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

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

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

By Paul Parcellin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John Cassavetes

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

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

Angie Dickinson

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

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

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

Ava Gardner

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Noir Must Be Shot in Black and White, Right? Guess Again

Marilyn Monroe, "Niagara" (1953).

Raw Emotions Sizzle When Noir is in Color

By Paul Parcellin

I can already hear the howls of protest over the idea that film noir can be in color, so those who insist that color is verboten in noir will probably want to sit this one out.

We all know that noir is usually shot on black and white film, but the luscious hues of those shot in color at times add a new layer of depth to the stories they tell. In noir, color can be a cruel, ironic counterpoint to dark deeds taking place in lavishly photographed settings. After all, what could decimate the postcard-ready beauty of a landscape bursting with leafy greenery than a corpse splayed out amongst the flora?

Conversely, color makes cities appear less shadowy than those in black and white films while lending an urban landscape a brash, unidealized look. If color makes the countryside look luxuriously bountiful, it can make cities appear raw and unforgiving and desert landscapes more forbidding. 

With that in minds, here are some films bursting with color that show us the bleakest of noir worlds: 

Lizabeth Scott, "Desert Fury."

“Desert Fury” (1947)

Broad barren landscapes dotted with cacti, wild flowers and other flora are apt settings for this lush Technicolor noir soap opera that captures the sun-baked beauty of a small Nevada town. 

Film scholar Foster Hirsch notes that “Desert Fury” is shot in the lurid, over-saturated colors that would come to define the 1950s melodramas of Douglas Sirk. As in Sirk’s films, ravishing color sets the stage for emotional conflicts that crackle like heat lightning. 

When gangster Eddie Bendix (John Hodiak) and his henchman Johnny Ryan (Wendell Corey) arrive in town, Fritzi Haller (Mary Astor), owner of the Purple Sage casino, is less than enchanted to see them. She’d been involved with Bendix until he was forced to leave town under a cloud of suspicion over his wife’s death. 

To further complicate matters, Fritzi’s daughter, Paula (Lizabeth Scott), has quit yet another college and returned home to work in the family business. She and Hodiak become an item, with both parties mostly wanting to spite Fritzi.  

This emotional potboiler comes to a head at the site of Bendix’s wife’s death, a bridge on the road to town, an appropriate location to finally put a lid on this tangled affair.

Robert Ryan, "Inferno."

“Inferno” (1953)

Color is used to its best advantage in “Inferno” to show cruel contrasts in starkly different environments, one is the tortuous Mojave Desert landscape, and the other the plush surroundings of an upper crust resort hotel. 

Wealthy businessman Donald Whitley Carson III (Robert Ryan) is stranded in the desert. His leg is broken and his wife, Geraldine (Rhonda Fleming) and businessman Joseph Duncan (William Lundigan) have abandoned him there after a riding accident. 

The two are having a secret affair and Carson’s accident offers them an opportunity to get rid of him and pocket his vast fortune. But neither counted on the stranded tycoon’s resourcefulness. Driven by furious anger, Carson resolves to survive and make the two answer for their crime.

The desert canyon walls are a symphony of stunningly beautiful red rock. We can almost feel the heat radiating from the stoney landscape that threatens to swallow him whole.

The film cuts between the struggling Carson, parched, haggard and covered in brown dust and sweat, and the couple who abandoned him there, who are relaxing poolside, bathed in shades of turquoise and dappled with sunlight. 

Similar cuts reinforce the brutality of the injured man’s plight. As he forages for food, the film cuts to Geraldine enjoying a sumptuous meal at the resort’s dining room. 

Color helps make Carson’s desert prison seem more hellish than it would in black in white. In contrast, the luxurious resort takes on the look of a place where only the very wicked can relax and drink in its pleasures after leaving a man to die of starvation under a blazing sun.

Joseph Cotten, Marilyn Monroe, "Niagara."

“Niagara” (1953)

Niagara Falls never looked more postcard perfect than it does in director Henry Hathaway’s vision of the storied honeymoon retreat. Saturated color abounds in this pristine resort town lacking in any visible scuff marks or blemishes. 

It’s a storybook land carved out of nature, on the surface at least. The only exception is the nasty looking scar on the forehead of George Loomis (Joseph Cotten) after an assailant tries to send him into the churning waters of the falls.

The story is about an unhappy couple staying at a cabin retreat near the famous tourist attraction. Emotionally troubled George and his sexpot wife Rose (Marilyn Monroe) are a most unlikely couple. He’s dour and cranky and she’s bubbling with erotic energy and ever ready to party, even with a band of younger folks staying in the next cabin.

Unsurprisingly, Rose has a man on the side and the pair are scheming to send George over the falls.

Shot in Technicolor, the film’s palette of saturated hues really pops, especially in Rose’s scenes, with her sexy fuchsia dress and luscious red lips. It’s a bit comical that she awakens in the morning in full makeup, her lipstick glistening like a candy apple. Soon, it’s apparent that the perfect makeup and faux sweet demeanor are a false front meant to deflect attention from her marriage on the rocks and the deadly plot she has set in motion.

In “Niagara,” color is used to set the dramatic tone of each scene and to help define the characters. Strategically placed swatches of red punctuate the scenic design that tends to favor deep charcoal blues and forest green backdrops.

 Heightened color is at its peak during action sequences, when chiaroscuro lighting casts deep, dark shadows and saturated colors give the frame a stark, comic book-like appearance.

Rose’s electrifying wardrobe contrasts with George’s gray and oatmeal hued clothing. It’s certain that he’s no match for this ball of fire, and before long someone’s going to get burned.

Robert Ryan, "House of Bamboo."

“House of Bamboo” (1955)

The slightly washed out color in “House of Bamboo” fits well with it’s documentary-like framework, as director Samuel Fuller presents us with a crime story set in post-war Japan that is bleak and rife with gangsters. 

We see a nation struggling to get on its feet after a crushing defeat some 10 years before. The pale, snow-covered landscape under a sunless sky in the opening sequence informs us that this will be an unsentimental portrait of Tokyo and its denizens.

A military supply train is robbed and an American soldier guarding the cargo is killed, setting the stage for the widespread investigation that is to follow. 

Eddie Spanier (Robert Stack), recently released from an American prison, shows up in Tokyo and finds his way into an American gang operating there. Gang leader Sandy Dawson (Robert Ryan), like others of his ilk, is a foreigner exploiting a country decimated by war.

The film’s scenic design hints at the dramatic tensions taking place in the story. A palette of restrained shades, including pale grays, deep earth tones and beige, often fill the widescreen frame. But in a heist scene, touches of scarlet are incorporated into the set and they reflect the violent action that develops.

Likewise, the interior of Dawson’s home is decorated with the same pale tones that contrast with deep red accents that echo the blood that has been spilled during the gang’s exploits. For Dawson, that’s a color scheme that could hardly be more appropriate.  

This article was originally published in the May/June 2024 issue of The Dark Pages. Check out The Dark Pages newsletter at: www.allthatnoir.com/newsletter/

 

 

Lovesick Wanderer Returns ... to a Double Cross

Burt Lancaster, Yvonne DeCarlo, "Criss Cross" (1949).

This article contains spoilers.

By Paul Parcellin

The magnetic attraction between Steve Thompson (Burt Lancaster) and Anna (Yvonne DeCarlo) is the stuff that drives “Criss Cross” toward its dramatic and deadly conclusion. Steve returns to town after two year’s absence and the first thing on his mind is rekindling their romance. In fact, it’s probably the only reason that he returned. As much as he tries to convince himself that he’s not interested in seeing Anna again we know it’s just a matter of time before the two get together. 

They’re the volatile kind of couple that seems to thrive on getting into scraps, making up and starting the cycle over again. Complicating matters is gangster Slim Dundee (Dan Duryea), who is also pursuing Anna’s affections. We believe in Anna’s sincere feelings for Steve, and just when it seems that they’re going to pick up the pieces of their broken marriage — they divorced two years previously — they quarrel and she runs off to Yuma with Slim to get hitched. It’s a revenge marriage, perhaps, or maybe it’s all about the money, but one thing’s certain: there’s precious little warmth between her and her gangster hubby.

That should have been the end of their love triangle, but she and Steve can’t seem to stay away from each other. In voice-over he says it’s fate that keeps bringing them together, and for a while it seems that way. By chance, he glimpses her at Union Station seeing Slim off on an extended trip and that’s enough to set the wheels in motion for a disastrous outcome. Like Lancaster’s role as Swede in “The Killers” (1946), he plays an affable but naive gadabout who is putty in the hands of the people around him whom he mistakenly thinks he can outsmart.

Steve, we learn, has many good qualities, but sound judgment isn’t one of them. He can’t resist getting involved with Anna, despite efforts of Steve’s mother and his longtime buddy Det. Lt. Pete Ramirez (Stephen McNally), who feed him well meaning advice that he stubbornly ignores. 

There’s something boyish about Lancaster’s Steve. We see it when he returns home and throws a ball to his dog and romps like a school kid after dismissal from class. He overlooks the long-term consequences of his actions when it’s extremely unwise to do so. Getting involved with a gangster’s wife is the beginning of his downfall, and when Dundee catches Steve and his wife together, Steve dreams up a heist scheme on the spot to explain why the two of them are alone upstairs. Steve works for an armored car company and he’s got a bright idea about robbing a truck he’ll be guarding when it’s full of payroll cash. 

DeCarlo, Dan Duryea, an uneasy marriage.

It’s a bold move and almost comically unthinkable for someone as devoid of criminal experience as is Steve. But it’s also a clever move considering that he pulls it out of thin air just to save his hide. Dundee wants to know why he’s coming to him for help and Steve bluntly answers that he’s the only crook he knows. Dundee is taken aback but still interested. 

This turn of events abruptly shifts the film’s tone from a tale of clandestine love to a straight-up heist movie. Dundee is well aware of the shenanigans going on behind his back, but is intrigued by the possibility of scoring a lot of cash, and he has plans for Steve once the robbery is over. Of course, Steve has plans for Dundee, and the outcome of this caper hinges on who is more successful in double crossing the other.

Apart from the tense give and take among the main characters who appear along side a bevy of terrific character actors, the city of Los Angeles is a character in itself. Director Robert Siodmak makes the most of the once stately homes that serve as a backdrop to the story. The old neighborhood Steve returns to is the Bunker Hill section of the City of Angels, a setting for many a noir. For appreciators of the city’s architecture that decades ago fell to the wrecking ball, “Criss Cross” is a stunning timepiece that treats us to tasty morsels of vintage eye candy. 

Stairways leading to double- and triple-decker dwellings, looming Victorian homes that are just this side of shabby and the views of City Hall and its surroundings could make anyone nostalgic for the Los Angeles of decades ago, even if they were born long after those once-majestic buildings were leveled. There’s even a scene in a rundown apartment with Dundee’s mob working out the details of a robbery in which we see through the windows in the background the two cars of the Angels Flight funicular gliding up and down the steep incline of Bunker Hill. 

The film opens with a nighttime aerial view of Los Angeles City Hall, the towering building that then also housed the L.A. Police Dept. It seems ever present in the background, a kind of center of gravity around which the characters in this story orbit. It also serves as a reminder that justice is awaiting those who follow criminal pursuits. 

Siodmak’s non-linear way of telling the story begins with the camera panning across the flickering lights of the city, bringing us to a dance hall parking lot where Steve and Anna are carrying on a clandestine affair while Dundee waits inside for Anna. 

We get the setup in short order. Anna and Dundee are married, there’s a big job worth six figures in the works and Dundee is more than a bit suspicious that Steve is after his wife. Later, we see Steve driving toward a rendezvous spot where the armored car stickup will take place. Then in a long flashback sequence we see what brought him to this juncture in his life. 

Burt Lancaster, Tom Pedi, caught in the crossfire.

The film’s final portion focuses on the robbery’s aftermath and the duplicitous Anna, who bears the responsibility of causing Steve’s downfall. But is she really deserving of the blame? Considering that the robbery wasn’t her idea and that the choices that she’s left with are not good, she opts to save herself and that’s probably not a bad idea. Steve, the romantic, says he never cared about the heist money, he only wanted to be with her. But then there’s Dundee to contend with, who, like Steve, sustained severe wounds in the botched robbery. Wounded or not, Dundee is coming after them and she decides to grab the dough and split. 

Up to that point we never doubt her feelings for Steve, but when the chips are down she observes “You have to watch out for yourself.” It’s a cold slap in the face to Steve, but her moment of clarity comes a little too late and she pays the price for not being more discriminating about the company she keeps. So does Steve. It’s not the heroic ending that Hollywood movies normally proffer, but it’s consistent with noir’s cold, cynical view of the world. Like Steve, we don’t see Anna’s true nature until death comes knocking at the door. Then all bets are off.

 

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.