It Came from Poverty Row: Hollywood's B-Movie Factories Mined Noir Gold

Ann Savage, Tom Neal, "Detour" (1945).
Hitchhiking on the road to hell.

So many westerns were filmed at the small, independently owned studios near the intersection of Sunset Blvd. and Gower St. in Hollywood that people began calling it Gower Gulch. From the 1930s to the ’50s it was the epicenter of low-rent film production and the gaggle of studios there was disparagingly known as Poverty Row. Monogram, Republic, Eagle-Lion and Producers Releasing Corporation (PRC), among many others, cranked out westerns, gangster films, horror movies, comedies, teen musicals and films noir, usually on beer-money budgets with modest sets and B- or C-list actors. 

Back in the days when movie houses showed double features, cheaply made B-pictures were paired with big budget films produced by the major studios. Strong demand for B-pictures gave rise to an industry dedicated to knocking out 55- to 75-minute dramas, comedies and musicals that the larger studios were unwilling to bother with. 

Always pinching pennies, Poverty Row directors were known to use sets left behind by more prosperous productions that had been shooting at neighboring soundstages. To save money, directors shot scenes outdoors, often in natural light with Hollywood neighborhoods as backdrops. Interior shots with vast black pools of shadow could mask a lack of sets, props, costumes and even adequate lighting equipment.

Films were often spare, with unfiltered images that seemed to convey noir’s tales of murder and treachery with an air of authenticity not found in polished productions by the majors. 

Producers Releasing Corporation (PRC) in Hollywood.
One of the studios where B-pictures were made.

Known for quick and dirty operations, Poverty Row studios took on films that Paramount or Warner Bros. would shy away from. Stories too tawdry for polite company may have been rejected at Fox, but they were the stuff that made Poverty Row’s engine fire on all cylinders. Titles such as “The Red Menace” (1949), “Bury Me Dead” (1947) and “For You I Die” (1948) rolled off the Poverty Row assembly line. Many had a sensational, ripped from the headlines feel that reflected the brash energy of American tabloid journalism of the 1940s and ’50s. 

Of course, not each an every film shot on Poverty Row sparkled like a diamond. With rushed schedules and budgets stretched to the breaking point there's bound to be some clunkers. Production values were less than top-notch, performances could be uneven and scripts had plot holes you could drive a Buick Roadmaster through. Shooting schedules were usually short and hectic, often less than a week for feature films. While a goodly amount of the output was dreck, a number of masterpieces were the product of those thread-bare productions. Ingenuity and craftsmanship could make up for tight finances and screenplays sorely in need of a rewrite. 

Many skilled technicians who’d been in Hollywood since the days of the silents found a steady income there. The low-rent studios didn’t pay much, but kept droves of film industry veterans off the breadlines during the Depression. It was a blue collar island in a neighborhood bulging at the seams with high falutin artistes.

Poverty Row was a corner of the industry that didn't take itself overly seriously. No one expected that Monogram, PRC and Eagle Lion’s pictures would ever be regarded as art, and the likelihood of critics ever seeing them was slim to none. Above all else it was a tough racket. Films were at times cut with the delicacy of a flying meat cleaver and distributors were often paid a flat fee for each film regardless of how many tickets were sold. 

This was a market of mass production and the goal was to deliver the product with great speed. 

The chaotic atmosphere and urgency to get a film in the can paradoxically offered directors and other artists greater latitude to try things that would never be approved by larger studios. The relatively low cost of each project allowed directors and actors to be largely left alone to do their work without interference, which resulted in some spectacular and enduring films that otherwise might never have been made. 

Five Noirs Made for Peanuts 

that Still Knock Our Socks Off

Here are a handful of top-notch crime dramas (and one that's not so top-notch) produced during Poverty Row’s heyday. I’ll list more of them in the coming weeks. Please feel free to enter your picks for the best Poverty Row crime and noir features in the Comments section below.:

Tom Neal, "Detour." Trapped in a paranoid nightmare.

“Detour” (1945) Producers Releasing Corporation

We begin with the grand daddy of noirs done on dirt cheap budgets by independently minded directors. In this case it’s the King of B-pictures, Edgar G. Ulmer. It’s a classic example of how a bottom-rung budget can set a gritty, claustrophobic mood that looks just right for noir. We can almost feel desperation radiating off the screen. It’s the production’s thread-bare look that enhances the protagonist’s sense of hopelessness and isolation. 

The very down-at-the-heels look is in itself a character in this movie, and it’s that shop-worn texture that sets the mood and somehow makes the plot all the more credible. It’s the story of pianist Al Roberts (Tom Neal) who just can’t seem to catch a break. His head is filled with visions of Carnegie Hall, but instead he pounds the keys at a gin joint, scooping up tips from the punters and gritting his teeth. His gal sings at the saloon to his accompaniment, but fed up with their dead end existence, she cuts bait and heads for the West Coast in search something better. 

Al stays behind in New York until he finally gets the gumption to follow his love. He’s broke, so he gets out on the highway and sticks out his thumb. He feels a rush of enthusiasm he hasn’t experienced in years, like he’s on his way to the promised land. But his journey turns into something resembling the third circle of hell. 

He catches a ride with a big-wheel gambler, but that goes sour — real sour —and he decides to change his identity, as you do in noir. When he begins thinking his luck might be changing for the better he crosses paths with hitchhiker Vera (Ann Savage), a spitfire whom he soon wishes he never met.

This is arguably Ulmer’s noir masterpiece (he felt that “Ruthless” [1948] was his best), a story so unyielding in its pessimism that big studios would likely pass on it. Just as well. They’d probably try to dress it up for maximum consumer appeal, and that would ruin everything. The film was remade in 1992 with Tom Neal’s son, Tom Neal Jr. — it’s best to stick with the original.

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

"Decoy" (1946) Monogram Studios

When it comes to cruel, irredeemable femmes fatale, Margot Shelby (Jean Gillie) wins top honors as the rottenest apple in the orchard. Told in flashback, “Decoy” features double crossers, a death row execution and a doctor who raises the dead. Then, things start to get weird.

Throughout the film, Margot remains a cold-blooded double crosser. For her sheer cruelty and outsized zest for sadism, she stands out among noir’s most treacherous females.

She pulls off a murder that is as hideous as any committed by man, woman or child onscreen at the time. In her crazed pursuit of a $400,000 stash of loot, she disposes of an accomplice as he’s fixing a flat tire by slamming her car into forward gear and running over the unsuspecting sap several times for good measure. She hops out and rifles through the dead man’s pockets before driving off.

Aside from Margot’s depraved antics, the centerpiece of the film’s first half is a whacky stunt that involves hijacking a morgue meat wagon that’s carrying the body of an executed man. Margot and her band of ghouls bring the corpse to a laboratory where a doctor administers a drug that brings the dead man back to life. (Yup, you heard right.)

In the film’s closing moments she lies on her death bed while Police Sgt. Portugal (Sheldon Leonard), who has been on her trail, stands over her. She asks him to come closer, as if she means to tell him something — something confidential — and he crouches down, bringing his face closer to her’s. Is she about to unburden herself and express regret for all the wrong she has done, we wonder? Nah! With her dying breath she cackles hysterically in the copper’s face. 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.

Elyse Knox, Don Castle, "I Wouldn't Be in Your Shoes" (1948).

“I Wouldn’t be in Your Shoes” (1948) Monogram Studios

Ann Quinn (Elyse Knox) wishes that a saint would deliver a pot of gold to her and her vaudeville hoofer husband Tom Quinn (Don Castle). Tom says it wouldn’t mind if that pot of gold was delivered by “the opposite of a saint.” We get a creepy feeling that in uttering those works he’s unintentionally summoning up a demon. When Ann switches off the lights a chorus of cats begins to howl outside their bedroom window. The hoofer chucks his shoes at the vocalizing felines, setting off a disastrous chain of events that no one could have predicted. 

Based on a Cornell Woolrich story, “I Wouldn’t be in Your Shoes,” like a number of Woolrich’s yarns, is the story of a man wrongly convicted of murder. As Tom sits on death row, Ann frantically searches for evidence that will prove him innocent. Frequently, Woolrich’s persecuted men are rescued by strong willed, inquisitive females who go to great lengths to dig out facts that will save the poor dope whose neck is on the chopping block. 

We get the story in flashback, with Tom’s echoey voice narrating as he sits in a prison cell. Ann is a ballroom dance instructor whose most dedicated pupil is a big tipper she calls Santa Clause. It turns out that Santa is really Police Insp. Clint Judd (Regis Toomey), a crusty veteran of the force known for cracking difficult cases. He finds a footprint outside of a murder scene that links Tom to the crime. The murder victim is Tom and Ann’s shut-in, cash laden neighbor, and coincidentally, not only does a thick wad of moolah find its way into Tom’s hands, the pair of shoes he hurled at the noisy cats unexpectedly materialized on their doorstep the next morning. It’s a cinch that there’s a frame-up in the works, but Tom has a date with the hangman’s noose and time is running out for him. 

Hokey touches (the echoey narrator), static camerawork and uneven performances don’t take much away from the outlandish plot that, while stretching credibility to the breaking point, is pure Woolrich, and that alone makes it worth a look. Strangely enough, if the film was a high budget production, I doubt that we’d be willing to forgive the parts that don’t make a lot of sense. How, for example, does Insp. Judd find the time to do the seemingly enormous amount of personal sleuthing and still hold down a job? No matter. In a low-rent, funky production such as this we sit back and go along for the ride.

Dolores Fuller, Herbert Rawlinson, "Jail Bait" (1954).

“Jail Bait” (1954) Howco. 

When it comes to cheapie film productions with odd plot lines I could hardly neglect to mention Edward D. Wood Jr., director of cult classics such as “Plan 9 from Outer Space” (1957), “Glen or Glenda” (1953) and “Bride of the Monster” Wood’s wild, frequently disjointed work tends to land in the science fiction and horror genres and is widely renown simply for being so, so bad. He was awarded two of film critic Michael Medved’s Golden Turkey Awards, one for Worst Director of all times and the other, a Worst Film award for his “Plan 9 from Outer Space.”

Regardless of their premise, Wood’s films, be they science fiction fantasies with cheesy flying saucers or a pseudo documentary about transvestites and sex change surgery, don’t lean heavily on verisimilitude and plausibility. Perhaps because of that, the Wood oeuvre has for decades attracted packs of hipsters who view the stuff largely for its ironic comedic value.

“Jail Bait,” the director’s sole attempt at film noir, may be the lesser known Wood film on the midnight screenings circuit mostly because it avoids outrageous and inflammatory topics and the plot stays basically within noir’s conventions. The title doesn’t refer to under-aged girls, by the way. It’s what one character calls the gun her delinquent brother carries with him on the streets. Although it’s probably not an accident that the film is tagged with a suggestive title — in this business you gotta have a gimmick.

The film is a straight-ahead crime drama telling the story of Don Gregor (Clancy Malone), a partner in crime with gangster Vic Brady (Timothy Farrell). Don, fresh out of prison, is brow beaten onto committing a robbery with Vic, and it goes badly. That's when Don's father, plastic surgeon Dr. Boris Gregor (Herbert Rawlinson) is forced to perform a plastic surgery job on Vic, who wants to hide his identity. Don is being held hostage until the surgery is complete, so Dr. Gregor goes to work on the desperate criminal with great urgency. 

Vic is a wanted man, so they can’t risk using an operating room. Naturally, the procedure is done on the sofa in Vic’s living room. A nurse isn’t available to assist, so the doctor’s daughter, Marilyn (Dolores Fuller, Wood’s real life girlfriend) pitches in. The entire operation is conducted with a basin of hot water, some ether, a scalpel or two, probably, and some clean sheets used to make bandages. Voila! Vic gets a new face, but in an odd twist his new profile is something less than what he expected.

Produced on a measly budget, “Jail Bait” suffers from uneven acting, vacuous dialogue (Dr. Gregor thoughtfully remarks, “Plastic surgery, at times, seems to be very, very complicated.”) and scattershot direction. But somehow Wood’s strange ending and some laughably stiff line readings add up to a rather likable mess. It’s enough to make me wish that Wood had tried his hand at noir at least one more time.  

Leslie Brooks, "Blonde Ice" (1948).

“Blonde Ice” (1948) Film Classics

San Francisco society columnist Claire Cummings (Leslie Brooks) gets hitched to a rich dude, then shows off her mastery in the art of two-timing. Claire never met a man she couldn't play for a sucker, because she’s … you know, cold like ice.

“Blonde Ice” director Jack Burnhard also directed “Decoy,” and between both films he gave rise to two of the most dastardly femmes fatale in all of noir. Unlike gun moll Margot Shelby in “Decoy,” Claire is a wage slave working among ink stained wretches. But both are driven by an insatiable desire for riches and will Hoover up every dollar, diamond and mink they can extract from unsuspecting marks. The difference between them is that Margot is an underworld denizen and Claire is a social climber. Margot uses blunt force to get cash, while Claire would prefer to marry it. She does, however, pack a pearl handled revolver in her purse and isn’t afraid to use it.

Nicknamed Blonde Ice, we meet Claire as she’s about to walk the plank with a middle-aged moneybags while giving her whimpering ex-beau, sportswriter Les Burns (Robert Paige), the heave-ho. Even after taking the vows she still tantalizes crestfallen Les, stringing him along as her husband of 15 minutes grows huffy watching from the sidelines. She calms hubby, but he won’t stay pacified for long. For Claire, it’s a minor bump in the road. She always keeps an eye open for new prospects with bulging bank accounts should the need for a substitute arise. 

It’s no wonder that she took up her vocation in the news biz, chronicling the comings and goings of the conspicuously wealthy. According to her peers, she ain’t no newspaperwoman. That’s immaterial to Claire — the job’s main perk is a bird’s eye view of eligible dupes who are ripe for the picking. 

In large part, what’s most enjoyable about both films, for me, at least, is the cold bloodedness of the crimes to which both lethal ladies resort. Claire is blasé when she pulls the trigger, and is quick to put on a charming face when the situation calls for it. After shooing away a blackmailer who wants to take her for 50 grand, she switches from a snarl to a smile, deftly toggling into her charming socialite persona to greet arriving guests. In the end, Claire lives up to her nickname, but when the people around her get wise to her dark motives and darker deeds, the world becomes too chilly a place for her. 

Next time, I’ll talk more about Poverty Row, directors who learned their trade there and the films that they made.

Lovesick Wanderer Returns ... to a Double Cross

Burt Lancaster, Yvonne DeCarlo, "Criss Cross" (1949).

This article contains spoilers.

By Paul Parcellin

The magnetic attraction between Steve Thompson (Burt Lancaster) and Anna (Yvonne DeCarlo) is the stuff that drives “Criss Cross” toward its dramatic and deadly conclusion. Steve returns to town after two year’s absence and the first thing on his mind is rekindling their romance. In fact, it’s probably the only reason that he returned. As much as he tries to convince himself that he’s not interested in seeing Anna again we know it’s just a matter of time before the two get together. 

They’re the volatile kind of couple that seems to thrive on getting into scraps, making up and starting the cycle over again. Complicating matters is gangster Slim Dundee (Dan Duryea), who is also pursuing Anna’s affections. We believe in Anna’s sincere feelings for Steve, and just when it seems that they’re going to pick up the pieces of their broken marriage — they divorced two years previously — they quarrel and she runs off to Yuma with Slim to get hitched. It’s a revenge marriage, perhaps, or maybe it’s all about the money, but one thing’s certain: there’s precious little warmth between her and her gangster hubby.

That should have been the end of their love triangle, but she and Steve can’t seem to stay away from each other. In voice-over he says it’s fate that keeps bringing them together, and for a while it seems that way. By chance, he glimpses her at Union Station seeing Slim off on an extended trip and that’s enough to set the wheels in motion for a disastrous outcome. Like Lancaster’s role as Swede in “The Killers” (1946), he plays an affable but naive gadabout who is putty in the hands of the people around him whom he mistakenly thinks he can outsmart.

Steve, we learn, has many good qualities, but sound judgment isn’t one of them. He can’t resist getting involved with Anna, despite efforts of Steve’s mother and his longtime buddy Det. Lt. Pete Ramirez (Stephen McNally), who feed him well meaning advice that he stubbornly ignores. 

There’s something boyish about Lancaster’s Steve. We see it when he returns home and throws a ball to his dog and romps like a school kid after dismissal from class. He overlooks the long-term consequences of his actions when it’s extremely unwise to do so. Getting involved with a gangster’s wife is the beginning of his downfall, and when Dundee catches Steve and his wife together, Steve dreams up a heist scheme on the spot to explain why the two of them are alone upstairs. Steve works for an armored car company and he’s got a bright idea about robbing a truck he’ll be guarding when it’s full of payroll cash. 

DeCarlo, Dan Duryea, an uneasy marriage.

It’s a bold move and almost comically unthinkable for someone as devoid of criminal experience as is Steve. But it’s also a clever move considering that he pulls it out of thin air just to save his hide. Dundee wants to know why he’s coming to him for help and Steve bluntly answers that he’s the only crook he knows. Dundee is taken aback but still interested. 

This turn of events abruptly shifts the film’s tone from a tale of clandestine love to a straight-up heist movie. Dundee is well aware of the shenanigans going on behind his back, but is intrigued by the possibility of scoring a lot of cash, and he has plans for Steve once the robbery is over. Of course, Steve has plans for Dundee, and the outcome of this caper hinges on who is more successful in double crossing the other.

Apart from the tense give and take among the main characters who appear along side a bevy of terrific character actors, the city of Los Angeles is a character in itself. Director Robert Siodmak makes the most of the once stately homes that serve as a backdrop to the story. The old neighborhood Steve returns to is the Bunker Hill section of the City of Angels, a setting for many a noir. For appreciators of the city’s architecture that decades ago fell to the wrecking ball, “Criss Cross” is a stunning timepiece that treats us to tasty morsels of vintage eye candy. 

Stairways leading to double- and triple-decker dwellings, looming Victorian homes that are just this side of shabby and the views of City Hall and its surroundings could make anyone nostalgic for the Los Angeles of decades ago, even if they were born long after those once-majestic buildings were leveled. There’s even a scene in a rundown apartment with Dundee’s mob working out the details of a robbery in which we see through the windows in the background the two cars of the Angels Flight funicular gliding up and down the steep incline of Bunker Hill. 

The film opens with a nighttime aerial view of Los Angeles City Hall, the towering building that then also housed the L.A. Police Dept. It seems ever present in the background, a kind of center of gravity around which the characters in this story orbit. It also serves as a reminder that justice is awaiting those who follow criminal pursuits. 

Siodmak’s non-linear way of telling the story begins with the camera panning across the flickering lights of the city, bringing us to a dance hall parking lot where Steve and Anna are carrying on a clandestine affair while Dundee waits inside for Anna. 

We get the setup in short order. Anna and Dundee are married, there’s a big job worth six figures in the works and Dundee is more than a bit suspicious that Steve is after his wife. Later, we see Steve driving toward a rendezvous spot where the armored car stickup will take place. Then in a long flashback sequence we see what brought him to this juncture in his life. 

Burt Lancaster, Tom Pedi, caught in the crossfire.

The film’s final portion focuses on the robbery’s aftermath and the duplicitous Anna, who bears the responsibility of causing Steve’s downfall. But is she really deserving of the blame? Considering that the robbery wasn’t her idea and that the choices that she’s left with are not good, she opts to save herself and that’s probably not a bad idea. Steve, the romantic, says he never cared about the heist money, he only wanted to be with her. But then there’s Dundee to contend with, who, like Steve, sustained severe wounds in the botched robbery. Wounded or not, Dundee is coming after them and she decides to grab the dough and split. 

Up to that point we never doubt her feelings for Steve, but when the chips are down she observes “You have to watch out for yourself.” It’s a cold slap in the face to Steve, but her moment of clarity comes a little too late and she pays the price for not being more discriminating about the company she keeps. So does Steve. It’s not the heroic ending that Hollywood movies normally proffer, but it’s consistent with noir’s cold, cynical view of the world. Like Steve, we don’t see Anna’s true nature until death comes knocking at the door. Then all bets are off.

 

More Than a Gunsel: Elisha Cook Jr. Played Wobbly Tough Guys, Inept Would-Be Heroes and Dyed in the Wool Victims Often Displaying Raw Emotion and Unexpected Vulnerabilities

Humphrey Bogart, Elisha Cook Jr., "The Maltese Falcon" (1941).
Just a cheap gunman hanging around hotel lobbies.

When he died in 1995 at the age of 91, Elisha Cook Jr. was the last surviving cast member of John Huston's 1941 film noir classic “The Maltese Falcon,” whose players included Humphrey Bogart, Sydney Greenstreet, Peter Lorre and Mary Astor. While his was a supporting role, Cook left an indelible impression that remains intact more than eight decades later.

Many say that “The Maltese Falcon” was the first ever film noir while others insist that “Stranger on the Third Floor” (1940) was the genre’s opening salvo. One thing is for certain: Having acted in both films, Cook’s film noir street cred is rock solid.

He appeared in more than 100 films, including comedies, westerns and war pictures, working with some of Hollywood’s most esteemed directors, a virtual who’s who of Hollywood heavy hitters, including Stanley Kubrick, Howard Hawks, Robert Wise, Sam Peckinpah, Andre DeToth, Mervyn LeRoy, Otto Preminger, Robert Siodmak, and Jules Dassin, among others. Cook would be the first to admit that not every film in which he appeared rose to the level of the 1941 Huston-directed spellbinder. He once claimed that he was in more "B-for-bomb turkeys" than any other actor.

Frequently performing beside the likes of Bogart, Greenstreet, Gary Cooper, Allan Ladd and Marilyn Monroe, to name a few, Cook had an emotional presence that put him on equal footing with the stars even in his relatively minor roles. Whether he was playing a sniveling informant, sinister henchman or a flawed protagonist, his most complex characters put on a rugged facade that belied a spate of vulnerabilities that occasionally bobbed to the surface. At times his characters were lovestruck weaklings easily manipulated by scheming jezebels. He often played average joes who were pawns of the ruthless and were pushed around by low-life hoodlums and gangsters’ errand boys. He was Jonesy, the broken-hearted informant forced to drink poison in "The Big Sleep" (1946). As Cliff, the cuckolded husband who throws a monkey wrench into a racetrack holdup in Stanley Kubrick’s "The Killing" (1956), he drowns in pathos and inadvertently helps take his partners in crime down with him.

But the role most deeply etched into our pop culture collective consciousness is undoubtedly Wilmer the gunsel, the inept, brutally callous and cowardly bodyguard to Sydney Greenstreet in "The Maltese Falcon.” Part of what makes that film pure viewing pleasure is its cheeky dialogue and biting repartee lifted directly from Dashiell Hammett’s novel. Amid many ironic asides and withering retorts, Cook scores a zinger or two. 

”Keep on riding me," he tells Bogart’s Sam Spade. "They're gonna be pickin' iron out of your liver."

As Wilmer — humiliation and tears of rage.

But apart from some poisonous retorts, his characters’ emotional complexities leave a lasting impression on us. We see humiliation and hatefulness in his expression after Bogie swipes both of his pistols and mortifies him as his boss, Kaspar Gutman (Greenstreet), looks on with muted amusement.

"If you look at the scene closely," Cook said, "the tears are streaming down my face I'm so angry."

With more than a touch of self-deprecating humor, Cook liked to point out that he got the part of Wilmer simply because he had the same agent as Huston and Bogart. But it’s hard to imagine any other actor standing in Wilmer’s shoes.

"I played rats, pimps, informers, hopheads and communists," he said, although that wasn’t necessarily by choice. He had to take whatever happened to be on the studio’s schedule. "I didn't have the privilege of reading scripts. Guys called me up and said, 'You're going to work tomorrow.' "

A Career Spanning Over Six Decades

A native of San Francisco who grew up in Chicago, Cook was a traveling actor in the East and Midwest before going to New York, where Eugene O'Neill picked him to play the juvenile lead in "Ah Wilderness!," which ran on Broadway for two years.

His first screen roles were in the silent era — he made his film debut with “Her Unborn Child” (1930). The early roles were often uncredited, but he showed a knack for performing in front of the camera. By the time that the talkies arrived his career began picking up steam. 

He could handle a remarkable range of characters, from timid and neurotic to sinister and cunning. As a performer who could radiate vulnerability as well as menace he became a sought after character actor. He continued to make his mark in films-noir and gangster films with roles in “Born to Kill” (1947), “Dillinger” (1945) and “Phantom Lady” (1944). 

In “Phantom Lady,” Cook is a hophead jazz drummer who becomes the prime suspect in a murder case. He encounters Carol "Kansas" Richman (Ella Raines) and is knocked out by her slinky allure. In one of the most frequently cited scenes in noir, Cook pounds out a frenzied drum-solo with erotic overtones as Kansas looks on.

Cook as George Peatty — bamboozled by his wandering wife.

His work in noir extended into the 1950s with roles in such films as “Don’t Bother to Knock”  (1952), playing Eddie Forbes, whose attempt to help his unemployed niece, Nell (Marilyn Monroe), brings about disastrous results, and George Peatty, a hapless cashier involved in a racetrack heist in Stanley Kubrick’s “The Killing.” Peatty’s loveless marriage ends up being his undoing and his fate is sealed in a tragic twist.

Other notable performances include that of Watson Pritchard in William Castle's horror film “House on Haunted Hill” (1959).

In the 1960s and 1970s he appeared in a wide range of television shows, including “The Twilight Zone,” “Perry Mason.,” “I Spy,” “The Man From U.N.C.L.E.” “The Wild Wild West” and “Gunsmoke.” He also played a recurring role on “Magnum, P.I.” in the 1980s.

His late career work includes such high profile films as “Rosemary's Baby” (1968), “Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid” (1973) and “The Outfit” (1973). 

Cook, never one to mix in Hollywood’s social circles, resided for many years in Bishop, Calif., and often summered at Lake Sabrina in the Sierra Nevada. He died of a stroke in 1995 at a nursing home in Big Pine, Calif. 

Here’s a list of some of Elisha Cook Jr. most memorable crime film performances and the characters he played:

“The Devil is Driving” (1932) Tony Stevens

Scion of a wealthy businessman is charged with drunken-driving and causing an accident that kills a woman and cripples her child. A low-budget cautionary tale.

“They Won’t Forget” (1937) Joe Turner

A small-time hood is suspected of murder. Political ambition and tensions between the North and the South lurk in the background This is one of Cook’s earliest crime film roles.

“Stranger on the Third Floor” (1940) Joe Briggs

An aspiring reporter is the key witness at the murder trial of a young man accused of cutting a café owner's throat and is soon accused of a similar crime himself.

“The Maltese Falcon” (1941) Wilmer Cook

San Francisco private detective Sam Spade takes on a case that involves him with three eccentric criminals, a gorgeous liar and their quest for a priceless statuette.

“I Wake Up Screaming” (1941) Harry Williams

Inspector Ed Cornell tries to railroad Frankie Christopher into a murder rap for the killing of model Vicky Lynn. 

Keeping the tempo, in "Phantom Lady" (1944).

“Phantom Lady” (1944) Cliff Milburn

A devoted secretary risks her life to try to find the elusive woman who may prove her boss didn't murder his selfish wife.

“Dillinger” (1944) Kirk Otto

John Dillinger begins his life of crime as a petty thief and meets his future gang in prison, eventually masterminding a series of daring robberies.

“Blonde Alibi” (1946) Sam Collins

Soon after a young woman breaks off her engagement to a doctor, the doctor is found murdered. Suspicion falls on his ex-fiancé and a pilot with a checkered past.

“The Falcon’s Alibi” (1946) Nick

A wealthy woman's secretary, fearing that she will be blamed if her employer's jewelry is stolen, hires the Falcon as guardian. The Falcon is blamed when the jewels are stolen and murders ensue.

“Two Smart People” (1946) Fly Feletti

A fugitive negotiates a five-year sentence for the theft of a half-million dollar worth of bonds while suspecting that a con-woman, a cop and a former crime-partner are after his hidden bonds.

“The Big Sleep” (1946) Harry Jones

Private detective Philip Marlowe is hired by a wealthy family. Before the complex case is over, he's seen murder, blackmail and what might be love.

“Fall Guy” (1947) Joe

Tom Cochrane (Leo Penn'), full of cocaine and covered with blood, is picked up by the police. Soon, he’s a prime suspect for murder.

“Born to Kill” (1947) Marty

Marty Waterman (Cook), a henchman of the murderous Sam Wilde (Lawrence Tierney), finds out the hard way that it’s risky doing business with a hot-tempered paranoid such as Sam.

“The Long Night” (1947) Frank Dunlap

Police surround the apartment of apparent murderer Joe Adams, who refuses to surrender although escape appears impossible. During the siege, Joe reflects on the circumstances that led him to this situation.

“The Gangster” (1947) Oval

Cynical gangster Shubunka (Barry Sullivan) controls the Neptune Beach waterfront. He runs a numbers racket with the local soda shop owner. The police are in his pocket and the local hoods are on his payroll.

“Flaxy Martin” (1949) Roper

Mob attorney Walter Colby is manipulated by showgirl Flaxy Martin into taking the rap for a murder committed by mobster Hap Richie's goons, but he escapes and is out for revenge.

“Don’t Bother to Knock” (1952) Eddie Forbes

A married couple staying at a swank hotel need a babysitter for their young daughter while they attend a function. Elevator operator Eddie Forbes recommends his niece, Nell (Marilyn Monroe), for the job — big mistake.

“I, the Jury” (1953) Bobo

Detective Mike Hammer is determined to catch and kill the person who killed his close friend, and the clues lead to a beautiful, seductive woman.

“Trial” (1955) Finn

A courtroom drama set in 1947 deals with post-World War II problems facing the United States such as stormy race relations and the growing threat of communism.

“The Killing” (1956) George Peatty

Career criminal Johnny Clay (Sterling Hayden) assembles a five-man team to plan and execute a daring racetrack robbery.

“Accused of Murder” (1956) Whitey Pollock

Nightclub singer Ilona Vance (Vera Ralston) is accused of murder and Lt. Roy Hargis (David Brian) attempts to prove her innocence.

“Chicago Confidential” (1957) Candymouth Duggan

In Chicago, a crime syndicate tries to take over a labor union by killing its whistle blower treasurer and framing the honest union boss for the murder.

“Plunder Road” (1957) Skeets Jonas 

Five men rob a train in Utah of 10 million dollars in gold and head to Los Angeles in three trucks hoping to meet up with their beautiful accomplice and leave the country.

“Baby Face Nelson” (1957) Homer van Meter

George "Babyface" Nelson (Mickey Rooney) became one of the most important gangsters of 1930s Chicago. To compete with Al Capone, he allies himself with John Dillinger.

“The Outfit” (1973) Carl

Earl Macklin (Robert Duvall) robs a bank owned by the mob, serves his prison time and is released, only to start a private war against the crime outfit that owned the bank.

“Hammett” (1982) Eli the Taxi Driver

A fictional account of real-life mystery writer Dashiell Hammett and his involvement in the investigation of a beautiful Chinese cabaret actress's mysterious disappearance in San Francisco.

How a Real-Life Prison Sentence Added Another Dimension to Mitchum's Performance as a Woozy Doctor on the Run in a Nightmarish Flight From Justice

Robert Mitchum, "Where Danger Lives" (1950).

By Paul Parcellin

This article contains spoilers

A lot of red flags should go up when Dr. Jeff Cameron (Robert Mitchum) meets Margo Lannington (Faith Domergue). But she’s a real dish and this is noir, so naturally he ignores the many warning signposts screaming at him that he’s about to drive over a cliff.

Margo is an emergency room case whom Jeff treats after a suicide attempt. There’s an instant attraction between the two and she persuades him to meet with her outside of the hospital. 

He ditches his steady girl, nurse Julie Dorn (Maureen O’Sullivan, wife of the film’s director John Farrow), for the more exciting, emotionally scarred rich one. As bad decisions go, this is a whopper and it’s all but impossible to stop watching the impending train wreck take shape. 

In the first part of the movie Jeff is smitten with Margo, and he at least still has his wits about him. A little later he’s smitten again — this time literally. He suffers a concussion and it doesn’t improve his judgment, but it explains why the level-headed physician would fail to see that his newfound love is an erratic maniac. 

She lives with her rich dad (Claude Rains) — that’s what she tells him, at least — and is financially dependent on the infirm old geezer. She and pop reside in a swell mansion and when Jeff stops by for a visit he’s surprised by the opulence but isn’t impressed with it. Money isn’t so important to him, and it’s evident that his infatuation with Margo is taking up a lot of real estate is his brain. 

But things start going sour. He gets into a scuffle, gets clocked on the head with a fireplace poker that puts him in a fitful stupor, his judgment deteriorating — clearly something he doesn’t need. Soon, he’s in the kind of trouble that only femmes fatale can get a fellow into and he and his new lady friend go on the run as fugitives from justice.

Mitchum, Faith Domergue, dazed and confused.

The nightmarish scenario in which he’s trapped is a classic noir trope. He’s the average guy who unexpectedly plunges into a hellish abyss. Mitchum brings his every-man persona to this doctor who’s torn between the straight life and the rush of staying one step ahead of the law. 

Maybe the same could be said about Mitchum, although living strictly on the straight and narrow didn’t much appeal to him. In 1948 he was busted for possession of marijuana, a pretty big deal back then, and he served prison time not so long before shooting this film. The ex-jailbird at first thought that his career was over. But his boss at RKO, Howard Hughes, stuck by him and ignored the voices wanting to cancel the controversial actor. It turns out the publicity actually enhanced his career and this role is but one example of why a pot bust turned into a plus for bad boy Mitchum.

Audiences in 1950 must have sensed that Mitchum brings an essential element of danger to a character who might have otherwise come across as too straitlaced. He did that before the pot bust, too, but by the time the film came out that image was fresh in the public’s mind. It’s not hard to believe that, given the opportunity, Jeff is the kind of guy who just might take up with a dangerous woman like Margo. Maybe his attraction to her is due in part to his doctorly instincts to heal the afflicted. But with his guard down he morphs into a moth drawn to the flame — and his distorted powers of reasoning aren’t helping him see the follies of his ways, either.

Once on the road together, both he and she suffer from bouts of paranoia. Every cop they see is out to get them; people everywhere have them pegged as fugitives from justice. They stumble upon police at the airport, get spooked and hot foot it back to the highway. When they come upon a roadblock they assume it’s a dragnet set to capture them, so they make a U-turn and barrel off in another direction.

Typical of their muddled way of thinking, they opt to dump her expensive auto to a cliche of a used car dealer, as if that would throw the police off their trail. The used car jockey wears a houndstooth sport jacket with mis-matched patterned shirt and tie that are fighting a bloody war against each other. He gets a twinkle in his eye, seeing that the two are desperate and will make easy pickings for a chiseler such as himself, and he promptly fleeces the two pigeons.

They move onward, but try as they might it becomes apparent that they’re playing a losing game. Despite his injuries, Jeff is still thinking clearly enough to realize that his condition is deteriorating, so their mission turns into a dash for the Mexican border in hope of making it before he expires. 

For her part in this fiasco, Margo plays it cool, but a few stunning revelations about her eventually come to light. Like most noir anti-heroes, Jeff comes to the hard, cold facts a bit too late to slow down his inevitable trudge toward the gates of hell. 

We’re left to ponder whether Jeff’s misadventures are due to fate simply paying him back for callously leaving his girl back home. As paybacks go, that one exacts a rather high price. Something like prison time for smoking a reefer.

 

The Big Caper: Burning Desire For a Life of Luxury Drives Career Criminal to Score a Cool Million Bucks

Roxanne Arlen, Paul Picerni, Corey Allen, "The Big Caper" (1957).

Heist films must always be centered around a carefully thought-out plan — and no matter how artfully arranged, the scheme will sooner or later go horribly wrong.

Lots of stuff can cause a heist to crash and burn: a flaw in the plan; unforeseen circumstances; somebody accidentally trips an alarm — you’ve probably seen them all. 

But the most interesting kind of heist failure occurs when gang members' weaknesses cause it to happen. One is a big mouth, another has a hot temper and yet another has an uncontrolled addiction, all of which causes friction that punches a hole in the entire operation. “The Asphalt Jungle” (1950) and “The Killing” (1956) are two high-water marks in the American heist sub-genre, and both are like case studies of each character’s flaws. “The Big Caper” (1957) is a kindred spirit, but not in the same league as the other two.

In "The Big Caper," career criminal Frank Harper (Rory Calhoun) will eventually confront the same fate that other hoodlums before him have met. Like many others, his desire for material comfort and freedom motivates him to go for the big score. He's every bit the cool character as he drives a shiny Chrysler during the opening credits. He yearns to be seated in the lap of luxury, or at least flush with cash now that he dropped his last couple of thousand bucks at the track. He drools over the swank Southern California home that racketeer Flood (James Gregory) is renting. Poolside at Flood’s lair, Frank is all business while secretly coveting the senior gangster’s upper middle class lifestyle, including his blond bombshell of a girlfriend, Kaye (Mary Costa), who’s in taking a dip.

 Frank wants Flood to pony up the cash he needs to do a big job. A former Marine who was stationed at Camp Pendleton, Frank knows that the Corps’ payroll is regularly kept in a small bank near the base. More than $1 million in cash can be had if they play their cards right. Flood is hesitant, but is eventually persuaded to finance the operation and provide his connections to crime specialists.

The plan is that Frank and Kaye will pretend to be husband and wife, buy a filling station and a home in the community and blend in with the local citizens. When the time is right Frank's crew will crack open the bank vault and make off with the dough. 

The scheme sounds foolproof, as do most heist movie plots, but the difficulty comes in the execution. For one thing, putting Frank and Flood’s girl together, posing as man and wife, is like playing with matches near a leaky gas pipe.

Within a few months Frank and Kaye have mingled their way into the community, making friends with other couples in their neighborhood. They’re even pals with the cop on the beat. But their manufactured image of suburban contentment is as staged and hollow as pictures in a Sears catalogue. 

Why the big charade is needed as part of the robbery scheme is never clear, but it puts Frank and Kaye together in a domestic setting and their lace curtain existence together begins to have an effect on both. Kaye is unhappy being Flood’s girl, and pretending to live in matrimonial bliss makes her crave the real thing. She tells Frank that she plans to split with Flood. 

“Hope I’m not around when you decide to break the news to him,” he growls. 

Rory Calhoun, Mary Costa: An Imitation of Domestic Bliss. 

She’s not the only one feeling the itch of desire. He struggles to keep his relationship with Kaye on a strictly business track, but it’s only a matter of time before the wall he puts up develops cracks. Frank can barely stand running the filling station and earning peanuts. It’s for squares, he says. When neighbors are around he’s all smiles, but can hardly wait to pull the caper and blow town.

Pulling the robbery requires rounding up the manpower get the job done; a heist movie staple. Roy (Corey Allen), Flood’s blonde, musclebound houseboy and henchman is odd and unpredictable. He appears to have a sadomasochistic relationship with his boss — Flood whips him for showing his muscles to Kaye (could this have anything to do with Flood’s blasé attitude toward her?). Roy’s hackles are raised when Doll (Roxanne Arlen), the cupie doll girlfriend of another mobster, shows up, breaking the crew’s guys-only policy. Soon enough, she burrows her way into the caper and becomes a threatening annoyance to Flood.  

Old man Dutch Paulmeyer (Florenz Ames), expert in the art of blowing open safes with nitro, joins the pack. Respected among his peers and near retirement, he speaks with an accent and is the consummate gentleman thief. 

His diametric opposite, Zimmer (Robert H. Harris), an arsonist and hard-core boozer, stumbles onto the scene. Sweating profusely, dressed in a panama hat, white linen suit and a loud, wide tie, it’s clear that he’s going to be trouble. He’s a pyromaniac who strikes wooden matches and stares dreamy eyed into the flame as though he’s getting an erotic rush from it. There’s dynamite and a timer in his suitcase and he’s got an unquenchable thirst for gin — what could go wrong?

Quite a lot, actually. Especially when Frank and Kaye learn that there’s a very big problem with Zimmer’s plans to set off a diversionary explosions as part of the robbery plan.

Frank is finally left on his own to struggle with his conscience, knowing that the crew’s big score will do irreparable damage to the community that he once ridiculed. The film seems to ask whether or not an antisocial cynic can transform himself into righteousness simply by going through the motions of living a clean life and accidentally finding love. It takes more than that, of course, but Frank Harper is a hard-core case who just might have a soft center.  

‘Hollering Hank,’ A Director of Noble Lineage, Turned Out Landmark Semi-Documentary Crime Dramas That Capture the Unease of Post-World War II America

Lucille Ball, Mark Stevens, "The Dark Corner" (1946). 

Director Henry Hathaway is probably best known for the westerns he made with legendary stars, including John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Randolph Scott, Richard Widmark and Henry Fonda, among others. But his semi-documentary, noir-tinged crime films of the 1940s-‘50s should have earned him a more prominent place among noir’s noted directors. 

In addition to westerns, his varied body of work includes adventure stories, war pictures and action films, and perhaps because of this he was often dismissed as a talented journeyman, not an “important” filmmaker. He worked at Paramount and then at 20th Century Fox and was seen as a company man rather than an innovative firebrand.

But his work continues to find receptive audiences and in recent times his reputation has been burnished. 

Film Noir Foundation founder Eddie Muller says that Hathaway is underrated as a director. 

“He gets lost in the shuffle because he’s not a myth-maker like (John) Ford or (Howard) Hawks,” Muller said. “He’s a craftsman and adapts to the material. He doesn’t have a signature style. In the ’50s, he became the poor man’s Anthony Mann.” 

Shell-shocked actors found that on-set tension rivaled the tribulations of the tormented characters they played

While his peers may not have have regarded him as a trail-blazer, Hathaway was infamous for his red hot temper. Nicknamed “Hollering Hank,” he was known for his despotic behavior on the set.

Lucille Ball said she hated shooting "The Dark Corner,” mostly due to Hathaway’s bullying, which caused her to stutter when trying to recite her dialog. Hathaway accused her of being drunk (more about this below).

Dennis Hopper said that Hathaway blackballed him in the industry after “The Sons of Katie Elder” — yet Hathaway later hired him for “True Grit.” Over dinner at Telluride, Hathaway’s elegant wife, Skip, asked mischievously, “You do know Henry’s a bastard, don’t you?” 

Still, some got along famously with him. Signe Hasso, who starred in “The House on 92nd Street,” adored him, just as she did another tough Hollywood pioneer, Cecil B. DeMille.

Despite his tendency to upset casts and crews, the irascible director was unapologetic about his on-set outbursts.

“You have to have discipline,” Hathaway asserted near the end of his life. “It's like a father with a big family. What do you do if a kid gets out of line? You've got to whip him or pretty soon all the kids are wild. Well, making a picture involves a mighty big family, and there's a lot of money involved, so I don't let things get very far out of line.”

Royalty In His Blood

There are probably a number of factors at the root of Hathaway’s testy, monarchal behavior, and chief among them could be his family lineage.

Henry Hathaway was born Henri Léopold de Fiennes, in Sacramento, Calif. His title of marquis was inherited from his paternal grandfather, a Belgian nobleman in service to King Leopold I of Belgium.

Hathaway's father, Rhoady, became a theatrical manager and married Hathaway’s mother, a Hungarian-born Belgian of aristocratic ancestry, born the Marquise Lillie de Fiennes, who acted under her maiden name Jean Hathaway. 

A Rising Star

With two parents in show business, it’s no wonder that Hathaway was drawn to the film industry early in life. He was hired as a child actor in 1908 by the American Film Co., where he became a protege of director Allan Dwan. When Dwan became the first recipient of the Los Angeles Film Critics Assn.’s Career Achievement Award, Hathaway recalled sitting on Dwan’s knee. 

Working his way up the ranks, he became an assistant director in 1919, most notably with Victor Fleming (another Dwan protege), Josef Von Sternberg, William K. Howard and Frank Lloyd. By 1932, he had become a full-fledged director of Westerns and by 1936 had directed “The Trail of the Lonesome Pine,” the first big-budget Western in three-strip Technicolor.

However, his crime films were shot in black and white, with one notable exception. Here’s a sampling of his work:

Tyrone Power, "Johnny Apollo" (1940).

“Johnny Apollo” (1940)

Bob Cain (Tyrone Power) falls for gangster moll 'Lucky' Dubarry" (Dorothy Lamour) and throws in with some rough characters all in the name of getting his Pop paroled from the big joint. But he finds that making a deal with the D.A. is tougher than he bargained for.

Bob, the son of a wealthy and respected judge, hits the skids when he is wrongfully convicted of a crime and sent to prison. Inside the prison, he becomes acquainted with charismatic and ruthless gangster Mickey Dwyer (Edward Arnold). Along the way, Bob adopts the alias Johnny Apollo and transforms from a law-abiding citizen to a criminal under Dwyer's influence.

One of the key themes explored in "Johnny Apollo" is the concept of morality and how one's circumstances can influence their choices. The film explores the idea that people are not simply good or bad, but a combination of both and are shaped by their environment and experiences. This is evident in Bob/Johnny’s evolution from an upright young man to a criminal mastermind when he’s influenced by the corrupting power of money and the allure of quick success.

Power's performance as Johnny Apollo shows us the internal conflict and moral dilemma that the character faces. Dwyer, the antagonist who represents the darker aspects of society, is like a magnetic field that pulls Johnny into his orbit. The film comments on the economic hardships faced by many Americans during the Great Depression, portraying the desperation and temptation that can lead individuals down a path of crime as they seek financial security and success.

In true noir fashion, cinematographer Arthur C. Miller uses shadow and light to define the contrasting worlds of Johnny's upper-class upbringing and the gritty, harsh reality of prison, while highlighting the moral ambiguities that define Johnny’s actions.

Hathaway's keen eye for composition and visual storytelling is evident throughout "Johnny Apollo." His use of framing and camera movement adds depth and layers to the narrative. We see the stark contrast between Johnny's life before and after prison, which is visually emphasized by the use of framing: the spacious, well-lit rooms of Johnny's home give way to the tight, dimly lit penitentiary cells. The stark shift in Johnny's circumstances define his character and help us better understand his circuitous route to redemption.

Leo G. Carroll, Signe Hasso, "The House on 92nd Street" (1945).

“The House on 92nd Street” (1945)

Nazi agents have set up housekeeping in Manhattan as World War II enters its final months and spies are after atomic bomb secrets. A double agent infiltrates the spy network to bust the covert ring wide open. Hathaway takes pains to give the film an authentic feel. Scenes are shot at locations where the real story took place. 

Actual FBI agents play small roles and real surveillance footage of the German embassy is included in the film, as is newsreel footage of FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover at his desk shuffling important looking documents. 

Hathaway conveys tension at nearly every turn. We watch in fear that the double agent, once inside the belly of the beast, will be discovered. Then there’s the matter of the atomic secrets that could land in Nazi hands. In hindsight we see what was at stake, but in the mid-1940s with the war still on, few realized the threat that was taking shape. The film’s script  had to be revised to stay abreast of historic events.  

While making the film, neither the actors nor Hathaway were aware of the atomic bomb’s existence

The movie was released on Sept. 10, 1945, just a month after the bomb was dropped on Japan, and barely a week after Japan's formal surrender. While making the film, neither the actors nor Hathaway were aware of the atomic bomb’s existence, and they didn’t know that the nuclear bomb would become part of the story. None of the actors’ dialog includes any mention the bomb. 

But co-director and producer Louis De Rochemont, who produced the "March of Time" newsreel films, and narrator Reed Hadley played a role in producing government films on the development of the atomic bomb. After the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, Hadley and screenwriter John Monks Jr. quickly wrote voiceover narration linking the fictional "Process 97,” the film’s McGuffin, to the atomic bomb, and Rochemont inserted it into the picture in time for the film's quick release.

Mark Stevens, Lucille Ball, "The Dark Corner" (1946).

“The Dark Corner” (1946)

In noir, aesthetes are usually single-minded monsters who have a higher regard for art and precious objects than they do for human life. They are of the monied class and their self-indulgent obsessions lead toward acts of moral depravity. Such is the case with art dealer Hardy Cathcart (Clifton Webb), who not only values beautiful objets d’arte but jealously watches over his straying trophy wife Mari (Cathy Downs). He sparks a chain of events that put private eye Bradford Galt (Mark Stevens) on the spot. 

Galt’s sweet and wholesome secretary Kathleen Stewart (Lucille Ball) falls head over heels for her boss, but it’s never clear why she’s smitten with the down-on-his-luck private dick. The icy barrier she puts up to keep him at a distance begins to thaw when she learns he was framed for manslaughter and did a two year stretch in the pen. No matter, the ravishingly photographed story moves along at a fast enough clip to make us skip over any momentary lapses in logic. 

Ball plays the working class gal that Shelly Winters mastered, although Winters would offer a more complex touch of larcenous vulnerability to her characters. Mark Stevens is in the kind of role that Dana Andrews would play — an upright man steadfastly pursuing the dark figures who are trying to pull his strings. 

A flop at the box office, the film deserved a better reception. Hathaway himself was critical of Lucille Ball and critical of the film. At the time, Ball was trying to break from MGM and had an "unsettled" personal life. 

Hathaway biographer Polly Platt wrote: "Early into the shoot, it was obvious to Hathaway that Ball was not concentrating on her job. After she flubbed her lines one time too many, Hathaway embarrassed her before her peers by ordering her to leave the set and actually read the script." However, some regarded the role as one of Ball's finer dramatic performances.

While Hathaway didn’t think highly of the film, New York Times film critic Thomas M. Pryor called “The Dark Corner” "tough-fibered, exciting entertainment.”

Brian Donlevy, Richard Widmark, Victor Mature,
"Kiss of Death" (1947).

“Kiss of Death” (1947)

Nick Bianco (Victor Mature) helps another couple of mugs rob a swanky jewelry store located high up in a New York skyscraper and is thwarted by slow elevator service. He lands in prison and his personal life comes apart.

A woman’s voiceover narration guides us into the story — is it the voice of Nick’s wife, we wonder? But Nick’s wife dies while he’s doing hard time, and it turns out the voice we hear is that of Nettie Cavallo (Coleen Gray), a woman who helped care for Nick and his wife’s two small daughters. We don’t know whether or not Nick will come out alive after the ordeal he’s about to face comes to pass, but it’s clear that there will be at least three people waiting for him to return safely. 

At heart, Nick is a family man who takes missteps because as an ex-con he can’t catch a break. When Nick finally chooses domestic bliss over the thug life, he must reject the criminal code of silence and become an informer. From that point on he’s in danger and so is his family.

Mature plays the hapless Nick with self assurance and simmering outrage over the way he’s been persecuted for his past crimes. He’s aware of his faults, but feels forced to take drastic measures to support his daughters.

Like other Hathaway films, “Kiss of Death” is shot at spots where a true story took place. In this case it’s the New York locations where prosecutor Eleazar Lipsky tried cases. Lipsky, under the pen name Lawrence Blaine, wrote the 100 page manuscript on which the film is based and 20th Century Fox purchased the story as a vehicle for Mature. 

While inspired in part by Lipsky’s prosecutorial experiences, the story is largely fictional. Still, Hathaway’s documentarian touches, such as use of actual locations and voiceover narration, the film feels less documentary-like than other Hathaway films. 

 

As delinquent psychopaths go, Tommy Udo is the unabashed supreme leader in his field

“Kiss of Death” is notable for being Richard Widmark's film debut. He plays arch criminal Tommy Udo, a role originally announced for Richard Conte. Hathaway was looking for someone to play the part when he was asked to test Widmark for the role. 

“Hathaway didn’t want me,” Widmark remembered, and apparently, it was because his forehead made him look “too intellectual.” 

But studio head Darryl Zanuck overrode Hathaway's preference for Conte and Widmark won the role. As first acting gigs go, this one was a Lulu, and as delinquent psychopaths go, Udo is the unabashed supreme leader in his field.

His most gruesome on-camera moment comes when Udo pushes a wheelchair-bound elderly woman down a flight of stairs to her death. Hathaway said the idea for the wheelchair scene came from co-screenwriter Ben Hecht. He wanted Udo to be a "hophead" because "they're so unpredictable. They'll shoot you or stab you, they'll do anything."

Patricia Morison played Nick's wife but her scenes were cut. The original script had her commit suicide by putting her head in a gas stove, and prior to that she is raped. Censors put the kibosh on both scenes. Morison’s name is listed in the credits but she doesn't appear in the final cut. 

James Stewart, "Call Northside 777" (1948).

“Call Northside 777” (1948)

Based on a real-life murder that led to a wrongful conviction in 1933, the movie stars James Stewart as a reporter who revives a cold case and tries to prove a man imprisoned on a murder conviction is innocent.  

“The assumption was that the city of Chicago bungled the prosecution because it was busy with the World’s Fair,” author, film historian and Film Noir Foundation board member Alan K. Rode said. “They blew this case. It was topical and perfect grist for (Fox chief Darryl F.) Zanuck.” 

“Call Northside 777” (1948) is a fictionalized account of the true story of Joseph Majczek, who was wrongly convicted of the murder of a Chicago policeman in 1932. 

In the film, crusading reporter P.J. McNeal (James Stewart) risks his life to prove Majczek's innocence — Majczek is renamed Frank Wiecek in the film and is played by Richard Conte. McNeal is at first reluctant to pursue the story because he believes that the convicted man probably is a cop killer. But his boss, Chicago Times city editor Brian Kelly (Lee J. Cobb), prods the skeptical McNeal to dig deeper into the case. 

After chasing down down witnesses and attempting to interview uncooperative police officials, McNeal becomes convinced that the wrong man was imprisoned, and so begins his crusade to undo the injustices suffered by an innocent victim.

As he did in “The House on 92nd Street,” Hathaway employs his trademark documentary-style in the opening scenes. With great attention to detail, he shot at or near sites where the true events took place. A side note: the film is credited with being among the first to include the use of a fax machine, cutting edge technology at the time, which plays an important role in the plot.

The real-life events that inspired the film began on Dec. 9, 1932, when Officer William Lundy was shot and killed during a robbery at a delicatessen in Chicago. Two men, Joseph Majczek and Ted Marcinkiewicz, were arrested and convicted of the murder. However, there was significant evidence that pointed to their innocence, including eyewitness testimony that placed them elsewhere at the time of the crime.

Majczek's mother, Tillie, was convinced of her son's innocence and spent years trying to clear his name. In 1944, she placed a classified ad in the Chicago Times offering a $5,000 reward for information about the real killers. The ad caught the attention of Times reporter J. Watson Webb Jr., who began investigating the case and soon uncovered evidence that Majczek and Marcinkiewicz were innocent.

Webb's investigation led to the reopening of the case and in 1946 Majczek and Marcinkiewicz were exonerated. The real-life P.J. McNeal was a major factor in their release, and he was even present in the courtroom when they were finally declared innocent.

“Call Northside 777” was a critical and commercial success and it helped raise awareness of wrongful convictions. The film also earned James Stewart an Academy Award nomination for Best Actor.

Marilyn Monroe, Jean Peters, Max Showalter, "Niagara" (1953).

“Niagara” (1955)

Honeymooners Ray and Polly Cutler (Jean Peters) (Max Showalter) run into the tormented Loomises, Rose (Marilyn Monroe) and George (Joseph Cotten), at Niagara Falls, and as tensions between the bickering couple escalate to the breaking point, the Falls begins to look like an all too inviting place to ditch a body.

The film, in brilliant Technicolor and set against a stunning backdrop, masterfully combines elements of suspense, sensuality and psychological tension.

The majestic scenery serves as more than a mere backdrop — it’s a character in its own right. Hathaway and cinematographer Joseph MacDonald capture the falls in all their grandeur, using wide shots to emphasize their overpowering beauty. However, Hathaway contrasts this natural splendor with a dark and sinister undercurrent that runs through the film, symbolized by the treacherous currents beneath the falls. 

Furthermore, Hathaway's direction of the actors in "Niagara" is exceptional. Marilyn Monroe, in one of her early leading roles, delivers a performance that encapsulates both her sensuality and vulnerability. Hathaway's direction brings out the complexity of her character, Rose, a seductive yet troubled woman, and allows Monroe to showcase her range as an actress. Similarly, Joseph Cotten's portrayal of her husband, George, is a testament to Hathaway's ability to elicit nuanced performances from his cast. George's descent into jealousy and paranoia is palpably depicted, creating a sense of psychological tension that pervades the film.

The pacing and suspenseful elements of "Niagara" are a reflection of Hathaway's directorial prowess. He maintains a sense of tension throughout the film, building suspense as George's delusions intensify, and his actions become increasingly unpredictable. Hathaway's meticulous control of the narrative allows the audience to feel the looming threat and the impending danger.

Hathaway's collaboration with the composer Sol Kaplan is also noteworthy. The film's musical score enhances the tension and emotion, complementing Hathaway's direction and the performances of the cast. The music becomes an integral part of the film's atmosphere, further immersing the audience in the story.

In its review of “Niagara, the Hollywood Reporter praised the director, saying “Hathaway draws splendid performances from his cast and maintains a taut, spicy tempo that grips the attention consistently.” 

For a director known for his irascibility, Hathaway gave Marilyn high praise: “She never had any confidence, never sure she was a good actress,” he said. “The tragedy was that she was never allowed to be. But she was the best natural actress I ever directed.” 

 

Riding an Express Train to Hell: In Noir and Thrillers, Passengers Embark on Dark Journeys Aboard Shadowy Railroad Cars Hurtling Toward Uncertain Destinations

Charles McGraw, Don Haggerty, Marie Windsor, Don Beddoe,
“The Narrow Margin” (1952).

This article contains spoilers

By Paul Parcellin

Rail travel is a throwback to the days of neckties, breast pocket handkerchiefs and fedoras, so naturally it pops up often in films noir. It’s safe to say that if you’re watching a black and white film with a handcuffed criminal being shuffled aboard a pullman car, you just might be watching noir.

Trains are not only the popular mode of transportation in noir, they’re often a stage where dramatic scenes play out. They’re a location where solo travelers can meld into the crowd or escape to a sealed overnight compartment. Night trains are often dimly lit, even shadowy. It’s the kind of environment where transgressive behavior can take place undetected. People hop a train to run away from danger or the law, or to find a missing person or purloined object. They’re an escape vehicle, a sanctuary and sometimes they’re the perfect setting to perpetrate a crime.

Theft, kidnapping and murder are all possible under the murky illumination inside a railroad car as it speeds through sparsely populated territories and cityscapes. Passengers, lost in reverie, are oblivious to disturbing events unfolding around them. 

Ditto for railroad stations, which are often packed with anonymous faces, many of whom are too distracted to pay close attention to their surroundings. Train stations are a transitional area for travelers, a place that passengers would prefer to leave as soon as possible. They’re fertile ground for pickpockets, petty thieves and conmen preying on distracted, weary travelers whose thoughts are fixed on where they’re bound for as they endure the tedium of getting there. They’re a place where cigar stand cashiers mutter inside info to cops and hoods alike, and fugitives grab a tabloid from the newsstand to find out what’s what.

Rail travel echos many of film noir’s tenets, including loneliness and isolation. Trains are inherently claustrophobic, with their narrow corridors, compartments, dining cars and baggage areas. In short, they’re perfect fodder for the movies. Try to imagine how hard it would be to stage a credible chase scene aboard a plane or a bus, but a train is tailor made for it. 

Trains are more than mere staging areas for action sequences. The sense of confinement one feels mirrors the moral and emotional entrapment characters are experiencing. The train becomes a microcosm of the noir world, where people are trapped in a place that mirrors their internal conflicts.

Film noir is notorious for its dimly lit streets and alleys that create an atmosphere of uncertainty and danger. Train travel often occurs at night, emphasizing the characters’ descent into darkness and their moral ambiguity. The rhythmic clatter of the train’s wheels amplifies the tension, intensifying the noir experience. In short, the confined interiors of train cars provide an ideal spot for things to happen, the kinds of things that happen in noir.


Here a handful of films noir, crime films and thrillers in which trains play a critical role:

Fred MacMurray, Barbara Stanwyck, “Double Indemnity” (1944).

“Double Indemnity” (1944)

A train can be part of a murder plot as well as a tool of deception. In “Double Indemnity,” insurance salesman Walter Neff (Fred MacMurray), cooks up a murder plot that includes train travel and a sophisticated maneuver that makes it look like an accident. He and Phyllis Dietrichson plan to bump off her husband to collect his accident insurance payout — she and Neff have recently begun an affair and they plan to go away together with the spoils of their deadly scheme. 

With some sleight of hand Neff gets the unsuspecting hubby to sign off on a fat policy with Phyllis as the beneficiary. The corker is that if Mr. Dietrichson dies aboard a train the payout is double the face amount of the policy — double indemnity. It takes a fair amount of maneuvering and creative planning to set the wheels of deception in motion, but they do it. 

Neff strangles the husband and, dressing like Mr. Dietrichson, boards the train pretending to be the unfortunate chap. At a given location, Neff will hop off the rear car and he and Phyllis will place the body at the spot where he jumped. People will think that Dietrichson accidentally fell off, putting Phyllis in line for a big payday. 

Aboard the train, Neff makes his way to the observation platform at the rear of the last car. He steps into the open compartment, the darkness serves as a metaphoric backdrop for the morally corrupt acts he’s carrying out. But lo’ and behold, he’s not alone. Another passenger, the chatty Mr. Jackson (Porter Hall), is enjoying the night air amid the clatter of steel wheels on tracks. Neff did not anticipate this and it could be disastrous for him and Phyllis since there’s only a brief window of opportunity for him to take the leap. Neff makes up an excuse to get Jackson to leave the observation car and go fetch cigars Neff claims he left in his compartment. 

It’s a close call, but he’s is able to jump off the train at the precise point where Phyllis waits in the family car with the still warm body of her husband. Director Billy Wilder is masterful in his creation of tense moments on film, and he doubles down on the pressure once the body is planted on the tracks. 

Neff and Phyllis are about to make a clean getaway — then the car won’t start. Such are the problems of a murderous pair who seek to defraud an insurance company and get rid of a husband who’s overstayed his usefulness. 

Farley Granger, Robert Walker, “Strangers on a Train” (1951).

“Strangers on a Train” (1951)

When you board a train you never know who you might sit across from. Clean-cut tennis pro Guy Haines (Farley Granger) has the misfortune of planting himself opposite unhinged gadabout Bruno Antony (Robert Walker). Bruno recognizes Guy from seeing his picture on the sports page, and knows far too much about the tennis player’s personal life. Guy is mildly annoyed, but soon the two of them are lunching in Bruno’s compartment, although clearly Guy would prefer to lose the eccentric busybody.

Bruno rambles on about some harebrained schemes he’s been thinking about and Guy humors him. But then Bruno’s conversation turns perversely dark. He’s dreamed up a way to commit the perfect murder: two people who each want someone dead would commit each other’s murders. Guy laughs off the suggestion, although he’s got a troublesome wife who won’t give him a divorce. Bruno has a father who understandably threatens to have him committed. 

Guy never gives the wacky scheme a second thought, but Bruno is deadly serious and he mistakenly thinks that Guy is on board with him. It’s a great setup for a thriller and in Alfred Hitchcock’s hands the film is a tantalizing melange of dark humor and tense moments. 

Here, train travel is the catalyst for a chance meeting that sets the story in motion and reminds us that random events can trigger unsavory actions. The journey brings about the entwined destinies of two very different characters. As we eavesdrop on their conversation we get an inkling of the deep moral complexities that Guy will soon face. 

Bruno’s scheme requires two people with no discernible connection between them who share a common interest. Unfortunately for Bruno, Guy has no intention of being anyone’s partner in crime, but he didn’t make that sufficiently clear to Bruno. Much to Guy’s horror, Bruno goes ahead with his side of the imagined bargain and kills Guy’s wife. Guy is, of course, a suspect. 

His alibi, that he was on a train at the time of the murder, won’t hold water. He spoke with a soused college professor who happened to be sitting across from him on the train, but the now sober educator cannot remember a thing from the night before. Guy is once again an anonymous person on a train, and this is one time that he wishes someone would have recognized him.

Charles McGraw, Jacqueline White, Peter Virgo, “The Narrow Margin” (1952). 

“The Narrow Margin” (1952)

L.A. Police Det. Walter Brown (Charles McGraw) must escort a key witness for the state, Mrs. Frankie Neall (Marie Windsor), from Chicago to Los Angeles. She’s the widow of crime boss Neall and has critical information the authorities want, but the mob is determined to stop her from talking. She narrowly escapes death when a gunman pays her a home visit, but instead Brown’s partner takes a fatal bullet.  

Brown is less than thrilled to be assigned to this dangerous mission, and the lady is annoyed about the long train journey ahead. Before long she and Brown get on each other’s nerves, but that’s the least of their worries — a group of thugs who are out to kill her have boarded the train. 

Most of the movie takes place in the compartments, corridors and dining car, and it’s the perfect claustrophobic setting for this drama of paranoia and frayed nerves. Brown is the one taking it the hardest. He feels responsible for his partner’s death and the guilt weighs heavily on him. 

He’s restless, has trouble sleeping and can’t eat, but Mrs. Neall remains calm and has to be reminded to hide herself from the marauding killers. 

Her one advantage is that the bad guys don’t know what she looks like. But they know Brown, and they lie in wait until the detective tips his hand and leads them to her. The train’s narrow corridors make it almost impossible prevent Brown from crossing paths with the hitmen as they glare at each other, waiting to see who makes the first move. 

When violence finally erupts the confined space makes for intense chases and dramatic struggles over firearms. A side note: Given the danger Brown and the lady face, it’s a wonder that he doesn’t wire ahead for reinforcements and simply get off the train. But then there wouldn’t be a movie.

William Holden, Nancy Olson, “Union Station” (1950). 

“Union Station” (1950)

Train travel is part of the “Union Station” plot, but the station itself is where the action takes place. Sharp eyed passenger Joyce Willecombe (Nancy Olson) spots a couple of shady characters on her trip to Chicago. Police Lt. Bill Calhoun (William Holden) tails the pair, who turn out to be gun-toting bad guys.

He watches as they stash a suitcase in a locker at the station. The suitcase is retrieved and Joyce identifies the contents as the belongings of Lorna Murchison (Allene Roberts), the blind daughter of wealthy Henry Murchison (Herbert Heyes ), who coincidentally happens to be Joyce’s boss. Lorna has been kidnapped but Mr. Murchison doesn’t want police interference which might endanger Lorna’s life. But he does agree to let Calhoun do some low-profile investigating. 

A ransom drop off at the station is arranged, and a small army of plain clothes detectives swarm the area. The upshot is a handful of petty criminals plying their trade in the crowded station get scooped up — a suitcase thief here, a con man there — business as usual at this Midwestern crossroads. The station itself — Los Angeles’s Union Station standing in for Union Station Chicago — is like a character in the story. Long corridors, waiting area and various crannies are useful to both cops and crooks who want to blend into the background. 

More intimidating is the tunnels beneath the station where the action eventually moves. There are small service cars for workers that run on tracks and are electrically powered, kind of a mini railroad beneath the railroad. 

That makes the tunnels all the more treacherous. One false step and you might land on a live power line. It’s an awful place, especially for a blind girl scared out of her wits.

Wesley Addy, “Time Table” (1956). 

"Time Table” (1956)

The distinguished Dr. Paul Brucker (Wesley Addy) responds to an urgent call for aid. A man aboard the train on which he’s traveling is having a medical emergency. The doctor examines the patient and concludes the stricken man suffers from polio. He directs the train crew to make an unscheduled stop so that the ailing man can be transferred to a hospital. 

An ambulance meets the doctor and patient at an otherwise deserted train depot and the afflicted individual is taken away. But that’s hardly the most unusual event occurring on the train this night. 

While the medical emergency is under way, unbeknownst to the crew a lone robber breaches the train’s locked baggage compartment where a large quantity of cash is secured in a safe. This has the trademark a well-trained band of robbers with lots of insider information and a knack for misdirection. 

Although the train seems as secure as an armored car, investigators later realize that the perfectly timed scheme was planned specifically for a train running on this route. What would otherwise be a daunting mission with many drawbacks — the confined space, the well guarded baggage car — are instead advantages that the robbers exploit. 

They’re able to direct attention away from themselves and prevent passengers from catching on to what they’re up to. The train crew is also in the dark — most of them, anyway. Instead of being trapped like lab rats, the thieves get away without a hitch, making this a tough case for insurance investigator Charlie Norman (Mark Stevens) to solve. But, as we might expect, the robbers’ seemingly bullet-proof scheme begins to unravel.

Here are more films that include scenes at Union Station in Los Angeles:

“The Ladykillers" (1955), "5 Against the House" (1955), “Mildred Pierce" (1945). The Driver" (1978), "The Bigamist" (1953), "Criss Cross" (1949), "Too Late for Tears" (1949), "Cry Danger" (1951).

These films feature scenes at Grand Central Station in New York:

“North By Northwest" (1959), "Seconds" (1966), "Midnight Run" (1988), "Spellbound" (1945), "The House on Carroll Street" (1988), "Carlito’s Way" (1993), "Grand Central Murder" (1942).