirs that feature wintry squalls, the aftermath of punishing blizzards and miles of soft white powder. Tread carefully, and don’t forget to bring warm clothes, good boots and maybe a revolver, too:

Robert Ryan, Ward Bond, Ida Lupino, “On Dangerous Ground.”

“On Dangerous Ground” (1951)

Police detective Jim Wilson is an isolated, rage-filled outsider. He struggles to hold back his contempt for most others and is prone toward violence. Wilson can’t stomach the public’s disrespect for law officers, and as we meet him he’s edging close to an emotional breakdown. 

He regularly pummels suspects held in custody and roughs up anyone on the street who looks remotely guilty of a crime.  His superiors and colleagues notice his mental deterioration and send him away to a small upstate town where he’s to help with a murder investigation. 

The murder case is that of a young girl killed while walking through a lonely field. Her grieving, infuriated father is, understandably, in much greater emotional distress than hot headed Wilson. The shotgun toting dad wants vigilante justice and he takes an instant dislike to Wilson, the big city cop.

Wilson is extraordinarily out of place in this hick town, never more so than when, in pursuit of a suspect, he races through snow covered woodlands in his wing tips, fedora and overcoat. The snow is itself an antagonist that bogs down the city guy. When pursuing a suspect in a car chase over icy, treacherous roads, he slows the vehicle and the other driver gets away, further enraging the bereaved father.

He meets a blind woman, Mary Malden, who lives a fairly isolated life, but unlike Wilson, she’s not lonely. When we see the two together it’s clear that Wilson’s isolation fueled rage just might melt before the snow does. A cop doesn’t trust anyone, he tells Mary. She, on the other hand, must trust everyone.

 For a while it looks like the two of them will get together, but things change when Wilson discovers the identity of the fugitive from justice. Then all bets are off. 

Brian Keith, Aldo Ray, “Nightfall.”

“Nightfall” (1956)

Jim Vanning tries to look inconspicuous as he walks the pavement on Hollywood Boulevard. As the film opens we get a gander at 1950s Hollywood in shots that are like time capsules. When twilight falls the boulevard is aglow with neon and lined with well known nightspots: Musso & Frank, Miceli’s and Firefly, among others. This is about as far removed from a snow covered vista as you can get. Or so you’d think. 

An unplanned and involuntary trip to the putrid Venice Beach oil fields lies in store for Vanning. Then, in a flashback, we’re transported from that industrialized wasteland to a snowy Wyoming campground. The idyllic spot is nestled on the bank of a dazzling frozen lake surrounded by powder covered peaks.

Vanning and a buddy are winter camping when two thugs, running from the law, careen over an embankment and wreck their car. Their very presence despoils the dramatically beautiful landscape. That transgressive acts should take place in such a pristine setting seems to violate the laws of man and nature. 

It’s amid the rolling, snow covered hills of Wyoming that this story of greed, violence and narrow getaways concludes — against a stark white backdrop, far from Hollywood Boulevard and the Venice oil fields.

James Mason, F.J. McCormick, “Odd Man Out.”

“Odd Man Out” (1947)

Snowfall only makes a bad situation worse for Irish Nationalist Johnny McQueen. He’s on the run through the streets of Belfast, dodging police who are after him for a robbery and murder.  He and some allies heisted cash meant to fund further Nationalist endeavors. Johnny suffered a bullet wound and a broken arm. 

Heavy rains pound the streets as he dodges police and seeks shelter. Then the rain turns to snow. If inclement weather isn’t punishment enough, some whom he meets in his Odyssey toward safety offer sympathy and sometimes a bit of help, while others scheme to use him for their own gain. 

He’s the leader of the local “organization” and well known in the community. Many of those who’d like to help him fear retribution. His love, Kathleen Ryan, is one of the few who selflessly provides aid. But it’s a losing battle; Johnny’s wounds make it hard to run and he’s losing blood by the minute.  

Snowfall covers the grimy streets and makes the city beautiful — ironic that the freedom fighter should suffer greatly as the brick and cobblestones are painted a brilliant, angelic white. 

Eugene Pallette, Belita, Barry Sullivan, “Suspense.”

“Suspense” (1946)

This one could have been called “Noir on Ice.” Joe Morgan breezes into L.A. looking like he’s been sleeping under bridges since leaving New York. He gets a job at the ice show, first as a peanut vendor, then he quickly climbs the ladder to a management position. A love triangle develops with him, the ice show star Roberta, and Max, who runs the operation.

The action switches to a hunting lodge in the snow covered High Sierras, which is to say, a soundstage with painted backdrops of snow drifts and icicles. (Yes, it’s a bit cheesy, but this Monogram film looks like a big budget production by Poverty Row standards.) 

Tensions rise when Joe unexpectedly drops in on lovebirds Max and Roberta as they relax at the mountain hideaway. It’s all too much for Max, and he decides to put an end to the flirtations between Roberta and Joe. 

His actions seem to backfire, and here we see what lots of snow cascading down a mountainside can do. But lest you think that those messy little affairs of the heart have been covered up in tons of the white stuff, think again. In noir, there’s always the danger that the past will come back to haunt the guilty. 

Gregory Peck, Ingrid Bergman, “Spellbound.”

“Spellbound” (1945)

Don’t mess with the table linens when Dr. Anthony Edwardes is around. The young psychoanalyst, who happens to be the newly appointed director of a Vermont psychiatric hospital, will be upset. 

Edwardes’s colleague marks a white tablecloth with the tines of a fork and the parallel lines remind him of ski tracks left in the snow. Suddenly, a repressed memory bobs to the surface and Edwardes freaks out. 

Dr. Constance Petersen, a psychiatrist at the facility, notices that Edwardes shows a number of troubling signs, and she suspects the worst. The problem is, she and he have become an item, and things may get … awkward. 

This is a story of deep seated psychological wounds that, irony upon irony, are apt to be misinterpreted by the psychiatric hospital staff. There’s even identity confusion, and as the story progresses we’re less sure of who is who and what thoughts are lodged in the deeper recesses of the staff’s minds. Alfred Hitchcock directs. 

Cornel Wilde, David Stollery, “Storm Fear.”

“Storm Fear” (1955)

Let’s say unexpected company drops by and a heavy snowfall traps you all under the same roof. It might be fun, sort of. Not so for the Blake clan. Fred, the missus and their young son find themselves penned in with Fred’s brother, Charlie, and a couple of his associates. 

Seems Charlie and his friends just robbed a bank, need a place to hide out and won’t leave. The Blakes’ mountain cabin, under siege, becomes a stage where where family squabbles, resentments and betrayals play out. 

Fred, a struggling writer, is jealous of the close bond between David, his son, and the family’s hired hand, Hank. Charlie seems to develop the same rapport with David. To make matters worse, Fred senses an attraction between his wife, Elizabeth, and Charlie — they were once a couple. 

Benjie, Charlie’s mentally unstable, violent cohort, wants to run off with the bank loot. Tensions rise when the trio of robbers, guided by young David, snowshoe over the mountain and try to make their escape. But a snow covered peak can be a mighty obstacle to conquer, and most city folk aren’t up to the challenge.