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

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

By Paul Parcellin

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

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

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

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

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 There are lines of dialogue that have aged badly and certain references that are wildly out of date.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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Walter Neff (Fred MacMurray) gets his drink on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

What does a Dancer, an Actor, a Magician and a Disenchanted Cop Have in Common? They All Meet in a “City that Never Sleeps”

Marie Windsor, Gig Young, Chill Wills, "City That Never Sleeps" (1953).

A cloud of failure hangs over a handful of Chicagoans whose dreary lives are about to become a lot more dramatic. In “City That Never Sleeps” a would-be ballerina, reduced to dancing in a burlesque house; an out of work actor, his face painted silver, poses as a mechanical man in the burlesque theater’s front window;  and an unemployed magician who uses his sleight of hand skills to pick pockets and commit robberies all figure into the story. 

Thwarted dreams and bitter resignations to less than ideal lifestyles drive the younger generation’s general sense of dissatisfaction. But it’s not just the frustrated show biz types who have a beef with the system. 

Wally Cassell, Mala Powers.

At the center of this tale of woe is Johnny Kelly (Gig Young), a young Chicago cop who’s having an affair with the burlesque dancer, Angel Face (Mala Powers), and plans to resign from the force the following day. The idea is to leave his wife, Kathy (Paula Raymond), and run off with the paramour. But his last graveyard shift turns out to be a doozie and Johnny begins to rethink every wrong footed step he’s set to take.

But before he has any revelations, the otherwise straight arrow law officer decides to get his hands dirty in order to finance his split from his wife and his job. He accepts an offer from a crooked lawyer, Penrod Biddel (Edward Arnold), to kidnap the equally crooked magician, Hayes Stewart (William Talman), and bring him over state lines where he’s a wanted man. Stewart has been getting in Biddel’s hair, and the shady attorney aims to put the pesky prestidigitator on ice.

In a marvelous scene that tells us almost all we need to know about the relationship between the two, Biddel plucks an invisible hair or some other morsel of debris from the sleeve of Stewart’s sport coat and dismissively blows it free from his fingers. Their interactions all go downhill from there.

Gig Young, Ron Hagerthy, William Talman,
"City That Never Sleeps."

The tension between Biddel and Stewart is just the tip of the iceberg. Johnny’s life becomes more complicated by the minute. If his extramarital affair and plans to vacate his wedding vows weren’t vexing enough, Johnny’s family members become entangled in the goings that unfold on this absurdly crazy night: his dad, Johnny Kelly Sr., (Otto Hulett), is also one of Chicago’s finest, and Johnny’s delinquency-curious kid brother, Stubby (Ron Hagerthy), is also on the scene. The senior Kelly’s presence plays a significant and tragic role in the film’s final scenes. 

Yes, there are a stunning number of coincidences in this story — way too many to be at all credible. On this evening, not only is Stubby out aiding and abetting the villainous Stewart, but John Kelly Sr. is also on the beat, patrolling the same mean streets of “Chi Town,” as his son.

Adding to the strangeness of this remarkable confluence of Kelly family members is Johnny Jr.’s patrol car partner on this nerve shattering evening, a sergeant who will only identify himself as Joe (Chill Wills). His voice sounds remarkably like the one that narrates the film’s opening scenes, which is meant to be the voice of Chicago — a rather strange device if there ever was one. 

As they drive together, Joe gives Johnny sound advice about life and codes of conduct, none of which the younger patrolman is in the mood to hear. Might he have listened more closely if he realized it was the city itself offering sage advice? Probably not.

Marie Windsor

A network of love triangles help this heated pot of soup boil over: Biddel learns that Stewart is having an affair with his wife, Lydia (Marie Windsor); robotic man Gregg Warren (Wally Cassell) is smitten with Angel Face, who is in love with Johnny; meanwhile, dancer Agnes DuBois (Bunny Kacher) is sweet on Gregg, but he hardly knows she’s alive.

We learn that the source of Johnny’s turmoil is two-fold: he became a police officer to please his father and he dislikes the job; he wants more money, not because he’s particularly materialistic, but because his wife earns more than he does and that hurts his pride. Successful women in the workplace were a threat to 1950s American men, it seems, and Johnny’s ego is wounded deeply enough to make him want to pull up stakes and head for the hills.

Meanwhile, over the course of his last shift, Johnny delivers a baby and busts up a rigged craps game, returning money to the swindled gamblers. He realizes, with the help of Joe’s words of wisdom, that he’s playing a useful role in the community and that it’s essential that he salvage his marriage before it’s too late.

That’s not the harbinger of doom that many would demand of noir. Some will say it’s not noir, but so what? As Sara Smith suggested in her thought provoking book, “In Lonely Places: Film Noir Beyond the City,” noir can be evaluated by the noir elements it contains, much like the way alcohol is rated by proof. Not all noirs contain all of the elements associated with the genre, and some are more noir than others. Noir or not, call “City that Never Sleeps” what you want; it’s an entertaining crime story.

Now, it’s time to talk about two silly little points from this movie that jump out at me.

First, it’s New York, not Chicago that’s known as the “city that never sleeps,” but I suppose “The Windy City” isn’t a very noir title.  

Secondly, toward the end of the film someone gets shot in a very public space, a hotel room. We’ve all seen this in films and TV shows, old and new. The shooter never seems to expect that anyone will hear the very loud gunfire and call the cops, and in the movies and TV they usually don’t. In “City that Never Sleeps” a shooter reasons that people will probably think it’s just a car backfiring (right, that’s always my first thought). 

I’m not a firearms expert, but I suspect that discharging a weapon inside a public building would attract attention — a whole lot of attention — like firing a cannon or riding a horse through the lobby.

It’s just another one of those “only in the movies” moments that just seems to wash over us without making a dent in the conscious mind. Sure, it’s strange, but I’m willing to give the shooter a pass on this one.

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

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

By Paul Parcellin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arthur Fellig, A.K.A. Weegee

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

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

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

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

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

Ted de Corsia as Garzah
on the Williamsburg Bridge.

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

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

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

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

Noir Must Be Shot in Black and White, Right? Guess Again

Marilyn Monroe, "Niagara" (1953).

Raw Emotions Sizzle When Noir is in Color

By Paul Parcellin

I can already hear the howls of protest over the idea that film noir can be in color, so those who insist that color is verboten in noir will probably want to sit this one out.

We all know that noir is usually shot on black and white film, but the luscious hues of those shot in color at times add a new layer of depth to the stories they tell. In noir, color can be a cruel, ironic counterpoint to dark deeds taking place in lavishly photographed settings. After all, what could decimate the postcard-ready beauty of a landscape bursting with leafy greenery than a corpse splayed out amongst the flora?

Conversely, color makes cities appear less shadowy than those in black and white films while lending an urban landscape a brash, unidealized look. If color makes the countryside look luxuriously bountiful, it can make cities appear raw and unforgiving and desert landscapes more forbidding. 

With that in minds, here are some films bursting with color that show us the bleakest of noir worlds: 

Lizabeth Scott, "Desert Fury."

“Desert Fury” (1947)

Broad barren landscapes dotted with cacti, wild flowers and other flora are apt settings for this lush Technicolor noir soap opera that captures the sun-baked beauty of a small Nevada town. 

Film scholar Foster Hirsch notes that “Desert Fury” is shot in the lurid, over-saturated colors that would come to define the 1950s melodramas of Douglas Sirk. As in Sirk’s films, ravishing color sets the stage for emotional conflicts that crackle like heat lightning. 

When gangster Eddie Bendix (John Hodiak) and his henchman Johnny Ryan (Wendell Corey) arrive in town, Fritzi Haller (Mary Astor), owner of the Purple Sage casino, is less than enchanted to see them. She’d been involved with Bendix until he was forced to leave town under a cloud of suspicion over his wife’s death. 

To further complicate matters, Fritzi’s daughter, Paula (Lizabeth Scott), has quit yet another college and returned home to work in the family business. She and Hodiak become an item, with both parties mostly wanting to spite Fritzi.  

This emotional potboiler comes to a head at the site of Bendix’s wife’s death, a bridge on the road to town, an appropriate location to finally put a lid on this tangled affair.

Robert Ryan, "Inferno."

“Inferno” (1953)

Color is used to its best advantage in “Inferno” to show cruel contrasts in starkly different environments, one is the tortuous Mojave Desert landscape, and the other the plush surroundings of an upper crust resort hotel. 

Wealthy businessman Donald Whitley Carson III (Robert Ryan) is stranded in the desert. His leg is broken and his wife, Geraldine (Rhonda Fleming) and businessman Joseph Duncan (William Lundigan) have abandoned him there after a riding accident. 

The two are having a secret affair and Carson’s accident offers them an opportunity to get rid of him and pocket his vast fortune. But neither counted on the stranded tycoon’s resourcefulness. Driven by furious anger, Carson resolves to survive and make the two answer for their crime.

The desert canyon walls are a symphony of stunningly beautiful red rock. We can almost feel the heat radiating from the stoney landscape that threatens to swallow him whole.

The film cuts between the struggling Carson, parched, haggard and covered in brown dust and sweat, and the couple who abandoned him there, who are relaxing poolside, bathed in shades of turquoise and dappled with sunlight. 

Similar cuts reinforce the brutality of the injured man’s plight. As he forages for food, the film cuts to Geraldine enjoying a sumptuous meal at the resort’s dining room. 

Color helps make Carson’s desert prison seem more hellish than it would in black in white. In contrast, the luxurious resort takes on the look of a place where only the very wicked can relax and drink in its pleasures after leaving a man to die of starvation under a blazing sun.

Joseph Cotten, Marilyn Monroe, "Niagara."

“Niagara” (1953)

Niagara Falls never looked more postcard perfect than it does in director Henry Hathaway’s vision of the storied honeymoon retreat. Saturated color abounds in this pristine resort town lacking in any visible scuff marks or blemishes. 

It’s a storybook land carved out of nature, on the surface at least. The only exception is the nasty looking scar on the forehead of George Loomis (Joseph Cotten) after an assailant tries to send him into the churning waters of the falls.

The story is about an unhappy couple staying at a cabin retreat near the famous tourist attraction. Emotionally troubled George and his sexpot wife Rose (Marilyn Monroe) are a most unlikely couple. He’s dour and cranky and she’s bubbling with erotic energy and ever ready to party, even with a band of younger folks staying in the next cabin.

Unsurprisingly, Rose has a man on the side and the pair are scheming to send George over the falls.

Shot in Technicolor, the film’s palette of saturated hues really pops, especially in Rose’s scenes, with her sexy fuchsia dress and luscious red lips. It’s a bit comical that she awakens in the morning in full makeup, her lipstick glistening like a candy apple. Soon, it’s apparent that the perfect makeup and faux sweet demeanor are a false front meant to deflect attention from her marriage on the rocks and the deadly plot she has set in motion.

In “Niagara,” color is used to set the dramatic tone of each scene and to help define the characters. Strategically placed swatches of red punctuate the scenic design that tends to favor deep charcoal blues and forest green backdrops.

 Heightened color is at its peak during action sequences, when chiaroscuro lighting casts deep, dark shadows and saturated colors give the frame a stark, comic book-like appearance.

Rose’s electrifying wardrobe contrasts with George’s gray and oatmeal hued clothing. It’s certain that he’s no match for this ball of fire, and before long someone’s going to get burned.

Robert Ryan, "House of Bamboo."

“House of Bamboo” (1955)

The slightly washed out color in “House of Bamboo” fits well with it’s documentary-like framework, as director Samuel Fuller presents us with a crime story set in post-war Japan that is bleak and rife with gangsters. 

We see a nation struggling to get on its feet after a crushing defeat some 10 years before. The pale, snow-covered landscape under a sunless sky in the opening sequence informs us that this will be an unsentimental portrait of Tokyo and its denizens.

A military supply train is robbed and an American soldier guarding the cargo is killed, setting the stage for the widespread investigation that is to follow. 

Eddie Spanier (Robert Stack), recently released from an American prison, shows up in Tokyo and finds his way into an American gang operating there. Gang leader Sandy Dawson (Robert Ryan), like others of his ilk, is a foreigner exploiting a country decimated by war.

The film’s scenic design hints at the dramatic tensions taking place in the story. A palette of restrained shades, including pale grays, deep earth tones and beige, often fill the widescreen frame. But in a heist scene, touches of scarlet are incorporated into the set and they reflect the violent action that develops.

Likewise, the interior of Dawson’s home is decorated with the same pale tones that contrast with deep red accents that echo the blood that has been spilled during the gang’s exploits. For Dawson, that’s a color scheme that could hardly be more appropriate.  

This article was originally published in the May/June 2024 issue of The Dark Pages. Check out The Dark Pages newsletter at: www.allthatnoir.com/newsletter/

 

 

Feverish Dreams, Persecution Fantasies, Tormented Anti-Heroes: There’s Something About Cornell Woolrich’s Stories that Pulls Us in Like a Magnet — You’d Think it Would Do Just the Opposite

Kevin McCarthy, Gage Clarke, "Nightmare" (1956).

He Murders as He Sleeps!

Contains spoilers

By Paul Parcellin

When it comes to crafting stories of dread and entrapment, Cornell Woolrich stands out among his peers. His darkest work seethes with feverish, paranoid fantasies. Wrongly accused men, caged on death row or free and living under a stifling cloud of suspicion, are driven to prove their innocence. Visions of the noose, electric chair or gas chamber press on them. As clocks run down, hope of salvation evaporates like dew in afternoon sunlight. 

Cornell Woolrich

Of Woolrich’s distinctive writing style, Film Comment remarked, “Despite all the purple prose, tired rewrites, and preposterous plots that crop up in his fiction, perhaps no other writer handles suspense better, or gives it the same degree of obsessional intensity.” 

His novels and short stories were adapted into nearly 30 feature films, including Alfred Hitchcock’s “Rear Window” (1954), based on the 1947 Woolrich story “It Had to Be Murder,” and François Truffaut’s “The Bride Wore Black” (1968), based on the 1940 novel of the same title, credited to William Irish (a pseudonym of Woolrich). 

In Woolrich’s universe, the accused may or may not be guilty — at times, they themselves are unsure. Their minds may be clouded by narcotics and alcohol, their memories distorted by hypnotic suggestion. Tortured by thoughts of heinous acts they may have committed, protagonists find dark relief from their torments in theC prospect of a quick demise, be it by execution or suicide.

The suffocating claustrophobia of “Nightmare,” a novel by Woolrich as William Irish, is one such story. Adapted at least twice for the screen, “Fear in the Night” (1947) and “Nightmare” (1956), both directed by Maxwell Shane. The two films offer a Kafkaesque marriage of horror and the absurd. Improbable, fraught with coincidences and at times just plain weird, Woolrich’s tall tales resemble the disjointed reality of nightmares. Yet the stifling predicaments and persecution fantasies of Woolrich’s characters are as captivating as they are unsettling.

DeForest Kelley, "Fear in the Night" (1946).

“Fear in the Night” tells the story of bank teller Vince Grayson (DeForest Kelley), who 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.

In “Nightmare,” 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.

A strange looking door key, a button from a jacket or shirt and blood stains on Grayson’s clothes and person are the tantalizing clues he discovers after a night’s slumber. At first he believes that the button, key and blood materialized out of his dream. But in the light of day, the physical evidence that links him to a real murder is undeniable.  

 As the story dips into the irrational, we feel the protagonist’s growing terror as he begins to sense he’s losing his grip on sanity. In this strange and unpredictable world in which he finds himself, he and Bressard discover that the true perpetrator behind the crime, not fate, has set a perfect trap for him.

McCarthy, Edward G. Robinson, "Nightmare."

The opening sequences in both films are mirky and dream-like. Two men fight in a mirrored rooms. A mysterious woman supplies one of them with a sharp instrument and he kills the other and hides his body in a closet. Tracking down the facts is difficult since he can’t recall where the killing took place or how he got there. 

As pieces to the puzzle begin to come together we learn that hypnosis was the motivating force behind the crime. How the fall guy lands in so much trouble is more complex and difficult to swallow. Let’s just say that conspiracy plus coincidences play important roles in the story. 

Woolrich’s plots often stretch credulity to the breaking point, and another filmic adaptation of his story, “Phantom Lady” (1944), comes to mind — any number of others would be apt examples of Woolrich’s offbeat story plots, as well. Similar to “Nightmare” and “Fear in the Night” for its strange and uncanny events, the “Phantom Lady” storyline has an eerie similarity to the subconscious nocturnal wanderings of an unquiet mind. The plot involves a man falsely convicted of murder, and his loyal secretary’s obsessive search to find the woman who can back up the alleged killer’s alibi — a recurring theme in Woolrich’s work. 

Fay Helm, Alan Curtis, "Phantom Lady" (1944).

In the story, two women wear the same fashion accessory — identical chapeaus, a fashion faux pas that improbably helps set the story in motion. Murder and gaslighting follow, and the film boasts one of noir's wildest jam sessions, with hep-cat Elisha Cook Jr. performing an explosive drum solo with erotic overtones.

For the most part, Woolrich’s characters are realistic, ordinary folks, even if the stories that bring them to life display a reckless disregard for plausibility. While the stories may be fantastical, they seldom delve into abstract symbolism — well, not much, anyway. The mirrored room, for instance, is pretty trippy. Instead, we get a mostly straightforward, linear narrative whose weird coincidences might be more disturbing if the story wasn’t so entertaining.

You could say that Woolrich’s flights of fancy show a gutsy handling of the medium by a master at the top of his game. But it’s also notable that his literary output was fairly enormous. He was a writing machine who cranked out numerous novels, short stories and other texts. So, perhaps some of the stranger coincidences, creaky plot turns and major implausibilities were the byproduct of a writer working at a furious pace and hounded by deadlines. Sometimes, ready or not, you just have to get the thing out to the editor. 

Some might say that his work is flawed. But more rational, buttoned-down plots surely wouldn’t be as fun and entertaining as these. His work is pulp fiction that invites us to suspend disbelief as we climb aboard an uncoupled train car speeding downhill toward a perilous turn at the edge of a cliff.

Woolrich wrote about outsiders grappling with insurmountable problems and impossible odds, and likewise his solitary life was marked by tragedy and hardship. After his mother's passing in his mid-50s, he struggled with diabetes and alcoholism. His health continued to decline, and he eventually lost a leg to gangrene. His life was cut short when he died of a stroke at the age of 64 in 1968.

As for “Fear in the Night” and “Nightmare,” both made by budget-conscious Pine-Thomas Productions, Paramount’s B-picture division, DeForest Kelley’s restrained performance in “Fear in the Night” is stronger than that of Kevin McCarthy, who is more on the histrionically cranky side in “Nightmare.” Edward G. Robinson turns in a reliably solid performance in the latter, however, and both films are well worth your viewing time.

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

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

By Paul Parcellin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“M” (1931)

A cornered killer.

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

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

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

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

“The Man Who Knew Too Much” (1934)

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

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

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

“Secret Agent” (1936)

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

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

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

“Stranger on the Third Floor” (1940)

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

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

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

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

“I Was an Adventuress” (1940)

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

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

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

“The Face Behind the Mask” (1941)

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

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

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

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

“The Maltese Falcon” (1941)

Sydney Greenstreet, Lorre.

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

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

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

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

“The Mask of Dimitrios” (1944)

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

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

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

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

“The Chase” (1946)

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

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

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

“Black Angel” (1946)

Lorre, Dan Duryea.

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

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

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

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

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

“Three Strangers” (1946)

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

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

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

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

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

“The Verdict” (1946)

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

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

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

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

Burt Lancaster, Lorre amid a field of diamonds.

“Rope of Sand” (1949)

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

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

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

“Quicksand” (1950)

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

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

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

“Congo Crossing” (1956)

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

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

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

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

Scrapped: The Original Opening Sequence of “Sunset Boulevard” was Even Stranger than the Final Cut, and Audiences had a Peculiar Reaction to It

Erich von Stroheim, William Holden, Gloria Swanson,
"Sunset Boulevard" (1950).

Test Audiences Were Stunned, Amused and Confused

Joe Gillis (Holden), a life cut short.

By Paul Parcellin 

At the start of "Sunset Boulevard," hapless screenwriter Joe Gillis (William Holden) floats face-down in a swimming pool with several bullet holes punched into his torso. He’d been the long-term houseguest of deranged former silent screen siren Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson) until, in a fit of grief and jealous rage, she used him for target practice.

She’d hired Gillis to polish a hopelessly disorganized screenplay written by and for the delusional Norma as a vehicle to reignite her long-dormant career. Of course, things didn’t work out that way. By the film’s end, we learn that Norma’s return to the klieg lights is on permanent hold and she’s about to be hauled off to a sanitarium. Meanwhile, cops are fishing Gillis out of the pool with pruning hooks. So much for Hollywood endings.

For those who’ve never seen the film, that’s hardly giving too much away. Almost everyone has at least heard of the gruesome setup that puts the story in motion. As the film opens, we see the police and a caravan of news reporters speeding down Los Angeles’s Sunset Boulevard toward the scene of the crime as daybreak washes over the City of Angels. Angelenos will immediately sense that this story is fictional – Sunset is all but traffic-free. Even in the early morning hours in 1950, that’s pure poppycock.

Norma Desmond (Swanson)
in a hysterical rage.

But the opening sequence that appears in the final cut wasn’t the first one that director Billy Wilder had in mind. Preview audiences viewed a quite different and even more bizarre opening, and their reaction was not the one Wilder anticipated. 

The sequence in question was quickly re-edited into the version we’re all familiar with. All that remains of the original are a few short clips without sound and some still photos. Consequently, few have ever seen the completed original opening and it appears that no one is sure if copies of the entire sequence still exist.

However, surviving script pages outline the remarkably strange introduction that ended up in the dust bin. It opens with shots of the coroner’s wagon speeding along the streets, delivering the earthly remains of Joe Gillis to the city morgue. 

The body is taken into the sterile facility, toe-tagged, and wheeled into a room temporarily housing other recently deceased unfortunates. But ethereal music fills the air and a strange glow emanates from beneath a bed sheet covering the cold, still dripping wet Gillis. Suddenly, he reanimates, as do his new roommates, who begin to chit-chat among themselves. 

Each has a tale of woe about the circumstances leading up to their demise – a truck crash here, an accidental drowning there. Gillis is a bit of a curiosity to the others due to his Hollywood connections and because he was murdered. So, he begins telling his story, and thus, narrating the rest of the movie from beyond the grave, or in this case, the slab.

Preview audiences in Evanston, Illinois, and Poughkeepsie and Great Neck, N.Y., laughed at the morgue sequence and were unsure whether the film was a comedy or drama.

Enroute to the city morgue.

After the opening credits, when the story moved down Sunset Boulevard and into the L.A. County Morgue, spectators were stunned. Years later Wilder recalled, “When the morgue label was tied on Mr. Holden’s toe, they started to scream with laughter. I walked out of the preview, very depressed.”

The revised cut shows the arrival of police and reporters. Next, we’re assaulted by a complex and eerie view of the corpse that appears to be filmed from the bottom of the pool. From our vantage point, we look up at Gillis and see his lifeless face. The cops are poolside, looking down at the dead man and they seem to be looking down at us, too, as we gaze upward from the depths of Gillis’s watery grave.

Getting that one shot took a good deal of work and planning. First, since there was no swimming pool at the location, Paramount had to dig one. After much experimentation, art director John Meehan set up the shot. At the bottom of a portable process tank, he placed an eight-by-six-foot dance rehearsal mirror.

 After sinking the tank to the bottom of the pool, he placed a muslin canopy behind the police and news photographers, which, shot in black and white, would mimic the dawn sky. With those elements in place, cinematographer John F. Seitz could light the scene effectively in a short time. The camera was set up alongside the pool and Seitz pointed it down at the mirror on the bottom of the tank and filmed Holden’s bobbing reflection. 

According to Meehan, the shot “turned out to be a simple, inexpensive way to get through-water or underwater shots” by removing the need to use expensive underwater equipment. Meehan noted that the water had to be well filtered for clarity and kept at a low temperature of about 40 degrees because at higher temperatures the natural gases that build up in water would cut down on light transmission.

It’s unclear, however, how long Holden, face down in the frigid water, had to keep his eyes open and how he managed to stave off hypothermia.

A grim end for Gillis.

Despite the efforts to smooth over the original segment’s jagged edges and tone down its comedic content, the revised opening still caused a stir. In Hollywood, Paramount arranged a private screening for the various studio heads and specially invited guests. 

While many were appreciative of the film, MGM studio boss Louis B. Mayer was incensed by the cheeky sendup of Tinsel Town. He allegedly shouted at Wilder, “You bastard! You have disgraced the industry that made and fed you.” The outraged movie mogul tried to buy the film so that he could bury it. Fortunately, he failed to do so.

Critical response was positive and box office receipts were good, making “Sunset Boulevard” an undisputed hit. But Gillis’s snappy, matter-of-fact voice-over narration, a sardonic mix of blunt fact, barely restrained venom, and self-deprecation didn’t sit well with all reviewers. 

Thomas M. Pryor wrote for The New York Times that the plot device of using the dead Joe Gillis as narrator was “completely unworthy of Brackett and Wilder, but happily it does not interfere with the success of ‘Sunset Boulevard’.” Taking a more hostile tone, The New Yorker described the film as “a pretentious slice of Roquefort,” containing only “the germ of a good idea.”

According to Sam Staggs in his book Close-Up on Sunset Boulevard, no audience has seen the morgue sequence since 1949, although Wilder did save the footage.

When Sherry Lansing, head of Paramount, approached Wilder about including the deleted sequence as an addendum to the DVD version of “Sunset Boulevard,” he refused. Although Wilder sometimes claimed to hold the missing sequence, he told director Cameron Crowe, “I don’t know who has it now.”

This article was originally published in the Dec. 2023 issue of The Dark Pages. Check out The Dark Pages newsletter at: www.allthatnoir.com/newsletter/