This is Noir: I’m Supposed to be On the Edge of My Seat, So Why Am I Smirking?

A wigged out Barbara Stanwyck, "Double Indemnity" (1944).

By Paul Parcellin

Film noir is chock full of death and destruction and that’s the way we like it. There are other factors at play, of course — dramatic tension between characters and nifty heists meticulously planned and sure to fall apart once it’s showtime. We love alluring femmes fatale who make us fight off the temptation to holler at the screen and warn the dupe that he’s about to fall for her toxic charms, the equivalent of stepping onto a spring-loaded bear trap with big, sharp steel teeth. 

We love to see a poor sap struggle to pry himself out of the mess he’s gotten into thanks to his unabashed hubris or just plain bad luck. 

A house that "must have set someone back
30-thousand bucks, if he ever finished
paying for it."

It can all get pretty grim, so whenever a fleeting moment of comic relief pops up, either intended by the filmmaker or not, it stands out conspicuously, like “a tarantula on a slice of angel food cake,” to paraphrase Raymond Chandler. 

I’m talking about jokes that fall flat. They aren’t funny now and audiences probably weren’t bowled over by them back in the day. There are lines of dialogue that have aged badly and certain references that are wildly out of date. Don’t forget the technical gaffs that cheap-o productions didn’t have the scratch to redo, and strange, awkward moments that are probably due to a star’s unreasonable demands and the director’s lack of gumption to fight back.

Here’s a sampling of some film noir moments that are cherished by smart alecks such as yours truly who now and then can’t help but notice when things on screen just don’t add up:

Sometimes it’s the small observations that put a different spin on things. 

Except for a police squad, Sunset Blvd.
is disturbingly quiet.

Take, for instance, a traffic-free Los Angles main drag in the opening sequence of Billy Wilder’s “Sunset Boulevard” (1950). The scene takes place as dawn breaks over the city, but on a roadway where, in reality, every hour is rush hour. Frankly, the lack of bumper-to-bumper vehicles casts a post-apocalyptic pall over the terrain. Maybe that was intentional, and now that I think about it, what better way could there be to suggest the end of civilization as we know it beneath the smog choked skies of Los Angeles?

Speaking of traffic, there’s a witty, self-aware moment in neo-noir “L.A. Confidential” (1997), which is set in the 1950s. Local dignitaries hold a ribbon cutting ceremony for the then new extension of the 10 freeway, announcing that the super roadway will allow motorists to go from downtown to the ocean in 14 minutes, or something wildly optimistic like that. In L.A., audiences jeer. It’s a fair bet that the first automobile to use that stretch of roadway made it to the ocean in 14 minutes. Since then, only helicopters and jet packs come close to that speed. 

Barton Keyes (Edward G. Robinson) straightens out
his boss, Edward S. Norton (Richard Gaines),
in "Double Indemnity" (1944).

One of noir’s most beloved crime dramas, “Double Indemnity,” (1944) has a number of moments that give us a chuckle. In fairness, most of the humor is due to a first-rate cast and the masterful work of director Billy Wilder and co-screenwriter Raymond Chandler. For example, in one scene Edward G. Robinson, as crusty insurance adjuster Barton Keyes, fires off smart rejoinders and clipped observations that hit the mark. This is one between him and his annoying boss, Edward S. Norton (Richard Gaines). Keyes gets in a subtle dig at the pompous executive:

Edward S. Norton: That witness from the train, what was his name?

Barton Keyes: His name was Jackson. Probably still is.

But then there are a couple of moments in which some unintended comedy occurs: When insurance salesman Walter Neff (Fred MacMurray) gazes at the upscale Spanish Colonial Revival home owned by one of his clients, he remarks in voice-over that it must have set the owner back “30-thousand bucks,” which elicited a knowing cackle from the audience at the Brattle, a Cambridge revival house where I saw it. It seems that there’s nothing like outdated real estate pricing to put an audience in a buoyant mood.

Walter Neff (Fred MacMurray) gets his drink on.

Another guffaw out loud moment comes when Walter, fresh off a couple of strings at a bowling alley, stops for a cold one at a car hop diner. He’s behind the wheel of his auto, a tray hooked onto the window ledge holds a partly filled beer bottle as he tosses back a glass of suds. The crowd got a sarcastic laugh out of this one, too.

Wilder was responsible for one production misstep. He said he realized too late that plunking a blonde wig on Barbara Stanwyck, who portrays femme fatale Phyllis Dietrichson, was a mistake. He wanted her to look cheap, but instead, he admitted, she looked like George Washington. 

The plot of Alfred Hitchcock's “Strangers on a Train” involves tennis star Guy Haynes (Farley Granger) who encounters deranged gadabout Bruno Antony (Robert Walker). Bruno’s delusions lead him to commit a murder that he eventually tries to pin on Guy. 

Farley Granger, Robert Walker.
"Strangers on a Train."

At the film’s stunning conclusion in an amusement part, a tense struggle between Guy and Bruno ends with an out of control carousel careening off its axis and sliding across the amusement park’s midway. 

Cops arrive and the mortally wounded Bruno clutches a key piece of evidence that would tend to clear Guy of the murder he’s suspected of committing. The police size up the situation and declare that Guy is innocent. No questions asked. No trip to headquarters required. Badda-bing, badda-boom, he’s free to go.

In “Shield for Murder” (1954), Barney Nolan (Edmond O’Brien)
lures bookie Packy Reed (Herbie Faye) down an alleyway.
Note the boom microphone shadow that somehow snuck into the frame.

My favorite visual blooper is what must be the most visible boom microphone shadow in all of noir. In the opening scene of “Shield for Murder” (1954), crooked cop Barney Nolan (Edmond O’Brien) takes bookie Packy Reed (Herbie Faye) down an alleyway and gives him the works. On the way, an undeniably crisp shadow of a piece of sound equipment comes into view. Noir is supposed to be shadowy, but not like this. We can only conclude that a beer-money budget prohibited reshoots.

In "D.O.A." (1949) Frank Bigelow checks out
the local talent while checking in.

An embarrassingly bad bit of sound in “D.O.A.” (1949) temporarily mars the otherwise spotless noir it is. In it, everyman Frank Bigelow (Edmond O’Brien) is living under a death sentence after someone slips him a dose of slow-acting poison with no antidote. But before all that happens he’s on vacation in San Francisco and he ogles some attractive women. Director Rudolph Maté saw fit to add a cheesy sound effect of a wolf whistle, just in case we didn’t get the point. Maté is best known as a cinematographer, and in helming this low-budget classic he created a minor masterpiece. But, oh, that cringe-worthy slide whistle!

Sometimes a character is so rotten that we can only chuckle in admiration of her sheer audacity. In “Decoy” (1946), another low budget thriller, Margot Shelby (Jean Gillie) earns her spurs as perhaps the most cold hearted dame in all of noir. A sample of her frosty demeanor goes as follows: 

 Edward Norris, Jean Gillie, Herbert Rudley, "Decoy" (1946).

Motoring toward the site where a large cache of money is allegedly hidden, Margot’s car gets a flat. One of the two men riding with her changes the tire. As he lowers the jack beneath the front bumper, Margot slams the car into forward gear and runs over the unsuspecting sap. She hops out, rifles through the dead man’s pockets, grabs the tire changing tools and gets back behind the wheel. And why not? No need to share the jackpot with another schmo.

With her brazen disregard for the sanctity of human life, Margot earns a standing ovation. They don’t get much more fatale than that femme. 

So, those are a handful of cherished moments of ironic comedy. Surely, you’ve found a few that brought a smile to your face. Feel free to share them in Comments. I’d love to hear about them.

 

Peter Lorre: His first starring role was a massive hit and one of the most influential works of art in the history of film — and that was the problem

Peter Lorre, "M" (1931). An unforgettable psychological portrait.

By Paul Parcellin

Renowned character actor Peter Lorre created many indelible roles in groundbreaking noirs, thrillers and films of other genres while achieving greatness in Hollywood. Since June 26th marks the 120th anniversary of his birth, this is a good time to look back at some of his remarkable performances from the 1930s onward.

Born László Löwenstein in 1904 in Austria-Hungary, Peter Lorre began his career in theater on the stages of Vienna and Berlin. But it was his mesmerizing performance as the psychotic child murderer in Fritz Lang’s film “M” (1931) that elevated him to worldwide fame and established Lorre as an actor with a gift for portraying psychologically complex characters. 

Lang had Lorre in mind while working on the script for “M” and did not give him a screen test because he was already convinced that he was perfect for the part. Lorre did not disappoint the notoriously demanding Lang. Of his performance in “M” the director said, “(Lorre) gave one of the best performances in film history and certainly the best in his life.”

Despite a flourishing early career in Germany alongside theatrical giant Bertolt Brecht and Lang, Lorre, a Jew facing Nazi persecution, was forced to flee. London became a temporary haven before he landed in Hollywood.

Despite fluency in several European languages and a continental filmography, he arrived in Britain for a role knowing no English. Faced with director Alfred Hitchcock, Lorre adopted a curious strategy. He simply let Hitchcock talk, using smiles and nods to create the illusion of comprehension. This comedic performance convinced Hitchcock of Lorre's English proficiency, landing him a role in "The Man Who Knew Too Much” (1934). Amusingly, it took Hitchcock two weeks to realize Lorre was a master of silent communication, not the English language. By the film's completion, Lorre's English had miraculously improved, paving the way for his 1934 Hollywood arrival.

With his large, luminous eyes and a voice unlike any other, Peter Lorre cut a striking figure amongst his peers. This, combined with his remarkable acting range, made him a highly sought-after talent in Hollywood. Lorre could effortlessly shift between portraying sympathetic souls and sinister masterminds. He wasn't confined by genre, bringing the same level of skill to villainous roles, comedic sidekicks and even tragic heroes.

From 1941 to ’46 he mainly worked for Warner Bros. His first film at Warner was The Maltese Falcon (1941). It was the first of many films in which he appeared alongside actors Humphrey Bogart and Sydney Greenstreet. 

So instantly recognizable was he, his idiosyncratic screen persona was later caricatured in movies, television and other media. A number of animated cartoons presented highly exaggerated versions of the shady characters he often played onscreen. His characteristic Eastern European accent and wide range of vocal delivery styles, from hyperkinetic to asthmatic, were often parodied. 

Lorre took on roles that poked fun at his screen persona, including alcoholic plastic surgeon Dr. Herman Einstein in “Arsenic and Old Lace” (1944). In “Beat the Devil” (1953) he was Julius O’Hara, a fortune hunter with a Teutonic accent living in Chile since the end of the war — “O’Hara is a common name for German transplants,” he states matter of factly.

He worked to eliminate his accent, but filmmakers often insisted that he speak in the accent of his native land. Still, his dramatic roles, including those in classic noirs, are plentiful and filled with passion, pathos and wry wit. Yet he felt that he was forever a prisoner of the image he created in his earliest starring role as the child killer.

He was able to jettison his all too well known persona, but at the cost of taking on another stereotypical character. Lorre’s first major American success came with the character of Mr. Moto — he made eight "Mr. Moto" movies between 1937 and 1939. Disguised with gold-rimmed glasses, taped eyelids, and a hint of buck teeth, Lorre shed his previous image. Mr. Moto, though ostensibly a champion of law and order, employed unconventional methods. Elaborate disguises and ruthless deception were his tools, with hints of something darker lurking beneath the surface. In at least one instance the line between justice and murder blurred, adding a layer of ambiguity to the character. 

Driven by a desire for more creative control, Lorre formed his own production company. Unfortunately, this ambition coincided with the McCarthy era blacklist, and Lorre found himself unofficially ostracized by the House Committee on Un-American Activities. With dwindling opportunities in Hollywood, he returned to his native Germany in 1950.

There, he attempted to reclaim his artistic voice by co-writing, directing, and starring in the film “Der Verlorene” (The Lost One) (1951), a dark exploration of Germany's recent past. However, German audiences weren't receptive to this introspective look and a disappointed Lorre returned to America. Left with few options, he begrudgingly accepted roles that poked fun at his typecast villainous persona.

A lesser-known aspect of Lorre's life is his struggle with chronic pain and addiction. A burst appendix at age 21 left him with persistent stomach issues, treated by doctors with the highly addictive morphine. This treatment likely sparked a lifelong battle with opiates.

Biographer Stephen Youngkin's "The Lost One: A Life of Peter Lorre" suggests the addiction played a role in the breakdown of Lorre's three marriages and contributed to his financial struggles later in life.

By the 1950s, with television offering new opportunities, Lorre found himself still typecast, often a comedic reflection of his past menacing roles. Living in a tiny Hollywood apartment, he passed away from a stroke in 1964. A complex performer forever linked to a specific on-screen persona, it’s open to speculation what he might have accomplished had his creative powers gone unhindered by his early success.

Here’s a sampling of Peter Lorre’s noirs and thrillers with a few words about each:

“M” (1931)

A cornered killer.

Child killer Hans Beckert (Lorre) stalks young girls in Berlin and is powerless to fight his compulsion to murder. Director Fritz Lang’s masterwork is a portrait of how a city reacts to a wave of heinous crimes, from the police, politicians, ordinary citizens to the members of the city’s underworld. Lorre’s character is a mass of uncontrolled psychotic impulses who holds the city at bay as he methodically seeks out and terminates young victims. 

The killer is a childlike psychotic who kindly offers his young female victims candy before killing them. Lorre manages to make the tormented Beckert sympathetic as his world collapses around him. He’s a monster, tortured by his impulses and unable to stop his dark deeds. Eventually, the underworld, not the police or courts, catch up with him. 

It’s not the killings, per se, that inspire the criminal element to capture and try him. His terrible acts have upset the natural order of things and brought extra police scrutiny down upon the city’s underworld. The outlaws want to dispose of the matter and go about their business once again and only a swift verdict and brutal justice will do.  

This, his first starring role, gave Lorre a career boost, but it typecast him as a villain after having previously played largely comedic roles.

“The Man Who Knew Too Much” (1934)

The streak of white in his hair makes espionage agent Abbot (Lorre) seem feral and cunning as he leads a troupe of terrorists on a mission to assassinate a foreign diplomat visiting London. Lorre’s natural European accent lends the right touch of spookiness to the grinning Abbot, as he tries to out-gentleman the ultra-refined British gent Bob Lawrence (Leslie Banks). 

Abbot and his associates kidnap Lawrence’s young daughter and are holding her hostage. They aim to prevent Lawrence from spilling details of the assassination plot that he stumbled on. When they finally meet, both men exercise an exaggerated etiquette normally reserved for high tea at the Savoy. 

Abbot, the smiling spy master, is ruthless, although British authorities suggest that Lawrence might consider revealing to them the information he knows despite the fact that the youngster held hostage would likely be killed. Lawrence doesn’t cave in to either side, and fortunately his sharpshooter wife, Jill (Edna Best), proves she can do more than shatter flying skeet.

“Secret Agent” (1936)

“The General” (Lorre) is an enigmatic character also known by some as the “hairless Mexican.” He’s neither hairless, Mexican nor a general. Rather, he’s a killer for hire who affects a jolly, carefree manner as he performs his freelance occupation. British agent Capt. Edgar Brodie (John Gielgud) is tasked with eliminating a German spy holed up in Switzerland. 

Brodie has been provided with a new identity and an attractive wife, Elsa Carrington (Madeleine Carroll), to further mask his true identity. He contracts the General to help accomplish his mission, but the hired killer’s carefree attitude toward murder sticks in the craw of both Brodie and Elsa, especially after a significant mistake is made. 

The General is utterly without remorse and capable of dispatching anyone for the right price. Lorre gives him the tinge of mental instability beneath his jovial demeanor. He howls with laughter when an innocent victim is killed in error, and when it’s time for him to go to work he does so with efficiency and a lack of compunction. His is a personality whose qualities, taken as a whole, don’t seem to add up. Yet, he’s somehow quite convincing and not just a little disturbing.   

“Stranger on the Third Floor” (1940)

Margaret Tallichet, Peter Lorre,
"Stranger on the Third Floor.

Aspiring news reporter Michael Ward (John McGuire) is the key witness at the murder trial of a young taxi driver Joe briggs (Elisha Cook Jr.) accused of cutting a café owner's throat and is soon accused of a similar crime himself.

Lorre plays the stranger living in a rooming house who, despite the conviction, is suspected of committing the crime. Like his Hans Beckert in “M,” Lorre’s unnamed “stranger” has reptilian bulging, anxious eyes and contorted, fearful facial expressions that suggest genuine terror. He’s mysterious, menacing and may be a cold blooded murderer.

Novelist Nathaniel West did an uncredited revision on the script, an unconventional telling of the story featuring flashbacks within flashbacks. In it, the broken-hearted characters who populate a tawdry rooming house are like the residents of a cheap hotel at which West worked on the night shift as he wrote during the day. His published works include “Day of the Locust” and “Miss Lonelyhearts,” stories of tormented individuals living on society’s fringes and other outsiders, much like those of “Stranger on the Third Floor.” 

“I Was an Adventuress” (1940)

Mild mannered kleptomaniac Polo (Lorre) is a member of a trio who travel about Europe, fleecing the well heeled. With hair pasted to his scalp and remarkably bad dental work, Polo pretends to be a scholar of antiquities, assuring the dupes that the phony artifacts they purchase are of the genuine articles. Lurking beneath his nerdish surface lies a dedicated thief. 

While helping to bilk a greedy collector he can’t restrain himself from also lifting an ambassador’s wallet. When gang ringleader Andre Desormeaux (Erich von Stroheim ) scolds him for his unsanctioned thievery, he laments, “I guess I’m just a pathological case,” adding, almost proudly, “I am a weak character. So is my whole family.”

Polo is teamed up with Desormeaux and phony countess Tanya Vronsky (Vera Zorina), who winds up falling in love with one of their would-be victims, Paul Vernay (Richard Greene). This throws a wrench into Desormeaux’s plans and he later blackmails, by then, the happily married Tanya. But she’s not about to take the matter lying down.

“The Face Behind the Mask” (1941)

Hungarian watch maker Janos “Johnnie” Szabo (Lorre) is a naive, child-like immigrant who arrives in Manhattan and soon gets schooled in the tough breaks one faces in the big city. Caught in a hotel fire, his face is disfigured and he can’t find honest work. Despondent, he’s set to jump off of the docks when a stranger, Dinky (George E. Stone), stops him. Dinky splits the cash he pilfers from a bystander’s wallet with Johnnie, giving the greenhorn a first taste of the fruits of lawlessness. 

Destitute, Johnnie later commits a crime to help heal a sick friend, then plays ball with some mobsters in hope of earning enough for plastic surgery. His mechanical genius serves him well as a thief. He dispatches alarm systems with unusual dexterity, skills that could be used in honest employment if society would only let him into the workforce.

Flush with cash, Johnnie is fitted with a custom made mask resembling his face prior to the accident, and he plans to save his money for a more costly operation. The mask gives him a stern, unsmiling countenance that contrasts greatly with his fresh faced look before the disfigurement. His outlook has also changed markedly. He’s hardened to the ways of the new world and his enthusiasm, naïveté and youthful vigor have died. 

Lorre does a remarkable job of navigating the emotional range of the once optimistic Johnnie who has morphed into an unflinching cynic.

“The Maltese Falcon” (1941)

Sydney Greenstreet, Lorre.

World traveler and international criminal Joel Cairo (Lorre) is after the storied Maltese Falcon, a jewel encrusted statue worth a vast fortune, but he must compete with others of similar ambition, including rotund adventurer Kasper Gutman (Sydney Greenstreet) — it’s one of the most enduring Lorre-Greenstreet on-screen pairings. 

Meanwhile, San Francisco private detective Sam Spade (Humphrey Bogart) takes on a case that involves Cairo, Gutman, Wilmer Cook (Elisha Cook Jr.) and femme fatale Ruth Wonderly (Mary Astor), all of whom want the statue and are each willing to cut the other’s throat to get it. They call a truce and decide to join forces, but how long will their good will last? In all, Lorre made five films with Bogart.

Lorre’s Cairo is vain, ruthless and conniving, but makes the mistake of scrapping with Wonderly, and she draws blood. 

This impromptu band of fortune hunters is like a school of piranha, madly scrambling for the “dingus” as Spade calls it, and ready to betray one another and draw blood in a heartbeat. Their pursuit of the legendary statue is an obsession, and the fortune it could bring the owner is beside the point. It becomes a struggle for the upper hand and the supposed glory of becoming the prize’s sole possessor. In the end, the taste of victory turns to ashes in their mouths. Still, a more entertaining assembly of offbeat characters in this or any other genre is hard to come by.

“The Mask of Dimitrios” (1944)

Mystery writer Cornelius Leyden (Lorre) is intrigued by a violent career criminal whose murdered body washes up on an Istanbul beach. He meets smuggler Mr. Peters (Sydney Greenstreet) who is also interested in the drowned criminal, Dimitrios Makropoulos (Zachary Scott). 

Skeptical that the lawbreaker met his doom, Peters plans to blackmail Makropoulos after a smuggling scheme the two worked on went wrong. Makropoulos is now a respectable banker and details of his sordid past would ruin him. Leyden goes on a journey around Europe to learn more about the story behind the supposedly deceased master criminal.

Lorre’s Leyden is not the sinister character that he often played on screen. In fact, he’s more the detective trying to fit the pieces of a puzzle together because he senses that the facts will make a great novel. Much of the story is told in flashback as Leyden interviews those who know, or knew, Makropoulos, a la “Citizen Kane.” Greenstreet’s Peters is Leyden’s corrupt foil, and both have a deep interest in the same criminal for very different reasons. 

Peters needs Leyden’s help to pull of his blackmail scheme, since the mystery writer was one of the few who saw Makropoulos’s body in the morgue. They are to meet in Paris, where Peters will attempt to extract a million francs from Makropoulos, if he’s still alive. Of course, things don’t work out as Peters had hoped.

“The Chase” (1946)

Gino (Lorre), the tight-lipped right hand man to Miami gangster Eddie Roman (Steve Cochran) is brutal and intimidating for a man of his physical stature. Chuck Scott (Robert Cummings) gets a job as Eddie Roman’s chauffeur, and he risks everything by getting involved with the gangster’s nervous wife, Lorna (Michèle Morgan). Gino is as cold blooded as his boss and has no second thoughts about killing whoever must be gotten rid of. 

Needless to say, Scott realizes, albeit too late, that he’s working for a maniac. Roman has a set of controls in the back seat of his limo that let him take command of the car’s gas pedal and the brake, much to Scott’s terror. They have a close call with death as Scott’s nerves are tested. Roman pushes the accelerator to the floor, but it’s all a ruse and Roman approves of Scott’s clear headed driving while under great pressure. Gino, also in the back seat, is scared out of his wits, although he’s no stranger to his boss’s savagely deranged sense of humor.

Adapted from the Cornell Woolrich novel, “The Black Path of Fear,” the chase moves from the sunny shores of Miami to Cuba. Scott and Lorna run off to Havana after he agrees to help her get away from Roman — not a wise decision for anyone who hopes to die of natural causes.

“Black Angel” (1946)

Lorre, Dan Duryea.

Nightclub manager Marko (Lorre) has a permanent hangdog expression and an air of effortless control over his underlings. He moves at a lethargic pace — and even the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth seems to droop under a heavy weight. It’s a classic Lorre performance that demonstrates yet another variation on his seemingly infinite storehouse of shady characters. 

Marko is somehow connected to a murder mystery that’s the heart of the story, another Cornell Woolrich adaptation.

When Kirk Bennett (John Phillips) is convicted of a singer's murder, his wife, Catherine (June Vincent), tries to prove him innocent. Teaming up with the victim's ex-husband, pianist Martin Blair (Dan Duryea), they land a job performing in Marko’s club.

It turns out that Blair spotted Marko going into the dead girl’s apartment on the night she was murdered, and he’s a top suspect in the killing. But the pianist is a heavy drinker and was intoxicated on the night in question. He still carried a torch for his ex-missus, and was lurking outside of her building when the slaying by strangulation occurred. 

Catherine is convinced that her wandering husband is innocent of the crime and is determined to save him from the death house. But the clock is ticking.

“Three Strangers” (1946)

Another Lorre-Greenstreet paring, this time in a story with a supernatural bent. Johnny West (Lorre) is a boozy, good natured gent who has a chance encounter with two others, the conniving Crystal Shackleford (Geraldine Fitzgerald) and solicitor Jerome K. Arbutny (Sydney Greenstreet). 

They make a bargain involving a Chinese idol and a sweepstakes ticket for the Grand National horse race. Through some hocus-pocus they end up winning. But both Crystal and Arbutny make some underhanded maneuvers that cause their dreams to go up in flames.

If “Three Strangers” feels a bit like “The Maltese Falcon” it’s no coincidence. At one point it was envisioned as a sequel to that film starring Humphrey Bogart, Sydney Greenstreet and Mary Astor, but it turned out that the rights to those characters had reverted back to Dashiell Hammett. 

The story’s original title was “Three Men and a Girl,” and Bette Davis and George Brent were to star in it before Warner Brothers finally settled on the Lorre-Fitzgerald-Greenstreet cast. 

John Huston, who directed “The Maltese Falcon” and teamed up with Hammett to write the “Falcon” screenplay, co-wrote “Three Strangers” with Howard Koch. It’s not in the same league as “The Maltese Falcon,” but few films are.

“The Verdict” (1946)

A modest Scotland Yard mystery set in the 1880s, “The Verdict” is yet another Lorre-Greenstreet paring — they did nine in all, although I’ve heard that both were extras in another film, so technically it’s 10. They didn’t necessarily share a lot of screen time in all of them, but were a legendary Hollywood duo.

As the story goes, after an innocent man is executed for homicide, a Scotland Yard superintendent investigates the murder of his key witness. Jolly Olde London is mocked up on the Warner lot with pea-soup fog so dense as to be laughable.

Lorre, as artist Victor Emmric, is understated yet ghoulish and darkly comic when he shows up uninvited to a nocturnal exhumation and delivers lines such as, “I’ve always had a suppressed desire to see a grave opened, especially at night.” He’s dangled before us as an obvious suspect in the killing, but is he just a red herring? 

Take note that this is director Don Siegel’s debut, and that Joan Lorring, also in the cast of “Three Strangers,” appears here as showgirl Lottie Rawson.

Burt Lancaster, Lorre amid a field of diamonds.

“Rope of Sand” (1949)

Clad in a white linen suit and Panama hat, fast talker Toady (Lorre) chats up hunting guide Mike Davis (Burt Lancaster). Davis knows where a cache of diamonds are hidden and Toady wants a piece of the action. The story is set in the South African desert, where, in Toady’s words “gems lie just below the surface.” It’s one of the world’s richest diamond fields and sadistic security chief Vogel (Paul Henreid) brutalizes anyone who tries to steal the precious stones.

Toady speaks in purple poetic phrases and his oily lines of patter get under Davis’s skin. “Why do we stay here, plucking at the skirt of this woman, this desert, this heartless courtesan?” he asks Davis, who promptly brushes him off, unmoved by Toady’s self assessment as, “Splendidly corrupt and eager to be of profitable service.”

Hoping to regain his revoked license as a hunting guide, Davis intends to tell the politically powerful mine owner where the missing rocks are hidden. But Vogel assaults him and he decides to steal the diamonds instead — a risky endeavor stacked with long odds against him.

“Quicksand” (1950)

Dan Brady (Mickey Rooney) takes $20 from his employer to go on a date, planning to replace in the next day. Turns out, his date, the marvelously self-serving blonde femme fatale Vera Novak (Jeanne Cagney), brings him to view a a mink coat in a shop window. She’d do anything to get it, she tells Dan.

Next, they go a penny arcade operated by the acerbic and quite sleazy Nick Dramoshag (Lorre). Vera seems to have a romantic past with Nick, and hints to him that she’s still waiting for a mink coat. Dan is slow to realize how much trouble he’s getting himself into — and what kind of woman he’s dating — as he attempts to wheel and deal to pay back his employer. 

Making one bad choice after another, Dan’s life spirals out of control. For an average guy who never got in trouble before, Dan does an efficient job of painting himself into a corner. It’s no wonder — he’s really no match for Vera and Nick.

“Congo Crossing” (1956)

Col. John Miguel Orlando (Lorre) is the weary face of governmental oversight in Congotanga, West Africa, where gangsters are the defacto rulers. The country’s main attraction is that it has no extradition treaties. 

An assortment of lawbreakers on the lam take advantage of the country’s laissez-faire policies. Among the fugitives enjoying safe haven is Louise Whitman (Virginia Mayo), who is fleeing a French murder charge. 

Meanwhile, surveyor David Carr (George Nader) is on a mission to determine the true border of Congotanga, a project on which head gangster Carl Rittner (Tonio Selwart) wants inside information. The land survey could determine that Congotanga belongs to the Belgians, and the transfer of authority would put an end to the rackets there.

Lorre’s Orlando is an ineffectual policeman who walks a tightrope between his official duties and the gangsters’s powerful influence. Orlando double-crosses the surveyor, telling him, “It serves you right for making a deal with someone like me.” Anyone who’s seen the bulk of Lorre’s movies would have guessed that.

An American Story: Murder In the Living Room

Left: Gloria Swanson, William Holden, "Sunset Blvd. (1950)
Center: Gene Nelson, Phyllis Kirk, Sterling Hayden, "Crime Wave" (1953)
Right: David Janssen, "The Fugitive" (1963).

By Paul Parcellin

The first time I saw a film noir I didn’t know what I was watching. Sure, I could tell that it was a crime film, a detective story, a mystery, but no one I knew called those movies “film noir.” The term did exist back then, but it was used by French critics, vintage film fans and the literati. To me, they were just movies. 

I didn’t see noir in an art house theater, either. These black and white prints were shown on television — “Dialing for Dollars,” if you want to be specific. It was a weekday afternoon broadcast in my berg and on any given day you might see a war picture, a western or a romance. Sometimes you got straight-ahead crime and gangster films, and those were the ones I liked best.

The show’s gimmick was a cash jackpot that lucky viewers could win. During breaks for station identification the host picked a random number out of the phonebook and dialed it. If he reached someone — usually no one picked up the phone on the other end — and they knew how much money was in the jackpot they’d win the cash. It was often a measly amount of dough, around 25 bucks or so and hardly anyone ever won.

If you could put up with commercial breaks and station identification you could see scratchy prints of old movies, and that’s where my film education began.

If you were lucky you might see William Holden’s car get a blowout with automobile repo men in hot pursuit. Holden ditches them by turning into a stranger’s driveway. He thinks he’s in the clear but his troubles are just beginning (“Sunset Blvd.” 1950).

Then there was Sterling Hayden as Det. Lt. Simms, chewing on endless numbers of toothpicks, one after another, as he sweats down suspects in L.A.P.D. headquarters. A compulsive smoker, Simms got the bum news from his doctor: Drop the coffin nails. So he chews toothpicks instead, hundreds and hundreds of them (“Crime Wave” 1953). Incidentally, Lt. Simms was James Ellroy’s inspiration for L.A.P.D. Det. Bud White in “L.A. Confidential” and other crime novels he authored.

Even though I didn’t see any connection between these films, it was clear to my youthful eyes that there was something different here. They weren’t like the spoon-fed pablum that was going out over the airwaves. The stories were darker, the characters were more desperate — these movies seemed to create an alternative universe where all hope goes to die. I was intrigued.

Gloria Swanson, "Sunset Blvd." (1950).

My afternoon movie oasis showed other noir titles, the details of which are blurred by the passage of time. Of course, I had no way of knowing that I’d be seeing those films again one day, except in later years there were crystal clear restored prints. And they’d be shown in theaters with large screens and good sound systems. Hell, you could even own a copy that you could watch at your leisure. But that was a number of years off.

In that pre-Internet era, “Dialing for Dollars” was our YouTube and Archive.org, offering an opportunity to see films that weren’t being show in many movie houses, certainly not in my town. But all was not lost. 

Little did I realize that a lot of the prime time TV shows, some dating back to the 1950s, were short noir movies with dozens of episodes each season.

When noir’s classic period peaked near the end of the 1950s, and fewer noir titles were shown in theaters, radio and television had already absorbed the genre and was broadcasting noir influenced shows with dark themes, intricate plots and moody cinematography. Notable examples include “Dragnet" (1951-’59) a pioneering police procedural series that showcased gritty urban landscapes and complex investigations. It helped set the tone for future TV crime dramas. Also influential was "The Twilight Zone” (1959-’64) and “The Outer
Limits” (1963-’65), both of which skillfully blended science fiction with elements of noir, creating thought-provoking narratives that reflected the moral ambiguity often found in noir. 

Jack Webb, "Dragnet" (1951-'59)

Other early TV shows that contributed to the evolution of storytelling by incorporating the shadows and mysteries of film noir include: “Johnny Staccato,” “The Man With a Camera,” 
“77 Sunset Strip,” “Naked City” and “The Untouchables.” Yes, this is nothing like a complete list of noir-influenced TV. Tons more were broadcast, not to mention the noir influenced episodes of anthology series that broadcast various kinds of stories including noir-like faire. Like early soap operas, these anthologies were broadcast live and so viewers were treated to the occasional boom microphone swooping into the picture and corpses that awoke from the dead and walked off camera.

But getting back to the weekly shows captured on film, one noir-laced series, “The Fugitive” (1963-’67), caught the viewing public’s attention and was perhaps the first such network drama that ended with a finale episode that brought the series to a conclusion. 

“The Fugitive” demanded a satisfying denouement. Each chapter of the story seemed to point toward an inevitable outcome and the show delivered on that promise. The last episode was ratings dynamite, with 78 million people tuned in. 

Based on the true story of Dr. Sam Sheppard, who like the fictional character Dr. Richard Kimble (David Janssen), was wrongly convicted of murdering his wife. Sheppard was later acquitted after spending years in prison.

The fictional Dr. Kimble isn’t quite so fortunate. He’s convicted and sentenced to execution. But the train carrying him to the death house goes off the rails and wrecks. Riding with him is Lt. Philip Gerard (Barry Morse), the officer responsible for his arrest. Kimble escapes and stays on the lam for the remainder of the series while Gerard pursues him with the obsessiveness of Capt. Ahab hunting the great whale.

Ed Asner, David Janssen, "The Fugitive" (1963-'67).

Why single out “The Fugitive” among a sizable array of noir-influenced crime shows? With the possible exception of “Run for Your Life” (1965-’68), the story of a terminally ill man who has two years to live, “The Fugitive” may be the most noir of all 1960s American TV shows. Yes, there are other mind-benders, such as the British series “The Prisoner” (1967-’68) that inspired a cult-like legion of fans and became a favorite of stoners everywhere. Like “The Prisoner,” “The Fugitive” considers the plight of a man who has lost his identity. Both tend to land in some tight spots, but for very different reasons. 

As a fugitive from justice, Kimble cannot return to his normal life and must assume false identities, labor at minimum wage jobs and somehow remain invisible as he searches for the man who killed his wife. 

In one shot, foreshadowing the doctor’s unexpected transformation into a drastically different persona, he’s on the train bringing him to his execution and is seated next to the window. A cloud of cigarette smoke swirls around him, adding to the scene’s surreal quality. We see him and his reflection in the glass. The double image is the first indicator that he’s about to experience a split in identity.

He’s transformed into a loner who can never become attached to people or locales. Each day he risks discovery, and discovery means a return trip to the death house. 

Because of his precarious existence, existential dilemmas crop up. In the pilot episode a relationship between himself and a woman (Vera Miles) he meets begins to blossom. She’s married to an abusive man (Brian Keith) whom she’s trying to leave, but he won’t have it. Kimble knows he must protect her, but by doing so he’s taking his life into his hands.

Patrick McGoohan, "The Prisoner" (1967).

Like “The Prisoner,” Dr. Kimble’s misadventures are one long story told in multiple episodes. It’s something akin to an hours-long movie and it held the viewing public’s rapt attention for several seasons. The show wrapped at a good place in its run. After all, how long can a fugitive flee without getting caught?

No, it isn’t a private eye show or a police procedural, but “The Fugitive” gets to the heart of noir — loss of identity, alienation from society and the victimhood of the individual who is railroaded into paying for a crime for which he’s innocent. It's nightmarish stuff — the stuff that noir is made of.

 

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

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

Warning: Contains Spoilers

By Paul Parcellin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matty has long-range plans in mind.

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

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

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

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

Phyllis, savoring the moment as her husband is strangled.

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

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

Neff and Phyllis, a chance encounter.

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

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

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

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

But he can’t. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

In the trenches: deep in the heart of Hollywood the rough and tumble world of bargain basement noir thrived for a while

Joan Blair, John Hubbard, "Whispering Footsteps" (1943).

Script’s running too long? Grab a handful of pages, rip them out, shoot the sucker!

I’m on a Poverty Row tear these days. As you probably know, many of the films made there aren’t quite as polished as the gems turned out by Paramount, Warner Brothers or 20th Century Fox. But they have a certain something that the big budget movies lack: a rag-tag, rough around the edges quality that makes certain films, especially noirs, more credible, more lived in, and sometimes as piercing and toxic as a bucket of rusty nails.

Made on a shoestring

Feature-length films were shot in six days or less. Their budgets averaged $20,000 and production were usually done with a crew of less than a half-dozen, many doubling or tripling up on jobs. Films typically ran 70 minutes or less.

Back in the first half of the last century, those looking to make prestige films would be well advised to steer clear of Poverty Row. A director on Poverty Row, wrote museum curator and film critic Dave Kehr, labored on films “in the absolute certainty that no film critic would see them, no sophisticated public would encounter them, and no financial reward whatever would accrue to their auteurs.” 

For filmmakers, Poverty Row’s advantage over the big studios was the lack of oversight exerted by studio executives. It was a place where directors could take risks, experiment with unconventional techniques, try out unusual screenplays — or even rip a dozen pages out of the script and shoot the sucker. 

The Wild West on Sunset Blvd.

Lots of westerns were made on Poverty Row, and the studios that cranked out those B-pictures and serials by the dozen had a sort of raw, untamed ethos that matched their films’ subject matter.

One such studio, Republic Pictures, operated from 1935 to 1967 and specialized in westerns, cliffhanger serials and B-pictures. The studio also produced some noirs that stand out, even among those made with bigger budgets.

Here are a few low-budget noirs, all released under the Republic Pictures banner, that kept me entertained:

“Whispering Footsteps” (1943) Republic Pictures

The film opens with a closeup of shoes being buffed as a radio newscast reports a woman’s murder. The shoes belong to bank clerk Marcus Borne (John Hubbard) who happens to look the spitting image of a composite photo thought to resemble the killer. 

Marcus’s neighbors and co-workers scoff as investigator Det. Brad Dolan (Cy Kendall) tails him and probes him for an alibi. It’s just not possible that such a nice young man would commit such a terrible crime.

Later, after townsfolk begin to have their doubts about Marcus, he reveals to a confidante that he hears whispering footsteps behind him when he walks at night. It’s the sound of the stifling scrutiny he’s being placed under, he says, but is it?

Marcus has doubts of his own. He checks out a copy of “Psychology of a Homicidal” from the town library and confesses that he’s begun to suspect that he’s a serial killer with a split personality. When the one woman in town who never doubts his innocence turns up dead, the weight of public opinion bears down on him. No charges are lodged and he remains a free man, but the community shuns him and he feels that he might as well be in prison.

Meanwhile, others, such as Marcus’s employer, banker Harry Hammond (Charles Halton), might have motives of their own to kill, but the investigation remains laser focused on Marcus.

On the surface “Whispering Footsteps” is about murder, but the real culprit is small town narrow mindedness. A fever to convict spreads among the suspected man’s neighbors. Some with petty grievances against him fan the flames of incrimination just to have the satisfaction of seeing the young bank clerk clapped into irons. 

Another murder occurs and a body is left on a river bank. Dazed and unsure of his own innocence, Marcus checks to see if his shoes have traces mud. At least one other person in his circle turns up with muddy shoes. Alibis are proferred, but the mystery deepens. 

All the while we can’t be sure whether or not Marcus is a psychopath and a murderer or just extremely unlucky. Meanwhile, those whispering footsteps seem to follow him everywhere.

Jane Randolph, Nils Asther, "Jealousy" (1945).

“Jealousy” (1945) Republic Pictures

Lady cab drivers pop up now and then in noir, and Janet Urban (Jane Randolph) is one of them. No doubt, during the war years more women got into the taxi game while the soldier boys were off fighting the dark forces overseas. 

Janet drives a hack in Hollywood to support herself and her author husband Peter (Nils Asther). He’s a scribbler who’s hit a two-year dry patch and is wetting his whistle a tad too much. On the plus side, if you’re an unemployed writer who drinks, you’ll have lots of company in Hollywood.

Janet is fed up with the would-be Hemingway, who is a bully and a bottomless pit of neediness. She’s looking for a way to escape his clutches and get together with a new beau, the suave Dr. David Brent (John Loder), who was one of her fares.

Meanwhile, the taxi business is a tough racket and she’s packing heat in her purse as protection when driving on the mean streets of La-La Land. Naturally, as the story develops the gatt is going to be used as something more consequential than a paper weight.

Dr. Brent’s assistant, Dr. Monica Anderson (Karen Morley), also has eyes for the mustachioed sawbones. Tensions build, and then someone ends up dead.  

Yes, we know where the plot is going sometime before the movie gets around to revealing it. But for the cool cheap-o effects (double-exposures, an unexpected jittery hand-held shot worthy of Jean-Luc Godard) not to mention footage of World War II era Los Angeles minus the urban sprawl, it’s well worth a look.

Hillary Brooke, Raymond Burr, "Unmasked" (1950).

“Unmasked” (1950) Republic Pictures

Raymond Burr fans will want see him in “Unmasked,” where he steps into the shoes of perhaps the rottenest character he’s ever portrayed.

He’s scandal sheet editor Roger Lewis, head of a New York paper that’s fallen on bad times. To keep his sleazy operation afloat he’ll do anything. 

Beloved by millions as Uber attorney Perry Mason on the eponymously named TV series that ran from 1957 to ’66, Burr’s likability remained high despite the various scum of the earth characters he played in Poverty Row films. Burr was an actor who didn’t mind getting his hands dirty. As the unspeakable monster Lewis, he seems to savor every last drop of venom that he spews on everyone around him.

What’s more, he’s the Joseph Stalin of journalism, using his position to publish revoltingly self-serving articles and opinion columns aimed at framing his enemies. Among the items on Lewis’s To-Do list is writing columns that will help send an innocent man to the electric chair.

Linda Jackson (Barbra Fuller) teams up with Det. Lt. Jim Webster (Robert Rockwell) after her father’s untimely death. A packet of high-priced ice has gone missing and Lewis, as well as a band of outlaws, are after the rocks, but for very different reasons.

Greasy little henchman 'Biggie' Wolfe (Norman Budd) is a standout as the wonderfully deplorable double crosser among a band of double crossers. It’s a contest to see who’s going to stick a knife in whose back first.

But the picture belongs to Burr, who responds to cold-blooded murder with a warm smile. In his lengthy career the actor portrayed a lot of stone-cold sociopaths. This one may be my favorite.