Frank Gerstle, Edmond O’Brien, “D.O.A.” (1949). The doctor delivers some astonishingly bad news. |
Frank Bigelow needs to find the truth,
but he's driven by a deeper motivation
By Paul Parcellin
When you think of noir, it’s probably not 18th century British author Samuel Johnson who first springs to mind. But his most famous quote really nails the crux of “D.O.A.”: “When a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.”
Apt words for Frank Bigelow ( Edmond O’Brien), the cursed hero of “D.O.A.,” who is under a death sentence, but not the kind that involves a rope. His is a story of rotten luck, an obsessive search for the truth and the mind’s nimbleness as the final grains of sand funnel through the hourglass.
But first, the top reason to see “D.O.A.” is the opening sequence, perhaps the greatest setup in all of noir. Bigelow arrives at Los Angeles City Hall at night, as if drawn in by its illuminated spire, a beacon in the dark. He enters and makes the long trudge through the hallways leading to police headquarters and the camera follows him all the way. Arriving at the homicide bureau, he reports a murder.
Detective: Who was murdered? Bigelow: I was. |
“I was,” he says.
Thus begins one of noir’s most definitive existential crises. A man living under a death sentence has mere hours before he expires. What will he do with his remaining time, we wonder? The lowdown comes in a long flashback in which we learn that the past few days have been a frenzied struggle. Bigelow, a small town accountant, first got sucked into a dark vortex of doom some months ago, long before he realized his predicament. He accidentally landed in the middle a scheme to sell stolen iridium, a valuable metal. He’s innocent of any wrongdoing, but fate cares not about culpability.
Details of the story behind this delayed-action murder get a bit complicated and difficult to digest as the story winds toward its harrowing conclusion. But the backstory is less important than Bigelow’s frenetic struggle to get to the bottom of the mystery that torments him to distraction.At the story’s core is a powerful obsession with finding the truth and a frenzied investigation that seems imperative, yet pointless. He could have gone to the police immediately but chose to go it alone. You might correctly assume that Bigelow’s head-first dive into the nitty gritty of the case is his way of shutting out thoughts of the Angel of Death’s inevitable visit.
His downward spiral begins when he leaves his loving girlfriend, Paula (Pamela Britton), behind in their small desert town. Frank plans to let down his hair in the big city, San Francisco, while deciding whether or not he will walk the plank with Paula — a plan that, frankly, is a bit on the cruel side. She hates the idea of him cavorting around town, yet feels she has no choice but to let him go get his freak on.
House band, The Fishermen, drive the beatnik crowd to distraction. |
Once in the confines of his big city hotel room he’s up for a bit of sinning, and it turns out he’s come to the right place. By chance, he meets a group of traveling salespeople who are partying like it’s V-J Day, and he’s invited to join the fun.
“Jive-crazy” hipsters dig the crazy beat at the Fisherman jazz club. |
Clearly, it’s a square’s idea of what a jazz club is like. The joint is a cartoonish den of iniquity where loose morals and uninhibited self-expression are on display, a place where oddballs and commies probably smoke “marihuana.” Above all of that, it’s a spot to meet “jive crazy” girls, and Frank’s game for that.
Of course, he’s out of his element here. The music makes his head spin, but the possibility of connecting with some counter-culture female companionship makes it tolerable. When at last he’s about to hook up with a mysterious blonde, someone slips him a radioactive mickey that sends his life into a tailspin.
It’s as if he’s being punished for his carnal cravings, and the penalty for straying from his girlfriend is death. But beyond that, we wonder who fed him a nightcap of hot nuclear soup.
A couple of medical establishments confirm that he’s a goner, and at first he’s in denial. From the dimly lit confines of a physician’s office, Bigelow bolts into the vast, sun-filled concrete cityscape that is somehow as claustrophobic and airless as the doctor’s office. He’s a man trying to outrun fate and it’s hard not to gasp for breath along with him as he scrambles toward points unknown.
Pamela Britton, O’Brien. Frank and Paula meetup, all too briefly. |
A cool factoid is that the shots of Bigelow running down San Francisco’s Market Street were taken without city permits. Those he bumps into are not hired extras but pedestrians who are visibly confused about the jostling they get. Director Rudolph Maté shot the film on a small budget, around $500,000, and made the most of limited resources.
Frank ponders Life. |
Once the initial shock is absorbed he accepts the bitter reality and snaps into action. In his final hours he’s determined to find out who poisoned him and why they did it. And then … who knows what? Maybe he’ll bring the killer to justice or perhaps he’ll take matters into his own hands. Along the way he acquires a pistol, so both options are open.
This is a drastically different Bigelow than the one who embarked on his junket to San Francisco. He’s focused, emotionally high strung and determined to get answers.
The film's climax takes place in the Bradbury Building in downtown Los Angeles. |
His investigation takes him abruptly from the Bay Area to the City of Angels, and at every turn he encounters another mug or two-timing dame. As the dust begins to settle it becomes clear that there’s a network of people behind the plot against him. But why would they go to so much trouble to kill an accountant from jerkwater USA?
The film’s answer is a bit more complicated than it needs to be, but not quite as byzantine as “The Big Sleep,” perhaps the most convoluted plot in all of noir.
Neville Brand as Chester. He takes Frank Bigelow for a wild ride. |
Bigelow’s mind has become wonderfully focused as the shadow of death hovers over him. He later expires in the homicide bureau after spilling the story to a roomful of enthralled detectives.
Facing certain death can clear cobwebs from the brain, all right, but too often clarity arrives at the eleventh hour. It’s ironic that had he not gone through this ordeal he might never have realized his feelings for Paula, but by then it was too late. Alas, romance often doesn’t work out in noir.
Frank Bigelow gains a sliver of self awareness only to die an untimely death. That’s a Pyrrhic victory you might say, and Samuel Johnson would undoubtedly agree.
Originally published in the Nov./Dec. 2024 issue of The Dark Pages. Check out The Dark Pages newsletter at: www.allthatnoir.com/newsletter/
Paul Parcellin writes about crime films and TV. Follow him on Bluesky: @paulpar.bsky.social