Scrapped: The Original Opening Sequence of “Sunset Boulevard” was Even Stranger than the Final Cut, and Audiences had a Peculiar Reaction to It

Erich von Stroheim, William Holden, Gloria Swanson,
"Sunset Boulevard" (1950).

Test Audiences Were Stunned, Amused and Confused

Joe Gillis (Holden), a life cut short.

By Paul Parcellin 

At the start of "Sunset Boulevard," hapless screenwriter Joe Gillis (William Holden) floats face-down in a swimming pool with several bullet holes punched into his torso. He’d been the long-term houseguest of deranged former silent screen siren Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson) until, in a fit of grief and jealous rage, she used him for target practice.

She’d hired Gillis to polish a hopelessly disorganized screenplay written by and for the delusional Norma as a vehicle to reignite her long-dormant career. Of course, things didn’t work out that way. By the film’s end, we learn that Norma’s return to the klieg lights is on permanent hold and she’s about to be hauled off to a sanitarium. Meanwhile, cops are fishing Gillis out of the pool with pruning hooks. So much for Hollywood endings.

For those who’ve never seen the film, that’s hardly giving too much away. Almost everyone has at least heard of the gruesome setup that puts the story in motion. As the film opens, we see the police and a caravan of news reporters speeding down Los Angeles’s Sunset Boulevard toward the scene of the crime as daybreak washes over the City of Angels. Angelenos will immediately sense that this story is fictional – Sunset is all but traffic-free. Even in the early morning hours in 1950, that’s pure poppycock.

Norma Desmond (Swanson)
in a hysterical rage.

But the opening sequence that appears in the final cut wasn’t the first one that director Billy Wilder had in mind. Preview audiences viewed a quite different and even more bizarre opening, and their reaction was not the one Wilder anticipated. 

The sequence in question was quickly re-edited into the version we’re all familiar with. All that remains of the original are a few short clips without sound and some still photos. Consequently, few have ever seen the completed original opening and it appears that no one is sure if copies of the entire sequence still exist.

However, surviving script pages outline the remarkably strange introduction that ended up in the dust bin. It opens with shots of the coroner’s wagon speeding along the streets, delivering the earthly remains of Joe Gillis to the city morgue. 

The body is taken into the sterile facility, toe-tagged, and wheeled into a room temporarily housing other recently deceased unfortunates. But ethereal music fills the air and a strange glow emanates from beneath a bed sheet covering the cold, still dripping wet Gillis. Suddenly, he reanimates, as do his new roommates, who begin to chit-chat among themselves. 

Each has a tale of woe about the circumstances leading up to their demise – a truck crash here, an accidental drowning there. Gillis is a bit of a curiosity to the others due to his Hollywood connections and because he was murdered. So, he begins telling his story, and thus, narrating the rest of the movie from beyond the grave, or in this case, the slab.

Preview audiences in Evanston, Illinois, and Poughkeepsie and Great Neck, N.Y., laughed at the morgue sequence and were unsure whether the film was a comedy or drama.

Enroute to the city morgue.

After the opening credits, when the story moved down Sunset Boulevard and into the L.A. County Morgue, spectators were stunned. Years later Wilder recalled, “When the morgue label was tied on Mr. Holden’s toe, they started to scream with laughter. I walked out of the preview, very depressed.”

The revised cut shows the arrival of police and reporters. Next, we’re assaulted by a complex and eerie view of the corpse that appears to be filmed from the bottom of the pool. From our vantage point, we look up at Gillis and see his lifeless face. The cops are poolside, looking down at the dead man and they seem to be looking down at us, too, as we gaze upward from the depths of Gillis’s watery grave.

Getting that one shot took a good deal of work and planning. First, since there was no swimming pool at the location, Paramount had to dig one. After much experimentation, art director John Meehan set up the shot. At the bottom of a portable process tank, he placed an eight-by-six-foot dance rehearsal mirror.

 After sinking the tank to the bottom of the pool, he placed a muslin canopy behind the police and news photographers, which, shot in black and white, would mimic the dawn sky. With those elements in place, cinematographer John F. Seitz could light the scene effectively in a short time. The camera was set up alongside the pool and Seitz pointed it down at the mirror on the bottom of the tank and filmed Holden’s bobbing reflection. 

According to Meehan, the shot “turned out to be a simple, inexpensive way to get through-water or underwater shots” by removing the need to use expensive underwater equipment. Meehan noted that the water had to be well filtered for clarity and kept at a low temperature of about 40 degrees because at higher temperatures the natural gases that build up in water would cut down on light transmission.

It’s unclear, however, how long Holden, face down in the frigid water, had to keep his eyes open and how he managed to stave off hypothermia.

A grim end for Gillis.

Despite the efforts to smooth over the original segment’s jagged edges and tone down its comedic content, the revised opening still caused a stir. In Hollywood, Paramount arranged a private screening for the various studio heads and specially invited guests. 

While many were appreciative of the film, MGM studio boss Louis B. Mayer was incensed by the cheeky sendup of Tinsel Town. He allegedly shouted at Wilder, “You bastard! You have disgraced the industry that made and fed you.” The outraged movie mogul tried to buy the film so that he could bury it. Fortunately, he failed to do so.

Critical response was positive and box office receipts were good, making “Sunset Boulevard” an undisputed hit. But Gillis’s snappy, matter-of-fact voice-over narration, a sardonic mix of blunt fact, barely restrained venom, and self-deprecation didn’t sit well with all reviewers. 

Thomas M. Pryor wrote for The New York Times that the plot device of using the dead Joe Gillis as narrator was “completely unworthy of Brackett and Wilder, but happily it does not interfere with the success of ‘Sunset Boulevard’.” Taking a more hostile tone, The New Yorker described the film as “a pretentious slice of Roquefort,” containing only “the germ of a good idea.”

According to Sam Staggs in his book Close-Up on Sunset Boulevard, no audience has seen the morgue sequence since 1949, although Wilder did save the footage.

When Sherry Lansing, head of Paramount, approached Wilder about including the deleted sequence as an addendum to the DVD version of “Sunset Boulevard,” he refused. Although Wilder sometimes claimed to hold the missing sequence, he told director Cameron Crowe, “I don’t know who has it now.”

This article was originally published in the Dec. 2023 issue of The Dark Pages. Check out The Dark Pages newsletter at: www.allthatnoir.com/newsletter/

Two Couples Who Murder: “Double Indemnity” Faces Off Against “Body Heat” — And It’s Not Even Close

Left, Kathleen Turner, William Hurt, "Body Heat" (1981).
Right, Barbara Stanwyck, Fred MacMurray, "Double Indemnity" (1944).

Warning: Contains Spoilers

By Paul Parcellin

After I moved to L.A. in 2008, I got together with a Meetup group that was going to see a screening of “Double Indemnity” (1944) at the ArcLight Theater in Hollywood. I was chomping at the bit in anticipation of watching one of my all-time favorite films with a group of cinema enthusiasts. I pictured us moving enmasse to the theater’s cafe after the screening and having a long discussion about the film, going over its finer points, savoring the subtlety of Billy Wilder’s direction, analyzing the screenplay co-written by Wilder and consummate grouch Raymond Chandler. Then there were the performances — Fred MacMurray, Barbara Stanwyck and Edward G. Robinson — how great was that cast?!

My fellow viewers were younger than me — let’s face it, almost everyone is these days — ranging from early 20s to around 30 or so. After the movie unreeled we drifted into the cafe. I was set for a stimulating, caffeine fueled conversation about classic film, old Hollywood and the like. But the banter took a dark turn. Not dark, as in noir-like shadows of venetian blinds on the wall. Dark as in, “Who the hell saw this coming?” The general reaction, saturated in Millenial social-media-ingrained ennui, was, “So, like, why is that supposed to be so great?” 

MacMurray as Walter Neff, spilling the details of his crimes.

The film’s opening scenes follow the mortally wounded insurance salesman Walter Neff (MacMurray), who makes his way to the office of his boss, claims adjustor Barton Keyes (Robinson) and records a voice memo on a Dictaphone machine in which he confesses to two murders, that of his paramour Phyllis Dietrichson (Stanwyck) and her husband (Tom Powers). It’s an emotional sequence that draws us into the story leading up to the confession, but the discussion went off the rails from the get-go. 

One young woman in the cinema group in her early 20s opined with incredulity, “Somebody shot him and he goes to make a recording? Nobody’s going to do that!”

Another noticed that MacMurray was wearing a wedding ring and the character he plays was unmarried. “Yeah, I noticed that, too!” another added. (MacMurray refused to remove the ring, and it was visible in that scene).

The conversation went on like that for a number of depressing minutes. I didn’t say a thing. Finally, someone noticed I was keeping it shut and asked me what I thought of the film, and I said I think it’s a masterpiece. That got their attention, but not in the way you’d hope. They looked at me with a mixture of pity, curiosity and annoyance, with annoyance being the dominant reaction. 

Explaining myself, I said that the film is witty, dramatic and character driven. It contains dialog that is the very definition of smart noir repartee. I called the script a marvel and, borrowing Barton Keyes’s description of the insurance scam Neff masterminds, noted that it “all fits together like a watch.”

Most of them paused for a nano-second to consider this, then silently dismissed my insightful, cleverly worded summary and began talking amongst themselves. 

A hellish red glow is the backdrop for Hurt and Turner in "Body Heat."

The 30ish guy hadn’t fully bailed on the discussion just yet, and he said he’d seen “Body Heat,” with William Hurt and Kathleen Turner and noticed the similarity between the two movies — “Body Heat” is based on “Double Indemnity.” 

In “Body Heat,” hack attorney Ned Racine (Hurt) kills Matty Walker’s (Turner) husband, Edmund (Richard Crenna), much like MacMurray in “Double Indemnity.” There’s a snag in both killers’ plans, however. In each movie an eyewitness is brought forward for questioning. Both Neff and Racine are present in the same room as their respective witnesses. 

For Neff, a man who saw him at the scene of the crime, and for Racine, a little girl who saw him in a passionate encounter with Matty. The tension has both perps on tinder hooks, but somehow they escape a close scrape with the law, temporarily, at least.

The 30ish guy in the cafe said that “Body Heat” did a better job of depicting that spine tingling encounter with justice, and the “Double Indemnity” version just wasn’t as good. 

Quelling my mounting apoplectic rage, I strongly disagreed, but it was pointless. He joined the discussion with the others about a current super hero film. Case closed.

I resisted the temptation to launch into a heated defense of “Double Indemnity,” realizing that I'd probably sound a lot like the old codger who shouts, “Hey you kids, get off my lawn!” But the encounter also made me think about those two movies.

I’d be the first to admit that Lawrence Kasdan’s “Body Heat” (1981) is a fine film. William Hurt, Kathleen Turner and Richard Crenna, as the unfortunate husband, all put in terrific performances. The script is a tightly modulated work of emotional tension and release, and the twist at the denouement sews up the loose ends ably. 

But better than “Double Indemnity”? I think not.

Ruth Snyder, Henry J. Gray, murderers who inspired James M. Cain's novella.

The film “Double Indemnity” is adapted from James M. Cain’s 1943 novella of the same title. The book is based on a real-life 1927 murder perpetrated by Ruth Snyder, a married woman from Queens, N.Y., and her lover, Henry Judd Gray. They conspired to kill her husband, Albert, and both went to the electric chair at Sing Sing Prison.

Wilder and Chandler crafted a script rich in detail with finely realized characters, including the murderous couple. 

Kasdan crafted the “Body Heat” screenplay, which is rich in twists and turns and includes an erotic encounter between Ned and Matty that could only be hinted at in “Double Indemnity.” But there are big differences between the two that in my not so humble opinion demonstrate why “Double Indemnity” is by far the superior film:

 D.I. — Phyllis and Walter meet by chance; she seems to begin plotting the murder only after their second meeting, when she asks Walter about accident insurance.

Matty has long-range plans in mind.

B.H. — Matty has been playing the long game. She steals and assumes her best friend’s identity, and begins searching for a sloppy, careless attorney with questionable morals. Ned’s name comes up, and she figures out a way to meet him that will seem like a randon encounter — quite a far fetched turn of the plot.

Phyllis and Walter’s meeting is more plausible than that of Matty and Ned. Plausibility is not necessarily the most critical element in a film, but chance and character are all important in "Double Indemnity.” In “Body Heat,” Matty merely fabricates the illusion of a chance encounter to attract Ned into her web of deceit and murder. 

Fate is the big kahuna of film noir, and “Double Indemnity” wins points for its adherence to this existential tenet.

D.I. — “Double Indemnity” has a far greater emotional range than does “Body Heat,” especially in a scene between Walter and Mr. Dietrichson’s daughter, Lola (Jean Heather), that takes place after the murder. Neff’s conscience — yes, we learn that he does actually have one — begins to get the better of him. This is an element that’s crucial to the film’s ending, by the way, but more about that later. 

Phyllis, savoring the moment as her husband is strangled.

Phyllis, however, may as well have Freon coursing through her veins. The depths of her sociopathic personality is beautifully revealed in the gruesome scene in which Neff strangles her husband while she sits inches away from him. The camera cuts away from the film’s most disturbing scene, which government censor would surely demand, to a closeup of Phyllis’s face. She’s not cringing, as any normal person would. Instead, she’s barely able to suppress a smile. 

Wilder’s brilliance shows through here. Rather than waste the cutaway shot, he uses it to give us more information. We see Phyllis’s insanely calm reaction to her husband’s horrible death, but Walter doesn’t see it — he’s busy attending to business. This is the first time in the film in which we have more information than does Neff. His ignorance of Phyllis’s true demeanor allows him to continue on with their plan without reflecting on her abnormal behavior. Later, in voiceover, he says he expected Phyllis might fall to pieces, but is relieved that she’s managed to keep her composure.

Neff and Phyllis, a chance encounter.

Getting back to the disappointing discussion at the ArcLight, I’d answer that young woman’s disbelief that the wounded Neff — Phyllis plugs him before he returns the favor — would take the time to leave a confessional recording, with a clear and simple explanation — the kind that never seems to occur to me in the heat of a discussion:

The reason why Neff returns to record a confession despite the fact that Phyllis popped a cap in his chest, is two-fold.

First, he needs to explain himself to his father confessor, Keyes, who’s about the only one in the film who genuinely cares about him.

Second, he needs to save Nino Zachetti’s (Byron Barr) life. Who is Nino Zachetti? He’s the abusive jerk who’s secretly dating Lola. Neff realizes that Zachetti is the perfect dupe to frame for both murders. Keyes believes Zachetti might be guilty of killing Mr. Dietrichson and that gives Neff the perfect opportunity to keep his trap shut and let Nino go to the chair. 

But he can’t. 

Lola (Jean Heather) makes an unwelcome office visit to Neff (MacMurray)
and his stoic facade begins to crack.

Unlike Phyllis, Neff has a conscience. He’s been fighting off feelings of guilt for killing Lola’s father ever since the day she came to see him in his office. Her appearance throws a monkey wrench into his plan to keep his head down and remain stolid. 

But Neff can’t bear to send Lola’s boyfriend to the chair after all of the pain he’s caused her by killing her father. Instead, he plans to tell the whole truth to Keyes by leaving him a voice recording he’ll hear the following day. By then, Neff plans to be a free man in Mexico. He can’t explain himself to the cops, for obvious reasons, but Keyes is the perfect recipient of the message. There’s as much apology as confession in Neff’s memo to Keyes. He’s finally contrite for his deceptions and horrible behavior. 

So, the reason why Neff drives like a madman to the office and pours his heart out into a Dictaphone machine is because he feels that he must. It’s the final decent act he can perform in his foolishly wasted life. His confession will prevent Zachetti, whom Neff passionately dislikes, from paying for a crime he didn’t commit. It’s a moral judgment that shows us that, in the end, Neff does have a suppressed sense of morality that finally comes to light. But it’s too late to save him from the debt he must pay for his evil deeds.

We don’t see anything close to Neff’s moral journey in “Body Heat,” which is a clever story with a clever ending. But where’s the emotional and moral conflict? Both Matty and Ned are cold and calculating, with no visible remorse. 

Christian Bale is the killer Yuppie in "American Psycho" (2000).

In a sense it’s the perfect adaptation for its time, the early 1980s, when materialism and consumerism were at full dudgeon. Matty and Ned are like remorseless Yuppies who kill, maybe with a greater affinity to murderous investment banker Patrick Bateman (Christian Bale) in “American Psycho” (2000) than to Walter Neff. 

“Body Heat” is still fun to watch now and then, but I don’t rewatch it like I do “Double Indemnity,” which I’ve seen innumerable times and will probably continue to do so. 

I wish I’d had all of this stuff in mind when I encountered the “Double Indemnity” doubters at the ArcLight. But if any of them are reading this — highly doubtful — I’ve laid out what I should have said. Not a quick answer, but better late than never. 

Fortunately, there’s always the option to rewatch “Double Indemnity” and give it another chance. I hope that they do.

 

Ripped From the Headlines: True Crimes Explode onto the Screen in Noir Movies

Barbara Stanwyck, Fred MacMurray, “Double Indemnity” (1944)

By Paul Parcellin

It’s no wonder that Hollywood in the 1940s and ’50s scooped up lurid true crime stories and made hard-hitting, gritty dramas out of them. Following the war, the public’s appetite for rough textured tales could not be surpassed. Cold, savage murders that bled off the front page of tabloid scandal sheets was the stuff that fueled screen dramas full of deceit, adultery and homicide — in other words, film noir. 

The pulse of noir is driven by morally complex characters who land in deep existential trouble sometimes by accident, other times due to hubris and their own unsavory choices. The line between truth and fiction is not always cut and dried in fact-based noir. But the characters who inhabit the real world often have a lot in common with classic noir anti-heroes. Both live in a shadowy world of crime, mystery and ethical ambiguity. Miscreants caught up in true crime stories and those in fictional film noir fit together like bullets and a revolver.

More compelling still, fact-based noirs may seem more plausible than purely fictional yarns because in the back of our minds we know that the tale we’re watching is, at least in part, objectively truth based. Real people made these choices, acted reprehensibly and perhaps paid for their misdeeds. The weight of that knowledge helps keeps us engaged until the end. We want to see the protagonist’s fate play out even if we already know the “true” facts — will Hollywood’s version agree with the sensational headlines, garish news photos and breathlessly recounted real-life courtroom dramas that the media beamed across the nation for mass consumption? The answer is often yes and no. Exaggerations, embellishments and rewriting of the facts are not unheard of. Usually this is done in the spirit of enhancing dramatic tension and clarifying the story. See if you agree.

Here’s a sample of films based on pulp fact, usually with a chaser of fiction served up on the side — or perhaps it’s the other way around.

Barbara Stanwyck, Fred MacMurray, Edward G. Robinson, “Double Indemnity.”

"Double Indemnity" (1944) 

Claims adjuster Barton Keyes (Edward G. Robinson) has a theory about the murder plot that drives "Double Indemnity” and it fits together like a watch, he says. The same is true of this film. It’s crafted and assembled like the movement of a fine Swiss timepiece. In it, insurance salesman Walter Neff (Fred MacMurray) and femme fatale Phyllis Dietrichson (Barbara Stanwyck) trick Phyllis’s husband into signing an accident insurance policy. They plan to do him in and collect the proceeds, but things don’t go exactly as planned.

The film was adapted from James M. Cain’s novel of the same title, which was loosely based on the 1927 murder of Albert Snyder. The real-life case involved a devious collaboration between Snyder’s wife, Ruth Brown Snyder, and her lover, Judd Gray.

Ruth and Albert’s marriage was on the rocks. She wanted money and financial independence, so she hatched a plot to murder her spouse and claim a big insurance payout. Much like the film in which Phyllis seduces Walter, Ruth manipulated Gray, persuading him to help kill her unwitting husband.

They chloroformed Albert, rendering him unconscious, staged his murder as a burglary gone wrong and positioned the body to mimic an accident. Like Phyllis and Walter, they were after a larger payout allowed by a double indemnity clause in the accident policy.

But the police saw through inconsistencies in Ruth and Gray’s stories. Evidence began piling up against them and the couple was finally arrested.

Unlike the film, they were tried and the proceedings became a media sensation. They were both found guilty and sentenced to death. 

In 1943, director Billy Wilder and writer Raymond Chandler adapted Cain’s novel into a screenplay. The film cleverly intertwines facts from the original case and adds layers of suspense, psychological tension, and intricate character development. Fred MacMurray’s portrayal of Walter Neff and Barbara Stanwyck’s embodiment of Phyllis Dietrichson further immortalized the characters inspired by Ruth and Gray.

The convergence of reality and fiction in “Double Indemnity” made an indelible mark on American filmmaking and helped set the pace for noirs that came after it.

Burt Lancaster, “The Killers.”

"The Killers" (1946)

Based in part on the 1927 short story of the same title by Ernest Hemingway, the film focuses on an insurance detective's investigation into the execution by two professional killers of a former boxer who was unresistant to his own murder.

A pair of hitmen, Max (William Conrad) and Al (Charles McGraw), enter a small-town diner in search of ex-prizefighter Ole “Swede” Anderson (Burt Lancaster). They manhandle the locals to squeeze information out of them and finally leave, only to locate their quarry and shoot him dead.

The next day insurance investigator Jim Reardon (Edmund O'Brien) arrives in town to investigate Swede's death. He interviews the diner's patrons and staff and tracks down Swede's girlfriend, Kitty Collins (Ava Gardner), but no one knows much about the murder. Reardon's investigation eventually leads him to mobster "Big Jim" Colfax (Albert Dekker). We learn in flashbacks about a payroll robbery that Swede took part in. When it was time to divide the loot Swede realized that others were trying to grab his share.

Hemingway’s short story, on which the film is based, was modeled after a real-life killing ordered by the Chicago mob. Popular boxer Andre Anderson, who once defeated Jack Dempsey, was the target. His killer, Leo Mongoven, went on the run and was captured following a traffic collision that killed Chicago banker John J. Mitchell and his wife Mary Louise.

Apart from its compelling story and strong performances, “The Killers” is notable for its dark, moody photography — shadows and light create a deep sense of unease and dread. Cinematographer Elwood Bredell, who also shot classic noir “Phantom Lady” (1944), fills the frame with inky black shadows that project a palpable atmosphere of doom. 

In addition to its classic noir status, “The Killers” helped usher in the filmic era of the hitman, echos of which can be heard in films such as “Murder By Contract” (1958), “Murder, Inc.” (1960), “Pulp Fiction” (1994), and many others.

James Stewart, “Call Northside 777.”

"Call Northside 777" (1948)

“Call Northside 777” is a fictionalized account of the true story of Joseph Majczek, who was wrongly convicted of the murder of a Chicago policeman in 1932. 

In the film, crusading reporter P.J. McNeal (James Stewart) risks his life to prove Majczek's innocence — Majczek is renamed Frank Wiecek in the film and is played by Richard Conte. McNeal is at first reluctant to pursue the story, believing that the convicted man probably is a cop killer. But his boss, Chicago Times city editor Brian Kelly (Lee J. Cobb), prods the skeptical McNeal to dig deeper into the case. After chasing down down witnesses and attempting to interview uncooperative police officials, McNeal becomes convinced that the wrong man was imprisoned, and so begins his crusade to undo the injustices suffered by an innocent victim.

Veteran director Henry Hathaway, who previously shot many westerns, action pictures, war movies and thrillers, employed a documentary-style opening sequence for the film, much as he did with “The House on 92nd Street” (1945). Paying great attention to detail, he filmed most of the scenes at or near sites where the true events took place. A side note: the film is credited with being among the first to include the use of a fax machine, cutting edge technology at the time, which plays an important role in the plot.

The real-life events that inspired the film began on Dec. 9, 1932, when Officer William Lundy was shot and killed during a robbery at a delicatessen in Chicago. Two men, Joseph Majczek and Ted Marcinkiewicz, were arrested and convicted of the murder. However, there was significant evidence that pointed to their innocence, including eyewitness testimony that placed them elsewhere at the time of the crime.

Majczek's mother, Tillie, was convinced of her son's innocence and spent years trying to clear his name. In 1944, she placed a classified ad in the Chicago Times offering a $5,000 reward for information about the real killers. The ad caught the attention of Times reporter J. Watson Webb Jr., who began investigating the case and soon uncovered evidence that Majczek and Marcinkiewicz were innocent.

Webb's investigation led to the reopening of the case and in 1946 Majczek and Marcinkiewicz were exonerated. The real-life P.J. McNeal was a major factor in their release, and he was even present in the courtroom when they were finally declared innocent.

“Call Northside 777” was a critical and commercial success and it helped raise awareness of wrongful convictions. The film also earned James Stewart an Academy Award nomination for Best Actor.

James Stewart, John Dall, Farley Granger, “Rope.”

“Rope” (1948) 

“Rope” is a fictionalized account of the Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb case, a cold, senseless murder that took place in Chicago in the early part of the last century. When the perpetrators were caught, a sensational, highly publicized trial followed. 

In the film, philosophy professor Rupert Cadell (James Stewart) is drawn into the world of two wealthy young men, Brandon Shaw (John Dall) and Philip Morgan (Farley Granger), who, unbeknownst to Cadell, have committed the “perfect murder.” The professor is initially fascinated by the two young men but eventually realizes that they are dangerous.

The real-life events that inspired the film began on May 21, 1924, when 14-year-old Bobby Franks was found strangled in a vacant lot in Chicago. Franks had been lured to the lot by Leopold and Loeb, who had planned the murder as an intellectual exercise.

The two were brilliant young men who were fascinated by Nietzsche's philosophy of the Übermensch, or "superman." They believed that they were superior to other people and that they had the right to kill anyone they deemed inferior.

The pair were eventually arrested and convicted of the Franks murder. They were sentenced to life in prison, where they both died.

“Rope” was a critical and commercial success and was praised for its suspenseful plot and its psychological insights. The film was also controversial because it appeared to be filmed in a single take. Director Alfred Hitchcock cleverly choreographed camera movements, which allowed continuous filming of scenes up to 10 minutes in duration. Stage hands silently moved scenery and furnishings during filming to accommodate cast and camera movements. When spliced together the film, which takes place in a single location, appears to unfold in real time, much like the stage play on which it is based. James Stewart acknowledged that few director besides Hitchcock would attempt to shoot such an experimental film, however Stewart said he felt that the continuous-shot concept used in “Rope” didn’t really work. Many would disagree. As with any Hitchcock film there are always elements that make it a worthwhile viewing experience.  

This is Part I of True Crime Noirs. Read Part II and Part III.

Meet the Press: Bullies, Brutes and News Hounds of Noir

Kirk Douglas, Robert Arthur, 'Ace in the Hole' (1951).

By Paul Parcellin

Gossip, Lurid Facts, Scandal Keep the Tabloid Presses Rolling

This article contains spoilers, so you may want to see these films before reading any further.

When we see a disheveled, groggy Richard Conte breaking into his own office in the middle of the night, desperate to record a story on the company’s Dictaphone machine, you know you’re watching noir. The scene could be set in almost any kind of office but it feels most at home in the newsroom — it works in an insurance company, too, but that’s a different movie (“Double Indemnity”).

In the first half of the last century newspapers had an undeniable excitement and mystique about them that has faded in more recent times. Back then they were a perfect breeding ground for the darkest of noir tales.

Picture a dingy roomful of men in their shirt sleeves and fedoras, furiously clattering out hot stories on Royal typewriters and editors marking them up with number 2 pencils. A cloud of Chesterfield smoke lingers in the air. City streets are awash in newsprint, subway strap hangers’ hands are smudged with black ink and news hawkers bark out the day’s biggest headlines. 

Part of the reason that newspaper journalism of yore, especially tabloids, fit perfectly with the film noir perspective is their focus on crime, scandal and salacious gossip. With big, garish headlines they often told tales of bullets fired, shell casings recovered and blood spilled. But apart from the pulpy stories they printed, the newspaper game was a grimy business — literally. Ink, newsprint and hot lead type were the materials that went into making that hunk of paper that landed on your doorstep each morning or the tabloid you snatched up at a news stand near your bus stop. 

These days, with computer imaging and typography, print journalism, such as it still exists, has grown a good deal more antiseptic. Old school newsrooms, Linotype machines and photo darkrooms have dissipated into the ether along with the cigarette smoke. But in their glory days they were part of the rough, gritty stuff that noir is made of. Yet, beneath the surface of these newspaper films lies a deep seated fear of media demagoguery, its potential to deliver propaganda to the masses and the unchecked power it could potentially wield — fears that have stayed with us to this day.

Howard Duff, 'Shakedown' (1950).

Most of those in the journalism game were and are straight shooters, but noir by its very nature focuses on humanity’s dark side, and the journalists of film noir are nothing if not amoral and shamelessly power hungry. We see that in "Shakedown" (1950). Cutthroat photographer Jack Early (Howard Duff) has a seemingly uncanny ability to take sensational pictures of breaking news events. Early is evasive about how he manages to be at the right place where dramatic events unfold. It turns out he’s getting tips from racketeer Nick Palmer, who lets him know about crimes, usually involving henchmen the crime boss want to get rid of, before they happen. For Early, the tips are a bonanza that pave the way to a job on the city’s newspaper. But as his career advances he develops a taste for double crosses, himself, setting up a crime  boss for an assassination. He plans to stand on the sidelines and capture it all on film. Eventually, Early is killed, but the camera he has stationed on a tripod takes pictures of the shooter in the act of rubbing him out. It’s a fitting last act for a crime photographer who liked to catch all of the lurid details on film. 

Richard Conte, Bruce Bennett, 'The Big Tip Off' (1955). 

In "The Big Tip Off" (1955), Richard Conte plays two-bit newspaper columnist Johnny Denton who gains notoriety by printing red-hot information on upcoming gangland activities. Like Jack Early, he is getting his information from a shadowy associate of his old buddy, Bob Gilmore (Bruce Bennett) . Unbeknownst to Denton, Gilmore is running a charity scam. Although the information he’s receiving offers him an opportunity to boost his faltering career, Denton soon has misgivings. In voice-over he reflects on his first encounter with mob brutality. “I didn’t think of the ethics of it until it was too late,” he mutters. “A human life ended in violence.” Soon others begin questioning his seemingly prescient reporting, but he claims immunity from revealing his sources. But in time it becomes clear that he’s more concerned with self enrichment than with protecting a news source’s identity. 

When the film’s action sags toward the middle a mood-lifting charity telethon with musical guests is staged with Denton as the master of ceremonies. But telethon organizer Gilmore has a plan of his own. He’s set to abscond with the telethon proceeds and will frame Denton for murdering his erstwhile accomplice. 

Kirk Douglas, Porter Hall, 'Ace in the Hole' (1951).

Like Denton, opportunistic newshound Chuck Tatum (Kirk Douglas) puts his career goals ahead of moral principles — and he has few of those. In "Ace in the Hole" (1951), Tatum knows he’s got a big fish on his line when an Indian relics hunter Leo Minosa (Richard Benedict) gets trapped in a cliff dwelling cave-in. Tatum will do anything to keep the story active. He and Sheriff Gus Kretzer (Ray Teal), who has agreed to grant Tatum exclusive contact with Leo, browbeat the construction contractor into using a more time-consuming rescue strategy. Meanwhile, after Tate’s news dispatches hit the streets droves of gawkers appear on the scene, and before long a traveling carnival sets up — a literal media circus. Almost everyone stands to gain something from Leo’s predicament. Leo’s wife, Lorraine (Jan Sterling), was ready to leave him but decides to stick around when she realizes there might be a buck to be made from the ordeal. Sheriff Kretzer is dancing to Tatum’s tune because the reporter has promised him favorable press for his reelection campaign. But in the end, all does not go well for Leo, and when the din of carnival barkers recedes into the New Mexico desert he is all but forgotten.

Tony Curtis, Burt Lancaster, 'Sweet Smell of Success' (1957).

Like Tatum, syndicated newspaper columnist J. J. Hunsecker (Burt Lancaster) In "Sweet Smell of Success" (1957) is one in a long line of unethical journalists who manipulate events and people to maintain an outsized influence on public opinion. Lancaster’s Hunsecker is an unabashed egomaniacal monster who surrounds himself with show business figures, politicians, underlings and other useful idiots. One of his entourage is small-time press agent Sydney Falco (Tony Curtis), who relies heavily on the columnist to push the propaganda he writes for his meager list of clients. Meanwhile, Hunsecker is obsessed with breaking up his sister Susan’s (Susan Harrison) relationship with  jazz guitarist Steve Dallas (Martin Milner) — we can only speculate about Hunsecker’s deeper motives. He demands that Sydney drive a wedge between the young couple and declares a moratorium on publishing any of his publicity blurbs until he gets the job done. Sydney dutifully takes on the job of ruining Dallas’s reputation, and in doing so deceives and cajoles a cigarette girl into doing a sexual favor for another columnist who agrees to publish a slur against the young guitarist. His gambit works, for a while, at least, but as soon as Sydney begins to believe he’s on top of the world the rug is yanked out from under him. Although Hunsecker’s plot backfires, we can assume he’ll continue to disseminate venom for many years to come, as will others of his ilk.

Clifton Webb, Dana Andrews, 'Laura' (1944).

Another news columnist and broadcaster, Waldo Lydecker (Clifton Webb), is the monster in "Laura" (1944). He’s filthy rich, earning an unheard of 50 cents per word for his literate dispatches that are printed in hundreds of papers around the country. As the story opens in Waldo’s self-described “lavish” apartment, Det. Lt. Mark McPherson (Dana Andrews) interviews him as he investigates the murder of advertising executive Laura Hunt (Gene Tierney). Both Waldo and playboy Shelby Carpenter (Vincent Price) knew the late young beauty and are therefor murder suspects. We see in flashback the genesis of Waldo’s relationship with Laura, which blossoms into a strictly platonic friendship. Waldo acts as her mentor, teaching her how to dress and behave in upper crust society. He aims to mold her into a decorative, cultured ornament, much like the museum pieces housed in glass cases in his living room. Carpenter, however, is enamored with her and has proposed marriage, earning himself Waldo’s scorn, but Carpenter seems immune to Waldo’s attempts to poison the relationship. In flashback we see Waldo disposing of another would-be suitor by ridiculing him in his column — after reading Waldo’s poisonous article, Laura is no longer able to take the would-be beau seriously. 

As the investigation proceeds we learn that Laura was killed by a shotgun blast to the face at her apartment’s doorway, which adds the tantalizing possibility that the victim may not be who everyone has assume it is, a possibility that proves true when Laura makes a most unexpected reappearance. But before she reemerges McPherson begins to fall in love with a portrait of her hanging over the mantlepiece. “Laura” is in part a romance in which McPherson and the heroine come to share a mutual attraction. But the concluding scene focuses on the shotgun murder weapon and a grandfather clock. Waldo loaned the clock to Laura — the shotgun is his own. 

Ray Milland, Charles Laughton, 'The Big Clock' (1948).

While scribes such as Waldo are most frequently the bad guys of newspaper noir, they aren’t the only villains of journalistic corruption. Sometimes a publisher can be the heavy. In "The Big Clock" (1948) we meet media mogul Earl Janoth (Charles Laughton), who keeps his charges on a tight leash. He’s the kind of executive who fires the janitor who left the supply closet light on overnight. One of Janoth’s employees, Crimeways magazine editor George Stroud (Ray Milland), is in the doghouse with his neglected wife, Georgette (Maureen O’Sullivan). George gets an adrenaline junkie’s thrill out of chasing down high-profile murder cases and is conflicted by his recent decision to chuck his fast-paced city life and move to the placid countryside, all in the name of maintaining marital bliss. It’s a sure bet from the start that a hot story is going to hook George and his move to the country will be put on hold. 

That comes to pass when Janoth’s former mistress, Pauline York (Rita Johnson), tells the publisher that she has fresh dirt on him. She’s been blackmailing him — he pays for her “singing lessons.” But now she’s ready to squeeze him for a larger payout. It’s only a short while after making her pronouncement that she is dead at Janoth’s hands. In an effort to throw the police off his trail, Janoth orders George to investigate the case and find the man whom he glimpsed but did not recognize just outside Pauline’s apartment — it was George, and that’s another sticky matter. As the police pursue blind leads, the Crimeways investigation picks up steam and the atmosphere becomes downright surreal. The magazine’s staff has unheard of investigative authority in an open criminal investigation while the police stand sheepishly on the sidelines. It’s apparent that Janoth’s company holds excessive, some might say fascistic, power over law enforcement authorities. In the end it’s George, not the police, who crack the case. But it’s not until he discovers how constrictive, mechanized and demoralizing an environment the company is that he is able to free himself from it and move back to the country and a less tumultuous way of life.

Rosemary DeCamp, Broderick Crawford, 'Scandal Sheet' (1952).

Newspaper editor Mark Chapman (Broderick Crawford), is another journalist who probably should have taken up residence on a quiet country lane, but instead he remains in the big city where his past has come back to haunt him. In "Scandal Sheet" (1952), Chapman finds it hard to keep a lid on a tragic incident that makes him look guilty of murder. His estranged wife, Charlotte (Rosemary De Camp), comes calling at a lonely hearts dance organized by Chapman’s paper, the Express. She threatens to publicly disclose information about his past that could ruin him — years ago he abandoned her and changed his identity. They have a verbal dust up that turns into a scuffle and she’s accidentally killed. Chapman works out a cover up, making it look like she slipped in the tub and the police believe his story. But it’s challenging to keep things under wraps when the paper’s ace crime reporter, Steve McCleary (John Derek), keeps digging up facts that hit a little too close to home. Unfortunately for Chapman, he has overseen the transformation of his once respectable paper into a muck-raking gossip rag. The kind of mud puddle he’s just stepped into — executive slays wife he abandoned — is just the stuff that papers like his gobble up. McLeary and his colleague Julie Allison (Donna Reed) are dogged in their pursuit of the culprit whom the paper has dubbed the Lonely Hearts Killer. Clearly, Chapman’s in over his head, but he will stop at nothing to scuttle the investigation. That includes committing murder when a reporter stumbles on damning evidence — even if the reporter is his protege. McLeary survives and there is poetic justice in the possibility that Chapman’s sordid misdeeds would make front page headlines in the scandal sheet he created. The lesson here is beware of the monster that you create — most likely you’ll end up its victim.

‘Double Indemnity’: Two On a Conveyor Belt Toward Doom

Fred MacMurray, Edward G. Robinson, 'Double Indemnity' (1944).


This article contains many SPOILERS, so if you haven't seen the film yet be forewarned.

By Paul Parcellin

In “Double Indemnity” (1944), housewife Phyllis Dietrichson (Barbara Stanwyck) seduces insurance salesman Walter Neff (Fred MacMurray) and gets him to kill her husband. She’s after a big payout from a policy that Neff sold him under false pretenses. It’s a classic noir — maybe THE classic noir. The story’s got all the right stuff — murder, sex and the promise of a bundle of cash for the two lovebirds. Naturally, it all goes horribly wrong and they both pay dearly for their misadventures. 

Neff and Phyllis swear allegiance to one another, repeating several times throughout the film that they’ll stick together “straight down the line” — words that prove all too prophetic. For a while, the scheme seems to have come off without a hitch, but later Neff realizes that a double-cross is in the works. Worse still, his co-worker and friend, claims supervisor Barton Keyes (Edward G. Robinson), is doggedly working to crack the case, and for Keyes, this case is like red meat to a lion.

When Keyes begins to suspect that Phyllis and an unknown man are behind her husband’s death, he also invokes a train trip. When two people commit a crime together it’s not twice as safe, it’s ten times more dangerous. "It's not like taking a trolley ride together where they can get off at different stops,” he says. “They're stuck with each other and they've got to ride all the way to the end of the line and it's a one-way trip and the last stop is the cemetery.”

Like the rows of canned goods in Jerry’s Supermarket where the two conspiring killers meet clandestinely to plot their moves, Neff begins to realize that he’s been used by Phyllis and is nothing more than a commodity on a conveyor belt whose ultimate destination is a meeting with the executioner.

It’s all rather dire, but beneath the surface of a crime film lies a satire of modern day life — can the drudgery of the workaday world that Neff slogs through be enough to transform a morally challenged worker bee into an adulterer, embezzler and a killer? The answer is a resounding yes, here in Neff’s world, at least.

Also just beneath the surface is the film’s extremely subtle comments on big Hollywood and its tendency to crush the creative spirit of its faithful servants — it’s there but you might need a magnifying glass to see it. 

Raymond Chandler and Billy Wilder.

Director Billy Wilder and Raymond Chandler, who co-wrote the screenplay, were not fans of the City of Los Angeles, and the film echos their disdain for the metropolis. They thought of the place as hyper-capitalized, highly industrialized and morally bankrupt. Chandler once said that Los Angeles has “no more personality than a paper cup.” He viewed the City of Angels as a modern day Sodom filled with greasy burger joints, phony spiritualist and fast-talking hustlers trying to make a dishonest buck.

James Naremore in his book “More Than Night” lays out some of the film’s underpinnings. Putting aside the heinous crimes Neff commits, the author views him as a cog in a machine, namely the insurance industry, and his foray into a murderous scheme is a doomed effort to break away from the shackles of his job and a rootless existence. After years of faithful service he wants to crook the system and go far away with his newfound lady love. 

Wilder’s satirical portrait of the drab assembly line that is modern industrialized civilization is that of a wasteland teeming with alienated masses. And the insurance business is not much different from the movie industry. Naremore points out that the insurance company offices where Neff works, which we see in the film’s opening sequence, is a near duplicate of Paramount Pictures’ New York offices. And Neff’s Hollywood apartment is a carefully constructed copy of Wilder’s suite at West Hollywood’s Chateau Marmont hotel, where he lived while shooting the film. Wilder’s in-joke is that, like Neff, he’s become an automaton for the big money people. 

We see both Neff and Keyes suffer through a painful meeting with their oafish boss, Mr. Norton (Richard Gaines). A self-righteous airhead with little hands-on experience in the insurance industry, Norton tries to worm out of making good on the Dietrichson insurance policy only to have his clumsy maneuvers blow up in his face. It’s not hard to imagine that Norton is a stand-in for the executives the director was forced to report to — the kind that offer unwelcome and usually unhelpful advice all in the name of putting their imprint and a project that would do just fine without them. In this environment one could imagine upper management quoting Samuel Goldwyn when he implored his screenwriters to “Come up with some new cliches.” 

Fred MacMurray, Edward G. Robinson. The end of the line for Walter Neff.

Wilder faced studio pressure both when trying to put his script into production and after filming got under way. The Breen Office complained about an initial script, which was closer to the James M. Cain novel on which the film is based. That one had the two murderers die at each other’s hands instead of being arrested, tried and punished appropriately by the courts and penal system as the Hays Code strongly suggested. Wilder revised the screenplay to include an execution scene with Neff in the gas chamber, which he shot. It was reviled by studio brass as too gruesome. Ultimately, Wilder cut the scene, saying that it was unnecessary, but Naremore speculates that it would have played an essential role in the film. 

Stills of the scene show Neff, the condemned man, through the death chamber’s plate glass window as he’s obscured by clouds of cyanide gas and Keyes is one of the execution witnesses. 

The payoff scene after the execution, which was cut from the final print, would have added an even stronger ending to the film. After the execution is done, Keyes, alone, obviously grieving at the loss of a friend, is emotionally conflicted. He’s a straight shooter who is pained by the whole ordeal. Throughout the film we’ve seen a repeated ritual between Neff and Keyes, who smokes cheap stogies. He’s never got a match to light his cigar, but Neff comes to the rescue, flicking a wooden match to light up Keyes’s smoke. As a somber Keyes files out of the death chamber he takes out a cigar and pats his pockets looking for a match. He comes up empty and we see in his eyes the void that Neff’s death has left in his life. Too bad that such a touching moment ended up on the cutting room floor, especially since Wilder said it was one of the best scenes he'd ever filmed. But Naremore is hopeful that the excised film is sitting in a Paramount vault and will one day be restored to the film, although there’s no reason to think that this will ever happen. 

It’s open to question whether Wilder cut the scene due to pressure from his studio bosses or if he decided that the scene was truly unnecessary as he claimed. It’s all speculation because few people have actually seen the footage. But if Naremore’s description of it is accurate it would add an additional layer of emotional complexity to Keyes — his friendship with Neff being at odds with his dedication to doing the right thing. It’s an intriguing proposition.

Fred MacMurray, Barbara Stanwyck.

In 'Double Indemnity,' A Stalled Car is a Flash of Genius

Barbara Stanwyck and Fred MacMurray, in 'Double Indemnity.'

 As many times as we pore over "Double Indemnity," there are still important bits that may be missed. Sometimes that leads to revelations that change our understanding of the film.

I'm not talking about the Raymond Chandler cameo that went unnoticed for decades — that was a whopper of a find. It's those scenes that we've watched countless times that are entertaining, gripping even. But it's not until the umpteenth viewing that we have an "A-ha!" moment. 

By the way, for those who have yet to see "Double Indemnity," you'd be well advised to do so. In the meantime, let's summarize the story without giving too much away. However, if you're particularly sensitive to spoilers, you might want to stop reading here.

The story goes like this: An ethically wanting, rather shallow man, insurance salesman Walter Neff, falls for a married woman, and she for him. Together, they decide to cash in on a life insurance policy. Neff gets her husband to sign on the dotted line without his knowing what he's putting his John Hancock on.

The femme fatale, Phyllis Dietrichson, and Neff plot to do away with the unsuspecting hubby and leave his body in a lonely spot. After the deed is done, they make their escape. Or, at least they try to. 

It's one of many scenes in which director and co-writer Billy Wilder's flashes of genius take hold. The murderous pair hop into the getaway car, turn the key ... and it won't start.

A look of dread crosses their faces. Neff tries coaxing the engine another time. Finally, it catches. Relief.

An Unforeseen Turn

But something unexpected happens, not to Neff and Phyllis, but to us, the audience. We collectively, and perhaps subconsciously, white knuckle it until the motor at last turns over. Then we sigh with relief. Bear in mind that these two perps have just committed as terrible and cold-blooded a murder as one could imagine. Sure, Phyllis's husband was a lout, but did he deserve to die? 

Yet, we hold our breath, hoping against hope, that the engine will start and the two can leave before being discovered. In other words, that short scene crystalizes where we stand — we're slowly and subtly being lured to the dark side. It's a small but important moment.

Wilder revealed in an interview that he shot the scene as it was originally written. The two get into the car and leave. But overnight, he realized that he'd missed an opportunity to ratchet up the tension. So, he reshot that sequence, this time with the uncooperative engine, and it certainly does increase our level of stress as we watch it.

The result is that we worry about Neff and Phyllis's wellbeing; two criminals who kill for money. That's a pretty neat trick. When we fret about their safety, the director has fulfilled his intention, at least in part. Wilder knew that audiences must empathize with, if not admire, the lead actors. That's no mean feat with this pair of degenerates.

So, why does the sequence have this effect? Most of us have felt tension when a car threatens to stall just when we need it most. It's a powerful emotional experience. Powerful enough, it turns out, to make us pull for the other team even if we don't remotely like them.

That Wilder rewrote this scene, squeezing all of the agonizing tension he could out of it, is further proof of his impeccable dramatic instincts.

Of course, by noir's very nature our anti-heros are unlikely to be model citizens. Part of film's allure is that we get to walk a mile in someone else's shoes. Someone who may be quite different from us. Maybe even someone we wouldn't let into our homes.

So our desire to empathize with shady characters for 90 minutes is explainable. But not all anti-heroes are created equal, and few are as alluring as Walter Neff and Phyllis Dietrichson. Billy Wilder created a couple of doozies, and we can't stop watching them.