Dangerous Crossing (1953)

Directed by Joseph M Newman; produced by Robert Bassler

John and Ruth Bowman (Carl Betz, Jeanne Crain) board a trans-Atlantic ocean liner for a honeymoon following their whirlwind romance and marriage. Ruth is especially happy and excited until, that is, John leaves her to deposit some money with the purser, and doesn’t return. Ruth’s bewilderment turns to fear when not only can John not be found, but he is not on the passenger list, and Ruth is listed as travelling alone. The crew, who deny having seen John, begin to see her as either criminal or crazy, and it’s up to the ship’s doctor, Paul Manning (Michael Rennie), to determine the truth.

Dangerous Crossing starts out very promisingly, and keeps a suspenseful tone for much of its run. The story, particularly from Ruth’s point of view, becomes eerie, even nightmarish, which the sea’s fog and the reactions of others accentuate. The problem is similar to a number of other mysteries in which reality seems turned on its head: Dangerous Crossing cannot sustain itself, and the resolution to the affair is almost ordinary, making for a disappointing final third. It doesn’t help that the viewer is let in on the secret too soon.

The story is from the acknowledged master of the locked-room mystery, John Dickson Carr. Dangerous Crossing is not, unfortunately, from among the large collection of such novels and short stories Carr fashioned from sealed chambers or impossible situations. Such problems and their solutions are, in any event, more conversational and static than would be suited for movies, and better left on the printed page. Instead, this film is adapted from a radio-play, which may have more successfully supported the finale.

The acting is very good, but it is in aid of characters and actions that are unsatisfactory. Rennie’s character would have been more interesting if he had been allowed more history. His attempts to diagnose Ruth’s mental state, on the other hand, are haphazard, veering from contacting New York to check on Ruth’s background, to questioning possible enemies of her father (a recently deceased millionaire), to providing pseuod-Freudian analysis. As the liner’s captain (Willis Bouchey) points out, Manning is neither a detective nor a psychiatrist, though he plays, inconsistently, at being both.

The setting - using the same construction and props as the movie Titanic, made the same year - is a good and useful one, creating a world that is large enough for a person to become lost but small enough to be intimate and even claustrophobic. It is also mildly entertaining to see ocean-travel on a big ship as it was in the early 1950s.

The direction is probably the best thing about Dangerous Crossing. As stated above, the first portion, even so far as the third reel, is atmospheric and involving. This is in due partly to Newman’s direction, and his handling of some scenes that seem part paranoia, part dream. But he can do only so much when the story itself demands more transparency as regards to the plot.

It may be unfair, but the film suffers from having been followed - as far as the present audience is concerned - by seventy years of other movies doing better (perhaps because they had movies such as Dangerous Crossing on which to build). Many may have given this movie’s game away by using similar plots. Even so, someone who is a mystery fan, or a reader of detective novels, might not be as confused as Ruth.

Dangerous Crossing is an adequate time-filler but viewers might find that its last third is a bit of a let-down. This, combined with a male lead who is not consistent - or even very good in his chosen quest - and a story that has been done before - and too many times since - sinks the film before it sails too far from shore.

36 Hours (a.k.a. Terror Street) (1953)

Directed by Montgomery Tully; produced by Anthony Hinds

Bill Rogers is a major in the United States Air Force, living with his wife in England. He and his wife, Katie (Elsie Albiin), become estranged, due to his extended assignment back in the U.S. When he returns to London, he has just enough time to confront his spouse before he is knocked unconscious and Katie murdered. Because he had flown to England without leave, Rogers has just 36 hours before his absence is discovered - and that’s the amount of time he has to find his wife’s killer.

Dan Duryea became famous playing villains, sometimes murderous crooks or conniving thieves, other times just untrustworthy jerks. But he was known in Hollywood as the “nicest heel” in the business, because his real life and personality were such contrasts to his on-screen work. He was happily married for 35 years, enjoyed quiet hobbies such as gardening, and was active in the community, especially in relation to his children, attending parent-teacher meetings and working as a scoutmaster.

In 36 Hours, he has one of his few (possibly the only) unmitigated good-guy rôles. Though one reviewer wrote that Duryea didn’t have the face for a hero, he nonetheless acquits himself well. It helps that his character, though a decent man, is beset by frustration and grief, giving him a bit of an edge. Even so, Duryea is credible and sympathetic.

The other actors are good, including Ann Gudrun as Jenny. Under her real name - Gudrun Ure - she achieved some fame in later years as the star of the children’s television series SuperGran. A young Kenneth Griffith plays a highly strung would-be avenger, while John Chandos lends menacing support in an effective way. He would do so as well in The Long Memory, also released in 1953. Harold Lang is also in both 36 Hours and The Long Memory, playing a similar character in each: his sardonic face and languid sleaze make him a watchable accomplice.

The writing is adequate. There are some unexplained items, such as why a U.S. Air Force officer would decide to live permanently in England. Armed forces personnel make their lives where their service sends them, and there would be no guarantee that the Rogers’ home in London would be used for years. And why couldn’t Katie accompany her husband on his assignment in the U.S.? The writer may not have been familiar with London’s topography: Rogers catches a ride into town and the driver tells him that he can take him as far as Hammersmith, after which he can take a cab into London. Hammersmith is an inner borough of London, so the addendum about a ‘cab into London’ isn’t what a native would say. And why did Rogers take a pistol with him to meet Katie? These complaints about the script are surprising, as Steve Fisher was an accomplished writer of short stories and screenplays, the latter including I Wake Up Screaming and Dead Reckoning. He was nominated for an Oscar for writing Destination Tokyo.

The worst of the script is Jenny’s decision to help Rogers. She has no reason to do so, and admits as much. With a little effort, the writer could have added something that made her doubt the fugitive’s guilt. Even if she had connected it to the fact that she runs a mission for those in need of assistance, it would have provided some credibility. It is, however, a cliche that every man on the run has to be abetted by a pretty girl.

While it could have been better, 36 Hours (pointlessly retitled Terror Street for American distribution) is a fair crime drama, rather predictable, but entertaining because of Duryea, Chandos and others’

 performances.

Chain of Evidence (1957)

Directed by Paul Andres; produced by Ben Schwalb

Trucker Steve Nordstrom (James Lydon) has just been released from an ‘honour farm’ after three years, following a conviction for assault on sleazy Carl Fowler (Timothy Carey), who had insulted Nordstrom’s finacée, Harriet (Claudia Barrett). Despite Harriet having waited for him, and the cop on the case (Bill Elliott) having put in the good word that sent him to a minimum security facility, Steve is a little bitter. But he intends to work hard, so that he can buy his own truck again some day. But when Fowler ambushes him, leaving him with amnesia, Steve becomes the pawn in an insidious murder plot.

Despite Monogram Pictures changing its name to Allied Artists four years previously, Chain of Evidence shows the clear signs of coming from Hollywood’s Poverty Row. The low production values, the bland script and the largely unknown actors are trademarks of the brand. Such characteristics do not always lead to poor entertainment and, in fact, the performances of a number of the players in Chain of Evidence are quite good, Elliott, Carey and the two adulterous killers (Tina Carver, Ross Elliott), in particular.

Nonetheless, there is little on screen to raise this movie above the average crime drama. The story is predictable - even if the use of an amnesiac for a murder plot is clever - the dialogue is unexceptional, and the direction ordinary.

The casting is likely more interesting for the performers than for their performances. Jimmy Lydon was a child actor (he was the title character in the Henry Aldrich series) and had a greatly varied career but, though 34 in 1957 (he lived to be 99), seems too young and high schoolish for an experienced truck driver. This trait, along with his performance, conveys the impression of a parody of an ‘after-school special’.

Tim Carey was a strange man (to say the least) who acted in The Killing and Paths of Glory, but once staged his own kidnapping, and created and starred in what Frank Zappa (who composed its music) called “the world’s worst movie.” Dabbs Greer is perhaps the only actor from Chain of Evidence familiar today: he portrayed the local clergyman in Little House on the Prairie. He worked into his nineties. 

Bill Elliott stars as police officer Andy Doyle. Elliott was once ‘Wild Bill’ Elliott and acted in dozens of films, mostly westerns, going back to the Silent Era. (He was an extra in the original Ben-Hur.) His last five films (he was only 53 when he retired), of which Chain of Evidence was the penultimate, were low-budget crime stories. He played the same character in all but the first, in which he played the same sort of character, named Andy Flynn. In three, he was supported by Don Haggerty as his character’s partner.

All of this trivia, of course, does not add to the quality of Chain of Evidence. It remains a routine film with nothing particularly bad about it, but certainly nothing outstanding, either.

Quiet Please, Murder (1942)

Directed by John Larkin; produced by Ralph Dietrich

Rare book connoisseur and murderous forger Jim Fleg (George Saunders) steals a priceless Shakespeare volume from the New York Public Library, fakes numerous copies and sells them to collectors who aren’t fussy about their source, and who won’t make their possession public. However, one buyer (Sidney Blackmer), working for high-ranking Nazis, suspects he’s been cheated, setting off a complicated four-way game of cat-and-mouse between himself, Fleg, Fleg’s duplicitous accomplice (Gail Patrick), and a private eye (Richard Denning), who’s not as simple as he seems.

Quiet Please, Murder starts off appearing to be a straight-forward story of theft and forgery but, thanks to the intriguing characters and the acting that runs from stylish to breezy, becomes an entertaining crime caper, half light adventure and half pseudo-psychological study.

The Kinks’s song “Celluloid Heroes” has the line “If you covered him with garbage, George Sanders would still have style”; though the band is actually singing of Sanders’s star on the Walk of Fame, they are also referring to the actor himself, and, crudity aside, it’s true: Sanders is always watchable for his languid delivery, sardonic lines and often droll appreciation of the unfunny. His part in Quiet Please, Murder is no exception.

He is well matched by Patrick. Though her Myra Blandy is as untrustworthy as a prairie fire on a windy day, Blandy does an excellent job of confounding the viewer as to what she really will do and why she will do it; Patrick makes Blandy credible. Denning’s detective, Hal McByrne, is a good foil for them: down-to-earth and honest, but not above some shady antics himself. There are some supporting characters who are well-played, such as the rare book curator (Hobart Cavanaugh) and a mute assassin (Kurt Katch).

The writing is, if not better than the majority of B movie fare, certainly involving. This is due in part to the strange personality given to Fleg and, to a lesser extent, Blandy. Fleg is a masochist who is thrilled by the idea that his crimes will catch up with him one day: “I don’t know when, and I don’t know how”, he says, but the notion provides excitement on which he seems to thrive. His greatest ambition is to die in terror. When Myra suggests that Fleg meet the Nazi book-buyer, who enjoys hurting people, Fleg is intrigued by the idea. Clearly, this is not standard characterisation for a 1942 B movie. Fleg holds forth more than once on Freud and psychology. Accurate or not, it must be recalled that this is psychiatry as filtered through a know-it-all who isn’t all there.

Also in the movie’s favour is the novel setting; good use of cheap production values - there are patches of melting snow on the streets; how often does one see incidental weather in B movies? - the convoluted comings and goings of fake cops holding patrons and staff in a library, supposedly until a crime is solved; an ending which leaves the fate of one villain to the last few minutes, and an abnormally precise object of crime: Richard Burbage’s personal copy of Hamlet. These factors suggest a more than routine attention to their work by the movie’s creators. Thus, Quiet Please, Murder becomes an entertaining and unusual film that deserves a bigger audience than I suspect it has had through the years.

I Wouldn’t Be In Your Shoes (1948)

Directed by William Nigh; produced by Walter M Mirisch

Tom and Ann Quinn (Don Castle and Elyse Knox) are a couple of professional dancers who are down on their luck. Tom is unable to find work, while Ann’s only employment has been as an instructor in a dance school, frequented principally by lonely men. Things change when Tom finds $2,000, seemingly by chance; after attempts - admittedly not very serious - to find the money’s owner, the couple keep it, buying a few luxuries before their planned trip to better times in California. That’s when Tom is arrested for murdering a reclusive miser, the charge resting on a pair of dance shoes that had gone temporarily missing.

Though the most exceptional thing about I Wouldn’t Be In Your Shoes is the title (for once, a film noir title isn’t generic, and actually relates to the movie), it is an mildly interesting, watchable picture. Nothing is outstanding, but neither is anything off-putting.

The story is adapted from a tale by Cornell Woolrich, an abundant source of film noir B movies. The least feasible part is the circumstantial nature of the evidence against Tom Quinn. This is cited by several characters, including, astonishingly enough, the policemen who are convinced of Quinn’s guilt, based solely on that evidence. As well, the real villain becomes obvious a little too soon.

The script is better than the story, though how much came from the original tale and how much from the screenwriter, Steve Fisher, is impossible to determine. The dialogue, especially between the married couple, is easy and natural. The script is interesting due to the sympathy it evokes for the prisoners depicted on death row, their situation causing a camaraderie and sensitivity among them.

The acting is typical B movie talent, the only face recognisable, at least to fans of old cinema, is Regis Toomey, who played everything from comic relief to menacing villain. Here, he is a significant character, a dogged police detective. His rôle is one of his bigger, and, to judge by screen-time and significance to the plot, he perhaps should have had higher billing than Don Castle.

The direction by William Nigh (not the Science Guy, and not the very talented British actor Bill Nighy) is adequate, making good atmospheric use of the cheap production values. In particular, the one-room apartment to which the Quinns are reduced gives a good impression of the constricted home-life led by too many in society. The contrast between that room and a modern, well-appointed suite seen at the end of the film is used to good effect. This was Nigh’s penultimate direction; he had directed his first picture in 1914.

While I Wouldn’t Be In Your Shoes is nothing memorable, it is a decent crime-drama, with some good performances, notably by Toomey.

Un Flic (1972)

Directed by Jean-Pierre Melville; produced by Robert Dorfmann

Commissaire Coleman (Alain Delon) is a weary Paris detective. Simon (Richard Crenna) is a night-club owner who moonlights as an armed thief. Their cat-and-mouse game is played out against a background of sterile streets of concrete and glass, and through the medium of Cathy (Catherine Deneuve), Simon’s wife and Coleman’s mistress. Who will be hurt and who will be killed is a bigger mystery than who will be caught and who will survive.

The movie’s title refers not to motion pictures, or to a switchblade knife. It is a French slang term for ‘a cop’, though the point of view in the film is, in fact, a little more often with the criminals than with the police. This was Melville’s last movie before he died and, though not an outstanding example of the director’s work, is a good one.

The story is intriguing, with a gang of four quiet, low-key robbers who plan their heists meticulously, and a detective who is determined, though in an equally under-stated way, to catch them. There are some holes in the story, if not in the plot. For instance, we never learn the motives for the robberies committed. One of the criminals, certainly, has reason for participation: Paul Weber (Riccardo Cucciolla) has been unemployed for a year, and needs money. Why the others have turned to crime is left undiscovered.

The acting is just as restrained, with Delon coming off best. He seems a relatively mild-mannered policeman, but when he is crossed, he can turn violent, and even his routine embodies harshness, though it is all in a day’s work. It is surprising to see American actors Crenna and Michael Conrad (best known for his role as the police sergeant in the tv series Hill Street Blues) in a French movie. They both spoke French for their roles, but their characters’ voices were dubbed in by native actors, to give them appropriate accents. Deneuve has little to do that another actress could not.

Just as significant as any other aspect of Un Flic is the look. There is something bleakly modern to the settings, starting with the impressive opening scene. This takes place on a provincial city’s sea-front, with great blocks of unimaginative apartment buildings - every apartment shuttered - being pounded by a rain-storm. Like a portal to a different world, one ground floor space - a bank - is lit and occupied.

Later, we see police headquarters, an avant garde structure that seems to bend and warp. Other exteriors are bland; interiors could be from any city in the world. Only reflections in glass, or views through windows, remind the viewer that he is in Paris or even France.

The characters seem more suited to the 1940s, many of them wearing trilbies or fedoras, and trench coats. It is easy to see the whole movie transferred to an earlier era. The contrast of the modern architecture with the dated fashions is probably intentional.

While not an excellent heist film - the use of a model train and helicopter during one extended scene is noticeable - Un Flic is quite good, and is a strangely stylistic finale to Melville’s career.