Between Midnight and Dawn (1950)

Directed by Gordon Douglas; produced by Hunt Stromberg

Dan Purvis (Edmond O’Brien) and Rocky Barnes (Mark Stevens) are two big-city policemen, who spend much of their time patrolling the night in their unmarked car. Theirs is the routine life of the beat cop, arresting burglars, breaking up fights and dealing with frightened, angry citizens. But events are leading to a point, both personally, in that the partners are in friendly rivalry for a pretty girl (Gale Storm), and professionally, as they keep running up against a local gangster (Donald Buka).

For the first half of the film, Between Midnight and Dawn is rather different than most crime-dramas of the period. Almost light-hearted at times, it is a precursor of many cop-buddy movies, and of not a few tv series, in particular Adam-12. (Incidentally, one of the catch-phrases from that series was “see the man…”, spoken by dispatchers sending the police to a complainant. It’s interesting to hear it used twenty years earlier in a setting that is likely meant to represent the same city.)

Barnes and Purvis are pals, comrades from the war in the Pacific, and get along, despite their contrasting characters. Purvis is a veteran (he must have been in the police force before the war), a mild cynic; Barnes is not a rookie (it’s implied that he’s been on the force for two years) but certainly without Purvis’s experience. Their banter is easy-going and sounds genuine. The story is episodic for the initial half. If the movie changes at one point to a more conventional cops-and-mobsters movie, it isn’t ruined by the shift, and if it becomes less enjoyable, it doesn’t become less entertaining.

The script is a good one. There is no memorable dialogue but, as aforementioned, it is realistic, and conveys the camaraderie the partners have. Even their shared affection for the girl doesn’t lead to any stress or ill-feelings, as might have happened in a more predictable movie.

Police procedure is well-woven into the story, and, with the exception of including civilians a little too much in the more dangerous parts of a cop’s job, gives the impression of knowing its subject. Detectives for once are relegated to subsidiary roles, and the duties of the uniformed branch of law enforcement come to the fore.

The direction is also commendable. Advantage is taken of the night. Darkness as such is not used for suspense - the characters are too used to working in it - but it does provide atmosphere. Between Midnight and Dawn gives one of the earliest uses of ‘squibs’ that I’ve seen to simulate bullets hitting a body, which must have been startling to contemporary audiences, and which is effective even now.

The actors are at home in their roles, and well-cast. O’Brien and Stevens were only a year apart in age, and had similarly hefty resumés by this time, yet the former’s less fit look and hardened attitude successfully make him appear older and more experienced, while Stevens’s fresh-faced appearance gives him youth. Secondary characters are adequately played, with Buka loading his with a menace and irresponsibility that easily suggests a criminal who’s had it too easy so far.

Despite a shift about its mid-point, Between Midnight and Dawn is an above-average - and even innovative - entry in the crime genre.

House by the River (1950)

Directed by Fritz Lang; produced by Howard Welsch

Stephen Byrne (Louis Hayward), a writer living with his wife in a small town in Victorian-era America, conceives a playful passion for their new maid (Dorothy Patrick). Fortified by wine one night, Byrne makes advances to the maid; she resists and, as he struggles to restrain her, she is killed. Terrified, Byrne begs his brother, John (Lee Bowman) for help. Reluctantly, John agrees, having always assisted his sibling in trouble. But the deed comes back to haunt John, as evidence of murder accumulates against him, and not Stephen.

With a rather intriguing premise, House by the River’s best feature is its story. It alternates between the (more or less) innocent John, being slowly squeezed in a vice of suspicion, and Stephen, who sees his salvation in the increasing pressure on his brother. However, the story is drowned by lesser qualities.

Though directed by Fritz Lang, and possessing a number of good scenes and images, the direction is not particularly noteworthy. The script does not do justice to the story. The tale originated in a novel by A. P. Herbert, which may have been better than the screenplay by Mel Dinelli: Dinelli’s other movie work was uneven, the higher end represented by The Window and The Spiral Staircase.

In House by the River, however, a number of elements are introduced, each of which could have led to something, or added to the movie. Instead, they prompt the viewer on, only to abandon him. For instance, when the maid’s body is hidden in the river, a fish jumps from the water and startles Stephen. On a couple of other occasions, a bright or silvery object, subconsciously reminding him of the fish, brings him back to his crime. But this feature is insignificant in the story.

And again, the detective (Will Wright) in the case seems, despite his casual acceptance of Stephen’s story, to guess the guilty party’s identity, knowledge shared by the district attorney (Howland Chamberlain). Yet the suspicions of this canny pair don’t play a part in the story’s resolution. That resolution, as embodied in the climax, is almost indefinite, and, frankly, unsatisfactory; another disappointment.

The acting is adequate. Bowman and Wyatt come off best. Hayward has a vague accent (he was born in South Africa) which gives Stephen a European sound; that, in turn, makes one wonder how he could have been raised with John, or if he was. There is no reference to it. Hayward has the annoying habit of looking a little bemused at a question or comment, then eyeing the speaker coyly and grinning mischievously, like a boy who has discovered a means of escaping a dread punishment. That, I expect, was the precise intent of the direction, but when it happens not just several times in the movie, but several times in a conversation, and in several conversations, it becomes tiresome. The viewer may wonder why that isn’t seen as a sign of deception by other characters, like a nose growing in length.

And finally, there is a lack of conviction in the setting. For the most part, the look is of the 1890s, but the feel is absent. What there is comes across as self-conscious. House by the River gives the impression of being set in the nineteenth century solely because the producers stumbled across a cache of costumes left over from another movie, and thought it would be a neat element to include. A light-weight musical such as In the Good Old Summertime has more realism.

With a small treasure of a plot, House by the River squanders its credit with apathetic writing, average acting and uninspired directing.

The Cruel Sea (1953)

Directed by Charles Frend; produced by Leslie Norman

Lieutenant Commander Ericson (Jack Hawkins) is a capable merchant marine officer plucked from civilian life and made captain of a new Flower-class corvette at the beginning of the Second World War. With the sudden, immense expansion of the Royal Navy, his officers are a varied lot, with only one thing in common: their inexperience. They and the crew of HMS Compass Rose start their duties escorting convoys across the Atlantic Ocean, battling both the enemy and the sea.

One of the best war-movies, The Cruel Sea benefits from most of its components, particularly from the story and script. The former is from the novel by Nicholas Monsarrat; he was an officer on small escort ships during the war, and the character of Lockhart (Donald Sinden) is largely autobiographical. The alternation in the crew’s lives among boredom and excitement, routine and improvisation, calm and terror, fighting a largely invisible under-water enemy whose defeat – if it comes - must be inferred, all has the stamp of realism.

The screenplay is by Eric Ambler, moving from his usual genre of thriller and spy fiction. The dialogue and interaction among the characters is realistic; technical aspects of naval warfare and seafaring in general are explained obliquely or in the context of the action, negating the need for awkward asides that would not be used in real life.

It’s interesting that the script moves the focus from Ericson to Lockhart at one point, yet the change is seamless and natural. This occurs after the two characters take on a new ship, HMS Saltash Castle. Ericson becomes harder, more driven, due to what has happened before, while Lockhart, now more experienced and authoritative, is also more sympathetic and flexible.

This is reflected in the environment of the ships themselves: Compass Rose provides a more familial atmosphere, a contrast to the larger, more anonymous Saltash Castle. This should not be wondered at, as the prologue, as spoken by Ericson, describes the sailors as the heroes of the story, and the ships as the heroines.

Charles Frend did not direct many motion pictures before moving into television in the early ‘sixties, though several of the movies he worked on were very well received, and he directed many big names. His work on The Cruel Sea is well balanced between the subtle and the necessarily heavy. The relationships of the officers and the crew are often expressed through mannerisms and expressions, yet when the war becomes violent, it becomes violent suddenly and brutally. Even so, the most tension is derived from less conventional incidents, such as having to shut down the ship’s engines in order to repair a part - in the middle of submarine-infested seas.

The actors are first-rate. The Cruel Sea made Hawkins a household name, and rightly so. His character is an old salt - his medal ribbons show participation in the previous world war - sensible and strong. His face says much about his thoughts, though perhaps only to the audience. When he learns that neither of his two newest officers has been to sea, and, then, when one of those officers has gained enough experience and confidence to take over as his ‘number one’, Hawkins’s countenance gives his complete reactions.

One of the best and most stressful moments is when, while battling a submarine, Ericson must fire depth charges amid a torpedoed merchantman’s survivors, bobbing in the water. Ericson keeps muttering that ‘there are men in the water’, as if hoping someone will hear him and relieve him of the awful decision he has to make. The sickening responsibility of command is perfectly portrayed by the actor.

Also excellent is Sinden, who went on to have a busy and very well-respected career in several entertainment media. He makes the transition of Lockhart from a competent but unknowledgeable young man to an officer ready for the captaincy of his own ship - in just a couple of years - entirely believable. Stanley Baker does a good turn in a mean-spirited role, the likes of which his face often put him into, while Moira Lister has a very small but memorable part as the callous wife of another officer. Alec McCowen has a bit part as a sailor.

This is one of those films that seems to say it all about war, from the every-day heroism to the cynicism, from the comradeship to the poisoning of character. And it says it without overwhelming special effects or histrionics, but with good writing, good directing and good acting.