‘Murder by Contract’: This Guy Kills Me

Vince Edwards, Caprice Toriel,
'Murder by Contract' (1958).

Dreams of a suburban home,

picket fence and a garden

can lead a man to homicide

By Paul Parcellin

"I want to be a contractor,” announces Claude (Vince Edwards), a determined, 30ish guy in the middle of an unusual kind of job interview at the start of “Murder by Contract” (1958). The shot cuts to an abrupt closeup as he utters those words, emphasizing that this is a turning point in his life, the first step on the way to becoming a professional hitman. 

It may have taken a lot of thought before making his decision, but we’re never sure because almost all of Claude’s past is cloaked in mystery. In the course of the meeting he reveals to his interviewer, a retired real estate man named Mr. Moon (Michael Granger), that he never writes anything down, meaning he doesn’t leave a paper trail. But that could also describe his shadowy presence as a man with no personal history, certainly none that he’s willing to share. What we do know are the meager facts he reveals and whatever else we can glean from his actions. 

He’s got a decent paying job with benefits, but wants to buy a house and needs more money to do so. As a potential hitman, his vocation puts him well outside the mainstream, but his basic middle class aspirations are rather, well, mundane. Underneath the bravado, Claude is just a square. He’s after that thing described in a trite couplet we love to parrot, the “American dream,” the only difference being that he’s willing to take a route that is untraversable for most of us. 

His interviewer asks him what makes him different from others. “I don’t make mistakes,” he says. We gather that from the methodical way he operates, the careful, almost ritualistic way he dresses prior to his interview. Those lacking a more conventional moral code cling tightly to a rigid order of their own, you see. 

Claude's exercise regimen echoed in 'Taxi Driver.'

Mr. Moon tests Claude’s mettle by making him wait for the phone call that will offer him an assignment, and Claude’s self-confidence and determination remain in place like a wall of granite.

He waits at home for the phone to ring, dressed in a jacket and J.C. Penny tie, then doing calisthenics in his shabby rooming-house quarters. By the way, the obsessive workout scenes in “Taxi Driver” (1976), in which Travis Bickle (Robert De Niro) exercises feverishly in his own scruffy room, were inspired by Claude’s workout regimen, according to director Martin Scorsese, who maintains that “Murder by Contract” had a greater impact on him as a filmmaker than any other feature film. 

Murder in a barber shop.

When Claude finally makes the grade as a hired killer, he dispatches a couple of targets in a businesslike manner, staying perfectly cool in each of apparently his first two professional killings. The film’s scenes echo Claude’s economy of style, just showing enough to give us the idea of what is about to happen, particularly when violence occurs. We never see much of the rougher stuff, but are chilled when Claude, posing as a barber, strops a straight razor as a target relaxes in the chair, languidly unaware of what is to come. He used the tools at hand and never carries a gun lest he be stopped and searched. 

So many blanks are left for us to fill in that “Murder by Contract” feels as edgy as French new wave cinema. It wouldn’t look out of place on a double bill with Jean Pierre Melville or Robert Bresson’s work of that same era. In fact, Claude’s zen-like focus on his new vocation seems echoed by Jef Costello (Alain Delon) in Melville’s “Le Samourai” (1967).

When Claude’s unseen employer is finally convinced of his reliability, Claude is sent to Los Angeles on a special contract, the details of which he doesn’t learn before accepting the job. In the City of Angels he meets up with two handlers, George (Herschel Bernardi) and Marc (Phillip Pine) who are meant to oversee Claude, but Claude turns the tables on them. Befuddled and nearly at the end of their rope, the two don’t seem so much like gangsters, more like student teachers trying to keep the class bad boy under control. 

Herschel Bernardi, Edwards, Phillip Pine, the killer and his handlers.

Their interactions bring a touch of wit that a story as grim as this needs. Fitting in perfectly with the film’s minimalist style, the musical soundtrack by Perry Botkin, which is often a single guitar, is as spare as it is effective — think of Anton Karas’s zither soundtrack in “The Third Man” (1949). 

Director Irving Lerner hit a home run with this, one of his handful of gritty crime dramas. Before directing “Murder by Contract,” Lerner made documentaries, produced and edited films, then shifted gears with low-budget feature films including “Edge of Fury (1958) (sharing directing credits with Robert J, Gurney, Jr.), “City of Fear” (1959) as well as a number of dramas, war pictures,  westerns and TV shows. With “Murder by Contract,” he handles with assurance what must have seemed like edgy material in 1958. Lerner’s confidence is reflected in Claude, who is unconventional and sure of himself to the point of cockiness. 

Claude is a bit of a rock star compared with the two mob errand boys, and they both know it. George comes to admire Claude while Marc is fairly disgusted with him. His opinion doesn’t improve when Claude insists on relaxing instead of going to work. He swims at the beach, goes deep sea fishing and whacks golf balls at a driving range — Claude enjoys exasperating them both.

As cool and detached as he appears, Claude’s mood changes dramatically when he learns that the person he’s been hired to kill is a woman. She’s the wife of a deceased mobster who’s set to testify against the organization. He doesn’t like the idea of killing a woman, not that he believes it’s wrong, but unlike men, they’re unreliable, he says. You can predict when a man will move and where he will stand, but women move in unexpected ways. 

Claude breaks his own rule and uses firearms.

It’s telling that he refers to women as “unreliable,” perhaps alluding to his own relationships with women — perhaps even his mother. His rage comes to the surface when a room service waiter delivers a coffee cup with lipstick stains. He denigrates the waiter’s work ethic and remarks that the lipstick was left by “some pig” — he refers to women that way more than once, especially if he believes they have loose morals. Beyond his revulsion over a dirty cup, the lipstick traces convey the presence of a female and that upsets him and temporarily shakes his confidence. But, despite his moralistic judgment of women he’s not above ordering up a call girl when he sees fit. 

As his deadline approaches he finally gets down to the business of murder. His target is hiding out in a house nestled away in the Coldwater Canyon neighborhood of Los Angeles and is under police guard. That means he must keep his distance while doing the job, but his initial attempts at striking from the hillside above the house don’t go as planned. 

Billie Williams (Caprice Toriel) in leopard print, like big game.  

He’s forced to take another tack, this time getting close to the woman, and the stress on him is telling. He plans meticulously as usual but is unsteady on his feet. 

In what proves to be his downfall, he forges ahead, not only because he faces a dour fate if he fails — by this point his boss believes he’s botched the job and he’ll be lucky to get out of town alive. His obsessive work ethic compels him to complete the job, like any industrious citizen pursuing a comfortable suburban life on a leafy byway. In other words, the American dream. 

When Noir Got Into the True Crime Game — Docudramas: How True Were They?

Ted de Corsia, "The Naked City" (1948) — just one of the 8 million stories.

By Paul Parcellin

Maybe it was the rigors of World War II that whet the public’s appetite for true crime stories in the 1940s. Returning soldiers, who saw real blood and guts on the battlefield, were less than inspired by movies based on fictional stories, or so the legend goes. They wanted a realistic view of life that matched the bleakness of their combat experiences and the changing peacetime world. 

Movie audiences, accustomed to the realism of wartime newsreels, liked the immediacy and authenticity of short films featuring real troops engaged in combat and other current events. 

At home, urban crime was on the rise and cities were deteriorating. The spate of semi-documentaries, which at first glance appeared to be as credible as legitimate news sources, validated the public’s worst fears about the decline of urban life while usually offering an upbeat message of hope.

Some of the films of that era that mimicked the look of documentaries include “The House on 92nd Street” (1945), “Boomerang!” (1947), “T-Men” (1947), “Highway 301” (1950) and “The Hitch-Hiker” (1953), to name just a handful. 

Some were merely inspired by true events while others stuck closer to the facts. Often, they were composites of different true cases blended into a single storyline. Most featured voice over narration in some form and they sometimes shot scenes in the exact locations where the real events took place. 

Tom Pedi, Nicholas Joy, Barry Fitzgerald,
David Opatoshu, Howard Duff at police headquarters.

One such composite movie is “The Naked City” (1948), the film that inspired a successful TV series, “Naked City” from 1958 to 1963. In the film, Barry Fitzgerald plays Det. Lt. Dan Muldoon, lead investigator of a homicide division. Short in stature (for a homicide lieutenant, that is; TV’s Columbo being perhaps his lone peer), his eyes gleam with excitement when a clue is unearthed in the case dubbed the Bathtub Murder. His Irish brogue and ironically sharp repartee that accents each scene he’s in is the voice of a Gaelic storyteller more so than that of the jaded New York City cop we’ve seen so many times. In fact, his upbeat manner belies the fact that he’s investigating a hideous crime, the drugging and deliberate drowning of a young woman. 

As the investigation wears on and leads begin to fizzle he’s undeterred and pursues promising angles with zest. It’s as if he has an unshakeable confidence that the perpetrators are bound to fall out of one of the trees he’s shaking. His self-assuredness and lack of cynicism is hard to figure considering the tough environment he’s in and the hardened criminals he’s after.

His counterpart, the young, green homicide detective Jimmy Halloran (Don Taylor) is assigned every shoe leather task that needs doing. He’s resigned himself to a life of diving into haystacks in search of elusive needles, for the time being, anyway. Theirs is a dynamic we’ve seen replayed in countless films and TV shows, but back then it must have had a fresher feel.

Robert H. Harris, Don Taylor as Det. Jimmy Halloran,
doing his shoe leather work.

If you’d guess that the rookie will eventually face off against the story’s arch villain, Willie Garzah (Ted de Corsia), the baddest of bad guys  (at one point, Garzah shoots a blind man’s guide dog), you’d be right. Garzah will outsmart and trap the young detective, putting his life in jeopardy while jacking up the tension in the film’s final moments. It’s, of course, a manipulative  and probably fictional device, but we’re glad to go along for the ride. In fact, it’s one of the film’s more effective sequences.

Voiceover narration by the film’s producer Mark Hellinger, the stuff of documentary-style storytelling, works sometimes. But too often he reaches for comic relief and stumbles, and just plain talks too much. Never mind, the movie looks great and proceeds at a fast enough clip.

Arthur Fellig, A.K.A. Weegee

The title is borrowed from the book by tabloid news photographer Arthur Fellig, better known as Weegee, who, from the 1920s to the ’60s, prowled New York City streets by night and snapped thousands of crime pictures, including the aftermath of many a murder (he also has a cameo in the film). 

Obviously, director Jules Dassin wanted the film to deliver the grubby truth as seen in the lurid photos and screaming headlines of tabloid journalism. We occasionally see visual touches that remind us of Weegee’s work, such as kids cooling off in the spray of an open hydrant. We also get a touch of his signature gallows humor when other youngsters dive off the East River dock only to find a corpse afloat there — innocence of youth, meet the grim reality of big city criminal culture.

Retaining the Weegee aesthetic, the film’s lensman, William Daniels, captures New York City’s tight, claustrophobic niches as well as its sweeping skyline and the odd vignettes of ordinary folks on the street in mock cinema verite fashion. 

A master of black and white photography, Daniels shot 21 films starring Greta Garbo between 1926 and 1939, including “Mata Hari” (1931), “Grand Hotel” (1932), “Queen Christina” (1933), “Anna Karenina” (1935), “Camille” (1936) and “Ninotchka” (1939). In “The Naked City” he somehow makes the gritty urban landscape of 1940s Manhattan lushly beautiful, transforming the grimy sprawl of Manhattan’s underside into a character in its own right. Had the producer dropped a good deal of the film’s voice over and simply let the pictures tell the story the film would be stronger for it. 

Voice over doesn’t get in the way of actors’ performances so much. The film presents Garzah, for instance, as a criminal without redeeming qualities. He places little value on human life and would just as soon pull a trigger or pitch a drunken man into the drink when he feels threatened. His ethos of survival at any cost comes to a head at the film’s climax, being chased by the cops he climbs the Williamsburg Bridge’s steel supporting structure. It’s a setup for the cinematic takedown of a big man, a la James Cagney’s fireball of a final scene in “White Heat” (1949), when the hunter becomes the prey and the prey gets flambéed. Garzah’s end is a good deal less flamboyant, however.  

Ted de Corsia as Garzah
on the Williamsburg Bridge.

It would be a stretch to shoehorn an action sequence like that into a film that’s supposed to be a documentary, of course. Here, it’s OK. It’s what puts the “semi” in semi-documentary. We’re never really sure where and when non-fiction morphs into fiction and vice-versa. We simply must enjoy the film for its entertainment value. Despite its use of documentary film’s look and feel it makes no promises about the reliability of the supposed facts it presents.   

What seems utterly credible, however, is the primitive crime fighting technology we see. Halloran, the man in the field, needs to find a pay phone to call the precinct with critical information about the man he’s tracking down. The desperately inadequate communications system he’s got to work with is responsible for a disconnect that puts the young law officer in trouble. Before attempting to singlehandedly bust the bad guy, Halloran leaves a phone message — yes, a phone message — for Muldoon who is out of the office. The police department desk jockey almost forgets to pass the crucial information on to the lieutenant, so when the junior detective lands in hot water there’s no cavalry there to pull him out. 

Things eventually work out, but that caused me consider this: In pre-cell phone days, screenwriters must have had an easier time whipping up dramatic tension. With tracking and cell phone towers, a law officer is probably less likely to become isolated and in jeopardy. How many plot twists can hinge on depleted batteries and lack of signal? A lot, apparently. Things were just simpler in the old days, but I digress.

As 1940s docudramas go, “The Naked City” is a solid piece of construction with a few creaky floorboards. See it on a big screen if you can — it’s a paean to a New York that has largely been lost to time.