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/

 

 

Kings of the Road: Alienated, Disenchanted Drifters May Think They’re Heading Toward their Destination, but They’re Really on Course to a Tragic End

Ann Savage, Tom Neal, "Detour" (1945).

Contains Spoilers

By Paul Parcellin

Film noir is full of cheap hotel rooms, train stations, roadside diners, filling stations, bus depots — places that transients inhabit while on their way somewhere, or perhaps rambling toward nowhere in particular. 

A compulsive desire to take to the highways is part of the American psyche, frequently rhapsodized in popular culture as the restless energy of a mobile society on the go. 

But in noir, the lone wanderer is often an alienated, disenchanted outcast leading a rootless existence and perhaps just one step ahead of the law. 

The drifter, who remains detached from others either by choice or for fear of capture, can bring trouble to town or land in the quicksand of diabolical schemes lying in wait for him or her. They may not know where they are headed, but their ultimate destination is a meeting with fate and the outcome will be the stuff of Greek tragedy. 

Here are four drifters whose travels lead them to shadowy destinations:

Lana Turner, Hume Cronyn, John Garfield,
"The Postman Always Rings Twice."

“The Postman Always Rings Twice” (1946)

Let’s say your wife happens to be Lana Turner. It’s unwise to hire a rugged young drifter to work in your lunch room, especially if yours is a May-December marriage and you haven’t been living in perfect matrimonial bliss. The drifter, Frank Chambers (John Garfield), is a restless spirit who can’t seem to stay in one place for long. He’s hitched a ride to the Twin Oaks, the roadside diner and filling station where a job awaits him. 

The driver dropping him off is the district attorney, who happens to live down the road from the place — turns out the D.A. will have a ringside seat to the unpleasantness that’s about to unspool. Chambers doesn’t realize it, but that fateful ride is the first link in a chain of events that begins his downward spiral. He’s the kind of drifter who seems to have no past and we sense that every step of his life is one more pace toward a tragic end.

Husband and wife Cora (Turner) and Nick Smith (Cecil Kellaway) are an oddly matched pair who own the Twin Oaks, and as soon as Chambers gets an eyeful of the ravishing Cora, he’s hot to dive into an adulterous liaison. Soon, Nick Smith’s life expectancy takes a dramatic dip thanks to the two love birds now locked in a tryst and making dark plans.

Like many a fall guy, Chambers wouldn’t have landed in hot water if many events hadn’t lined up and shepherded him toward his demise. The disloyal pair have numerous opportunities to drop their deadly scheme and split up, but a magnetic force draws them toward homicide. As the title states, “the postman always rings twice” — Chambers and Cora think they’re getting away with a deadly deed, but fate has a way of boomeranging back at you and it’s pointless to resist.

Tom Neal, "Detour."

“Detour” (1945)

Hitchhiking is a risky means of getting around, but for an unlucky saloon pianist with mere pennies in his pocket the price seems right. It turns out that Al Roberts (Tom Neal) should have considered the old adage that there’s no such thing as a free lunch. The same applies to transportation. His trip across the Arizona desert proves costly for the lovesick traveler who wants nothing more than a rendezvous with his gal in Los Angeles. 

His journey has its up and downs, and the one time Roberts thinks he’s hit a stroke of good luck it all turns sour. A freak accident claims the life of a man with whom he’s hitched a ride and in a panic Roberts decides to swap identities with him, dump the body and take his car. Things start to look up and he just might make it to the City of Angels after all. Then on a whim he picks up another drifting hitchhiker, Vera (Ann Savage), and the bottom drops out. Vera turns out to be the femme fatale’s femme fatale. She’s dangerous, impulsive, streetwise and perhaps more than a little crazy. She’s wise to the fact that Roberts left a stiff in the desert and she believes it was murder. It wasn’t, but heaps of circumstantial evidence point toward him as the culprit. Vera has got him over a barrel and it’s clear that she’s going to be the one running the show. 

Roberts, a mostly innocent dupe, falls victim to the culture of rootlessness he finds in random encounters on the road. His fellow travelers are detached from society and their motives can be dark. To him, this lonesome road of strangers is a territory with which he is unfamiliar and ill-prepared to navigate. Once he stood on the side of the road with his thumb out his fate was sealed. There’s no exit ramp off of this highway.

Sure, he makes hare brained decisions along the way and has the worst luck imaginable in traveling companions, but he can’t be blamed much for that. 

Or can he? 

We see the story in flashback and Roberts is the voiceover narrator. Possibly, he’s an unreliable narrator and may be more responsible for his destiny than he’s willing to fess up to, but we’ll never know. 

Broken and near his journey’s end, he observes, “Whichever way you turn, fate sticks out a foot to trip you.” That’s a pretty good summary of his journey on this road.

Teresa Wright, Joseph Cotten, "Shadow of a Doubt."

“Shadow of a Doubt” (1943)

When Uncle Charley (Joseph Cotten) comes to visit the folks take out the good china and lay down the welcome mat. Too bad they have no idea who they’re letting into their household. Uncle Charley, also known to authorities as the Merry Widow Killer, murders lonely women and steals their money and valuables. If Uncle Charley shows up at your door, it’s best to turn off the lights and duck behind the davenport. He’s one of director Alfred Hitchcock’s favorite story devices — a ticking time bomb.

His charm and sophisticated manner are a smokescreen that hide his true psychopathic nature. He’s got his sister and her family believing that he’s a wealthy businessman, but the truth is he’s been laying low in a cheap rooming house in the bad part of town. 

A couple of detectives have tracked him down and he decides the time is right to skip town and visit his sibling’s clan in California. His admiring niece, Charlotte "Charlie" Newton (Teresa Wright) is initially delighted by his arrival, she being a bored teenager who is hungry for a diversion from dull small town life. As if by premonition, she decides to invite her uncle to come and stay with the family, but Uncle Charley is already on his way. Initially, she’s full of admiration for the man, but once moved in Uncle Charley’s mystique begins to evaporate. As the brutal facts of her deranged uncle’s true nature come to light, Charlie, as her family calls her, decides to protect her kindly, sensitive mother, Emma (Patricia Collinge), from learning of her brother’s criminal pursuits. 

She’s determined to make her murderous relative leave quietly without tipping off the rest of the family. But he won’t go, and things get worse when Uncle Charlie learns that young Charlie is aware of his dirty deeds and decides he must silence her. Needless to say, young Charlie really has her hands full.

William Talman, Edmond O'Brien, Frank Lovejoy, "The Hitch-Hiker."

“The Hitch-Hiker” (1953)

If you’re motoring to the lake, stream or ocean for a few days of fishing, here’s a piece of advice: don’t stop for the stranger who’s flagging down a ride. That stranded nomad standing by the side of the road might be a psychopath who leaves a trail of corpses in his path.

Take for example “The Hitch-Hiker,” which is based on the true story of the 1950 killing spree of Billy Cook — he murdered six people, including a family of five. 

In the film, hitchhiker Emmett Myers (William Talman) takes Roy Collins (Edmund O'Brien) and Gilbert Bowen (Frank Lovejoy) hostage and forces them at gunpoint to drive across the desert toward Mexico. Myers is the most fearsome of drifters because, unlike other murderous gadabouts, he kills for no reason other than to eliminate witnesses and satisfy his bloodlust. He also takes great pleasure in tormenting his captives with the constant threat of death.

Aside from its riveting story and fine performances, “The HItch-Hiker” in notable for being directed by a woman. Ida Lupino, who also directed “High Sierra” (1941) and “While the City Sleeps” (1956), helmed this film in an era when few woman got to sit in the director’s chair. What’s also exceptional is the high production quality she managed to craft on a budget of less than $160,000. 

Among the realistic touches baked into the film, Lupino gives Myers one specific physical characteristic taken from Cook — a genetic deformity that made it impossible for him to close his right eye, making Myers all the more terrifying.

Hauntingly enough, what comes to mind after viewing “The Hitch-Hiker” is the old Prestone Antifreeze jingle, which urged, “Never pick up a stranger … ” That’s wisdom we can all live with.