Why did Lee Marvin Give the Cops the Finger?

Lee Marvin, as Charlie Strom, a man in a quandary.

One of hitman Charlie Strom's victims didn't try to run and save his own life, and Charlie needs to get to the bottom of it

(Contains spoilers)

By Paul Parcellin

If you’ve seen “The Killers” (1964) starring Lee Marvin and Clu Gulager you might have an unsettling feeling about the film’s ending. I sure did. 

The 1964 movie has little in common with the Ernest Hemingway story upon which it’s based except for the title. Screenwriter Gene Coon insisted that the script should not quote any Hemingway dialog or include any scenes from the 1946 film adaptation starring Burt Lancaster. Director Don Siegel wholeheartedly agreed with Coon’s vision. He wanted to ignore the earlier screen adaptation and create a fresh, original take on the material. 

Also, Siegel had a bitter history with the earlier project. Producer Mark Hellinger asked him to direct the 1946 film, but studio boss Jack Warner forbid the rookie director from helming the project and veteran director Robert Siodmak was hired instead. 

Clu Gulager, as Strom’s fellow hitman, Lee.

Without question, the 1964 version is miles apart from the earlier flick. For starters, it’s in color, unlike Siodmak’s earlier black and white film. But mainly, Siegel’s film is told from one of the two hitmen’s point of view while the 1946 adaptation is seen through the eyes of an insurance investigator played by Edmund O’Brien.

Plus, Siegel’s film focuses on a question that gnaws at hitman Charlie Strom ( Marvin): Why didn’t the victim try to run and save his life? It’s an existential quandary that Strom carries with him and only bubbles up to the surface at the film’s end.

Strom is the consummate professional, in contrast with his less disciplined partner in crime, Lee (Gulager). Strom, the older of the two, maintains his focused demeanor and makes no mistakes until greed enters the picture and clouds his vision.

Angie Dickinson, as femme fatale Sheila Farr.

Surrounded by cops, Strom tries to escape, even though he’s trapped and certain to be captured. He ends up unarmed, so instead of blasting his way out he pulls his hand out of his pocket, aiming his fingers like a pistol and is immediately shot dead. It’s a brutally overpowering ending and it leaves us with another puzzle that flips his question about the victim of the hit, race car driver Johnny North (John Cassavetes):  Why does Strom not only allow but actually invite the police to shoot him?

In a short commentary included with the disc’s special features, critic Stuart M. Kaminsky says that the finger-gun move was a reflex action, but I beg to differ.

Strom is too cool a customer to make a fatal mistake like that. His final dramatic gesture is rooted in the riddle he needed to solve. He wonders why North didn’t try to avoid the angel of death when he and Lee shot him.

John Cassavetes, as race car driver Johnny North.

It’s rumored that North was in on a million dollar heist, and Strom decides to follow the money and perhaps get a piece of it. That sends him and Lee on a quest to find and question those closely associated with the victim. But underneath it all is that troubling question, and beyond the possibility of a big score, finding the answer to it is what most intrigues him.

After untangling North’s backstory, Strom finds the answer he’s looking for.

“The only man who’s not afraid to die is the one who’s dead already,” Strom tells femme fatale Sheila Farr (Angie Dickinson). “You killed him four years ago.” Not literally, of course, but her double dealing crushed him and set him up for murder. She and North planned to double-cross gang leader Jack Browning (Ronald Reagan) and make off with a cache of loot. It’s no wonder Browning hired Strom and Lee to kill North — or did he? Sheila might have had a hand in that.

Ronald Reagan, as gangster Jack Browning. 

As Strom begins to understand Johnny North’s predicament, his time on earth grows shorter. Why did the question get under Strom’s skin? Perhaps he saw something of himself in the victim. 

Strom is a dark, brooding, steely professional. He seems to have no family or friends, save from his fellow hitman. His professional function as a killer is his life and nothing else seems to exists for him. He’s as dead inside as the murdered race car driver and the money is all he cares about. But the nagging question about North’s death won’t let him go. 

Strom traces the money to Browning, and he plans to grab it from him, but it all goes wrong. He’s caught in a shootout at Browning’s residence and all of his avenues of escape are cut off. He’s wounded — earlier, Browning shot him and killed Lee — and tries to get away, but police surround him. His sudden, impulsive move with his hand pointed like a gun draws fire and Strom is taken down, still gripping the money. It could be a suicide by police, or simply an act of defiance. 

Like North, he accepts or maybe even welcomes his fate. Rather than put up his hands and go to prison he chooses to go out in a blaze of gunfire. What does it matter when you’re already dead?

Amnesia Noir: 30 Films Worth Remembering

Alan Ladd, William Bendix, “The Blue Dahlia” (1946).

When Returning War Vets and Others
Suffer Memory Blackouts, Murder is Often Afoot

By Paul Parcellin

Total amnesia, the kind that wipes out memories like a damp sponge on a chalkboard, probably happens more often in movies and television than in real life. Rare as it may be, it’s a frequent problem in cinema — some call it the common cold of film noir. 

Movies about battle scarred GIs returning from overseas, disengaged from their past and unsure of their place in post-war society must have struck a chord with soldiers coming home from the battlefield — why else would Hollywood have told and retold that story in so many films? On a symbolic level, the amnesiac in films may have resonated with many a veteran who would have preferred to forget much of what he’d seen and heard in combat.

John Hodiak, Nancy Guild,
"Somewhere in the Night" (1946).

In the movies, those unlucky enough to suffer from extreme cases of amnesia are remarkably isolated. Unable to recollect any family ties or friends that could connect them to their past, they search for details that will flesh out their identity. They must navigate through a peacetime world fraught with dangerous characters while dodging the consequences of previous events blotted out of their memories. 

Rather than seek out familiar faces — for them, there are none — they haunt their old stomping grounds, hoping that someone will recognize them and help fill in the blanks. But that’s risky business and they’re often sitting ducks for foes posing as friends.

As a rule, the amnesiac was not an accountant, plumber or any other kind of humdrum wage slave in their pre-amnesia state. Many were involved in, or adjacent to, criminal activity. Consequently, a spate of old enemies looking to settle scores crouch in the shadows, ready to pounce. Sometimes it’s underworld figures, other times it’s the police, either of which could spell doom for the ones with no past.

Here are 30 films about returning soldiers, and civilians, too, in which crime and memory loss cross paths. Sometimes, a memory is erased by battle wounds or combat fatigue. For others, a night of heavy drinking, drugs, or a violent encounter create the same mental fog. Either way, each is lost and unable to trust anyone, including themselves:

“Beware, My Lovely” (1952)

A mentally disturbed handyman (Robert Ryan) on the run, for reasons even he doesn't understand, takes a job at the house of a lonely war widow (Ida Lupino) in 1918. He suffers from memory lapses and extreme mood swings. Soon, she’s a prisoner in her own house.

Dan Duryea, June Vincent, Peter Lorre, “Black Angel.”

“Black Angel” (1946)

Alcoholic pianist Martin Blair (Dan Duryea) is convinced that a heart-shaped brooch is a crucial clue in the investigation of his ex-wife's murder. Suspicion builds around dodgy nightclub owner Mr. Marko (Peter Lorre). But darker truths emerge.

“Blackout” (1954)

A broke American in London (Dane Clark) meets a woman (Belinda Lee) who offers to pay him for a marriage of convenience. He agrees, but awakens bloodied in a strange place, having unknowingly become entangled in her father's murder.

“The Blue Dahlia” (1946)


Ex-bomber pilot Johnny Morrison (Alan Ladd) is suspected of murdering his unfaithful wife. His shell-shocked pal, Buzz Wanchek (William Bendix), suffers memory lapses. He may or may not have committed the murder.

“The Blue Gardenia” (1953)


A telephone operator (Anne Baxter) ends up drunk and at the mercy of a cad (Raymond Burr). The next morning she wakes up with a hangover and the terrible fear she may have committed murder.

“Brott i sol” (1947)

After having spent six years in an asylum, Harry (Birger Malmsten) returns home. He soon remembers what happened six years ago. He had five of his friends over and one of them, Raoul (Curt Masreliez), was murdered. In order to find out which of them is the murderer, he invites them over to reconstruct the crime.

Jimmy Lydon, Claudia Barrett, “Chain of Evidence.”

“Chain of Evidence” (1957)

Paroled inmate Steve Nordstrom (Jimmy Lydon) is viciously assaulted, leaving him an amnesiac. He aimlessly wanders until he’s used as a patsy by an adulterous wife and her lover who aim to kill her rich husband.

“The Chase” (1946)

Chuck Scott (Robert Cummings) gets a job as chauffeur to tough guy Eddie Roman (Steve Cochran), but Chuck's involvement with Eddie's fearful wife, Lorna (Michèle Morgan), becomes a nightmare. To make matters worse, a recurring war malady causes Scott to lose his mental focus just when he needs to be at his sharpest.

Bill Williams, Frank Wilcox, “The Clay Pigeon.”

“The Clay Pigeon” (1949)

It’s quite a bringdown to awaken from a coma only to discover that you’re suspected of murder. Jim Fletcher (Bill Williams) is in a U.S. Naval hospital and about to be court marshalled for a crime he cannot remember committing. To make matters worse, everyone seems to think he’s traitorous scum.

“Crack-Up” (1946)

Art curator George Steele (Pat O’Brien) has a mental breakdown and thinks he was in a train wreck. Is he cracking up, or the victim of a wicked plot?

“Crime Doctor” (1943)

Amnesia victim Robert Ordway (Warner Baxter) becomes the country's leading criminal psychologist. After he is hit on the head by someone from his past, he suddenly remembers his previous life as a criminal.

John Payne, “The Crooked Way.”

“The Crooked Way” (1949)

Eddie Rice (John Payne) is such an upright, good natured sort that we can scarcely believe that he committed dastardly acts before the war. A chunk of shrapnel is permanently lodged in his brain and he’s suffering from amnesia. But his ex-wife, Nina Martin (Ellen Drew) and gangster Vince Alexander (Sonny Tufts), are more than willing to refresh his memory.

“Crossroads” (1942)

French diplomat David Talbot (William Powell) is blackmailed for crimes that he committed before he lost his memory. The blackmailer alleges the diplomat committed a bank robbery and murder. Talbot was long ago treated for amnesia as the result of a physical trauma.

Bill Williams, Earle Hodgins, “Deadline at Dawn.”

“Deadline at Dawn” (1946) 

Sailor Alex Winkley (Bill Williams) and dance-hall girl June Goffe (Susan Hayward) spend a long night trying to solve a murder. After a drink-induced blackout, Winkley woke up with a pocketful of cash he received from the victim. Now he's only got until daybreak to figure it out.

“Derailed” (1942)

An uptown girl (Illona Wieselmann) loses her memory after getting a disturbing message from her doctor. She ends up in the wrong part of town among criminals and prostitutes. She falls in love with the tough guy (Ebbe Rode), who recently got out of prison.

“Fall Guy” (1947)

Joe Fraser (Elisha Cook Jr.) meets Tom Cochrane (Leo Penn) at a bar, seemingly by accident, and brings him to a party filled with seedy characters and drugs. Before the evening’s out a sexy blonde slips Tom a Mickey. He awakens on the sidewalk, stained with blood, a bloody knife by his side. He has no memory of what went on the previous evening but vaguely remembers finding the body of a murdered girl stuffed in the closet.

“Fear in the Night” (1947)

Bank teller Vince Grayson (DeForest Kelley) dreams of murdering a man in a room full of mirrors. He investigates and finds that there's ample evidence that he did commit murder. But there may be a shadowy figure lurking behind the scenes. 

“Female Fiends” (1958) (a.k.a. “The Strange Awakening”)

Peter Chance (Lex Barker), is attacked by a hitchhiker he picked up and is left unconscious. He awakens in a strange room with no memory. The homeowner, Selena Friend (Carole Mathews), tells him he is her son and is heir to millions.

“Hangover Square” (1945)

Composer George Harvey Bone (Laird Cregar) is under stress, which causes him to blackout whenever he hears dissonances. Strange gaps in his memory are troubling signs, especially after a murder occurs.

“High Wall” (1947)

After a brain-damaged war veteran Steven Kenet (Robert Taylor) confesses to murdering his wife and is sent to a psychiatric hospital, Dr. Ann Lorrison (Audrey Totter) tries to lead him to recover his memory of events as he begins to question his guilt.

“Key Witness” (1947)

With his wife out of town, unsuccessful inventor Milton Higby (John Beal) parties with a friend and two girls they meet. When he awakens from a drunken stupor, he finds the girl he was with has been shot and killed, and he is suspected of the murder.

Anthony Quinn, “The Long Wait.”

“The Long Wait” (1954)

Hitchhiker Johnny McBride (Anthony Quinn) is badly hurt and loses his memory when the car he’s riding in crashes. Two years later, a clue leads him to his old home town, where he finds he is a murder suspect. Johnny tries to discover the truth about the murder, while pursued by gangsters and several seductive women.

“Man in the Dark” (1953) 

Unlucky Steve (Edmond O'Brien), a convicted felon, is released from prison after undergoing an experimental procedure that erases from his brain all criminal impulses — the side effect being permanent memory loss. 

“Murder on Monday” (1952)

Banker David Preston (Ralph Richardson) goes missing for 24 hours and has no memory of the lost time. When he learns that the steward of his local club has implicated him in a robbery and has been found murdered, Preston has no alibi.

Hildegard Knef, Gary Merrill, “Night Without Sleep.”

“Night Without Sleep” (1952)

Awaking one morning after a night of hard drinking, composer Richard Morton (Gary Merrill) can't shake the feeling he has murdered a woman during the night.

“Nightmare” (1956)

New Orleans clarinetist Stan Grayson (Kevin McCarthy) dreams he committed a murder. He recalls from his dream a mirrored room with many doors, and a murder committed with an ice pick. Based on a Cornell Woolrich novel, “And So To Death.”

“Somewhere in the Night” (1946)

George Taylor (John Hodiak) awakens in a military hospital, and to his horror discovers that his memory has been wiped clean by a serious wound he received in the war. He embarks on a mission, believing he may fill the black holes that have replaced his memories. He searches for leads but all he’s got is a letter from a man he doesn’t know, the mysterious Larry Cravat.

Burgess Meredith, “Street of Chance.”

“Street of Chance” (1942)

Frank Thompson (Burgess Meredith) awakens to find that he's lost his memory. He slowly puts the pieces of his life together and discovers that he has a second identity, and that he's been accused of a murder that he can't remember committing. Based on the Cornell Woolrich novel “The Black Curtain”

“Violence” (1947)

Undercover reporter Ann Mason (Nancy Coleman) infiltrates a neo-fascist group that recruits disgruntled veterans, but amnesia prevents her from exposing them.

“Voice in the Wind” (1944)

Concert pianist Jan Volny (Francis Lederer) lost his memory after being tortured by the Nazis during the war. He journeys to the island of Guadeloupe to try to regain his memory and his health. Meanwhile, smugglers Angelo (Alexander Granach) and Luigi (J. Carrol Naish) blame Jan for setting fire to their boat.

'The Killers': Nagging Questions In a Haze of Gunsmoke

Left, Burt Lancaster, “The Killers” (1946).
Right, Lee Marvin, “The Killers” (1964).

In both versions, sports heroes have tragic downfalls and alluring women enter the picture to offer a helping hand — it doesn’t turn out well for the wounded competitors

By Paul Parcellin

“The Killers” (1946) Robert Siodmak (director) — “The Killers” (1964) Don Siegel (director), The Criterion Collection, [Blu-ray]

Why on earth would a man facing the barrel of a gun fail to run away or at least try to evade death? That’s one question raised in both the 1946 version of “The Killers” and the 1964 film of the same title, both adapted from an Ernest Hemingway short story. 

But the main puzzle, the one that drives the action, is who’s in possession of the cash that was swiped in a brazen holdup? 

Criterion’s release offers both versions on a single disc that demands a comparison of the two.

Charles McGraw, William Conrad, Harry Hayden, "The Killers" (1946).

In director Robert Siodmak’s 1946 film, insurance investigator Jim Reardon (Edmond O’Brien) seeks the beneficiary of former prizefighter Ole “Swede” Anderson’s (Burt Lancaster) life insurance policy. The Swede went down for the final count in a shabby rooming house when two gunmen burst in and opened fire. 

Reardon finds the woman who is to receive the policy payout, but in doing so discovers that the Swede lived a complex life. The ex-pugilist fell on hard times and was involved in a heist that netted a big pile of cash that’s still missing. Reardon decides to find and retrieve the loot for the insurance company and get to the bottom of the Swede’s mysterious death.

John Cassavetes

In Don Siegel’s 1964 film, the search is on for the proceeds from another big robbery, but this time the ones doing the investigation are hitmen Charlie Strom (Lee Marvin) and his partner in crime, Lee (Clu Gulager). The duo murder former race car driver Johnny North (John Cassavetes), and are determined to recover loot from a heist that North took part in. Charlie is focused on recovering the money, but he’s also bothered by a question — why did North not try to save himself when the hitmen came calling?

Both victims have the makings of one kind of Hemingway hero, skilled competitors in macho professional sports, and each with a dark side. Lancaster’s Swede sees his prizefighting career fade away as he breaks his right hand in a bout that turns out to be his last match. Cassavetes’s Johnny, the headstrong race car driver, pushes his luck and damages his eyesight in a wreck, leaving him unable to compete. Both he and Swede feel diminished and their excessive pride takes a beating.

Angie Dickinson

Before meeting their unfortunate comedowns, each is smitten with a dangerous girl who’s apparently cozy with a powerful crime boss. After their accidents, they struggle to maintain a hold on their respective aggressively material girls. No longer the cocky, virile competitors they once were, both has-beens struggle for the woman’s love and admiration to revitalize their lives. They remind us a bit of Hemingway’s Jake Barnes in “The Sun Also Rises,” who is left impotent by a wound received in the Great War.

The ladies, Kitty Collins (Ava Gardner), Swede’s love interest, and motorsports groupie Sheila Farr (Angie Dickinson), reel them in and then offer to connect them with some pals who are plotting a big score. Both guys can’t resist the opportunity to win their respective girl by grabbing a pile of loot and showering her with minks and diamonds — or so they think.

The story takes a number of twists as the two fallen heroes submerge into the criminal world. In short, they’re two prideful tough guys eventually broken by femmes fatale. Neither one catches on to the cold truth that the deck is stacked against them until it’s much too late.

Ava Gardner

Anthony Veiller, who adapted Hemingway’s story for Siodmak’s film, also co-wrote “The Stranger” (1946) and was an uncredited collaborator with John Huston and Truman Capote on the screenplay for “Beat the Devil” (1953). His version of the story is structured like “Citizen Kane” (1941), with Reardon chasing down clues and interviewing people who knew Swede. The bulk of the story is told in flashbacks as those closest to the deceased man recount their dealings with him. 

In contrast, Siegel’s film proceeds in a more linear fashion with a minimum of flashbacks. For the most part, the story simply follows Charlie and Lee as they chase after a pile of cash and, in true Lee Marvin fashion, wreak havoc on anyone who tries to stop them. The opening sequence is a corker. The two killers track down Johnny in a school for the blind where he teaches auto mechanics and take him out in a roomful of unsighted witnesses.

While both films have similar plots, their look could hardly be more different.

Edmond O’Brien, Sam Levene, “The Killers” (1946).

Veteran cinematographer Elwood “Woody” Bredell photographed Siodmak’s moody black and white noir. His rock-solid crime film credits also include “Phantom Lady” (1944), “Lady on a Train” (1945) and “The Unsuspected” (1947).

Because Siegel’s film was created for TV, Richard L. Rawlings, a cinematographer with extensive television credits was chosen to shoot it, and on the surface it’s as un-noir-like as a film can get. Like most other TV shows of that era, scenes are bombarded with bright light and nary a shadow is in sight. Each shot pops with saturated color — producers felt that TV shows needed to be visually vibrant to compete with household distractions.

Ronald Reagan's last film role
"The Killers" (1964)

That strategy didn’t pay off as expected. Broadcast executives wanted no part of the film’s violent onscreen action. Siegel shopped it around for a while, then decided to release it theatrically. It was not a major box office hit, but stylistically it was influential. Siegel later directed “Dirty Harry” (1971), and “The Killers” helped set the tone for that mega-successful Clint Eastwood film as well as many others throughout the coming decades. 

Oddly enough, Siegel was initially tapped to direct the 1947 version of the film, but studio higher ups put the kibosh on that, citing the young director’s lack of experience. Instead, Siodmak, a veteran behind the camera, was chosen. 

Siegel’s film is perhaps his vengeance for that disappointing incident years before, as he finally caught up with the one that got away.

Like Siegel, hitman Charley Strom finds that patience pays off. Eventually he discovers the answer to his question about Johnny’s meek acceptance of his fate. Nick Adams (Phil Brown), Swede’s young co-worker and friend is left to ponder the same question. When Nick goes to warn him that his life is in peril, Swede doesn’t explain his downfall, but tells him, “I did something wrong, once.” It’s a puzzle that remains an open ended question, but eventually we see the reasons for Swede’s powerlessness to resist the gunmen. He’s been reduced to a shell of himself and death is inevitable — a sad fate for a wounded hero whose life takes a tragically wrong turn.

The Criterion disc features new high-definition digital restorations of both films, plus extras such as a 2002 interview with Clu Gulager, an audio excerpt from Don Siegel's autobiography, “A Siegel Film,” Screen Directors Playhouse radio adaptation from 1949 of the 1946 film, starring Burt Lancaster and Shelley Winters as well as essays by novelist Jonathan Lethem and critic Geoffrey O’Brien. It’s a feature-packed disc that noir fans ought to add to their libraries.

Busted But Not Broken: Greylisted Actor Made Indy Noirs

Virginia Christine, Edward G. Robinson, “Nightmare” (1956).

Edward G. Robinson's testimony before the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) resulted in his being shunned by the major studios. Instead, he appeared in independently produced Poverty Row films

Film Noir: The Dark Side of Cinema XVII [Vice Squad / Black Tuesday / Nightmare] [Blu-ray]

By Paul Parcellin

He’s no matinee idol, but when Edward G. Robinson is on screen we can’t take our eyes off of him. Short in stature and chunky with a bulldog face, it’s hard to explain his magnetism. He’s got that special quality that makes great character actors, and few can rival him for sheer screen presence. Try to imagine “Double Indemnity” without Robinson’s cranky insurance adjustor Barton Keyes, or “Little Caesar” minus his Napoleonic crime boss Caesar Enrico Bandello. Unthinkable.

Robinson’s command of his craft is evident in the three-disc Blu-ray box set from Kino Lorber, “Film Noir: The Dark Side of Cinema XVII,” released just this year. In these films, Robinson plays dramatically different characters effortlessly, or at least makes it seem that way. 

In the many roles he played throughout his career he embodied the characters he portrayed, giving them distinct, memorable personalities, from meek Christopher Cross in “Scarlet Street” (1945) to conniving bully of a crime boss Johnny Rocco in “Key Largo” (1948).

This box set’s trio of films are modestly budgeted crime thrillers, unlike the bigger films he’d made before and during the war. These early to mid 1950s films were made after he was obliged to testify before the House Committee on Un-American Activities (HUAC). The committee was established to root out the alleged communist infiltration of society and the Hollywood film industry in particular. 

In his testimony, Robinson named some of his peers who were associated with the Communist Party. He admitted that he, too, was briefly associated with the party, but claimed that he was duped into participating. His testimony got him greylisted as opposed to blacklisted. The blacklist banned actors from making films in Hollywood. Major studios wished to avoid negative publicity, so they wouldn't hire the greylisted Robinson, either. But he found he could act in theater and make films with the much smaller Poverty Row studios. 

The films listed below were made while Robinson was still under greylist restrictions. Later in the decade he was able to regain his standing and work with the major studios again.

Robinson as Police Capt. “Barnie” Barnaby in “Vice Squad.”

“Vice Squad” (1953) — 88 minutes

There’s relatively little vice in “Vice Squad” despite the title, and it’s not really a noir. It’s more a police procedural, heist movie and tale of suspense all wrapped into one.

Police Capt. “Barnie” Barnaby (Edward G. Robinson) is hardly Dirty Harry, but he isn’t above using blackmail, entrapment, false arrest and unethical if not illegal searches for the greater good. Tactics that would never be tolerated today seem routine in this 1950s crime drama. 

Barnaby’s more controversial tactics are leavened with humor. The running gag is the arrest and rearrest of dour-faced “undertaker” Jack Hartrampf (Porter Hall). Hartrampf witnesses the murder of a police officer as he’s leaving his mistress’s apartment, so he dummies up lest his name get into the newspapers. Barnaby uses some creative arm twisting, including blackmail, to get the undertaker to spill what he knows. But, Robinson’s avuncular police captain makes it all seem rather harmless, unavoidable and clever.

Barnaby isn’t a hardened, cynical law man, but rather an optimist and a realist who seems to enjoy his work. He tells us he hopes for the best, but realizes that he’s in a position that tends to bring out the worst in everyone.

Paulette Goddard as Mona Ross.

His department always buzzes with activity and several different stories unfold as police search for the murderer. One involves an Italian count who might be a con artist, and another entails an informant’s hot tip about a bank robbery plot. There’s the occasional lineup of petty criminals, and odd characters pop in, such as Mr. Jenner (Percy Helton), who complains about the “shadows that get all over me whenever I walk down the street.” Ever the public servant, Barnaby gives everyone a fair hearing regardless of the plausibility of their story or their grip on reality.

In addition to the highly recognizable Percy Helton, a number of popular character actors fill the cast, including Lee Van Cleef, Barry Kelley, Adam Williams and Edward Binns. Co-star Paulette Goddard plays Mona, a madame who operates an escort service and feeds Barnaby tips on criminal activities. She’s allowed to operate her business on the wrong side of the tracks so long as she provides useful information. It’s just another relationship of many that skirts the edge of ethical propriety, but that’s the way things go in Barnaby’s world.

Robinson as gangster Vincent Canelli in “Black Tuesday.” 

“Black Tuesday” (1954) — 80 minutes

Crime bosses don’t come much meaner than Vince Canelli (Robinson), a gangster who snarls when he speaks. Robinson’s role is close to a reprise of his Johnny Rocco in “Key Largo,” yet, Vince is even less charming and perhaps more evil than Johnny, if that’s possible. Both films have criminals and hostages trapped in buildings with Robinson running the show and barking orders.

Vince has precious little regard for human life other than his own and that of his lady friend, Hattie (Jean Parker). We don’t see how much he really cares for her until the film’s final moments. For a few fleeting seconds we can empathize with the otherwise detestable Vince, but that wears off quickly.

Besides Hattie, everyone else around him is a useful cog in his machine and nothing else. His talent is making cohorts believe that he’ll give them a square deal, but anyone loyal to Vince pays a price for his or her misplaced allegiance.

As the film opens, Vince and his partner in crime, Peter Manning (Peter Graves), along with other condemned inmates, await execution on death row. The film is essentially a two-parter: a prison breakout and then a last stand in a warehouse with escapees and their hostages. The escape is absurdly well planned and executed, highly improbable and fun to watch.

Peter Graves as Peter Manning.

Manning has stashed away loot from a robbery he and Vince committed, in the process of which they killed a police officer. That’s what put them on death row. Manning is keeping his trap shut about the whereabouts of the cash because he knows better than to put his faith in Vince. As their time in captivity ticks by, the hostages learn the hard way that trusting the crime boss is risky at best. Among the detainees are a news reporter, a prison guard’s daughter and a clergyman.

Hattie complains to Vince, “Shouldn’t have brought the priest. Bad luck.” 

“For him,” Vince mutters.

Stunning black and white photography by Stanley Cortez anchors the film to the shadowy domain of noir and makes dramatic use of rather limited sets. Cortez also shot “The Night of the Hunter” (1955) and “The Magnificent Ambersons” (1942).

Eventually, the outside world intervenes and pressure builds, bringing the film to a stormy conclusion.

Kevin McCarthy in “Nightmare.”

“Nightmare” (1956) — 89 minutes

Crimes committed under the influence of hypnotism, alcohol and narcotics are the backbone of many a noir tale, especially in Cornell Woolrich’s dark fiction oeuvre. In “Nightmare,” based on a novel “And So To Death” by Woolrich, New Orleans clarinetist Stan Grayson (Kevin McCarthy) dreams he committed a murder. 

Woolrich’s novel was previously adapted into the film “Fear in the Night” (1947) starring DeForest Kelley, and that film as well as “Nightmare” were written and directed by Maxwell Shane.

As we witness his nightmare, waves of fog waft across the screen, a wailing orchestra plays a dramatic score before the action cuts to Stan jarred awake in his bedroom, clutching evidence from the scene of the imaginary crime. 

He recalls from his dream a mirrored room with lots of doors, and a murder committed with an ice pick.

He discovers thumb prints on his throat as he staggers around his cheap room, the shadow of a rotating ceiling fan hovers above him like a dark angel. 

He’s got scratches and is bloodied,  and he’s clutching an odd shaped key that he’s never seen before. “Was I going insane?” he wonders in voiceover.

These are classic Woolrich story elements: a morning-after hangover, a spotty memory of having done something awful, a guilt racked conscience and unexplained wounds. 

Kevin McCarthy and Robinson
in “Nightmare.”

He confides in his brother-in-law, police detective Rene Bressard (Robinson), who is at first skeptical of Stan’s story, but later begins to see things differently.

When Stan leads Rene and others to a house off the beaten path, it looks a lot like the place Stan described from his dream, and Rene is ready to snap the cuffs on him. A strong undercurrent of mind control from an unknown source flows through the movie, and Stan sinks into a deep depression, certain that his life has been ruined.

Rene has his hands full trying to make sense of the case, and the solution to the mystery stretches credulity to the breaking point. But the cast’s uniformly strong performances make us forget about plot holes in this impossibly tall tale. But, if the story followed a more logical path it wouldn’t be a Woolrich yarn. 

“The Dark Side of Cinema XVII” features informative, well researched commentary tracks by film historians Gary Gerani and Jason A. Ney. The scans all look and sound great. Edward G. Robinson fans and noir appreciators should add this to their library.

‘Moguls’: How the Schenck Brothers Helped Invent Hollywood While Building an Empire of Their Own

Brothers Nicholas and Joseph Schenck. They went from owners
of an amusement park to giants of the Hollywood film industry.

Book Review:

'Moguls' (2024), by Michael Benson and Craig Singer,  Citadel Press

By Paul Parcellin

The Schenck brothers, Joseph and Nicholas, stood among the most powerful executives of the 20th Century’s movie industry and played a key role in shaping the Hollywood that we know today. Yet their names are hardly household words.

With their engrossing new book “Moguls,” authors Michael Benson and Craig Singer shine a light on the Schenck brothers’ rise in show business, from scrappy, small time entrepreneurs to captains of the movie industry during the glory days of Hollywood. The book contains a wealth of knowledge not only about the Schencks rise in the industry but the history of Hollywood itself.

The Schencks’s story begins in a land far removed from the sun drenched Southern California coast. Ossip Schencker, who became Joseph Schenck at Ellis Island, was four years older than his brother Nikolay (Nick). Both were born in Rybinsk, Russia, and came to America before the turn of the last century, eventually landing in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. 

Tough times forced Nick to leave public school and hit the pavement. Joe had arrived in America before him and had already begun scratching out a living. The two hawked newspapers on their jealously guarded prime street corner, chasing away rivals who tried to muscle in — good preparation for careers in Hollywood.

Joseph M Schenck,
Oct. 1917

Ever the entrepreneurs, they eventually landed in the pharmacy business, vending potions and remedies of dubious value, then operated a beer concession. They invested their money wisely, eventually owning the amusement center at Palisades Park, N.J. As they did with each of their business endeavors, the Schencks expanded and improved what was at first a fairly modest enterprise, turning it into a bonanza for them and a major attraction for adults and children, alike.  

They saw great potential in the “flickers” as they called early short films screened in New York storefront arcades. First, they became exhibitors and eventually got into the business of making moving pictures. Their keen instincts brought them to the forefront of the nascent business, yet they preferred to stay in the background, running their operation from afar while letting others bask in the spotlight.  

Nicholas Schenck

Joe, the producer, was a gifted at spotting and contracting stars; Nick oversaw real-estate acquisition and was tremendously successful at it, eventually partnering with movie theater magnate Marcus Loew. Nick helped create the expansive Lowes theater chain, building many extravagant movie and vaudeville palaces. 

The brothers’s rise was nothing short of meteoric. In their heyday, the Schencks controlled about a third of the motion picture business, the fourth largest industry in America. That included controlling interests in three major studios: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, Twentieth Century-Fox and United Artists. 

While they preferred to remain out of public view, they closely monitored their businesses and kept them under tight control. MGM studio head Louis B. Mayer may have had the reputation for being a dictatorial leader, but he made no decisions without first “checking with New York,” and that meant Nick Schenck.

Joseph Frank 'Buster' Keaton

Their pals included William Randolph Hearst, Lillian Gish, Jacob Paley, John Huston, Fatty 
Arbuckle (more on him later), Douglas Fairbanks, Irving Thalberg and Irving Berlin. Joe was silent-film legend Buster Keaton’s first producer and best friend. He produced such Keaton classics as “Sherlock Jr.” (1924), “The Navigator” (1924), “Go West” (1925), “The General” (1927) and “Steamboat Bill, Jr.” (1928), among many others. But, ironically, it was Joe who inadvertently put an end to Keaton’s career as a filmmaker when he moved him from independent productions to MGM. From then on, Keaton felt stifled as he appeared in commercial films that lacked the spark and creativity of his earlier work.

While Keaton's career took a less than desirable turn, the Schencks motored on, becoming all the wealthier. Nick, who was the more prudent of the brothers, became the eighth richest man in the country — Joe wasn’t far behind, despite his penchant for high-stakes gambling. Nick was head of more than 100 corporations and was reputedly the highest-paid theatrical manager in the world. 

But with Hollywood’s carefree lifestyle and tendency toward excess, scandal always seemed to be percolating just under the surface.

Roscoe 'Fatty' Arbuckle.

Joe produced films starring Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle, one of the country’s most popular comedy entertainers, second only to Charlie Chaplin. But in 1921 a public relations fiasco not only threatened Paramount, the studio where Arbuckle made his pictures, but the industry as a whole. He was charged with the rape and manslaughter of actress Virginia Rappe. 

He was tried three times between Nov. 1921 and April 1922. The first two trials resulted in hung juries, but the third trial acquitted Arbuckle. But public opinion was against the corpulent actor and his career never fully recovered. The movie business also took a hit, with the public and politicians decrying Hollywood’s moral decay, a theme that still resonates today.


Another item that became fodder for tabloid scandal sheets was the mysterious death in 1935 of actress Thelma Todd, known as “Hot Toddy,” mistress to both Joe’s close friend, director Roland West, and gangster Lucky Luciano. Many suspected it was murder, not suicide as a Grand Jury ruled. 

There was good reason to be skeptical due to her association with mobster Luciano. 

Eddie Mannix
the fixer

The authors maintain that studio fixers — probably including legendary Schenck enforcer Eddie Mannix  — swarmed the scene and scrubbed it of evidence before police investigators arrived. Mannix, a bulldog Irishman, worked for Nick as a youthful and enthusiastic bouncer during Nick’s Palisades Park days. 
It was his job to smooth over anything that might put the studio in a bad light. He had doctors, reporters, cops, DAs and judges under his thumb. Gay performers were provided beards. In the case of untimely deaths, the fixer got to the scene before the police. 

Stars were kept out of jail, and names out of the paper. According to the authors, suppressed scandals also include the suspicious death of Jean Harlow’s husband, Paul Bern; the murder of Ted Healy (creator of the Three Stooges) by actor Wallace Beery and others; Judy Garland’s drug addiction; and Loretta Young’s illegitimate baby fathered by a married Clark Gable. 

Scandal once again reared its head in 1959 with the mysterious suicide of George Reeves, TV’s Superman, at age 45. He died in his Benedict Canyon home from a theoretically self-administered gunshot wound. As circumstances had it, this was another scandal linked to the brothers. 

George Reeves
suspicious suicide

Many believed that Reeves had grown depressed by his typecasting in the Superman role. But over the years, what really happened to Reeves has remained a mystery. Schenck fixer Mannix was — at the very least — tangentially involved. Reeves had recently ended a long affair with Mannix’s second wife, Toni. 

The brothers’ tenure in the industry coincided with earth-shaking world and national events, and as Hollywood grew in worldwide stature the movie business played an ever larger part in the politics and issues of the day. 

The Schenks are credited with helping to ward off a Nazi takeover of the movie industry. Hitler had his eye on Hollywood, recognizing it as world’s biggest influencer of public opinion. Joe, Nick and other studio executives, urged on by attorney Leon Lawrence Lewis, organized a covert campaign to undermine American Nazi sympathizers’ efforts to use the studios to disseminate Hitler’s propaganda. The American Nazi threat fizzled as did the Fuhrer’s plans for worldwide domination.

Frank Nitti

A mob shakedown of the projectionists union in the 1930s, masterminded by Chicago gangster Frank Nitti, was a prelude to organized crime’s control of the movie industry’s trade unions. The Schenks and others decided it was better to play along than fight it. In fact, studio management benefitted by mob control. If the unions were troublesome, mob muscle could exert pressure. Studios saved money on raises that would otherwise have been paid to workers, while mob-controlled unions extorted the wage earners. 

A federal Grand Jury indictment helped put a lid on the corrupt practices. Nick testified under immunity, however those eventually found guilty of racketeering were soon pardoned by the Truman administration. The authors contend that Truman’s attorney general, Tom Clark, was in the hip pocket of organized crime.

Marilyn Monroe,
Joe's 'special friends.'

Far away from the scandals and Hollywood hype, Nick lived the quiet life of a family man in Great Neck, Long Island. United in their business partnership, the two brothers could hardly have been more dissimilar in personality. Joe was the man about town in Los Angles and was involved directly or indirectly in more than his share of trouble. He lived in a nine-bedroom, ten-bathroom Italian Renaissance-style mansion known as Owl-wood in the enclave of Holmby Hills overlooking Sunset Boulevard. It was there that, after a failed marriage to actress Norma Talmadge, he lived the life of a swinging bachelor and master of the casting couch. As he did with many starlets, Joe became Marilyn Monroe’s mentor and “special friend.”

Not only did Joe play fast and loose on the dating scene, some creative book keeping landed him four months and five days in the federal penitentiary for tax evasion. But, he was quickly released after allowing the USO to use one of his houses in Palm Springs. 

Over the decades, the brothers remained entrenched in the industry despite scandals, shifts in studio management, evolving audience tastes, friction with labor unions and perhaps most upsetting of all, the advent of television. Throughout it all they persevered and made their mark on the entertainment industry as few before or after them have done. 

Joe died in 1961 at his Beverly Hills home, where he lived alone except for household and medical staff.  At his funeral service the rabbi called Joe “part of a dying generation, a part of an epic of Hollywood that is fading fast.”

Despite his career misfortunes, Keaton eulogized Joe, saying, “I have never met a finer man in show business.” 

 Nick passed away in 1969 at 87, delusional that he lost his money although he was still a very rich man. He often refused to go anywhere or do things because he thought he couldn’t afford it. In his eulogy for Nick, famed attorney Louis Nizer said, “Nicholas Schenck was a great man. The architect of and the civil genius behind this country’s motion picture industry. He was a quiet, humble, but noble man. He truly was The General.” 

 

 

 

This is Noir: I’m Supposed to be On the Edge of My Seat, So Why Am I Smirking?

A wigged out Barbara Stanwyck, "Double Indemnity" (1944).

By Paul Parcellin

Film noir is chock full of death and destruction and that’s the way we like it. There are other factors at play, of course — dramatic tension between characters and nifty heists meticulously planned and sure to fall apart once it’s showtime. We love alluring femmes fatale who make us fight off the temptation to holler at the screen and warn the dupe that he’s about to fall for her toxic charms, the equivalent of stepping onto a spring-loaded bear trap with big, sharp steel teeth. 

We love to see a poor sap struggle to pry himself out of the mess he’s gotten into thanks to his unabashed hubris or just plain bad luck. 

A house that "must have set someone back
30-thousand bucks, if he ever finished
paying for it."

It can all get pretty grim, so whenever a fleeting moment of comic relief pops up, either intended by the filmmaker or not, it stands out conspicuously, like “a tarantula on a slice of angel food cake,” to paraphrase Raymond Chandler. 

I’m talking about jokes that fall flat. They aren’t funny now and audiences probably weren’t bowled over by them back in the day. There are lines of dialogue that have aged badly and certain references that are wildly out of date. Don’t forget the technical gaffs that cheap-o productions didn’t have the scratch to redo, and strange, awkward moments that are probably due to a star’s unreasonable demands and the director’s lack of gumption to fight back.

Here’s a sampling of some film noir moments that are cherished by smart alecks such as yours truly who now and then can’t help but notice when things on screen just don’t add up:

Sometimes it’s the small observations that put a different spin on things. 

Except for a police squad, Sunset Blvd.
is disturbingly quiet.

Take, for instance, a traffic-free Los Angles main drag in the opening sequence of Billy Wilder’s “Sunset Boulevard” (1950). The scene takes place as dawn breaks over the city, but on a roadway where, in reality, every hour is rush hour. Frankly, the lack of bumper-to-bumper vehicles casts a post-apocalyptic pall over the terrain. Maybe that was intentional, and now that I think about it, what better way could there be to suggest the end of civilization as we know it beneath the smog choked skies of Los Angeles?

Speaking of traffic, there’s a witty, self-aware moment in neo-noir “L.A. Confidential” (1997), which is set in the 1950s. Local dignitaries hold a ribbon cutting ceremony for the then new extension of the 10 freeway, announcing that the super roadway will allow motorists to go from downtown to the ocean in 14 minutes, or something wildly optimistic like that. In L.A., audiences jeer. It’s a fair bet that the first automobile to use that stretch of roadway made it to the ocean in 14 minutes. Since then, only helicopters and jet packs come close to that speed. 

Barton Keyes (Edward G. Robinson) straightens out
his boss, Edward S. Norton (Richard Gaines),
in "Double Indemnity" (1944).

One of noir’s most beloved crime dramas, “Double Indemnity,” (1944) has a number of moments that give us a chuckle. In fairness, most of the humor is due to a first-rate cast and the masterful work of director Billy Wilder and co-screenwriter Raymond Chandler. For example, in one scene Edward G. Robinson, as crusty insurance adjuster Barton Keyes, fires off smart rejoinders and clipped observations that hit the mark. This is one between him and his annoying boss, Edward S. Norton (Richard Gaines). Keyes gets in a subtle dig at the pompous executive:

Edward S. Norton: That witness from the train, what was his name?

Barton Keyes: His name was Jackson. Probably still is.

But then there are a couple of moments in which some unintended comedy occurs: When insurance salesman Walter Neff (Fred MacMurray) gazes at the upscale Spanish Colonial Revival home owned by one of his clients, he remarks in voice-over that it must have set the owner back “30-thousand bucks,” which elicited a knowing cackle from the audience at the Brattle, a Cambridge revival house where I saw it. It seems that there’s nothing like outdated real estate pricing to put an audience in a buoyant mood.

Walter Neff (Fred MacMurray) gets his drink on.

Another guffaw out loud moment comes when Walter, fresh off a couple of strings at a bowling alley, stops for a cold one at a car hop diner. He’s behind the wheel of his auto, a tray hooked onto the window ledge holds a partly filled beer bottle as he tosses back a glass of suds. The crowd got a sarcastic laugh out of this one, too.

Wilder was responsible for one production misstep. He said he realized too late that plunking a blonde wig on Barbara Stanwyck, who portrays femme fatale Phyllis Dietrichson, was a mistake. He wanted her to look cheap, but instead, he admitted, she looked like George Washington. 

The plot of Alfred Hitchcock's “Strangers on a Train” involves tennis star Guy Haynes (Farley Granger) who encounters deranged gadabout Bruno Antony (Robert Walker). Bruno’s delusions lead him to commit a murder that he eventually tries to pin on Guy. 

Farley Granger, Robert Walker.
"Strangers on a Train."

At the film’s stunning conclusion in an amusement part, a tense struggle between Guy and Bruno ends with an out of control carousel careening off its axis and sliding across the amusement park’s midway. 

Cops arrive and the mortally wounded Bruno clutches a key piece of evidence that would tend to clear Guy of the murder he’s suspected of committing. The police size up the situation and declare that Guy is innocent. No questions asked. No trip to headquarters required. Badda-bing, badda-boom, he’s free to go.

In “Shield for Murder” (1954), Barney Nolan (Edmond O’Brien)
lures bookie Packy Reed (Herbie Faye) down an alleyway.
Note the boom microphone shadow that somehow snuck into the frame.

My favorite visual blooper is what must be the most visible boom microphone shadow in all of noir. In the opening scene of “Shield for Murder” (1954), crooked cop Barney Nolan (Edmond O’Brien) takes bookie Packy Reed (Herbie Faye) down an alleyway and gives him the works. On the way, an undeniably crisp shadow of a piece of sound equipment comes into view. Noir is supposed to be shadowy, but not like this. We can only conclude that a beer-money budget prohibited reshoots.

In "D.O.A." (1949) Frank Bigelow checks out
the local talent while checking in.

An embarrassingly bad bit of sound in “D.O.A.” (1949) temporarily mars the otherwise spotless noir it is. In it, everyman Frank Bigelow (Edmond O’Brien) is living under a death sentence after someone slips him a dose of slow-acting poison with no antidote. But before all that happens he’s on vacation in San Francisco and he ogles some attractive women. Director Rudolph Maté saw fit to add a cheesy sound effect of a wolf whistle, just in case we didn’t get the point. Maté is best known as a cinematographer, and in helming this low-budget classic he created a minor masterpiece. But, oh, that cringe-worthy slide whistle!

Sometimes a character is so rotten that we can only chuckle in admiration of her sheer audacity. In “Decoy” (1946), another low budget thriller, Margot Shelby (Jean Gillie) earns her spurs as perhaps the most cold hearted dame in all of noir. A sample of her frosty demeanor goes as follows: 

 Edward Norris, Jean Gillie, Herbert Rudley, "Decoy" (1946).

Motoring toward the site where a large cache of money is allegedly hidden, Margot’s car gets a flat. One of the two men riding with her changes the tire. As he lowers the jack beneath the front bumper, Margot slams the car into forward gear and runs over the unsuspecting sap. She hops out, rifles through the dead man’s pockets, grabs the tire changing tools and gets back behind the wheel. And why not? No need to share the jackpot with another schmo.

With her brazen disregard for the sanctity of human life, Margot earns a standing ovation. They don’t get much more fatale than that femme. 

So, those are a handful of cherished moments of ironic comedy. Surely, you’ve found a few that brought a smile to your face. Feel free to share them in Comments. I’d love to hear about them.