He Directed Gripping Noirs … But You May Not Recognize His Name

John Payne, Lee Van Cleef, Neville Brand,
Preston Foster,  "Kansas City Confidential" (1952).

By Paul Parcellin

Everything seemed to come together for Phil Karlson in the 1950s. It was an era in which his talent, energy and unique sensibilities were made to order for a  public with an insatiable appetite for raw, gritty crime films. It was in that period that he directed some of the decade’s most essential noirs. Prior to that he’d cranked out dozens of titles beginning in the mid 1940s under the banners of Monogram (he shot several Bowery Boys and Charlie Chan films there), Eagle-Lion and other Poverty Row operations. Some might remember his two lightweight spy spoofs of later years, “The Silencers” (1966) and “The Wrecking Crew” (1968), both starring Dean Martin — although, he’d probably wish that you wouldn’t. He continued to work over several decades but didn’t strike pay dirt until the release of his revenge fantasy “Walking Tall” (1973). It was his biggest and most commercially successful film and it made him rich. Otherwise, he was mostly mired in the B-movie bush league for the remainder of his career. 

But two decades before “Walking Tall,” the Chicago-born Karlson began work on a string of crime movies that would influence future generations of filmmakers.

His uncompromising narratives, short, action filled scenes and great attention to detail helped pave the way for filmmakers seeking to challenge the traditional Hollywood conventions and explore the darker aspects of human nature. Directors such as Martin Scorsese, Quentin Tarantino, and John Woo have all acknowledged his impact on their own filmmaking careers. Scorsese, in particular, cited Karlson's "The Phenix City Story" (1955) as a major inspiration for his seminal film "Mean Streets" (1973).

Karlson grew up in a working-class family in Chicago and developed an affinity for storytelling and filmmaking at a young age. He attended local film screenings and immersed himself in the world of cinema. His passion eventually led him to pursue a career in the film industry. While studying law he got a job as a prop man at Universal Studios to make ends meet during the Great Depression.

Phil Karlson.

In the 1930s he began working as an editor for various film studios. It was during this time that he gained invaluable experience and insights into the technical aspects of filmmaking. This early exposure would shape his later directorial style and attention to detail.

As Karlson parlayed his editing experience into directing gigs, he brought a distinct sensibility to his films. His works often explore the dark underbelly of society and tell their stories in a blunt, no-nonsense manner that avoids extravagant visuals and focuses on raw emotional impact.

One of the defining themes in his films is the exploration of crime and its consequences. He had a keen eye for depicting the complexities of human nature, delving into the psychological motivations of his characters. This was exemplified in films like "Kansas City Confidential" (1952) and "99 River Street" (1953), where he portrayed flawed protagonists grappling with the consequences of their actions.

Karlson had a knack for working with actors and bringing out their best performances. He had a successful partnership with actor John Payne, with whom he collaborated on multiple projects. In addition to his noirs, he worked on a variety of movie genres: romances, comedies, musicals, westerns and war pictures. But it’s his influential noirs, shot between 1952-’57, that inspired new generations of directors making crime films. Here’s a rundown of his work:

"Kansas City Confidential" (1952).

Kansas City Confidential

A masked gang of armored car robbers, identities hidden from each other, frame delivery driver Joe Rolfe (John Payne) for their crime. But Rolfe trails them to their rendezvous point, intending to infiltrate the crew and bust them up. A taut caper followed by a well-paced contest of nerves among desperate characters. Note that the story unfolds in a virtual cloud of smoke. In nearly every scene cigarettes, pipes and cigars are nervously, thoughtfully and dramatically lit and puffed on — a sure sign that we’re watching noir. Tarantino’s “Reservoir Dogs” (1992) is thought to be inspired in part by “Kansas City Confidential.”

John Derek, Broderick Crawford, "Scandal Sheet" (1952).

Scandal Sheet

Newspaperman Mark Chapman (Broderick Crawford) has a past he'd like to forget but his wife won't allow it. He gets into a bind and his reporters begin nipping at his heels — they don't know that the boss is the one they're chasing. Based on a Samuel Fuller novel, “Scandal Sheet” is all about making it big by printing the sleaziest rag in town. News hacks come within millimeters of breaking the law just to get a sensational story. Everyone’s fueled on adrenaline, booze and black coffee, talking at a fast clip and firing off wise-guy rejoinders. Chapman’s paper sponsors a lonely hearts soiree. The cynical, exploitive idea behind the parties is to corner a pair of lovebirds who just met and get them to tie the knot in front of the crowd. Meanwhile, a bit of Chapman’s dirty laundry may be about to be aired and it won’t be pretty. 

Jack Lambert, John Payne, "99 River Street" (1953).

99 River St.

Punched out boxer Ernie Driscoll (John Payne) takes a beating in and out of the ring in "99 River Street." A former heavyweight contender, he drives a cab and is as a doormat for nearly every bully he meets. When his girl turns up dead it looks like he's going to take the fall. As in “Kansas City Confidential,” Payne plays another falsely accused outsider who has been dealt a rotten hand and must redeem himself in society’s eyes. Panned by the New York Times when it was released, the film received more favorable favorable treatment in later years. Martin Scorsese and film critic Jonathan Rosenbaum both chose to include “99 River Street” on lists of best and favorite films.

John McIntire, "The Phenix City Story" (1955). 

The Phenix City Story

Crime and vice majordomo Rhett Tanner (Edward Andrews) has a corrupt Alabama town under his thumb. Local mouthpiece Pat Patterson is urged to run for the A.G. seat, but who wants that job? When violence visits the reformers he reconsiders his neutral position. But the mob doesn’t take kindly to the threat of a law and order attorney general in their midst. Based on a true story, “The Phenix City Story” portrays the struggles of honest folks who wrestle with their conscience and decide to take positive steps despite the threat of violence to themselves and their families. Ever the stickler for detail, Karlson had his actor wear the clothes belonging to the murder victim on whom the story is based. 

William Conrad, Brian Keith, "5 Against the House" (1955).

5 Against the House

Korean War veterans studying at college decide to rob a casino as a lark. Ronnie (Kerwin Mathews), a rich kid who doesn’t need the money, wants to prove he’s smart enough to mastermind the perfect crime. It’s all just a prank by overgrown school boys — they plan to leave the stolen loot where the casino can recover it. But Brick (Brian Keith), who suffered a head wound in the war, is a wild card in this shaky caper. The rest of the gang is in various stages of arrested development, picking up where they left off before trudging off to Korea. But they soon find that swiping a casino’s money is not mere fun and games.

Ginger Rogers, Brian Keith,
Edward G. Robinson, "Tight Spot" (1955).

Tight Spot

U.S. attorney Lloyd Hallett (Edward G. Robinson) offers good-girl inmate Sherry Conley (Ginger Rogers) a chance to bust out if she finks on a mobster. Lt. Vince Striker (Brian Keith) acts as her bodyguard — and soon things heat up between them. Rogers gets the chance to play against type in the role of Sherry, the brassy, fast talking blonde trying to get all she can from the prosecutor who wants her testimony. It’s a risky ploy for her. The last witness never made it to the courtroom, and odds are that Sherry won’t do much better. Call this one a noir with a hint of screwball comedy.  

Richard Conte, Patricia Donahue, Jane Easton, 
Richard Bakalyan, "The Brothers Rico" (1957).

The Brothers Rico

The happily married Eddie Rico (Richard Conte) owns a laundry business in Florida and seems to have the world on a string. But his past connection to organized crime as well as family ties threaten to pull him back into the syndicate. A gangster demands that he provide a hideout for a syndicate hitman. Worse news, still, Eddie learns that his two brothers, Johnny (James Darren) and Gino (Paul Picerni), both of whom are still involved with the mob, have disappeared. Prolific Belgian novelist Georges Simenon wrote the book on which the film is based. Studio executives finessed the novel’s downbeat ending and tacked on a happier conclusion, much to the disappointment of the author’s fans and to Karlson, too.

 By the time that “The Brothers Rico” came to the screen it was near the end of the road for the classic noir era. The following year Orson Welles would release “Touch of Evil” (1958), which many consider the final classic noir. Karlson continued to direct films and television thereafter but never equalled the level of artistic excellence he achieved in the 1950s. Still, his handful of films noir made a mark on the genre and continue to influence today’s filmmakers.

Danger Lurks in the Shadows of Noir-Tinged ‘Cat People’

Under hypnosis, Simone Simon, 'Cat People' (1942).

By Paul Parcellin

This article contains spoilers,
so you may want to see the film before reading it.

Director Jacque Tourneur said “The less you see, the more you believe” and his film, “Cat People” (1942), proves his theory. It shows how a movie can spark an audience’s imagination when it lets them hear threatening sounds from things that lurk just off screen. We get a palpable sense of phantom-like predators that hide in the shadows, but because we can’t see them we conjure up dastardly images that fill in the blanks.

RKO budgeted the film at around $135,000 and the director made creative use of whatever odds and ends happened to be available. But that suited Tourneur, who preferred to work with a smaller budget. That would mean less oversight and more opportunity for creative innovation.

Others might have found the paltry budget to be a stumbling block, but the director had an ace up his sleeve in cinematographer Nicholas Musuraca, who sculpted deep pools of black shadow for “Cat People” and another Tourneur masterpiece, “Out of the Past” (1947).

With its spare use of special effects and dramatic lighting, the film’s overall mood places it in the noir camp. “Common to all of Tourneur’s films was a muted disenchantment, a strange melancholy, the eerie feeling of having embarked on an adventure from which there was no return,” said director Martin Scorsese, who is a Tourneur fan and an appreciator of “Cat People” in particular. When discussing the film he frequently uses the word “psychosexual” to describe this story of Serbian artist in exile, Irena Dubrovna (Simone Simon), who is doomed by an ancestral Balkan curse. The curse makes her metamorphose into a panther if aroused by passion.

Mr. America

 She meets the self-proclaimed “good plain Americano” Oliver Reed (Kent Smith) one day while she’s sketching a panther at the zoo and the two begin dating. From the start of their courtship there are signs that Irena is anything but the average girl. She sets off a frenzy in a pet shop when she walks among the caged birds. The bemused owner remarks that “animals are ever so psychic.”

Despite ample warning signs that this may not be a match made in heaven, the two get hitched. During the wedding celebration at a small Serbian restaurant a catlike woman at a neighboring table notices Irena, who greets her as a sister when their paths cross — Simone Simon was cast as Irena, in part, because of her feline-like facial features. It’s a brief, uncomfortable moment that unsettles the guests and sets the tone for the couple’s future. The marriage gets off to a rocky start. That Irena must withhold herself from the man she loves lest she morph into a panther is hardly a formula for matrimonial bliss, yet it’s a secret she withholds from Oliver.

‘Normal’ Life

From the start it’s obvious that the two are polar opposites. Oliver is the picture of a “normal American,” so much so that Smith’s performance borders on parody. His line readings are stiff and his utter ordinariness makes him seem like a Ken doll come to life. It’s obvious that Oliver’s normal American persona drives Irena to distraction. At one point he admits that prior to the marriage he never knew what it was to be unhappy.

  In time he becomes closer to his “work wife,” the perky Alice Moore (Jane Randolph) than to Irena. As Irena’s condition deteriorates Oliver sends her to a psychiatrist to help her deal with her anxieties. But later Irena learns that Alice recommended the psychiatrist and Irena has an emotional flareup over his betrayal. “There are things that a woman doesn’t want another woman to understand about her,” she tells him. Their relationship is at the breaking point, and Irena is driven to takes steps she thinks will preserve their crumbling relationship.

Simone Simon, Kent Smith

The film is all about passions that are on the verge of boiling over and the restraint it takes to hold those seething emotions in check. Reflecting that, scenes are shot with great restraint — no flashy special effects or elaborate sets, but clever uses of the modest sets and props available to the director. A scene that sums up the concise, economical storytelling that Tourneur is known for takes place near the end of the film. When the roguish psychiatrist, Dr. Louis Judd (Tom Conway) attempts to force himself on Irena, she transforms into a panther, but we don’t see the transition, or even the panther, for that matter, nor do we see her return to human form. Instead, after the confrontation is done we follow a trail of paw prints in the mud and suddenly the paw prints stop and a trail of a woman’s shoe prints continue on.

An Iconic Shot

“Cat People” was the first of the films produced by Val Lewton at RKO. The year after “Cat People,” Lewton and Tourneur combined for RKO’s “I Walked with a Zombie” and “The Leopard Man.” Lewton made his mark with “Cat People” in an unexpected way that continues influence filmmakers to this day. Irena and Alice’s rivalry leads to the oft imitated shot that became known as the “Lewton Bus” or the “jump scare.” Roger Ebert notes that “‘Cat People’ is constructed almost entirely out of fear,” and the Lewton Bus is the perfect illustration of what he meant by that.

One night at home Irena and Oliver quarrel and he leaves in a huff to go to his office. Along the way he crosses paths with Alice at a cafe. Irena has  come looking for Oliver and she hides outside. Alice leaves to go home and Irena stealthily follows. As Alice walks along the transverse beneath a bridge she begins to sense that she’s being followed. Echoing heels behind her begin to take on the rhythm and sound of a train clattering along a railway trestle. She looks around, disoriented, searching for whoever is tailing her but there’s nothing except shrubbery swaying in the wind — or is it just the wind? Without warning a city bus barrels into the frame, hissing like a jungle cat pouncing on its prey. It startles the already nervous Alice and usually shakes up the audience, too.

It may not have been the first time the jump scare was used in a film, but it brought that technique into the mainstream and has been repeated innumerable times in thrillers and horror films. 

The Supernatural

“Cat People” exists in a place where film noir and the supernatural intersect, like “The Twilight Zone” and “Alfred Hitchcock Presents.” It has aged well, in part because it lacks clunky special effects and because of the ingenuity that went into filming it. Squeezing the most value out of every dollar in its budget forced the director to scale new creative heights. But most of all it’s the puzzle of Irena, the psychosexual underpinnings, as Scorsese would say, of a cursed woman who becomes unhinged by “normal” American life — a social critique that seems ahead of its time and still feels relevant today.

‘Repeat Performance’: Happy New Year! — You're Dead

Louis Hayward, Joan Leslie, 'Repeat Performance' (1947).

By Paul Parcellin

Sometimes we could all use  a do-over, and that’s certainly the case with Sheila Page (Joan Leslie) who’s just capped off her year by turning her husband, Barney (Louis Hayward), into a corpse. But then something supernatural happens. Come midnight New Year’s Eve she finds herself not in the new year but repeating the previous year. Hubby is still alive and she’s got a second chance to fix her life and not plug her mate — sort of a year-long “Groundhog Day” that happens just once, if you catch my drift.

"Repeat Performance" (1947) asks whether experience prepares us to avoid mistakes we make, and Sheila does her level best to do just that by traveling to different locales and avoiding certain people. She reasons, quite sensibly, that if you break the chain of events leading up to an unfortunate incident you can nip the mishap in the bud. But, it turns out, fate is a stubborn thing.

Things began to sour last year when she and Barney traveled to London, so she insists that they go to California instead. She never tells Barney about the strange phenomenon she’s been experiencing, instead she confides in her neighbor, wisecracking poet Edward Edwards (Richard Basehart). However, try as she might to prevent them, events find a way of recurring. Sheila tries to stop Edwards from being committed to a mental institution as he had the previous year. And Paula Costello (Virginia Field), playwright and first-class home wrecker whom Sheila tries to ban from her residence, makes a grand appearance much to Sheila’s horror and Barney’s delight. 

Joan Leslie, Louis Hayward, Virginia Field.

It’s soon apparent that Sheila has overestimated her ability to keep disaster away from her doorstep. The trouble is, no matter what she does her husband is the same jerk he always was and no amount of clairvoyant insight is going to change that. 

We begin to understand how Sheila fell for Barney — when he turns on the charm he’s quite persuasive. In fact the two of them share some sweet moments together. But as his true character comes out, that of the failed, bitter playwright, we realize that he’s turned into a mean, womanizing drunk. Sheila tries to fix their relationship but it becomes evident that she’s wasting her time.

“Repeat Performance” is an outlier in the film noir canon, with its supernatural bent that conflicts with the earliest examples of noir, which lean toward hyper realism and rough-hewn characters who often inhabit downscale settings. Sheila and Barney are sophisticated New Yorkers and part of the upper middle class. What makes their story similar to those of other iconic characters in film noir is the palpable presence of fate. Invisible forces typically send these anti-heroes to ruin. You can change the events that lead to ruin, but you can’t change human nature, the film seems to tell us.

As it turns out, the do-over does in fact change the story’s outcome in a significant way as the hand of fate re-shuffles the deck. While you can’t drastically alter human nature, a few nips and tucks can make a world of difference.

Sidebar:
We’re lucky to have a restored copy of “Repeat Performance” available on Blu-ray, courtesy of The Film Noir Foundation, UCLA and others. A 2007 screening of the film with an appearance by Joan Leslie was scheduled, and it was discovered that a 35mm print had deteriorated, so the foundation, the university and others coordinated the restoration. As with Sheila Page, an intervention can change what seems to be an inevitable unfortunate outcome. 

If you don't want to spring for the Blu-ray you can watch a well-worn print of it here on YouTube.

Hey, College Boy, Wanna Rob a Casino?

Four vets attending college on the GI Bill and a
cabaret singer try to rob a Reno casino and 
pull off the perfect crime. 

‘Five Against the House’ (1955):
Part soap opera, part screwball comedy,
with a heist tacked on at the end

A

quartet of Korean War veterans studying at college are best buddies. While they’re older than the average college kid, some are in their second childhood. They chase girls; a couple of them haze a freshman and make him their personal slave. This is supposed to be all in fun but on today's campuses it would break the needle on the creepy meter. All of which has little to nothing to do with the heist that they’ll eventually plot.

The foursome goes to Harold’s casino in Reno, Nev., for a quick shot of gambling before they must turn around and get back to campus. Pop culture enthusiasts may be interested to learn that the film was shot on location at Harold’s, which long ago met with the wrecking ball, as aging casinos do.

By chance, a couple of the guys witness one of the all-time dumbest robbery attempts at the cashier’s window. The would-be holdup man gets caught, but that’s when Ronnie (Kerwin Mathews) gets the idea to pull a stickup of his own. He’s a rich kid who doesn’t need the money, but wants to prove he’s smart enough to rob the joint without getting caught (shades of Leopold and Loeb). 

The idea is to leave the stolen loot where the casino can recover it. It’s meant to be a prank. But Brick (Brian Keith), who suffered a head wound in the war, is a wild card in this shaky spectacle. This gimmick recalls William Bendix’s shell-shocked Buzz Wanchek in “The Blue Dahlia” (1946), who may or may not have committed a murder.

The most serious-minded of the group, Al Mercer (Guy Madison), whose on again, off again relationship with Kay (Kim Novak) takes up a chunk of the film’s first 40 minutes or so, plans on a career in law and the prank is clearly not his cup of tea. But he's tricked into going along with the group.

That a band of such well-scrubbed lads would flirt with arrest and possibly deadly consequences is a stretch. The whimsical tone shifts to somber when we realize that there's a deranged maniac among the lads who’s been waiting to show his cards.

We never feel that this band of preppies is up to the task of pulling off such a hoax, but never mind. The film’s final minutes are what makes it worth watching, assuming that you can hang in there that long. The guys employ a clever but highly improbable homemade machine which they hope will make a successful robbery possible — but then things go wrong. 

With a bigger helping of hijinx, or a more disciplined approach to the caper, “Five Against the House” could have been a winner. Instead, it runs low on chips toward the middle, and just about folds before the game really gets underway.

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.

Red Scare Noir: Communists on the Waterfront

Janis Carter, John Agar and Thomas Gomez in ‘The Woman on Pier 13’ (1949).

‘The Woman on Pier 13’ (1949)

When the Berlin Wall went up in 1961, my first-grade teacher, Miss Berzetz, marched into the classroom and scared the bejesus out of us. To hear her tell it, this was the end of life as we knew it.

Soviet tanks would, no doubt, soon visit our small community to steamroll over our humble homes. Communists would appear and force us to leave school, perform menial labor and force us to speak Russian. At least, that’s what I got out of her overheated rant. 

I weighed the pluses and minuses of a communist dictatorship’s takeover versus life as a pupil in Miss Berzetz’s class. Which would be worse? It was a close call.

I was reminded of this tidbit of Cold War history while viewing “The Woman on Pier 13,” a film noir whose world view makes Miss Berzetz seem almost reasonable in comparison.

The story begins after World War II, when anti-communist sentiment rose to a fevered pitch in America, and Reds became the designated boogiemen du jour. The Korean War was on the horizon, Red-baiter Sen. Joe McCarthy was warming up in the bullpen, and in this charged, somewhat surreal atmosphere we find “The Woman on Pier 13,” an overheated, hyperventilating example of America’s burgeoning terror of an enemy within. 

The film previewed in 1949 with the straightforward but unintentionally silly title, “I Married a Communist.” RKO Pictures changed it after test audiences gave the thumbs down. Even with its new title, “Pier 13” is every bit the melodramatic tabloidesque B-picture that the original title suggests. But it reveals a lot about the country’s mood in that most unsettling era.

Its over-the-top depiction of American communists as a highly organized force of scheming, ruthless conspirators who infiltrated our institutions is a time capsule of American hysteria in the shadow of the H-bomb.  

While the Soviet Union conducted its first successful atomic test in 1949, the film came together a bit too early to press the nuclear annihilation panic button. Instead, it envisions a conspiracy of homegrown communists driving a wedge between labor and shipping industry management. 

“Pier 13” uses the communist threat in place of more typical forces of evil we see in noir — organized crime, corrupt politicians, police on the take and the like. Vast, ruthless and operating in a shadowy netherworld, these dark forces honor a rigid code of conduct, and disregarding it can have fatal consequences. Once you’re in, there’s no turning back. Like other noir heavies, the communist threat neatly checks off all of these boxes.

Richard Rober, Thomas Gomez and Robert Ryan.

As the film opens we meet San Francisco shipping executive Brad Collins (Robert Ryan), once, a card-carrying commie who labored as a stevedore in New York during the Depression. Later, he changed his name — he used to be Frank Johnson — and fled to the West Coast. A communist no more, he fits comfortably within capitalist society. But, his apparent serenity belies a dark stain on his past that won’t wash off.

Brad’s ex-flame, Christine Norman (Janis Carter), who’s secretly working for communist cell leader Vanning (Thomas Gomez), shows up unexpectedly and causes tense moments with Brad and his new bride, Nan (Laraine Day). Their whirlwind romance and quick, impulsive marriage hints at a darker core beneath an apparently shiny veneer.

Christine’s arrival isn’t a coincidence, she’s helping to put the squeeze on Brad. The local communists hold evidence that could send him to the gas chamber, and they want Brad’s cooperation. Brad labored under the misconception that he’d made a clean break with his past, but Vanning reminds him that this is folly. To underline the point, sadistic henchman Bailey (William Talman), who cackles madly as he kills (as homicidal maniacs do), disposes of an FBI informant in a particularly gruesome manner as Brad is forced to watch.

The scheme is to pressure Brad to reject dock workers’ contract demands, a move that will sabotage labor negotiations and send the industry into a tail-spin. Communists lurking within the union will arise, take power and trample loyal American workers with jackbooted feet. 

Meanwhile, femme fatale Christine, shunned by Brad, seduces Brad’s brother-in-law, Don Lowry (John Agar), while spoon-feeding him poisonous communist doctrine. Trouble is, Christine actually falls for Don. Commie boss Vanning, disgusted with her lack of resolve, chides her for being so “emotional.” Soon, pressures from within and outside of Don and Christine’s tortured relationship have grave repercussions. 

Nan gets wind of Bailey’s involvement in this web of treachery, and in an effort to collect intelligence against the killer, befriends him at the fairground where he operates a shooting gallery concession. When he’s not committing mayhem and murder, the leeringly randy communist hitman teaches attractive young ladies to shoot, all the while pawing them like a grabby uncle at Thanksgiving. 

Nan is later kidnapped, and Brad faces off against Vanning and Bailey, a duel that results in a familiar noir trope, a chase through a darkened warehouse. 

While westerns stage cowboy shootouts in the mountains, prairies or the sun-bleached dirt streets of a cow town, noir protagonists and villains, typically city dwellers, often have their last stand in steel mills, warehouses, atop train trestles or on rain-drenched asphalt — standard locations in the unforgiving heart of an industrial wasteland, where a man with a gun stands alone and overcomes unsurmountable odds — or doesn’t.

Howard Hughes, who owned RKO at the time, probably had little to do with “Pier 13” development, but we can safely assume that the film’s not-so-subtle suggestion that trade unions are peppered with communists and anarchist would appeal to the business tycoon who would have no doubt preferred that organized labor be relegated to Siberia. 

Despite, or perhaps because of, its fairly hysterical tone, “The Woman on Pier 13” may have helped nudge 1940s America toward a dimmer view of trade unions, signaling the start of their long, slow decline. 

In hindsight, organized crime, corrupt politicians and trade union officials, as well as industrialists’ propaganda probably played a more significant role in undermining their effectiveness than did the exaggerated threat of the relatively small, rather ineffectual Communist Party of the United States of America. 

These days, “Pier 13” may seem like low comedy or self-parody — the current situation in the Ukraine aside — but it neatly maps out the hot-button issues still before us, including home-grown and foreign conspirators, infiltration of government institutions, shadow governments seeking to undermine our way of life, while dishing out hefty portions of paranoia-inducing melodrama. 

The film ends on an optimistic note while serving as a cautionary tale of what might befall us if we aren’t more vigilant. That probably soothed frayed nerves back in 1949, however I’m reasonably certain that, for its reassuring sentiments and contention that justice ultimately prevails, Miss Berzetz would be loathe to take solace in it. 

 

You Only Live Once: Outlaws on the Road

Sylvia Sidney and Henry Fonda in 'You Only Live Once.'

D

irector Fritz Lang's masterpiece of German cinema, “M” (1931), delves into the murky waters of criminality with an assuredness that few films of that era can match. A frantic search is on for a serial killer who murders children, resulting in an uptick in police raids and harassment of Berlin's illicit enterprises. The police are frustrated in their search for the maniac, so members of the city's underworld, eager to ward off police interference, take matters into their own hands. 

The dark, brooding atmosphere of "M," shot in glorious black and white, crossed the Atlantic with Lang when he left his native Europe and came to work in Hollywood. His vision of the shadowy underworld was destined to become part of the fabric of early- to mid-century American cinema in what was later known as film noir — French critic Nino Frank coined the term in 1946.

All of which leads us to a film the director made six years later. 

A word of warning here, SPOILERS ABOUND, so you might want to stop reading here if you've yet to see "You Only Live Once" and “M.”

Lang made “You Only Live Once” (1937) in the United States, and it’s based loosely on the exploits of real-life bank robbers Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow. In it, the director translates his German Expressionist aesthetics to the American gangster film. As with all of his films, Lang infuses the story with comments on injustices the powerless must face, in this case at the hands of enforcers of the law.

In the opening scene, a prosecutor and a public defender mull over the facts of a case while a fruit peddler complains that a cop on the beat steals apples from his stall. The peddler is shooed away while bureaucrats shuffle papers and bargain over how the law will be enforced. Failing to receive help, the forlorn peddler goes comically livid as a policeman swipes another of his apples right under his nose.

Eddie Taylor (Henry Fonda), a three-time loser, is released from prison and promptly marries his sweetheart, Joan Graham (Sylvia Sidney), who happens to be the public defender’s secretary. It was she who turns a deaf ear to the complaining fruit peddler, but as the story progresses her understanding of the justice system will change significantly. 

On their honeymoon they come upon a frog pond, where Eddie discloses that his first brush with the law came when he roughed up his peers who cruelly tore the legs off of frogs. The honeymooners note that these cold-blooded creatures mate for life. When one dies, the other soon follows — an omen of things to come, perhaps.

Death row visit.

Their wedding bliss is short lived, however, when the owner of the honeymoon suite spots Eddie’s mug in a true crime magazine and the couple are unceremoniously booted out.

What drives the story is Eddie's anger over the small and not so small disparities between the way the well-connected and the downtrodden are treated. He's the victim of foolish choices he made as a youngster, and now society and law enforcers won't let him off the hook. 

Set up in a job with a trucking company courtesy of the corrections system, Eddie’s path to redemption quickly turns rocky.

The couple finds a shabby residence, but Eddie's boss fires him for a minor offense. Joan moves into the house without telling Eddie. Reluctant to deliver the bad news, Eddie doesn’t let on that he’s unemployed, but the down payment is due by the end of the week. We see the makings of an alternate plan when he pulls back some bedding to reveal a gun under his pillow.

Last Ditch Effort

Eddie makes a break for it.

Eddie looks everywhere for another job, but has no luck. His boss turns down his appeal for a second chance, and Eddie loses his temper and slugs him. The film cuts to a cleverly shot heist scene — an armored car hold-up in a strong downpour, all beautifully filmed. A man is shot and killed and we see Eddie’s hatband, emblazoned with initials “E.T.” although we don’t see his face.

Turns out, his hat was stolen in a restaurant – it’s the only clue left at the robbery scene – and he is being framed. Joan wants him to turn himself in, but the police find him before he can. Eddie is found guilty and is sentenced to the electric chair.

With Eddie’s criminal record and prison history, the public, the police and prosecutor are quick to believe that he’s the culprit. “Eddie Taylor has been pounding on the door of that execution chamber since he was born,” says one.

Desperation

On death row, he and Joan have their last visit before he is to be executed and he tells her to bring him a gun. She does, but a priest who accompanies her is wise to the charade and quashes the plan. Then, an inmate passes Eddie a note that says there’s a gun stashed in the mattress in the isolation ward.

Shadows in a cell block.

In these critical scenes we see dramatic lighting effects set the mood and help illustrate the story. A shadowy expressionistic atmosphere helps dramatize Eddie's desperation, particularly the jail cell bars casting dark shadows that slice through the frame. They're severe, blunt, and an abstraction of the real world — the shadows could likely never be cast by the light sources we see in the frame. But they make the setting feel all the more claustrophobic while reinforcing the painful fact that Eddie is trapped in a spot from which there is no escape.

A Bold Move
Eddie tears apart a tin cup, cuts his wrist and acts erratically, hoping to be put in isolation. When he’s eventually taken there, he uses the gun to take a doctor hostage and escape.

The warden issues a shoot to kill order, adding that they should save the doctor being held hostage, if possible. The scene cuts to a news ticker tape — the armored car Eddie supposedly robbed has been recovered and evidence shows he is not the guilty party. Authorities issue a pardon for Eddie with a swiftness possible only in the movies. The real killer is Eddie’s former cellmate, Monk.

Of course, Eddie doesn't get the memo, and when he's told that he’s a free man he thinks it’s a ploy to capture him. Father Dolan, the priest who stopped Joan from smuggling the gun, intervenes, but Eddie has lost his faith.

Fog shrouds the prison grounds — another noir touch that reflects Eddie's confused state of mind — and officials are loathe to let Eddie escape with a gun even though he’s been pardoned. He’ll kill the first person he meets, they say. Before he can leave the prison grounds he shoots Father Dolan, his staunchest ally, and manages to get away. 

The Fugitives

Eddie Taylor on the run in 'You Only Live Once.'

Joan follows Eddie to a rail yard where he’s holed up in a boxcar. He's wounded, but they go on the run together, and as known fugitives they are blamed for every stick-up in the area.

Joan's sister wants to send her to live in Havana, but she hits the road with Eddie instead. It's not long before the law bears down on them and both are wounded.

Troopers pursue them on foot to the edge of the Mexican border, where freedom awaits them, but can they make it?

Eddie carries Joan, just yards from the border, and she expires in his arms. We see the pair lined up in a trooper’s telescopic sites. A blast of gunfire ends their quest for freedom.

A Voice from Beyond

We hear Father Dolan in voiceover, speaking from beyond the grave we must presume. “You’re free, Eddie, the gates are open,” referring to the gates of Heaven, rather than an earthly passageway to freedom.

In contrast, "M" ends on a decidedly pessimistic note. The murderer faces mob justice at the hands of underworld figures who capture him and bring him before a kangaroo court. The criminals are unanimous in calling for the killer’s head. The police and justice system, they say, would be too lenient, likely they will institutionalize him, and there is always a chance that he will escape and kill again. But the police arrive before the criminal element has its way, and the murderer is arrested and brought to trial.

Aside from religiosity, a glaring difference between the two films is that in “You Only Live Once,” American police, courts and prisons are called to task for their rush to judgment and use of lethal force that brings about the demise of Eddie and Joan. As for “M,” charges of law enforcement’s excessive leniency probably reflect a segment of German public opinion between the World Wars. 

Peter Lorre in "M."

In the early 1930s, the German Republic was beset by unemployment and hyperinflation brought about in part by the Great Depression. In this atmosphere, political extremism took root, leading to a dark period of fascist rule. We may assume that the public’s lack of faith in a just but faltering government helped pave the way for one of Germany’s darkest hours.

Both films come to tragic conclusions, but each has a distinct difference in tone and outlook. In the blunt closing scene of “M,” mothers of the young murder victims reflect that punishing the perpetrator will not bring back their children.

"You Only Live Once" ends on what some might say is a brighter, if slightly ambiguous, conclusion — Eddie and Joan find redemption in the afterlife. Or, do they?

Director and film historian Peter Bogdanovich asked Lang whether the gates of Heaven ending should be understood as ironic or as the truth, to which Lang replied, "As the truth." He reminded the interviewer that he was raised a Catholic, although admitting, by the church's standards, he was not a good Catholic.

"I think it was the truth for those people," he said. "The doors are open now."

The priest whom Eddie murders, the only prison official who believed in him, is the voice welcoming him and Joan to the Pearly Gates, while the authorities who judged them harshly likely expect the pair to be shunted off to eternal damnation. 

In Lang’s view, it seems, our deeds are rightly evaluated in the hereafter, and earthly judgment will forever fail society's outsiders such as Eddie and Joan, as it will the survivors of the young victims in “M.” For them, justice will always be out of reach in the here and now.