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.