'Ivy' is pure evil under shimmering gaslight

Joan Fontaine, 'Ivy' (1947). A black widow dressed in white.

By Paul Parcellin

Contains spoilers

“Ivy” (1947)

Even before the action begins we get the message that something is rotten in Edwardian London. A swelling orchestra plays a dramatic score. On screen, an ivy vine and an ornate vase are the backdrop for the opening credits. But as the segment ends the mood turns dark. The orchestra drops into deep ominous tones and the vase morphs into the faint image of a human skull. The message is abundantly clear: brace yourself for a horror show. 

Similarly, Ivy Lexton (Joan Fontaine) seems pleasant enough at first glance, but when her true character is revealed our first impressions of her implode. She’s not forthcoming about herself, but a fortune teller she visits knows the score. The seer gives her the good news but can’t bring herself to reveal the bad. And as we’ll see, things will be very good, then very bad.

Behind Ivy’s genteel appearance her conniving mind is working overtime. She’s after the stuff femmes fatale yearn for: money, luxury and status. Beneath her upper crust manners and good breeding she’s a cold, calculating predator. Her love of riches, glittering gowns, oversized hats and jeweled handbags drive her to use ruthless tactics on those around her — materialism gone mad, you might say. 

Fontaine, Richard Ney. Ivy tends to her bedridden husband.

By all appearances she’s blissfully wed to Jervis Lexton (Richard Ney), although Jervis drops hints that she’s nearly spent them into the poorhouse. He seems to accept her foibles with mildly exasperated resignation. But the more we learn about them the worse the picture gets. As the fortune teller revealed, she’s got another man on the side, physician Roger Gretorex (Patric Knowle), and she’s sniffing around for yet another, a wealthy and dashing aviation entrepreneur, Miles Rushworth (Herbert Marshall), whom she’s dying to sink her teeth into. 

Due to her profligate spending, she and hubby reside in a dingy hovel that looks barely one step above an almshouse. After meeting Rushworth at a social gathering she charms the aviation man into granting hubby a decent job at his company. They move into more suitable quarters, a stark white apartment, the stunning creation of art director Richard H. Riedel and producer William Cameron Menzies [Menzies won a special Academy Award for his production design of “Gone With the Wind” (1939)]. The place is surreally impersonal and spooky, with its white festoon architectural ornaments (they look like icy funeral wreaths). Ivy resolves to get rid of her spouse and paramour and throw herself at Miles, who’s too principled to carry on with a married woman. She figures out a way to ditch both inconvenient men in her life in a cold heartedly conceived twofer. 

Ivy prepares a brandy for her husband.

For a while she maintains her false front and almost no one sees through it. But that changes thanks to Roger’s overbearing mother, Mrs. Gretorex (Lucile Watson), an observant maid, Martha Huntley (Sara Allgood), and a seen-it-all-before police officer, Inspector Orpington (Cedric Hardwicke). 

Frequent Hitchcock collaborator Charles Bennett [“The 39 Steps” (1935) and “Foreign Correspondent” (1940)] wrote the screenplay based on the novel “The Story of Ivy” (1927) by Marie Belloc Lowndes. Sam Wood, whose credits include such diverse films as “Goodbye, Mr. Chips” (1939) and “A Night at the Opera” (1935), helmed this production. 

Fontaine's competitive sister, Olivia de Havilland, was originally set to play the title role, but at the last minute pulled out. She was concerned that audiences would stay away from the film due to the unsympathetic nature of the lead character. She also worried that the role would be a career killer. The sisters were feuding and de Havilland’s agent offered the role to Fontaine — an act of retribution? Fontaine gladly accepted. It turned out that de Havilland’s instincts were correct and the film was not a commercial success. Never mind, “Ivy” is still a cracking good noir featuring a luminous Joan Fontaine performance, an absorbing story and arresting scenic design. 

U.K’s Powerhouse Films is scheduled to release “Ivy” in a limited edition Blu-ray disc Feb. 16, 2026. It’s a high definition remaster with original mono audio featuring audio commentary with academic and film curator Eloise Ross. Now the bad news: many Powerhouse releases, including this one, are Region B discs and won’t play on most U.S. Blu-ray devices. But if you’re in Europe, Africa, the Middle East, Australia or New Zealand, or have a Region B or region-free player, you’re in luck. However, an Australian region-free Blu-ray (Imprint Films) was released in April, 2025, and can be purchased on Amazon and eBay.  

 

Live it up! 11 essential nightclubs of noir

Karen Morley, 'Scarface' (1932).

By Paul Parcellin

In noir, nightclubs are smokey hideaways where criminality thrives under moody lighting. Ritzier than typical barrooms, they are havens for hedonists and the racketeer elite. 

Crucial to these nightspots are floorshows. A chanteuse may whisper a torch song designed to torment an ex-lover sitting ringside. Her words spell out jagged details of his predicament, defining his emotional state or perhaps the moral decay that engulfs him. 

In noir, entering a nightclub is like stepping into hell’s waiting room. It may be steamy and dazzling at first, but all exits lead to damnation. 

Here are the top 11 nightclubs of noir, hot spots where the underworld cools its heels and lives are sometimes broken: 

Osgood Perkins, Paul Muni, Karen Morley, 'Scarface.'

‘Scarface’ (1932)

The Paradise is everything a swank gangster nightclub should be: an orchestra wails swing jazz numbers, swell looking couples fill the dance floor, guys are clad in their formal best, ladies sway to the rhythm in chic evening dresses. Wiseguys Johnny Lovo (Osgood Perkins) and Tony Camonte (Paul Muni) spar over glamor girl Poppy (Karen Morley) — Tony, an upstart, comes out on the winning end, but egos are bruised. “Scarface” wasn’t the first crime movie to use a nightclub setting, but it sure knows how glamorize the seductive charm of such establishments. Without warning, shots are fired, a gunman is subdued, the orchestra plays on and patrons carry on unruffled. How gangster can you get?

Roger Duchesne, 'Bob le Flambeur.'

‘Bob le Flambeur’ (1956) (‘Bob the Gambler’)

Bob Montagné (Roger Duchesne) is a former bank robber earning his keep at all night poker matches and other games of chance. A suave sophisticate, he’s respected as a prince among thieves. No one can cross a cafe floor and command the respect Bob receives from fellow larcenists, gamblers and even the police. His nightclub of choice is Jour et Nuit (Day and Night), but he’s a creature of the latter. Sleeping when the sun rises, he only comes alive when the lights of Montmartre twinkle at dusk. Parisian cafes, bars and nightclubs are his domain. When his luck turns bad he looks for alternative means to pay his debts. That one last big score is the thing that tempts graying outlaws, even retired ones, and Bob is no exception. 

Frank Bigelow (Edmond O'Brien) puffs on a cigarette
at the Fisherman. 'D.O.A.' (1949)

‘D.O.A.’ (1949)

 Calling San Francisco dive bar the Fisherman a “nightclub” is stretching the definition of the term until it screams. But the F’man’s got a stomping jazz sextet that cannot be denied a mention here. The joint’s a beatnik hangout where straight-arrow accountant Frank Bigelow (Edmond O’Brien) wanders in and sips a beverage that changes his life forever. The place is a seething mass of hipsters grooving to the bebop beat as the band blows a frenzied set that sends the bohemian crowd into orbit. The atmosphere is claustrophobic and the scene teeters on chaos, much like Frank’s immediate future.

Edward G. Robinson, 'Little Caesar.'

‘Little Caesar’ (1931) 

The hoods hang out upstairs at Club Palermo, a gangster stronghold in the big city. Stickup man Caesar Enrico “Rico” Bandello (Edward G. Robinson) pokes his beak in to talk with crime boss Sam Vettori (Stanley Fields), who runs the club and uses it as a front for his illegal operations. Rico passes muster and is immediately introduced to the rest of the gang. Besides being an entertainment spot for the corrupt, the club becomes the incubator that helps Rico launch his criminal career. At the club downstairs he eventually commits a brazen and violent act in public that shakes up the city’s mobster elite and catapults him to the top of the syndicate.  

Cathy Rosier, Alain Delon, François Périer, 'Le Samouraï.'

‘Le Samouraï’ (1967)

Martey's, an upscale Parisian jazz lounge, attracts a more refined crowds than do other nightspots mentioned here. But criminals operating behind the scenes are a continuous presence there. Hired killer Jef Costello (Alain Delon) visits the establishment to carry out some business for an employer. He isn’t the kind of assassin you’d expect him to be. Jef lives the austere life of a Buddhist monk and adheres to the code of the samurai. He’s an outsider among criminals in this nocturnal playground. Vocalist and keyboard player Valérie (Cathy Rosier), who performs at the club, witnesses something she wasn’t meant to see, and Jef soon finds that he’s the one being hunted.

Richard Widmark, Mike Mazurki, 'Night and the City.'

‘Night and the City’ (1950)

The Silver Fox nightclub sits among the cheap clip joints of London’s Soho district. It’s where low rent hustler Harry Fabian (Richard Widmark) hangs out, ever on the lookout for a fast buck or a get rich quick scheme. Harry uses his gift for gab to pry loose greenbacks from the unwary, especially his lady friend. He’s in his element at the Silver Fox, a place where bar girls fleece tipsy customers, sweet talking them into buying overpriced champagne and chocolates. Everyone there is either a crook or a victim. Beneath his bravado, Harry fears he’ll ultimately be one of the latter. When he schemes to become a professional wrestling promotor things don’t go his way. Unfortunately for him, he’s burned too many bridges to get a free pass this time.

Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, 'The Big Sleep.'

‘The Big Sleep’ (1946)

Crime kingpin Eddie Mars’s Cypress Club plays host to the denizens of a dark side. In it, illegal gambling is the main attraction and all things illicit are for sale. In between crooning pop tunes for the punters, rich girl Vivian Sternwood (Lauren Bacall) tries her luck in the casino. When she pockets a thick wad of cash at the roulette wheel she nearly gets robbed, but private dick Philip Marlowe (Humphrey Bogart) steps in and saves her bacon. Their liaison leads to a well remembered steamy conversation of double entendres involving race horses and jockeys. The Cypress is not the kind of place where Vivian or her younger sister, Carmen (Martha Vickers), should frequent, but these girls do love trouble.

Richard Widmark, Ida Lupino, 'Road House.'

‘Road House’ (1948)

Jefty's Road House isn’t a swank, big city club. It’s a backwater joint with a bowling alley. A love triangle with Chicago songstress Lily Stevens (Ida Lupino), club owner Jefty Robbins (Richard Widmark) and club manager Pete Morgan (Cornel Wilde) sets the drama in motion. In one of its best scenes, Ida Lupino makes a lukewarm crowd sit up, take notice and applaud when she sings “One for My Baby (and One More for the Road).” She isn’t a trained vocalist, and her slightly raspy two-pack-a-day voice radiates a world-weary sense of dissatisfaction, which is what makes the scene work. It’s all about heartache and raw emotions and she’s got a hell of a story to tell.

Raymond Burr, 'The Blue Gardenia.'

‘The Blue Gardenia’ (1953)

Loneliness seems to float in the air like clouds of cigarette smoke as Nat King Cole warbles the film’s title song in the softly-lit Blue Gardenia club, a South Seas-themed watering hole. It’s a romantic setting, but one couple is having a difficult time of it. Calendar artist Harry Prebble (Raymond Burr) plies Norah Larkin (Anne Baxter) with cocktails. Norah hesitates to imbibe, but Harry is insistent. The music and atmosphere reflect the isolation Norah feels, and the club resonates her emotional distress. Matters get worse when a dark crime is committed and a memory blackout obscures the events of the previous evening.

Magali Noël, 'Rififi.'

‘Rififi’ (1955)

L’age d’Or (The Golden Age) is an ironically appropriate name for the nightclub of choice for a band of French jewel thieves who are casing out a stronghold of precious stones. Aging gangster Tony "le Stéphanois" (Jean Servais) is persuaded by his buddies to help rob an exclusive jewelry dealer. Tony wants to go for a bigger score than just the ice in the store window: their target switches to the retailer’s highly secure vault. It’s a flawless plan, or so they think, but relationships with women in their lives complicate matters. Viviane (Magali Noël), a chanteuse at the club, performs the film’s memorable title song, describing the plight of a woman in a relationship with a roughneck gangster. She ought to know — her beau is in on the heist.

Rita Hayworth, Glenn Ford, 'Gilda.'

‘Gilda’ (1946)

Rita Hayworth’s iconic hair toss helps make her vocal rendition of “Put the Blame on Mame” sizzle in what is perhaps the greatest noir nightclub moment of all time. She’s voluptuous, self assured and more than a bit dangerous. The scene is packed with drama as Johnny Farrell (Glen Ford) looks on with fury and ringsiders scramble for the gloves and necklace she tosses their way. Make no mistake, she weaponizes her performance in a psychological battle with Johnny and her husband, Ballin Mundson (George Macready). When she asks the gentlemen in the house to help undo the back of her black strapless gown she may as well be lighting the fuse on a powder keg.

Burn, Hollywood, burn! Four noirs reveal the horrors of the screenwriting trade

Humphrey Bogart, Gloria Grahame, ‘In a Lonely Place’ (1950).

By Paul Parcellin

You’ve probably heard that screenwriters get little respect in the big town, and by many accounts that’s true. They labor in isolation, punching out fresh ideas, pouring their deepest emotions onto their pages only to have their hearts broken. 

Their masterpieces are rewritten by faceless studio hacks who turn them into pale shadows of what they were.

Or at least, that’s how screenwriters tell it.

Samuel Goldwyn used to call his writers schmucks with typewriters. When he wanted refurbished versions of recent hits he’d tell them, “Give me the same thing, only different.”

Writers were, and still are, famously powerless in the picture biz. They’re one of the most essential and least appreciated cogs in the movie making machine. 

Each of the four movies below offers a powerful and fairly unvarnished view of the rough treatment the Hollywood studio system could dish out, and no doubt still can. 

The writers behind these films, the ones who actually pounded out the pages, not the ones on screen, obviously took glee in mauling the Hollywood establishment. They draw blood. It’s fun to watch: 

Bogart and Grahame, 'In a Lonely Place.'

‘In a Lonely Place’ (1950)

Director Nicholas Ray channels the Dorothy B. Hughes novel, starring Humphrey Bogart as Hollywood scribbler Dixon Steele, a tightly wound script jockey in a creative slump. Steele loathes the studio system and the egotistical no-minds who seem to thrive in it. 

One evening Steele hosts a young woman at his apartment whom he tasks with summarizing a novel for him, a piece of drivel the studio wants him to adapt. And why not? She thinks the book is swell, and Steele can’t bear to waste time poring over the dreck. The next day the girl turns up dead and Steele is a suspect. He was one of the last to see her alive, and it’s well known that he’s an angry and violent bugger. 

He meets Laurel Grey (Gloria Grahame), a neighbor who provides him with an alibi that keeps him out of the pokey for that murder rap, for the time being at least. A romance between them blossoms, but under these circumstances how long will it be until it dies on the vine?

This was the first film to roll off the production line of Bogart’s independent company, Santana Pictures Corporation, and with its downbeat ending the public stayed away. A pity. Bogart thought it was a failure. How wrong he was.

Gloria Swanson, William Holden, 'Sunset Boulevard.' 

‘Sunset Boulevard’ (1950)

The same year that Bogart’s Dixon Steele dodged police investigators, screenwriter Joe Gillis (William Holden) has the opposite problem. He can’t get arrested in this town (L.A.). Producers aren’t interested in his latest stuff, a rehash of something that wasn’t very good to begin with. Worse still, repo men are after his car, and in Los Angeles losing your car is like getting your legs cut off. 

He blunders into the crumbling estate of former silent screen siren Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson) and talks his way into rewriting a putrid script the lady penned. It’ll be a vehicle for her return to Hollywood immortality, she thinks. 

Gillis has a couple of B-pictures to his credit and is just about washed up in his short, anemic screen career. But he sees this odd turn of events as an opportunity to stay afloat financially for a while. Gillis thinks Norma is a soft touch, but it turns out she’s a lot more than the poor sap bargained for. 

The delusional prima donna browbeats hapless Gillis into becoming her full-time bunk mate, and it slowly dawns on him he ain’t the one pulling the strings in this puppet show. 

Norma finally gets the closeup she’s been craving, but not before Gillis takes an unscheduled dip in her swimming pool, a few bullet holes pumped into his torso. Turns out, the writing game is tougher than it looks.

John Turturro, Jon Polito, 'Barton Fink.'

‘Barton Fink’ (1991)

Broadway playwright Barton Fink (John Turturro) wants to create a new kind of theater, one aimed at “the common man.” Or so he thinks. 

His new hit, about regular folks, is the toast of the Great White Way. Trouble is, his patrons are the kinds of monied twits he despises. 

Fink, a thinly veiled caricature of socially aware playwright and screenwriter Clifford Odets, answers the call to come write for the pictures in Hollywood. It’s against every fiber of his bohemian being, but he rationalizes that he’ll pocket enough moolah to write scores more socially relevant plays. 

Set in the early 1940s, the dawn of American film noir, Fink arrives in Los Angeles like a fish rocketed out of its aquarium and plopped into the middle of the desert. He meets a gaggle of characters who disappoint and frighten him, much like the New York contingent did. 

There’s the blowhard, pushy studio chief (Michael Lerner), the respected author who’s churning out tripe for the movie mill (John Mahoney), and back-slapping, rotund insurance salesman Charlie Meadows (John Goodman) who is staying next door to Fink at a gothic horror show of a hotel in downtown Los Angeles.

Assigned to write a wrestling picture, Fink’s adventure in the screen trade soon goes horribly wrong. He becomes enmeshed in a genuine noir nightmare — fitting for this time and location. 

Did I mention that this is a Coen brothers' film? The surreal irony, their trademark, bleeds off of the screen as we witness Fink’s descent into the netherworld. They don’t call this town “Hell A” for nothing.

Tim Robbins, Vincent D'Onofrio, 'The Player.'

‘The Player’ (1992)

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Robert Altman’s poisonous valentine to Hollywood, which came out at the peak of spec script fever. 

Studio executive Griffin Mill (Tim Robbins) is receiving threatening mail from an anonymous screenwriter who claims Mill snubbed him. The movie exec is rattled and tries to track down the one who’s sending him the nasty stuff. The problem is, out of the dozens of writers he’s ghosted, which one is harassing him? 

Mill’s investigation leads to screenwriter David Kahane (Vincent D’Onofrio), who certainly does despise Mill, but is he the one threatening to do away with him? Mill’s luck keeps getting worse. The buzz around town is that a new executive at the studio, Larry Levy (Peter Gallagher), is going push Mill out.

Meanwhile, the cops show up and start asking the beset executive some difficult questions about himself and Kahane. And things don’t end up so good for Kahane, either. 

As the song says, “There’s no business like show business,” and that’s probably a good thing.  

Believe it or not, Jan. 5 is National Screenwriters Day. Its purpose is to honor the writers behind the stories, dialogue and characters in films and TV. You might consider taking a screenwriter to lunch on that day. He or she could probably use some nourishment and a shoulder to cry on.

‘Scarlet Street’ at 80: Flirtations with a femme fatale can often lead to trouble — and sometimes murder

At her service. Joan Bennett, Edward G. Robinson, 'Scarlet Street' (1945). 

By Paul Parcellin

Contains spoilers

When “Scarlet Street” premiered 80 years ago this month it was not uniformly praised by critics, and several cities outright banned it due to its dark content. The film hinted at such taboo topics as sex out of wedlock and prostitution, and featured a capital crime that went unpunished in the conventional sense. 

New York, Milwaukee, and Atlanta thought it too controversial and forbade local screenings. Bosley Crowther of the New York Times called it “a sluggish and manufactured tale,” while Time magazine called the plot “clichéd,” adding that the story focuses on “dimwitted, unethical, stock characters.” 

Times have changed and so has the critical response to the film. In later years Cinema Journal called it “a dense, well-structured film noir,” and the Chicago Reader included the film in its list of the best American films not included on the AFI Top 100. TCM Noir Alley host Eddie Muller includes “Scarlet Street” among his top 25 favorite films noir.

Looking back on it eight decades after its release, “Scarlet Street” is relatively tame compared with contemporary fare, yet it’s understandable that its gritty themes of vice and corruption must have been a shock to the American public in 1945. 

Fortunately, preservationists rescued it from public domain purgatory. Kino Lorber’s 2024 release in 4K UHD and Blu-ray is sharp and clear and the sound is crisp. It’s a pleasure to view it as it was meant to be seen upon its release so many years ago.

“Scarlet Street” (1945)

Mild mannered Chris Cross (Edward G. Robinson), a cashier with a flair for art, is unhappily married to shrewish Adele (Rosalind Ivan), who keeps him on a short tether. His life changes one night when he rescues a damsel in distress, Kitty March (Joan Bennett), who’s being accosted on a dark Greenwich Village street. 

Coincidentally, earlier that evening Chris glimpsed his boss’s blonde paramour and wondered aloud what it would be like to be loved by a young beautiful woman (love is probably the last thing on the blonde bombshell’s mind). Then fate seemed to drop Kitty, the woman of his dreams, at his feet.

Lies and misunderstandings

Kitty, whom we easily infer is a streetwalker, mistakenly thinks Chris is a prosperous artist. Flushed with the excitement of meeting an attractive woman, he does nothing to dispel her false image of him. In one exchange she hints to starry-eyed Chris that she’s a lady of the night, but he doesn’t get it. He guesses she’s an actress, which she is, but not in the traditional sense. 

Later, Kitty’s pimp boyfriend Johnny Prince (Dan Duryea at his smarmiest) hears opportunity knocking and convinces her to take the sucker for all he’s worth, and she does so while keeping Chris teasingly at arm’s length. 

Dan Duryea, Joan Bennett. Kitty and Johnny Prince.

“Scarlet Street” is a study of the ways people delude themselves, embracing comfortable lies that warm them and offer false hope in their hours of despair.

Misunderstandings abound. Chris mistakenly believes that Kitty might love him, as she strings him along and bleeds him for cash. Johnny is her one true love, Kitty thinks, even when he slaps her around. He lives off of her earnings and calls himself a man of leisure, and sporting a jaunty straw boater he dresses the part. 

Flawed first impressions

Johnny and Kitty, out of delusional thinking or plain stupidity, believe that they’ve hit the jackpot with Chris as their patsy. The misconception starts when Kitty and Chris first meet. He’s just been feted by his employer and happens to be gussied up in a tuxedo. That’s enough to convince her that he’s in the chips.

Even Adele is delusional in her idealization of her deceased husband, Patch-eye Higgins (Charles Kemper), a police detective who took an ill-fated dip in the Hudson. She torments Chris with her worshipful praise of the dead hubby while castigating the nebbish painter for his shortcomings. Higgins’s portrait hangs over the mantlepiece as a reminder to Chris of the low esteem in which his wife holds him.

Chris in exile. A bathroom Rembrandt.

“Scarlet Street” could be taken as a dark comedy. The same wrong-headed ideas and miscommunications in the hands of, say, Preston Sturges or Ernst Lubitsch, would be uproarious. Here, they are bathed in pathos, even when director Fritz Lang tosses in an occasional chuckle or a sudden upbeat shift in the plot.

In an unexpected turn of events, Chris’s paintings are well received by the art establishment, but only after Johnny schemes to make art-world big shots think that Kitty painted them. The selfless Chris is pleased, not angry, that his paintings are finally being seen, even if Kitty is given credit for them. But he admits that gallery owners wouldn’t be interested if they knew he painted them. 

Awarding undue credit

But a beautiful young woman can grab the art world's attention, especially when a respected critic takes a romantic interest in her. Kitty is capable of sleeping her way to the top, but artistic talent is another matter. In the film's pessimistic but probably largely true vision of the art game, we get a hint of the way art stars are made, and how almost inevitably their work ends up in the hands of the undeserving. 

The film is based on the French story “La Chienne” (literally The Bitch) by Georges de La Fouchardière. Director Jean Renoir adapted the novel to the screen in “La Chienne” (1931), which presents the female lead, Lulu (Janie Marèse), explicitly as a prostitute, something American production codes at the time would prohibit. 

Chris's portrait of Kitty.

This is Lang’s second go-around with this cast. In “The Woman in the Window” (1944), Robinson, Bennett and Duryea play roles similar to those in “Scarlet Street.” The story is much the same, too, with manipulative Alice Reed (Bennett) upending the life of Prof. Richard Wanley (Robinson) and crooked ex-cop Heidt (Duryea) making a tragic situation worse. 

Both films feature painted portraits of femmes fatale, each inaccessible behind plate glass storefront windows. In both films Robinson is tempted toward adultery and his flirtations result in shattered lives. 

Greatly different endings

Adapted from J. H. Wallis's 1942 novel “Once Off Guard,” “The Woman in the Window” has a twist at the end that gives the film an upbeat conclusion, unlike “Scarlet Street,” which comes in for a hard landing, leaving Chris humiliated and psychologically broken. 

“Scarlet Street” might seem like an uncompromised do-over of “The Woman in the Window,” yet Lang maintained that the film’s upbeat coda was his choice, not something forced on him. So be it, but clearly, “Scarlet Street” has the better ending. 

Dec. 28 marks the 80th anniversary of the “Scarlet Street” theatrical premiere. 

A cunning serial killer is on the loose and police are baffled

Song Kang-ho, 'Memories of Murder' (2003).
Searching for clues and coming up empty.

By Paul Parcellin

‘Memories of Murder’ (2003)

Bodies are popping up with terrifying regularity in a small South Korean city and the local police force has few clues to go on. Young women are being raped and strangled, their bodies abandoned in little traveled spots, and public hysteria is growing. 

It’s the late 1980s and Korea has not yet emerged from authoritarian government control. Small-town crime fighting methods are, shall we say crude? This wave of murders is not the kind of business the local lawmen are used to handling, and it shows. 

A challenging balance

Director-screenwriter Bong Joon Ho, whose film “Parasite” (2019) won four Academy Awards including Best Picture, infuses “Memories of Murder” with social commentary, police procedure and dark comedy, mostly at the expense of the thread-bare, chronically disjointed police force tasked with bringing a killer to justice. 

A terse, reflective take on the policier, Bong’s 2003 masterwork walks a thin line between mystery and black comedy. It’s a murder investigation in a world that seems to be spinning off its axis, and we’re never sure of where exactly things will land. 

Ko Seo-hie, Song Kang-ho, Kim Roi-ha.

Lead detective Park Doo-man (Song Kang-ho, Bong’s frequent collaborator), and fellow investigator Cho Yong-koo’s (Kim Roi-ha) methods mirror the oppressive regime that’s running the country. They beat and torture suspects to make them confess and occasionally plant evidence. 

Police under pressure

Park, an amalgam of cockiness and pent up frustration, is bedeviled by an investigation that can’t seem to move ahead. Lambasted by his superior, Sgt. Shin Dong-chul (Song Jae-ho), he’s saddled with a woefully understaffed, under equipped department — he has to hitch a ride on a farmer’s tractor to visit the site of a murder. His squad can’t even protect the crime scene from news reporters and rubberneckers who trample and destroy evidence.

Shot in color, the film has the look of a black and white print. Murky blue-gray and pea-soup green tones give the police station interior a gloomy, closed-in look. Even expansive fields, industrial areas and wooded groves seem unkissed by sunlight. If you had to choose a grimy color palette that would give the feeling of hopelessness, this is it.

Kim Roe-ha, Song Jae-ho, Song Kang-ho. Another grim discovery.

Seo Tae-yoon (Kim Sang-kyung), a detective from Seoul, is brought in to jump-start the investigation and he’s soon at odds with Park. Seo knows a thing or two about scientific detective work, while Park works on instinct — he’s convinced that he can spot a guilty party simply by staring into his eyes. His stare-downs are often a prelude to beating confessions out of suspects. 

Seo is disturbed by the brutality Park and Cho regularly dish out to unfortunates, adding friction to his tenure at this backwoods constabulary. Even he, as a newly arrived officer, is mistaken for suspect and handed a beatdown. 

A ray of hope

The detective squad is almost exclusively a boys’ club, but the one woman on the force, Officer Kwon Kwi-ok (Ko Seo-hie), comes up with an ingenious theory, which Park ridicules, of course. But guess which one of them proves to be correct. 

Adapted from the 1996 play “Come to See Me” by Kim Kwang-lim and loosely based on South Korea's first confirmed serial killings, “Memories of Murder” is set in Hwaseong, located on the coast of the Yellow Sea. It’s a city with pockets of industry and vast farmland and many places for a serial killer to stash bodies. As the list of victims grows, suspects are apprehended and questioned with no tangible results.

Kim Sang-kyung, an outsider in the department.

In his desperation Park is willing to accept flawed confessions from several suspicious types, to no avail. As the investigation plods on the detectives’ use of intimidation and brutality backfires when a viable lead that could crack the case is suddenly gone. It’s a shocking turn of events, but it’s doubtful that the local lawmen will change their ways anytime soon.

No easy answers

“Memories of Murder” leaves us with a bag of complex questions. Are the Hwaseong lawmen’s unethical tactics and jaw-dropping violence an outgrowth of their frustration with a barely functional system? Undoubtedly, but their cruel methods can’t be blamed entirely on the authoritarian government running the country. Seo, who comes from the big city, is shocked at the sight of abuses that we can presume don’t go on in the Seoul police department.  

But even Seo, the most rational one of this ragtag crew, has his breaking point when faced with a plodding investigation going nowhere and a sly suspect who just might be the perpetrator. And if Seo can be tempted to cross ethical lines, perhaps we might, too.  

‘They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?’: A Tinseltown Allegory that Ends Unhappily Ever After

Michael Sarrazin, Jane Fonda, 'They Shoot Horses, Don't They?' (1969).

Harrowing Tale of Dance Marathons and the Depression-Era Downtrodden. But Those Marathons Remind Us of Something Else — the Studio System at its Most Heartless

Contains spoilers

By Paul Parcellin

"They Shoot Horses, Don’t They” is a noir tragedy about exploitation of the desperate and beleaguered in Depression-era Los Angeles, right?  True, but that’s only part of the story.

Based on the 1935 novel by hardboiled scribbler Horace McCoy, the movie’s plot revolves around the very real and very savage dance marathon competitions of the 1920s - ’30s. 

They were grueling, days-long endurance challenges witnessed by audiences of paying customers. Exhausted contestant couples shuffled and foxtrotted their way toward death’s door in hope of being the last ones standing as the orchestra played on. 

A possible dream come true

Winners would grab a sack of prize money — in theory — and stave off starvation another day. Others left through the back door, sometimes on gurneys.  

The film does double duty, not only as a historic document of unencumbered human depravity, but also as an allegory for the movie biz, particularly the old Hollywood studio system, and maybe the entertainment industry as a whole.  

Not convinced that there’s a connection between marathoners dancing themselves to death and the movie industry? Try this on for size:

Dreamers and the destitute 

Robert (Michael Sarrazin) and Gloria (Jane Fonda) are beaten down by life. Both are hayseeds dwelling on the fringes of Hollywood’s motion picture industry. Unlike the naive Robert, Gloria has been around long enough to be exhausted by false promises and rejection. Her personal life is in ruins when fate pushes the two of them together, thrusting them into the dance marathon spotlight. They make a cute couple but there’s no romance between them. It’s all about keeping up an image that’s appealing to the gawkers. 

Jane Fonda, Red Buttons, Susannah York, Michael Sarrazin.

Survival is the object

Beneath the surface, their’s is a strategic partnership. Each depends on the other for strength when despair sets in, and it does visit often.

The two are like the stars and starlets whose off-screen relationships (genuine or not) were often manufactured for the gossip rags and manipulated by the studios to fit the images crafted by Hollywood publicity departments. Actors were matched up, packaged and kept beholden to the studio for ongoing exploitation.

Making a show out of their pain

Contestants push themselves to physical and emotional collapse for a small chance of taking home a cash prize. It’s a lot like the struggles of actors who sacrifice a lot for a small chance of becoming a star.

Meanwhile, the contest's promoter and emcee, Rocky Gravo (Gig Young), keeps the audience entertained with periodic announcements highlighting juicy tidbits about the contestants’ personal woes and real life tragedies. 

Personal privacy be damned

The most private details of contestants’ lives are like breadcrumbs the emcee tosses to the crowd to keeps them engaged, much like studios of bygone days, shaping rising stars’ public images and exploiting their personal lives to sell tickets.

Gravo spells out the contest’s dramatic core in his patter to the audience. 

“Here they are again, folks! These wonderful, wonderful kids! Still struggling! Still hoping! … the marathon goes on, and on, and on! How long can they last?”

Like a prizefight, the marathon is buoyed by the palpable drama of contestants' suffering and their inevitable collapse, which holds the audience in suspense. 

Susannah York, Michael Sarrazin, Bruce Dern, Bonnie Bedelia.

Torturous antics for cheap entertainment

Dancers are initially sweet-talked into signing up for these punishing competitions, usually unaware of what's in store for them. The audience demands to see human agony and the competitors are pushed to give the crowd what it wants. It's a bit like the studio system’s restrictive contracts and bullying tactics that kept actors working endless hours, wringing every last dollar of value out of them.

An astonishing admission

Backstage at the marathon, Robert is dumbfounded when Gravo refers to the supposed competition as a “show” rather than a contest.

“They don’t give a damn whether you win,” says Gravo. “They just want to see a little misery out there so they can feel a little better, maybe.”

The spectacle of physical decline

Scenes show contestants’ bodily deterioration — they grow paler, shakier, more broken — while the show’s lights stay bright and the emcee sets an upbeat tempo.

In a parallel universe, the studio system thrives on the gradual burnout of its labor — stars aging, being pushed past their limits — while the machine presents a glossy, unaffected front. Their bodies become the product, worn down for continued profit.

The big break that never was

The down-and-out dancers take a shot at winning a jackpot. If they come out on top their woes will go away, or so they think. But the game is rigged. Fame and wealth are elusive. Most go back home to Iowa or wherever, or maybe land on the streets. The big payoff is a prize that never materializes.

Movie biz promises of a “next picture” or a “breakout role” keep actors in their place and hopeful despite the abuse they suffer.

As Gloria observes, “Maybe it’s just the whole damn world is like Central Casting. They got it all rigged before you ever show up.”

Gig Young, the puppetmaster pulling the strings.

The emcee is like a studio exec

Gig Young, who won the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor as the emcee, is appropriately oily as the character who controls the rules, shifts the goalposts and “packages” human misery into an entertainment product — much like movie producers who shape or kill careers.

The marathon organizers abruptly change the rules, limit rest periods and adjust incentives to strain contestants’ endurance.

It's all too similar to studio contracts and brutish demands that set long work hours, introduced unpredictable script rewrites and image “retooling.” Except for top-tier actors, talent had little say about work conditions. 

The audience is part of the exploitation

In a scene showing the publicity campaign promoting the marathon we see the audience’s voyeuristic fascination interspersed with shots of photographers and newsreel coverage. 

A woman volunteers to sponsor Robert and Gloria and seems absorbed in the illusion of a romantic relationship between them. In moments of audience participation, spectators are told that their enthusiasm “keeps the dancers going,” as if their passive gaze helps ease the suffering on the dance floor, thus relieving them of any guilt that might impede their enjoyment of such savage entertainment.

Reaching the breaking point

Gloria, finally broken and unable to escape the vicious cycle she’s stuck in,  makes a final dreadful choice and Robert becomes a party to her collapse. 

The dance marathon disguises cruelty under a veil of competition, similar to the way Hollywood glamorizes the struggle of hopefuls who are ultimately exploited and often tossed away. 

In the end, “They Shoot Horses, Don’t They” is one of the least romanticized depictions of the Gold Age of Hollywood to hit the screen. “Sunset Boulevard” (1950) and “The Day of the Locust” (1975) similarly take a hard look at Hollywood's decadence and exploitative practices. 

In all, we may love the movies, but when it comes to seeing how the sausage is made, not so much.

Mark Stevens: his quartet of searing films noir still light up screens today

Lucille Ball, Mark Stevens, 'The Dark Corner' (1946).

By Paul Parcellin

Mark Stevens made a string of taut crime dramas in the 1940s and ’50s that still resonate today. He acted in dozens of films, from westerns, war pictures to musicals and comedies, and directed two of his self-produced noirs as well as some hardboiled television series.

Born Richard William Stevens in 1916, he adopted "Mark" as his show business handle after Daryl Zanuck suggested he take on Dana Andrews’s character's name in “Laura.” His family lived briefly in Cleveland before his parents divorced and his mother brought him to England. She remarried and they settled in Montreal. 

A devastating injury

In his youth Stevens distinguished himself in competitive swimming and diving until he severely injured his back in a diving accident. He endured a number of surgeries that eventually returned him to normal mobility but his injury kept him out of the service. While convalescing he frequented movie houses and developed a love of cinema.

His first acting roles were in community theater and he later performed with a stock theater company. Setting his sights on the big time, he moved to New York but fell upon hard times and returned home to Montreal. He saved his pennies and bought a train ticket to California where Warner Brothers eventually gave him a screen test and made him a contract player. 

On the screen, then out the door

He appeared in “Destination Tokyo” (1943) with Cary Grant and John Garfield, and “Objective, Burma” (1945) with Errol Flynn. After two years of bit roles he complained to the studio’s top dog Jack Warner that his career wasn’t advancing as quickly as he’d like. Warner rebuffed him, and in protest Stevens played hooky from his job, after which the studio dropped him. 

But as one door slammed shut another opened at 20th Century Fox, where among other projects, he acted in a pair of solid noirs, “The Dark Corner” (1946), and “The Street with No Name” (1948). 

A promising start with Fox

Eager to capitalize on the surprise hit, “Laura” (1944), Fox assembled a similar array of characters for “The Dark Corner” with Stevens in the role of  Bradford Galt, an inexperienced yet somehow world-weary and cynical private eye. His recent hire, secretary Kathleen Stewart (Lucille Ball), is perky, wise cracking and street smart — just the kind of gal for Galt. Five years before her “I Love Lucy” debut, Ball gives us a taste of her acting chops and a touch of slapstick comedy — keep an eye out for the scene in which when she swings wildly in a batters cage. 

The story gets cracking when Galt slaps around a mug in a white linen suit (William Bendix) who’s been tailing him. Of course, that’s not the last he sees of Bendix, who turns in his signature tough guy performance. 

Different story, familiar characters

The story revolves around effete art dealer Hardy Cathcart (Clifton Webb), Galt’s former partner, Tony Jardine (Kurt Kreuger), and Cathcart’s wife, Mari (Cathy Downs). Webb is virtually repeating his role as acid-tongued gossip columnist Waldo Lydecker in “Laura.”  Alas, Ball, Webb and Bendix steal every scene they’re in, but Stevens still makes a strong enough, if not stellar, showing as the jaded shamus. 

Top of the heap, at last

He finally gets top billing in “The Street with No Name,” but, once again Stevens is both blessed and cursed to appear alongside co-star Richard Widmark. Widmark’s on-screen charisma is like a blindingly brilliant light that leaves Stevens’s solid performance a bit in the shadows. 

Richard Widmark, "The Street with No Name" (1948).

G-man goes undercover

In “The Street with No Name” FBI agent Gene Cordell (Stevens) infiltrates a vicious gang operating in a seedy anywhere-America city. Head crook Alec Stiles (Widmark) runs a boxing gym and commands a band of robbers.  Lloyd Nolan plays the same FBI Inspector Briggs of “The House on 92nd Street” (1945) and Ed Begley is the police chief. 

The film’s stunning look, crafted by cinematographer Joseph MacDonald, creates shadowy dive hotel rooms, dark, forbidding alleyways and menacing skid row streets with astonishing artistry.

Gunplay and fisticuffs

It’s a tight action drama with a slug-fest boxing match and a noir shootout, appropriately, in a gloomy factory.  Unfortunately, Stevens apparently didn’t live up to Fox’s expectations of a leading man and loan-outs to other studios began until his contract lapsed.

After Fox, he found work with the “three little majors,” Universal, Columbia and United Artists, and with low-budget B-movie factories on Poverty Row. Most notably he appeared in a noir for Columbia, “Between Midnight and Dawn” (1950), with Edmond O’Brien, in which he plays a rookie cop paired with O’Brien, patrolling city streets on the graveyard shift.

Mark Stevens, Edmond O'Brien, "Between Midnight and Dawn" (1950).

Cops in a radio car 

The film is a police procedural wrapped around a buddy movie with a documentary style opening. The film’s staccato newsreel-like footage gives way to a smoother paced story of police officers trying to tame the influence of organized crime in their city. A sub-plot offers some rickety comedy involving Stevens’s Rocky Barnes awkwardly wooing police radio dispatcher Katherine Mallory (Gale Storm). The light humor seems inconsequential, but Katherine becomes more significant to the film’s emotional backbone in the later part of the story. 

The green and the disillusioned

O’Brien’s Patrolman Daniel Purvis is street smart and cynical, while Barnes is as yet unscathed by bitter experience on the force. When the crime fighting duo arrest racketeer Ritchie Garris (Donald Buka) things get serious and a revenge drama is set in motion. The cast turns in solid performances all around as the film comes to a tense climax.

 After “Between Midnight and Dawn,” television roles followed for Stevens. In 1953 he took over the lead role in NBC-TV’s detective drama “Martin Kane.” He stayed with the show just one season, 40 episodes, but it provided him the security of a steady paycheck as he made plans for the future.

Mark Stevens, Trudy Wroe, "Big Town" (1954).

A leap into ‘Big Town’

It was a big risk, but the following year Stevens bought a half-stake in the TV series “Big Town” (1950-1956). The series, which ran on CBS (1950-1954) and NBC (1954-1956), is built around a crusading news reporter fighting corruption. Stevens appeared in 82 episodes. In his second season he began writing, directing and producing episodes, which would prove to be a key to his later success in film and television.

Out for revenge

Back on the big screen, Stevens directed and starred in “Cry Vengeance” (1954), a revenge thriller he made for Allied Artists, formerly Monogram Pictures. In it, San Francisco ex-cop Vic Barron (Stevens) is haunted by his past. He crossed mobster Tino Morelli (Douglas Kennedy) and soon thereafter his family was killed in a car bombing that left him disfigured. The mobster framed him for a crime he didn’t commit and Barron served three years in prison. 

We meet him as he’s released from lockup and filled with a desire for vengeance on Morelli. But is he after the right man? Barron’s search for the culprit brings him all the way to Alaska, but finding the perpetrator behind the bombing proves more complicated than he anticipated.

Mark Stevens, "Cry Vengeance" (1954).

A company of his own

Following “Cry Vengeance, he formed Mark Stevens Productions in 1955 with ambitious plans for films and TV series as well as an expansion into the music publishing and record distribution businesses. Most of these ventures didn’t pan out, with the exception of the noir “Time Table” (1956). This time, Stevens directs and stars, playing insurance cop  Charlie Norman who is assigned to investigate a train heist that turns out to be more than what meets the eye. 

Robbery on the rails

The gang pulls off a complicated railway robbery that depends on adherence to a strict timetable — if one move goes wrong a chain reaction would quash the caper. The film features a gripping 10 minute robbery sequence that showcases Stevens’s directing style. We learn about Charlie, who’s obsessed with status and material wealth. He’s jumpy and craves success — perhaps a bit like the real-life Stevens. He spells it all out in a short burst of anti-establishment dialogue: “For me, patience in poison!”

Just one film completed

The taut thriller would be Mark Stevens Productions’s lone completed  project. It’s unclear what exactly brought about the company’s demise, although it’s likely that Stevens invested too heavily in his productions. “Time Table” stands as a shining example of Stevens’s craft (at times, he claimed the company produced others).

Off to distant shores

The production company’s failure was enough to make Stevens flee to Majorca, Spain, where he eventually retired. Throughout the late 1950s and 1960s he returned to the states periodically for TV guest spots, mostly on westerns. He appeared in “Fate is the Hunter” (1964) with Glenn Ford, and back on the continent he appeared in a string of forgettable European movies.

He popped up now and again in TV guest spots on “Kojack,” “Simon and Simon” and “Magnum, P.I.” His final TV appearance came in 1987. He died of cancer in 1994 at age 77.