Busted But Not Broken: Greylisted Actor Made Indy Noirs

Virginia Christine, Edward G. Robinson, “Nightmare” (1956).

Edward G. Robinson's testimony before the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) resulted in his being shunned by the major studios. Instead, he appeared in independently produced Poverty Row films

Film Noir: The Dark Side of Cinema XVII [Vice Squad / Black Tuesday / Nightmare] [Blu-ray]

By Paul Parcellin

He’s no matinee idol, but when Edward G. Robinson is on screen we can’t take our eyes off of him. Short in stature and chunky with a bulldog face, it’s hard to explain his magnetism. He’s got that special quality that makes great character actors, and few can rival him for sheer screen presence. Try to imagine “Double Indemnity” without Robinson’s cranky insurance adjustor Barton Keyes, or “Little Caesar” minus his Napoleonic crime boss Caesar Enrico Bandello. Unthinkable.

Robinson’s command of his craft is evident in the three-disc Blu-ray box set from Kino Lorber, “Film Noir: The Dark Side of Cinema XVII,” released just this year. In these films, Robinson plays dramatically different characters effortlessly, or at least makes it seem that way. 

In the many roles he played throughout his career he embodied the characters he portrayed, giving them distinct, memorable personalities, from meek Christopher Cross in “Scarlet Street” (1945) to conniving bully of a crime boss Johnny Rocco in “Key Largo” (1948).

This box set’s trio of films are modestly budgeted crime thrillers, unlike the bigger films he’d made before and during the war. These early to mid 1950s films were made after he was obliged to testify before the House Committee on Un-American Activities (HUAC). The committee was established to root out the alleged communist infiltration of society and the Hollywood film industry in particular. 

In his testimony, Robinson named some of his peers who were associated with the Communist Party. He admitted that he, too, was briefly associated with the party, but claimed that he was duped into participating. His testimony got him greylisted as opposed to blacklisted. The blacklist banned actors from making films in Hollywood. Major studios wished to avoid negative publicity, so they wouldn't hire the greylisted Robinson, either. But he found he could act in theater and make films with the much smaller Poverty Row studios. 

The films listed below were made while Robinson was still under greylist restrictions. Later in the decade he was able to regain his standing and work with the major studios again.

Robinson as Police Capt. “Barnie” Barnaby in “Vice Squad.”

“Vice Squad” (1953) — 88 minutes

There’s relatively little vice in “Vice Squad” despite the title, and it’s not really a noir. It’s more a police procedural, heist movie and tale of suspense all wrapped into one.

Police Capt. “Barnie” Barnaby (Edward G. Robinson) is hardly Dirty Harry, but he isn’t above using blackmail, entrapment, false arrest and unethical if not illegal searches for the greater good. Tactics that would never be tolerated today seem routine in this 1950s crime drama. 

Barnaby’s more controversial tactics are leavened with humor. The running gag is the arrest and rearrest of dour-faced “undertaker” Jack Hartrampf (Porter Hall). Hartrampf witnesses the murder of a police officer as he’s leaving his mistress’s apartment, so he dummies up lest his name get into the newspapers. Barnaby uses some creative arm twisting, including blackmail, to get the undertaker to spill what he knows. But, Robinson’s avuncular police captain makes it all seem rather harmless, unavoidable and clever.

Barnaby isn’t a hardened, cynical law man, but rather an optimist and a realist who seems to enjoy his work. He tells us he hopes for the best, but realizes that he’s in a position that tends to bring out the worst in everyone.

Paulette Goddard as Mona Ross.

His department always buzzes with activity and several different stories unfold as police search for the murderer. One involves an Italian count who might be a con artist, and another entails an informant’s hot tip about a bank robbery plot. There’s the occasional lineup of petty criminals, and odd characters pop in, such as Mr. Jenner (Percy Helton), who complains about the “shadows that get all over me whenever I walk down the street.” Ever the public servant, Barnaby gives everyone a fair hearing regardless of the plausibility of their story or their grip on reality.

In addition to the highly recognizable Percy Helton, a number of popular character actors fill the cast, including Lee Van Cleef, Barry Kelley, Adam Williams and Edward Binns. Co-star Paulette Goddard plays Mona, a madame who operates an escort service and feeds Barnaby tips on criminal activities. She’s allowed to operate her business on the wrong side of the tracks so long as she provides useful information. It’s just another relationship of many that skirts the edge of ethical propriety, but that’s the way things go in Barnaby’s world.

Robinson as gangster Vincent Canelli in “Black Tuesday.” 

“Black Tuesday” (1954) — 80 minutes

Crime bosses don’t come much meaner than Vince Canelli (Robinson), a gangster who snarls when he speaks. Robinson’s role is close to a reprise of his Johnny Rocco in “Key Largo,” yet, Vince is even less charming and perhaps more evil than Johnny, if that’s possible. Both films have criminals and hostages trapped in buildings with Robinson running the show and barking orders.

Vince has precious little regard for human life other than his own and that of his lady friend, Hattie (Jean Parker). We don’t see how much he really cares for her until the film’s final moments. For a few fleeting seconds we can empathize with the otherwise detestable Vince, but that wears off quickly.

Besides Hattie, everyone else around him is a useful cog in his machine and nothing else. His talent is making cohorts believe that he’ll give them a square deal, but anyone loyal to Vince pays a price for his or her misplaced allegiance.

As the film opens, Vince and his partner in crime, Peter Manning (Peter Graves), along with other condemned inmates, await execution on death row. The film is essentially a two-parter: a prison breakout and then a last stand in a warehouse with escapees and their hostages. The escape is absurdly well planned and executed, highly improbable and fun to watch.

Peter Graves as Peter Manning.

Manning has stashed away loot from a robbery he and Vince committed, in the process of which they killed a police officer. That’s what put them on death row. Manning is keeping his trap shut about the whereabouts of the cash because he knows better than to put his faith in Vince. As their time in captivity ticks by, the hostages learn the hard way that trusting the crime boss is risky at best. Among the detainees are a news reporter, a prison guard’s daughter and a clergyman.

Hattie complains to Vince, “Shouldn’t have brought the priest. Bad luck.” 

“For him,” Vince mutters.

Stunning black and white photography by Stanley Cortez anchors the film to the shadowy domain of noir and makes dramatic use of rather limited sets. Cortez also shot “The Night of the Hunter” (1955) and “The Magnificent Ambersons” (1942).

Eventually, the outside world intervenes and pressure builds, bringing the film to a stormy conclusion.

Kevin McCarthy in “Nightmare.”

“Nightmare” (1956) — 89 minutes

Crimes committed under the influence of hypnotism, alcohol and narcotics are the backbone of many a noir tale, especially in Cornell Woolrich’s dark fiction oeuvre. In “Nightmare,” based on a novel “And So To Death” by Woolrich, New Orleans clarinetist Stan Grayson (Kevin McCarthy) dreams he committed a murder. 

Woolrich’s novel was previously adapted into the film “Fear in the Night” (1947) starring DeForest Kelley, and that film as well as “Nightmare” were written and directed by Maxwell Shane.

As we witness his nightmare, waves of fog waft across the screen, a wailing orchestra plays a dramatic score before the action cuts to Stan jarred awake in his bedroom, clutching evidence from the scene of the imaginary crime. 

He recalls from his dream a mirrored room with lots of doors, and a murder committed with an ice pick.

He discovers thumb prints on his throat as he staggers around his cheap room, the shadow of a rotating ceiling fan hovers above him like a dark angel. 

He’s got scratches and is bloodied,  and he’s clutching an odd shaped key that he’s never seen before. “Was I going insane?” he wonders in voiceover.

These are classic Woolrich story elements: a morning-after hangover, a spotty memory of having done something awful, a guilt racked conscience and unexplained wounds. 

Kevin McCarthy and Robinson
in “Nightmare.”

He confides in his brother-in-law, police detective Rene Bressard (Robinson), who is at first skeptical of Stan’s story, but later begins to see things differently.

When Stan leads Rene and others to a house off the beaten path, it looks a lot like the place Stan described from his dream, and Rene is ready to snap the cuffs on him. A strong undercurrent of mind control from an unknown source flows through the movie, and Stan sinks into a deep depression, certain that his life has been ruined.

Rene has his hands full trying to make sense of the case, and the solution to the mystery stretches credulity to the breaking point. But the cast’s uniformly strong performances make us forget about plot holes in this impossibly tall tale. But, if the story followed a more logical path it wouldn’t be a Woolrich yarn. 

“The Dark Side of Cinema XVII” features informative, well researched commentary tracks by film historians Gary Gerani and Jason A. Ney. The scans all look and sound great. Edward G. Robinson fans and noir appreciators should add this to their library.

One Revealing Moment: Something that Happens in “The Night of the Hunter” Made Me Rethink My First Impression of the Film and See It in an Entirely New Light

Robert Mitchum, "The Night of the Hunter" (1955).

By Paul Parcellin

I first saw “The Night of the Hunter” (1955) around 20 or so years ago and walked away impressed but not particularly in love with the movie, and having said that I know what many of you are thinking: Heresy! 

I have no real excuse for my initial reaction. I’ll blame it on a lack of sleep, fatigue after sitting through too many double features in a row, or some other convenient but less than honest alibi. 

Whatever. 

Sometimes the point of a film, that is, the thing that distinguishes it from others, can fly right past you. At least in my case it did. But, I’m glad that I recently rewatched it because I’d missed one salient point. Perhaps that is the reason why the popularity of this Charles Laughton directed drama, the only film he ever helmed, which has been an audience and critics’ favorite for decades, puzzled me a bit.

The story goes like this:

Itinerant preacher and psychopath Harry Powell (Robert Mitchum) scours the American countryside during the Great Depression, preaching the word of the Lord as he searches for rich widows to romance, marry and bump off, after which he absconds with their dough. To say the least, Harry’s theological credentials are questionable. He’s the picture of evil, and if that isn’t obvious enough he has the words “LOVE” and “HATE” tattooed on the fingers of both hands. 

Sally Jane Bruce, Billy Chapin,
Shelley Winters, Robert Mitchum.

Before long he finds Willa Harper (Shelley Winters), widow of Ben Harper, who was executed for a couple of murders he committed during a bank robbery. Harry was Ben’s prison cellmate, and the evil preacher suspects that Ben stashed a pile of the loot from the robbery in his homestead. Once he locates his prey, Harry expertly worms his way into the Harper family, which includes 9-year-old John (Billy Chapin) and 4-year old Pearl (Sally Jane Bruce). 

A supreme conman, Harry earns Willa’s trust and dazzles her friends and neighbors with dramatic sermons. A look of serene satisfaction washes over the townsfolk’s faces whenever Harry waxes poetic about the struggle of good over evil. While his LOVE/HATE tattoos ought to be ample warning that something’s rotten in Denmark, a gaggle of believers, including Willa, remains deeply under his spell.

Before long, young John finds himself in the increasingly treacherous position of resisting his gullible mother, who marries the evil man and wants John to embrace Harry as his stepdad. The youngster already has Harry’s number, and tries to make his mother see the truth, but she’s smitten and unable to accept the obvious. It seems that nearly every adults in town has fallen down on the job of protecting the little ones.

Another Serial Killer Comes to Mind

Teresa Wright, Joseph Cotten,
"Shadow of a Doubt" (1943).

“The Night of the Hunter”’s plot resembles Alfred Hitchcock’s “Shadow of a Doubt” (1943), in which Joseph Cotten plays Uncle Charlie, a mentally disturbed rake who hides from the law with his sister and her family, and has a habit of knocking off rich widows for profit. But Hitchcock’s film is anchored in a more natural and realistic view of small town American than is Laughton’s. “The Night of the Hunter” has a surreal edge that at times makes it seem like a storybook legend of horrific proportions come to life. 

Unlike Cotten’s seething but restrained Uncle Charlie, Mitchum’s bad guy is a thundering force of nature whose mere presence can charm an entire community whilst putting the lives of the vulnerable in danger. Like most villains, Harry is the hero of his own story and is only doing the Lord’s work, he reasons. He talks to God, seeking direction, and the Almighty furnishes the phony preacher with victims to murder and rob so that Harry can continue to spread the good word. Or at least that’s what Harry believes. 

So, is Harry delusional and psychotic or crystal clear about the ethics of his deeds and purely remorseless? Hard to say, exactly, but most likely it’s a bit of each of the above. But there’s no doubt that he’s a monster and what is most disturbing is that no one is suspicious of him when they ought to be — no one except John, that is, who seems to have inherited all of the common sense in his family. 

Mitchum, glowering at the Burlesque show.

Early on, we see the psychological conflicts behind Harry’s anti-social behavior. When we first meet him he’s tooling around in stolen car. The cops eventually catch up with him and haul him out of a burlesque show where he’s been seething and glowering at a dancer. It’s distinctly possible that the highly repressed preacher is window shopping for victim on whom he could murderously vent his psycho-sexual rage. Later, on his and Willa’s wedding night, she nervously prepares for her first erotic encounter with her new spouse, but Harry is enraged and disgusted by her conjugal expectations. Clearly, Willa is not in for a memorable honeymoon.

So, What’s the Problem?

From the above plot summary you’d rightly conclude that this film has a lot of the elements that a noir ought to have, and you may be wondering why I hadn’t revisited it over the years.

As I relate this to you I can almost hear the crowd gathering on my doorstep, pitchforks, torchlights and axes in hand, so I’ll have to make this somewhat brief. This isn’t going to be a hatchet job, so please lay down your weapons for a moment as I make my case.

Part of the reason why I allowed this film to lie dormant in my memory for so long might be because it’s just plain hard to pin down exactly what kind of movie it is. Depending on who you talk to you might call it a noir, which I do, but it skirts other genres and styles, too. 

For instance:

An escape on the river.

If you think of it as a noir, you’ll probably notice that it tends to wander into unfamiliar territory from time to time. The young ones flee Harry’s murderous wrath, narrowly escaping on a skiff that carries them downstream on the river Huckleberry Finn style, and the film begins to feel more Mark Twain than James M. Cain.

At other times we get a distinctly western vibe, in part because of its rural setting, but especially when Harry takes to horseback in pursuit of the runaway children. 

To add yet another flavor to the stew, you might call it a monster movie and that wouldn’t be too far off base, either, although nothing supernatural occurs and it has not a hint of science fiction. But Harry Powell is clearly a demon and a serial killer in clerical garb who wants money and is willing to murder women and children to get it. 

Robert Mitchum, Billy Chapin, Sally Jane Bruce.

Also muddying the noir waters are those carefully arranged visual motifs that crop up every now and then. Even the dark, forbidding basement, with the staircase and doorway looming above the kids as they hide from Harry, is an artfully framed composition that is at once terrifying and strangely aesthetically pleasing. Almost each scene begins with a well composed, meticulously framed shot, like photographs in a picture book that come to life. Shots of the crescent moon, jackrabbits and an owl are incorporated into the nighttime scenes on the river. We see the kids on their skiff shot through a spiderweb in the foreground —  a metaphor that makes us wonder if they will be caught in Harry’s web? 

As the youths journey downriver, heavy (maybe heavy handed) symbolism continues. They pass a flock of sheep and we think of sacrificial lambs — Harry liked to call the kids “little lambs,” a creepy smokescreen that fooled everyone except John. 

Safe at Last?

Lillian Gish, Robert Mitchum, Gloria Castillo,
Harry waits to pounce.

They finally drift into the sheltering arms of kindly Miss Cooper (Lillian Gish), who has turned her home into a refuge for orphans and we’re allowed to breathe a momentary sigh of relief. Echoing John and Pearl’s dramatic trip downriver, more symbolism is in store at Miss Cooper’s nightly Bible reading, which happens to include the parable of Moses and the bulrushes; the infant Moses, floating downstream, is rescued by the Pharaoh’s daughter, a story that is all too familiar to the two youngsters.

I must admit that part of my problem with these thoughtfully composed sequence was that I didn’t get the B-movie charge I’d associated with noir. That’s not to say I didn’t care for films from the major studios, but I was, and still am, hooked on the slapdash craftsmanship that went into low budget Poverty Row B-movie, such as “Detour.” To me, their kind of ragged, shot on the fly aesthetic has an unselfconscious energy that’s hard to replicate.

Confronted with “The Night of the Hunter,” a strangely allegorical film, I had trouble accepting it as a noir. It’s full of dark shadows, thundering locomotives and murder; all the stuff that sounds like noir. But how could it be noir? It doesn’t take place in the present day, nor is it set in the city. Needless to say, my short-sighted views have since been revised.

Most significant of all was that “revealing moment” in “The Night of the Hunter” that caused me to rethink my opinion of the film. It’s one of the story's most important scenes: Harry’s arrest. 

It passes rather quickly so it’s easy to miss its significance — especially if you’re not particularly alert at the time. In it, John witnesses the lawmen’s takedown of Harry. As the police wrestle him to the ground and snap on the cuffs, John is nearly moved to tears, pleading with the cops to take it easy on Harry. 

John and Pearl's father, Ben (Peter Graves),
is taken into custody.

That scene is a replay of the one we see in the beginning of the film in which John witnesses his father, Ben, being roughly taken into custody. It’s a dramatic flashback for the young boy, who had remained stoic as he and his sister traveled through hell before arriving at this concluding scene, and it opens a floodgate of emotion in him. The whole experience may have cost him his innocence, but John has not forfeited his humanity. He still regards Harry as a human being even though the murderous thug killed his mother and was inches away from slaying him and his sister.

Because John was dragged through the virtual fires of Hades and survived, and was not tarnished or jaded from the experience, he is one of the film’s heroes. The other is Miss Cooper, who, with her trusty rifle saves the day. 

Another thought I had after seeing the film again:

In the end, it took a perceptive 9-year-old boy to see through a charlatan’s facade while most of the adults were hoodwinked by a conman who exploited their religious fervor. 

John's clarity of vision is something we could well use more of today.  

Three Films that Set a Noir Mood: How John Alton Helped Define the Light and Shadows of Film Noir

Lynn Bari, Cathy O'Donnell, "The Spiritualist" (1948).

'It's not what you light, it's what you don’t light.' 

— John Alton                                                      

As legend has it, in the summer of 1923 a 21-year-old John Alton and four friends drove across the country to Los Angeles. They parked in front of the Egyptian Theater on Hollywood Blvd., and in the lobby a Gypsy fortune teller read their palms. Alton’s pals, she said, would seek their fortunes elsewhere, but her prediction for him was not the same. 

"You, I tell different," she said. "You'd better stay here. You're going to make it." 

Those were indeed prophetic words. Alton became one of Hollywood’s most influential cinematographers and his work had a major impact on film, especially film noir. 

Born on the Austrian side of the Austria-Hungary border in 1901, Alton came to America to attend college. His first foray into the film industry occurred when he was pressed into service at Cosmopolitan Studios in New York as a movie extra. In Los Angeles he worked as a lab technician in the 1920s and four years later became a cameraman.

He moved to France with Ernst Lubitsch to film backgrounds for “The Student Prince in Old Heidelberg” (1927) and ended up staying for a year heading the camera department of Paramount Pictures's Joinville Studios.

John Alton

Another assignment brought him to Buenos Aires, where he stayed for seven years, working in that country’s film industry before returning to Hollywood. In the late 1930s he shot 30 B-movies in seven years, mostly for Republic Pictures and RKO. He became one of the most sought-after cinematographers of the time, known for unconventional camera angles, especially low camera shots. His style is most notable in the films noir, including “He Walked by Night” (1948), “The Amazing Mr. X” (1948), “Raw Deal” (1948) and “The Big Combo” (1955).

Alton also photographed many color movies including the noir “Slightly Scarlet” (1956). He worked with Vincent Minnelli at MGM for 10 years including on “Father of the Bride” (1950) and “An American in Paris” (1951), for which he won the Academy Award for Best Color Cinematography with Alfred Gilks. 

His last film was “Elmer Gantry” (1960). He worked with director Charles Crichton on “Birdman of Alcatraz” (1962) but both were fired after two weeks and Alton quit the industry.

In describing his experiences in Hollywood, he explains how his approach to cinematography differed from that of others in his profession:

"In the morning, when many cameramen came in, they didn't have any plans for what they were going to do, so they just lit [everything] up," he said. "When I got a story, I'd sit down with the director and work out each scene — just the two of us. I'd ask the director his opinion of how he would like to see each scene. Then I'd go home and, even though it took me a lot of time, I'd work out every scene — [including] which lights and tricks to use. So when the time came for shooting, I was ready.”

Directors were at first dumbfounded. They expected to cinematographers to merely flood a scene with light and no more.

“I'd say 'You don't 'pump' light into a scene. That light has to tell something. There's a meaning, and it establishes a mood.' That was the difference between my pictures and some of the others: [in mine], each mood was different. The mood had to be done with lighting.” 

Here’s the lowdown on several of Alton’s lesser known works, earlier noirs filmed on Poverty Row. They display his distinctive touch and are harbingers of things to come:

June Lockhart, Hugh Beaumont, "Bury Me Dead" (1947).

“Bury Me Dead” (1947) Eagle–Lion Films

The title may sound like that of a horror film, but “Bury Me Dead” is an old school murder mystery dressed in noir clothing. Its resolution comes with a twist, as murder mysteries do. In the opening scene we encounter a horse stable engulfed in flames. The fire ravaged structure, piercing the night sky, is a preview of the dramatic use of light that we’ll be seeing throughout the film. 

A woman’s body is recovered from the blaze, and that’s the setup that sends us down a path crowded with suspects who each have motives to perpetrate the crime. From the start, we encounter one head-turning revelation after the next, and Alton’s lighting and camera angles guide us through the story and help frame the plot’s twists and turns. 

A distinctly minimalist touch arises now and then and creates visual drama not usually seen in Poverty Row films, such as when light spilling out of a refrigerator’s open door is all that illuminates the room. Near the climax, a shadowy figure attacks the heroine, Barbara Carlin (June Lockhart). Later, the killer’s identity is revealed in an arresting shot that illuminates the perp’s eyes. The reveal is only seen by the audience at first. Barbara is slower to catch on, making us want to yell for her to vamoose on the double. As spooky light rakes across the murderer’s face, Barbara is stunned by the revelation that she’s in mortal danger. 

Light is used here to dramatically drive the story forward, subtly preparing us for the story’s climax. A more run of the mill film might have used overheated dialog and swelling music to convey a dramatic conclusion. But Alton’s inventiveness presents us with a nuanced, emotionally gripping conclusion.

Francis Lederer, Gail Patrick, "The Madonna’s Secret" (1946).

“The Madonna’s Secret” (1946) Republic Pictures

A crushing weight rests on the shoulders of artist James Corbin (Francis Lederer). It seems the women who model for him die violently, and although the police can’t link him to the killings he wonders if he’s responsible for those death. 

The Madonna of the film’s title is also a title of a Corbin painting. Corbin obsesses over the model and has the curious habit of painting  her face time and time again regardless of the sitter.

Newspaperman John Earl (Edward Ashley) is aware of the many coincidences that make Corbin look like a guilty man, and he sets out to see that justice is done. One evening Earl tails Corbin to a cabaret where his current model, Helen North (Linda Stirling), performs in what may be the oddest act in show business. She stands against a wooden wall and sings torch songs as a knife thrower pitches daggers that outline her form. 

Stranger still, Corbin sits ringside and sketches the chanteuse with a knife in her chest, which doesn’t help dispel the cloud of suspicion hanging over him. She’s got a jealous boyfriend who wants her to quit modeling for Corbin, and he might have a point. She promises she will, but then doesn’t

Mood is everything in this psychological drama, and Alton’s shadows and pools of light set the tone for the film’s brooding atmosphere. Corbin’s studio, awash in sunlight by day, morphs into a charcoal-black purgatory as the painter sits alone playing Beethoven’s Sonata Pathétique on the piano. His isolation and despair seem to hang in the air. Gloomier still, when Corbin dines with his mother (Leona Roberts), with whom he lives, they sit in a dark candlelit room that’s as cozy as a mausoleum.

When another killing occurs, evidence against Corbin piles up, and yet no one can place him at the murder scene. But a revelation turns the investigation around and, as they say on “Dateline NBC,” sends the case in a whole new direction, just as we suspected it would.

Lynn Bari, "The Spiritualist" (1948).

"The Spiritualist" (1948) [AKA: The Amazing Mr. X] Eagle Lion

The home of spiritualist Alexis (Turhan Bey) is a frequent stopover for visiting specters who pop in for a visit whenever he arranges a seance. He offers his sympathy and insights on matters spiritual to Christine Faber (Lynn Bari), who lost her husband, Paul, two years before. Lately, she’s been hearing the voice of her deceased partner. 

This happens when she’s brooding over the magnificent ocean view from her balcony or walking on the beach below her cliff dwelling. By chance she bumps into the seemingly omnipresent Alexis on the beach one night as she’s close to having emotional breakdown. He seems to know everything about her and she resolves to engage him as a psychic medium.

Christine visits the mustachioed Alexis only after sunset because, we can suppose, the spirit world only works the night shift. But that’s perfect for the creepy atmosphere we expect when raising the dead. 

Alton fills the psychic medium’s lair with dusty light that seems to be filtered through a thousand layers of cobwebs. As Christine and her younger sister Janet (Cathy O’Donnell) become entranced by Alexis’s soothing voice, foreign accent and continental charm, Christine’s home seems to become more shadowy, bathed in candle light and aglow with dim table lamps.

One evening, Christine detects an eerie glow emanating from an open closet and upon investigation is terrified by a specter that emerges, gives chase and makes her scream. More spooky stuff is in store for her, especially after someone slips her a mickey in a glass of warm milk. Supernatural hallucinations grow stronger still and Christine seems to be under the influence of a bad batch of psychedelics — a precarious state of mind when you live atop steep cliffs overlooking the sea.

 In addition to his inventive lighting techniques, Alton’s hallmark is his unusual camera placements, and we see that here. He shoots the seance scene with the camera situated dramatically low, looking upward at Alexis’s crystal ball as well as the participants’ faces, adding to the scene’s topsy-turvy surreal effect.

With all the eerie goings on at chez Alexi we’re not so surprised when we learn that he’s a fraud who swindles well-heeled widows. But there’s an added twist that we might not see coming, and neither does Alexi, and it shifts the story’s focus to another character whom we don’t meet until later on. It turns out there’s an even more elaborate scheme in the works. As implausible as it may be, the story keeps us in the dark til near the end, just as Alton had planned. 

Next week I’ll cover more of John Alton’s Poverty Row films, the ones he did in collaboration with director Anthony Mann — you’ll probably be familiar with the titles.

Knockout Punch Noir: The Runyonesque, Raw-Boned World of Prizefighting Inspires Tales of Corruption, Violence and Redemption

Humphrey Bogart, “The Harder They Fall” (1956). 

By Paul Parcellin

This post contains spoilers, so you may want to see the films before reading the article.

You’d be hard pressed to find a sport more noir-like than professional boxing. It’s got all of the elements of noir rolled into a savage athletic competition whose object is to knock an opponent unconscious and perhaps spill his blood.

Boxing brings with it the stench of mobsters, illegal gambling, fixed fights, disabling violence and sometimes death. Boxing noirs focus on the exploitation of the powerless, the corrupting influence of fast cash and man’s indifference to the suffering of others. Fighters outstay their viability in the ring and are left broken in spirit and usually penniless. 

The boxing establishment reflects the unjust society from which boxers emerge. They see the fight game as a way out of the maelstrom that is their lives, but it turns into a prison much worse than the place they left.

Like Richard Conte in “Thieves’ Highway,” hauling a load of Golden Delicious apples to a fruit wholesaler in San Francisco, fighters eventually learn that the game is rigged. The average man will never get an even break and will be worse off if he tries to stand up to his tormentors.

Aside from corrupt individuals who run the system, boxers often struggle with their inner strife in their quest to reach the top. They wrestle with self doubt, conflicting loyalties and the threat of annihilation. Their personal lives are typically in turmoil. Pride is often a chief motivator that allows them to make unwise choices. Fans savor sweat drenched, blood spattered competition. They idolize a champ and denigrate an other’s failure. 

The best boxing noirs are pure drama peopled by desperate characters struggling to stay alive in an indifferent world. Like the marathon dancers in “They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?” (1969), fighters risk injury and death just to stay alive — the prize is another day or two of a desolate existence.

Here’s a sampling of some films that display the exhilaration, desperation and ultimate downfall of fighters on their way up:

John Indrisano, John Garfield, Canada Lee,
"Body and Soul" (1947).

"Body and Soul" (1947)

Corruption stands in the way of a young fighter making good in “Body and Soul.” Promising amateur Charlie Davis (John Garfield) reluctantly goes pro despite his mother’s wish that he get an education. The fresh-faced boxer has dynamite in his fists but sags under the guilt he feels over the unfulfilled expectations his mother holds for him. 

When we first encounter Charlie his life has hit the rocks. He’s a pariah to the ones who once cared the most for him. We flashback to his days as an amateur, when some rough breaks force him to make choices about his future. Living on the edge of poverty in Depression era New York, Charlie decides to get into the fight game. He doesn’t want to end up running a candy store like his father. But it’s his dad who supports the young man’s boxing dreams over mom’s objections. 

Once in the world of pro boxing, Charlie encounters numerous promotors and racketeers who have a hand in his pocket. The question is, will the business corrupt Charlie. 

Fights are rigged to accommodate crooked betting. Charlie is ordered to go 15 rounds and let the preordained winner take the contest by a decision. But wounded pride and arrogance can make a fighter go against the bosses, and that’s more dangerous than any combination of punches a prizefighter could face. 

"Champion" (1949)

Ambitious boxer Midge Kelly (Kirk Douglas) will sacrifice everything for success. He has no qualms about the damage he does in and out of the ring in this tale based on a Ring Lardner story. “Champion” is a competent, expertly photographed take on the fight game in the early part of the last century. 

But it has a coat of big studio gloss that softens its edge; Dimitri Tiomkin's mischievous score wants to add comic touches that make the tough stuff more palatable. It doesn’t cop out with a happy ending, but sticks with its tough, uncompromising view of the fight game. 

Unlike the scrappy boxers in other films who lurk in the lowest tier of the sport, Midge enjoys the spoils of his championship. He’s hardly a sympathetic character, save for his hardscrabble upbringing, and like the rising star in a gangster movie, it’s sometimes hard to stay in his corner. As his success in the rings ebbs and flows, Midge is clearly in for a comedown — and that he gets in spades.


Robert Ryan, ”The Set-Up" (1949). 

"The Set-Up" (1949)

“The Set-Up” doesn’t have a complex plot. It focuses on character and packs a lot of movie into it’s 72-minute running time. Fighter Stoker Thompson (Robert Ryan) is in the twilight of a disappointing career. He’s 35, ancient by boxing standards, and fighting in crummy arena’s in backwater towns. He’s in the low-rent district of fictional Paradise City and set to face a young up-and-coming fighter. 

His shifty manager, Tiny (George Tobias), takes a bribe from the gangster fight promotor who arranged the bout. The trouble is, Tiny fails to tell Stoker that he’s supposed to lay down. He figures that the young wild man will make fast work of the old timer, so why cut the sure to lose fighter in on the action? 

Stoker’s girl, Julie (Audrey Totter), wants the aging pugilist to leave the fight game. Delusional as he is, Stoker insists he could be just one punch away from a championship. More likely still, he’s one sock on the forehead away from permanent brain damage. Unable to bear the sight of yet another bout, she’s a no-show at the fight. Stoker is left wondering if she’s left him and this weighs heavily on the fighter’s mind as he faces a worrisome opponent. 

Much of the film’s first part takes place in an appropriately dingy locker room crowded with young and not so young hopefuls waiting for their fight. Some are punch drunk, some not, and each harbors a fantasy of making into the big time. Whether or not they succeed, each is destined to be double crossed and fleeced by promoters and managers, whose corruption knows no limits. 

Stoker finally enters the ring and the fight is emotionally wrenching and dramatically paced. There’s a lot at stake in this match, and Stoker may be in for his last competition on the canvas.

"The Harder They Fall" (1956) 

Former sports columnist Eddie Willis (Humphrey Bogart) is broke and unemployed after his paper shuts down. He reluctantly joins forces with boxing promotor Nick Benko (Rod Steiger) as a PR man for Benko’s crooked enterprises. He’s hired to promote towering Argentinian fighter Toro Moreno (Mike Lane) — “promote” is used loosely here. The ex-newspaperman must create a smokescreen of lies, finessing the tough questions his former colleagues lob about the shaky colossus fighter. 

Moreno looks menacing but is meek in personality, has a glass jaw and possesses no discernible boxing skills. Benko’s plan is to pay Moreno’s opponents to take a dive, allowing the grossly untalented Moreno to get an unearned reputation as a contender. It’s a cinch that once the over-hyped fighter meets a real boxer, the oily Benko will bet on the opponent and let the unprepared Moreno face a virtual buzzsaw blade of physical punishment. 

Steiger, as the villainous boxing promotor, is riveting each time he appears on screen. The hyper rat-a-tat  cadence of his speech is hypnotically persuasive while conveying an unspoken threat of physical harm to anyone who gets in his way. 

This was Bogart’s last film and he looks fatigued, but that fits Willis, who’s exhausted by the charade he’s allowed himself to get involved in. He’s trying to keep his mind on the promise of a large cash payout, not on the poor schlump who will face a beating in the ring. Who wouldn't feel a bit weary with all of that on his shoulders?

Dane Clark, Douglas Kennedy, "Whiplash" (1948). 

“Whiplash” (1948)

Artist Michael Gordon (Dane Clark) falls for a woman, Laurie Rogers (Alexis Smith), who buys one of his paintings. They spend a romantic evening together, but she disappears. He follows her to Manhattan, learns that she’s the wife of a thuggish fight promoter Rex Durant (Zachary Scott). 

Gordon decks one of the Durant’s prizefighters and gets recruited to box. They rechristen him Mike Angelo, as in Michelangelo, because he’s a painter. Still angered by Laurie’s deception, Michael directs his rage toward his opponents and becomes a title contender. 

Michael eventually learns the reason why Laurie stays married to the icy, sadistic Rex. Laurie’s brother, hard-drinking Dr. Arnold Vincent (Jeffrey Lynn), who looks after the fighters under Rex’s employ, plays a role in the mystery that is Laurie and Rex’s relationship. 

Mike is finally given a shot at the title, but he’s at great risk when he enters the ring for his big fight. Odds are he won’t survive. 

Here are some honorable mentions:

“The Big Punch” (1948)

A boxer turned minister offers shelter to a fighter framed for killing a policeman.

“The Fighter” (1952)

In Mexico, a young boxer uses his winnings to buy guns to avenge his family's murder.

“Iron Man” (1951)

An ambitious coal miner is talked into becoming a boxer by his gambler brother.

“The Crooked Circle” (1957)

A young prizefighter finds himself being squeezed on all sides to throw a fight.

One American Author’s Writings Inspired Multiple Films Noir, Yet His Name Is Less Well Known Than Other Top Noir Storytellers of His Generation

Edward G. Robinson, “Night Has a Thousand Eyes” (1948).

By Paul Parcellin

By any measure, Cornell Woolrich was a virtual human writing machine who cranked out fiction at a feverish pace. He’s credited with 22 novels under his name, 17 more under the pseudonym William Irish, two more as George Hopley (including one of the most memorable, “Night Has a Thousand Eyes”), hundreds of stories and scores of scripts for film, TV and radio.

An American author of crime fiction, suspense, horror novels and short stories, Woolrich is best known for his work in the noir genre, and his stories have been adapted into films such as “Rear Window,” “The Leopard Man,” and “Black Angel.” It’s a quirk of fate that such a prolific, influential writer should dwell in the shadows, behind authors such as Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett and Erle Stanley Gardner. But Woolrich’s life and career were unlike those of his literary peers.

Cornell George Hopley Woolrich was born in New York City in 1903. He was an only child and his parents separated when he was young. He lived for a time in Mexico with his father before returning to New York to live with his mother, Claire Attalie Woolrich. He showed an early interest in writing and began submitting stories to magazines while in high school.

After graduation he worked as a journalist and advertising copywriter. He attended Columbia University but left in 1926 without graduating when his first novel, “Cover Charge,” one of his six jazz-age novels, was published. 

A short story, “Children of the Ritz,” won Woolrich a $10,000 first prize in a competition organized by College Humor and First National Pictures, which led to screenwriting work in Hollywood for First National. But during his tenure there he never managed to get any screen credits. He decided to pick up where he left off as an author, and he and his mother returned to New York. 

When he couldn’t find a publisher for his seventh jazz-age novel he transformed himself into a pulp writer. He began writing novels and short stories under the pen names William Irish and George Hopley. His stories were published in magazines such as Black Mask and Thrilling Mystery, and he also began to publish novels.  

His work was often dark and atmospheric and he explored themes of alienation, guilt and obsession. A sense of dread permeates his work. Some of his heroes suffer amnesia and find themselves in an alien world. A recurring theme is the hero’s quest to discover his true identity. Often what he finds would have been better left unexplored. 

Some are falsely accused of murder but are terrifyingly unsure of their innocence. Most live in a nightmarish world where they struggle for truth while dodging a cloud of persecution hovering over them. At times, paranoid delusions control their very being. The air is rife with elaborate conspiracies in which they’ve somehow become entangled. Surprise plot twists lead to radical shifts in a story’s direction. 

Woolrich was unafraid to hug the line between plausibility and untenable fantasy. His novels and short stories have been called among the finest examples of suspense writing by any American author. The obsessive exploration of dark psychological themes in Woolrich’s work has prompted some to call him the Edgar Allan Poe of the 20th century.

By the 1930s, Hollywood was again interested in his work, resulting in the romantic comedy “Manhattan Love Song” (1934) based on a Woolrich novel, and action film “Convicted” (1938), adapted from a short story. But it would be his pulp crime work that became his hottest properties and the stories for which he’d be most remembered. 

Cornell Woolrich. 

Woolrich began to receive wider recognition in the 1940s. Some of his most famous works from this period include “The Black Alibi,” “Deadline at Dawn,” and “Phantom Lady.”

In later years his writing made him wealthy, but he and his mother lived in a series of seedy hotel rooms, including the squalid Hotel Marseilles apartment building in Harlem, among a group of thieves, prostitutes and lowlifes that would not be out of place in Woolrich's dark fictional world. They lived there until his mother's death on Oct. 6, 1957, which prompted his move to the slightly more upscale Hotel Franconia, 20 West 72nd Street near Central Park.

Of his 58 IMDB credits for films based on his writings, Alfred Hitchcock’s “Rear Window” (1954), adapted from Woolrich’s “It Had to Be Murder,” is probably the most celebrated. Other films based on his work include “The Leopard Man” (1943), “Phantom Lady” (1944) and Francois Truffaut’s “The Bride Wore Black” (1968). 

Top actors of the day played roles in those films. Burgess Meredith in “Street Of Chance” (1942), based on Woolrich’s “Black Curtain”; Edward G. Robinson in “Night Has A Thousand Eyes” (1948), and Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly in “Rear Window” (1954).

Despite his success, life for him was far from ideal. After his mother died in 1957, Woolrich went into a sharp physical and mental decline. A reclusive figure, his personal life was often troubled — he dedicated "The Bride Wore Black," which he wrote under the pseudonym William Irish, to his Remington Portable typewriter. 

After years of depression he’d let a minor foot injury turn into gangrene and had to have the leg amputated. Wheelchair bound and shrunk to 89 pounds, he was found dead in his room at the Sheraton-Russell on Park Ave. on Sept. 25, 1968. He’s buried along with his mother at Ferncliff Cemetery and Mausoleum in Hartsdale, N.Y.

Here is a sampling of films noir and mysteries based on Woolrich’s writing:

Burgess Meredith, “Street of Chance” (1942).

Street of Chance (1942), based on the novel “The Black Curtain”

Frank Thompson (Burgess Meredith) awakens to find that he's lost his memory. He slowly puts the pieces of his life together and discovers that he has a second identity, and that he's been accused of a murder that he can't remember committing.

Phantom Lady (1944) based on the novel of the same title. 

It's a no-no to be seen in public wearing the same accessory as another. Identical chapeaus roil the waters in “Phantom Lady" (1944), a story of murder, gaslighting and fashion faux pas. The film also boasts one of noir's wildest jazz band scenes, to boot.

The Mark of the Whistler (1944) based on a short story. 

A drifter claims the money in an old bank account by impersonating someone else with the same name. Soon he finds himself the target of a man with ties to the impersonated man.

Deadline at Dawn (1946) based on the novel. 

Sailor Alex Winkley (Bill Williams) and dance-hall girl June Goffe (Susan Hayward) spend a long night trying to solve a murder. He woke up with a pocketful of cash he received from the victim. Now he's only got until daybreak to figure it out.

Dan Duryea, June Vincent, Peter Lorre, “Black Angel” (1946).

Black Angel (1946), based on a novel of the same title.

Alcoholic pianist Martin Blair (Dan Duryea) is convinced that a heart-shaped brooch is a crucial clue in the investigation of his ex-wife's murder. Suspicion builds around dodgy nightclub owner Mr. Marko (Peter Lorre). But darker truths emerge.

The Chase (1946), based on the novel “The Black Path of Fear.”

Chuck Scott (Robert Cummings) gets a job as chauffeur to tough guy Eddie Roman (Steve Cochran), but Chuck's involvement with Eddie's fearful wife, Lorna (Michèle Morgan) becomes the stuff of nightmares.

Fall Guy (1947) based on the story “Cocaine.”

Tom Cochrane (Leo Penn'), full of dope (cocaine) and covered with blood, is picked up by the police. Tom only recalls meeting a man in a bar and going to a party. But when the body of a murdered girl turns up, Tom must act fast to clear his name.

The Guilty (1947) based on the story “He Looked Like Murder.”

Two guys sharing an apartment meet twin girls (both Bonita Granville). One's sweet, the other — not so much so. The nice one is murdered and her boyfriend is accused of the crime.

Robert Emmett Keane, DeForest Kelley, “Fear in the Night” (1946). 

Fear in the Night (1947) based on the story “Nightmare.”

Bank teller Vince Grayson (DeForest Kelley) dreams of murdering a man in a room full of mirrors. He investigates and finds that there's ample evidence that he did commit murder. But there may be a shadowy figure lurking behind the scenes.

The Return of the Whistler (1948) based on the story “All at Once, No Alice.”

On the eve of his marriage, a young man's fiancée disappears. He hires a private detective to help him track her down, but soon finds himself entangled in a web of lies, intrigue and murder revolving around his fiancée's dead ex-husband and his wealthy, corrupt family.

I Wouldn't Be in Your Shoes (1948) based on a story of the same title.

Vaudeville hoofer Tom Quinn (Don Castle) chucks his shoes at a noisy alley cat. But when his cash laden neighbor turns up dead, Tom's footprints are at the crime scene. A police detective (Clint Judd) tries to find the real killer.


Night Has a Thousand Eyes (1948) based on the novel of the same title.

Phony mentalist John Triton (Edward G. Robinson) discovers one night that he has developed real supernatural powers, but they bring about little more than misery and alienation from the people he cares about most.

The Window (1949) based on a short story. 

Young Tommy Woodry (Bobby Driscoll) witnesses his neighbors kill a drunken sailor, but no one believes him. When Tommy is left home alone the murderous neighbors pay him a visit. They aim to silence him for good, and he's left to fend for himself.

No Man of Her Own (1950) based on the novel “I Married a Dead Man.”

A pregnant woman adopts the identity of a railroad-crash victim and starts a new life with the woman's wealthy in-laws, but is soon blackmailed by her devious ex.

The Earring (1951) based on the story “The Death Stone.”

When a woman goes to see an ex-boyfriend who blackmails her, she leaves behind an earring and when she returns to retrieve it, she finds that he has been murdered.

The Trace of Some Lips (“La huella de unos labios”) (1952) based on the story “Collared).”

When her father dies mysteriously, a young woman is protected by an acquaintance of his, who takes her to live in his house, where she suffers the abuse of his niece.

If I Should Die Before I Wake (1952), based on a story of the same title.

Young Lucio Santana’s (Néstor Zavarce) dad is a detective working on the serial killings of local children. Lucho makes friends with a girl who tells him that a man gives her free lollipops. She makes Lucho vow never to tell anyone. But then that vow is tested. 

Don’t Ever Open That Door (1952) based on the stories “Somebody on the Phone” and “Humming Bird Comes Home.”

Two separate episodes that have in common the door that separates good from evil. In the first segment, "Alguien al teléfono,” Ángel Magaña tries to avenge the death of his sister, a girl who commits suicide over gambling debts. In the second, "El pájaro cantor vuelve al hogar,” Roberto Escalada is a former inmate who whistles when commits crimes and returns home where he is expected by his blind mother, who believes he has reformed.

Rear Window (1954) based on the story “It Had to Be Murder.”

Recuperating photographer L. B. “Jeff" Jefferies (James Stewart) has nothing to do but watch his neighbors across the courtyard as his leg mends. He notices odd things occurring in Lars Thorwald’s (Raymond Burr) apartment. Sinister things.


Obsession (1954) based on short story “Silent as the Grave.”

Helene and Aldo are trapeze artists in a circus. Aldo is injured and has to be replaced by Alex, his former partner who knows too much about him. Alex is murdered and Helen is convinced that her husband, Aldo, committed the crime. But another man is accused of the crime.

Nightmare (1956) based on a short story.

Clarinetist Stan Grayson (Kevin McCarthy) dreams he killed a man, then awakens to find evidence linking him to his imagined crime. His brother-in-law, New Orleans police detective Rene Bressard (Edward G. Robinson) is skeptical of Stan's story.

Femmes Fatale Are Deceptively Charming, Dangerous and Often Lethal; But One Among Them Tips the Scales When It Comes to Evil Doings — And She’s Probably Not The One You’re Thinking Of

Elisha Cook Jr., Marie Windsor, “The Killing” (1956).

By Paul Parcellin

Be forewarned: Many spoilers are included throughout the text below.

Sure, Phyllis Dietrichson (Barbara Stanwyck), the husband liquidating murderess of “Double Indemnity” (1944) might be your go-to gal whenever the term “femme fatale” is mentioned. She’s as coolly detached and methodical as a hangman, and wily enough to nudge her fall-guy, insurance salesman Walter Neff (Fred MacMurray), into killing her husband, and she even makes him think that the whole thing was his idea.

Cunning shapeshifter Brigid O’Shaughnessy (Mary Astor), who almost puts one over on private eye Sam Spade (Humphrey Bogart) in “The Maltese Falcon” (1941), is skilled at stitching together tissues of lies that disarm and misdirect the circle of men who orbit her. She’s after a prized jewel-encrusted falcon statue and will use lethal means to get it. We’re not sure until the very end of the film whether or not Spade, the role model for filmdom’s hard boiled shamuses, is buying her act. Anyone would be well advised to do so at his or her own risk. 

Speaking of trench-coated private dicks, in “Out of the Past” (1947) Jeff Bailey (Robert Mitchum) tries to leave behind his checkered past. He used to snoop for crime kingpin Whit Sterling (Kirk Douglas). The mobster’s henchman drags him back into the life he’s tried to shake off. Jeff’s former lady friend, who happens to be Whit’s current squeeze, Kathie Moffat (Jane Greer), is expert in playing both men as pawns, even as Whit tries to frame Jeff for a murder. It doesn’t occur to the erstwhile detective exactly how deadly Kathie can be until he finally sees he at her worst. And by then it’s too late.

In “The Killing” (1956), George Peatty (Elisha Cook Jr.) makes the costly error of telling his unfaithful wife Sherry (Marie Windsor) about a big score he’s in on. George is supposed to keep his lips zipped, but he tries to impress the drifting Sherry in a futile attempt to keep her from wandering. Trouble is, she’s got a boyfriend, and the two of them decide to grab a piece of the loot George and his partners aim to snatch in a racetrack stickup. George, the milquetoast racetrack cashier, is unaware of the evil steps Sherry will take to stuff her pockets with greenbacks and blow this crummy town — the femme fatale’s credo if there ever was one.

Gloria Grahame, “The Big Heat” (1953).

Many others deserve honorable mention for their underhanded onscreen efforts. This is hardly an exhaustive list, just a few of my favorites, including Peggy Cummins, the bank robbing sharpshooter of “Gun Crazy” (1950); Lana Turner, who, with John Garfield, deep-sixes her husband in “The Postman Always Rings Twice” (1946); Gloria Grahame enters a tempestuous romance with Bogie in “In a Lonely Place” (1950), and was gangster Vince Stone’s (Lee Marvin) moll in “The Big Heat” (1953) — it has the scene where Vince serves her a faceful of scalding coffee. Grahame’s other noir performances include “Crossfire” (1947), “Macao” (1952), “Sudden Fear” (1952), “Human Desire” (1954) and “Odds Against Tomorrow” (1959); Joan Bennett tormented Edward G. Robinson in two Fritz Lang films, “The Woman in the Window” (1944) and “Scarlet Street” (1945). In both, she conspires with Dan Duryea to fleece him for all that he’s worth. Other noirs she also appeared in include “The Scar” (1948) and “The Reckless Moment” (1949).

I’d be remiss to leave out Lizabeth Scott, Joan Crawford, Marilyn Monroe, Rita Hayworth, Gene Tierney, and especially Ann Savage, the spitfire hitchhiker in “Detour” (1945) whom Tom Neal wishes he never met. (For an in-depth look at the women of noir, check out an excellent book, “Femme Noir: Bad Girls of Film Noir,” by Karen Burroughs Hannsberry.)

But among the high priestesses of noir there must be one who reigns supreme. She may not be portrayed by the most accomplished actress, yet she makes others pale in comparison. The top femme fatale — my personal favorite — displays breathtaking wickedness. She has no redeeming qualities — none. Her maniacal quest for dirty loot and her Arctic-cold acts of pure mayhem are so over the top I laughed out loud the first time I saw her American screen debut. 

The worst of the worst femmes fatale simply must be Margot Shelby (Jean Gillie), the cold-blooded double crosser of “Decoy” (1946). Other murderous dames offer stiff competition, but for sheer cruelty and her outsized zest for sadism, Margot stands out among noir’s most treacherous females. Others may leave a greater number of stiffs in their wake. Some even look their paramour, boyfriend or husband in the eye and coolly pull the trigger. 

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

But there are three reasons why the others cannot hold a candle to the “Decoy” star:

1) She pulls off a murder that is as hideous as any committed by woman or man onscreen at the time. In her crazed pursuit of a $400,000 stash of loot, she disposes of an accomplice in a most chilling of manners. Motoring toward the site where the money is allegedly hidden, their 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, who happens to be a cold-blooded killer, himself. She hops out, rifles through the dead man’s pockets, grabs the tire changing tools and gets back behind the wheel …

2) Once she's in the driver’s seat, Dr. Craig (Herbert Rudley), who has been hoodwinked into aiding in Margot’s scheme, sits shell-shocked in the passenger seat. He mutters to her, “I’d like to kill you.” Without hesitation, she hands him a loaded revolver. He points the weapon at her — Hippocratic Oath be damned — but can’t summon the moxie to pull the trigger. She takes back the gun and they drive off. Margot knows that Craig is a broken man and likely would not shoot. But she wants to demonstrate her dominance over the hapless physician. It’s a sizable gamble on her part, but she willingly risks her life just to rub his nose in the dirt, which leads us to …

3) The last and perhaps most badass gesture on Margot’s part, assuring her top placement in the Legion of Film Noir Femmes Fatale: She’s been shot and is on her death bed. Police Sgt. Portugal (Sheldon Leonard), who has been trailing Margot and her hoodlum associates for a while, stands over her. She asks him to come down to her level. It’s an odd request, but he crouches down to oblige, bringing his face closer to her’s. We expect an intimate, soul-baring moment. She’s about to unburden herself and express regret for all she has done, we think. But the mood is abruptly dashed. With her dying breath she cackles hysterically in his face. A ring of police officers looks on as Portugal blushes, realizing he’s been had. She uses her last gasp to con a policeman and leave him humiliated in front of his peers. She can now leave this mortal coil, warmed by the fact that she’s had the last laugh at another in a long line of suckers. With her rotten-to-the core exit, Margot is the very model of a film noir femme fatale.

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.