The Noir Vignette: “Don’t forget – your dead father was a ‘lousy foreigner’”

In The Glass Wall (1953), the protagonist is an Hungarian war refugee,  Peter Kaban (Vittoria Gassman), who jumps ship after his quest for entry into the US is rejected. A stowaway and without sufficient evidence of  his assisting the US war effort by helping a wounded GI, the young man’s deportation is imminent. Kaban’s only chance is to find the GI.  All he knows about the vet is that his name is Tom, that he is from New York, that he plays the plays the clarinet, and that he talked about the wonder of a place called  ‘Times Square’. Kaban’s search has him roaming the teeming streets of Manhattan and visiting venues with jazz bands playing.  These scenes of Kaban amongst the crowds on the streets of NY are documentary, and the central noir motif of individual alienation in the anonymity of the city is dramatically evoked – a cold glass ‘wall’.

But in his jump from the ship Kaban has injured a rib and his search for Tom becomes more desperate as his injury progressively weakens him. After getting help from Maggie (Gloria Grahame), a young woman on the skids, they are separated after he escapes arrest on a crowded subway platform.  By now his photo is plastered on the front page of the evening papers.

Back on the streets he hears jazz from a burlesque dive and enters from back-stage. A show is in progress with a stripper on stage. Kaban is visible at the curtain as he peers at the clarinetist – no luck. His appearance attracts the attention of the rowdy patrons, and the stripper is not amused. She yells to the stage manager: “Throw that bum out. He’s lousing up my act.” Kaban is pitched out the back of the theater and stumbles into the back-seat of an empty cab at a taxi rank.

The scenario is now set for the vignette, which in terms of the plot, has only a single purpose: to inform Kaban of the existence of the UN and its humanitarian charter, and that it is in NY, the ‘glass wall’ of the title. However, the scenario evocatively reinforces the film’s central theme of personal obligation and social responsibility, with such a deep humanity and charm that it leaves an indelible imprint on your memory. The dialog and the acting are pitch perfect.

The stripper Bella Zakoyla, who goes under the stage-name of Tanya, is played by bit player Robin Raymond. Her performance is really impressive.  She is not young, on the cusp of middle-age, and when we first see her on stage, she fills the frame, and the sincerity of her ‘act’ is striking. She has a joyous grace. When she finishes work she enters the same cab still parked back-stage and hails the driver from a news-stand. The cab heads for her apartment and she discovers Kaban asleep next to her. She recognizes him from his photo in an early edition on the front page of the day’s newspaper. She has spunk and jokes with the cab-driver after asking him to detour to a police station on the way to her apartment. At the precint station, she leaves Kaban asleep in the cab and enters the station.  After a while she returns. We have been played by a neat little conceit in the script: she wanted to check if the guy was on the level before taking him home! By this time, Tom the clarinetist, who also saw Kaban’s photo in the newspaper, has confirmed his story with the authorities, and now they  only want to locate Kaban to tell him and process him as displaced person.

The cab arrives at Tanya’s tenement building, where as a single mother she supports her own widowed mother, an Hungarian immigrant, her two young children, and a brother, who is not in regular employment  – he is a huckster for poker sharps.  She puts Kaban in the bed she shares with her two kids while she waits for her mother to serve the supper she has prepared. The old lady is suspicious of  Kaban at first, but is persuaded that he is kosher and needs their help. Then the brother turns up flush with dough he has ‘earned’ that night. It is clear that this boy is a disappointment after being put through school by Tanya.  He blows up when he finds out Tanya is harboring Kaban, and threatens to throw him out. We cut to Kaban anxiously overhearing the argument in the closed bedroom with the kids, who are now awake, intrigued and smiling. He hears about how Tanya intends to go to the UN in the morning. Back in the living room, the argument continues, and ends only after Tanya’s mother slaps her son across the face for a racist outcry.

Tanya goes to the bedroom to rouse Kaban for supper, and finds he has left after leaving a note thanking her for her kindness and saying that he did not want to make trouble for her.  Tanya is mortified not only for him, but for herself – a lonely woman struggling to raise her kids alone. It is all established without a word. Raymond’s acting is that good. Tanya returns to the living room and slaps here brother across the face.  Kaban was –  if only momentarily – not the protagonist but an observer of someone else’s story.

Great writing, great acting, great craft.  This is how Hollywood even in the decline of its golden period could still fashion great cinema from simple human stories without melodrama and without pretense.

The Glass Wall (1953)

Columbia Pictures 82 min
Directed by Maxwell Shane
Screenplay – Ivan Shane, Maxwell Shane, and Ivan Tors
Cinematography by Joseph F. Biroc

Cast:
Vittorio Gassman – Peter Kaban
Gloria Grahame – Maggie Summers
Robin Raymond – Tanya aka Bella Zakoyla
Joe Turkel – Freddie Zakoyla (as Joseph Turkel)
Else Neft – Mrs. Zakoyla

Awards:
Locarno International Film Festival – 1953 – Maxwell Shane for Artistic Achievement

More than the Director: The Noir Writer

Dark Passage (1944) is one of the few Bogart pictures that disappoints.   Bogart goes through the motions of an escaped con on the run in Frisco trying to clear himself of a murder charge.  Bacall looks great, but for a thriller the whole affair is flat. While the screenplay by director Delmer Daves – from a story by David Goodis – relies on too many implausible coincidences, there is a particularly effective scene where Bogart hops a taxi late at night.

Bogart: Head down the hill. I’ll tell you where to go from there.

Cabbie: Mind a little speed?

I like speed.

Nice looking suit you’re wearing.

Thanks, and I don’t feel chatty.

Some fares like to talk.

I don’t.

You always that way?

Yeah, that’s why I don’t have many friends.

You know, it’s funny about friends.

It’s funny you can’t take a hint.

Brother, you never drove a cab. You got no idea how lonely it gets.

What’s lonely about it? You see people.

Sure, you’re right there. You should see the character I had for a fare yesterday. Picked him up at the Ferry Building.Standing on the curb with a big goldfish bowl in his arm, full of water. Two goldfish. Climbs in the back of the cab, sits down and puts the goldfish bowl in his lap. Where do you think he wants to go? To the ocean. Clean from the Ferry Building to the Pacific Ocean. But he doesn’t know that there’s seven hills. Seven steep hills in between. So we start off. Up the first hill, slippity slop, down the hill, slippity slop. Water all over the back seat, the goldfish on the floor. He picks them up, puts them back in the bowl… up we go again, slippity slop, water all over the… You never saw such a wet guy in your life when we got to that ocean. And two tireder goldfish. But I like goldfish. I’m going to get a couple for the room. Dress it up a little bit, it adds class to the joint. Makes it a little homey.

I thought you said you got lonely.

That’s right. I pick people up and take them places, but they don’t talk to me. I see them get out and go in spots, have fun… then I pick up another load coming out… and I hear them telling about all the fun they had. But me, I sit up here all alone, and it gets lonely.

That’s tough. You’re in a bad way.

You said it. Where are we going?

If I tell you, you’ll ask me why I’m going there… and what am I going to do there, and am I gonna have fun.  A guy gets lonely driving a cab,remember?

That’s right, brother. Lonely. And smart.

Smart in what way?

About people. Looking at them. Faces.

What about faces?

It’s funny. From faces I can tell what people think, what they do… sometimes even who they are. You, for instance, you’re a guy with plenty of trouble.

I don’t have a trouble in the world.

Don’t tell me, buddy. I know. She gave you plenty of trouble, that dame. So you slugged her…  Not now, not here, too many cops around. Don’t try to hit me in the back of the head… or I’ll run this crate up into one of those hotel lobbies.

I’ll give you $500.

Don’t give me nothing. Where do you want to go?

You might as well make it the police station.

Don’t be like that. You’re doing all right. You’re doing fine.

If it was easy for you to spot me, it would be easy for others.

That’s where you’re wrong.  Unless you’d be happier back in Quentin.

Sure, that’s why they sent us up there, to keep us happy.

I see what you mean. Let’s go up here and talk. Did you really bump your wife off?

No, I didn’t.

I don’t figure it that way. I figure you slugged her with that ashtray because she made life miserable for you. I know how it is. I live with my sister and her husband. Now, they get along fine. So fine, that one day he threw a bread knife at her. She ducked. That’s the way it goes. Maybe if your wife had ducked… there’d be no trial, no Quentin, no on the lam.

That’s life.

Smoke?

All right.

Light?  What was she like?

She was all right.  Just hated my guts.  For a long time I tried to find out why, then I didn’t care anymore.

I know. Nice, happy, normal home. I almost got roped in a couple of times myself. If you find the right girl, it’s okay.

What’ll I do?

You won’t listen.

I’ll listen. I want ideas.  That’s what I want more than anything else. I didn’t kill her.  Why should I go back to San Quentin for the rest of my life if I didn’t kill her?

I wonder what he could do with your face?

Who?

A friend of mine. Knows his stuff.

How much would he want?

How much you got?

$1,000. That’s all I’ve got.

He’d take $200.

And keep after me from then on.

No, he’s a friend of mine.

What’s your charge?

Nothing. I’ve seen him work.  He’s great.  I wouldn’t know my own mother after he got through with her.

How long would it take?

Maybe a week, if he doesn’t have to touch your nose.  I don’t think he will.  Just a little around the eyes and here and there.  Got a place to stay? We’re right near the place.

A friend.

Dependable?

The only close friend I’ve ever had.

Let’s see, it’s 2:00 a.m. Now. I’ll go up and see the doc and make a date for you for 3:00 a.m.

Nice safe hour.

The Subversive Truth of Noir: The Glass Wall (1953)

I was fed-up I guess

In the still-topical and very off-beat noir, The Glass Wall (1953), about post-war refugees and the nature of true compassion, Gloria Grahame gives a richly delicate performance as a young woman on the skids who helps a desperate asylum-seeker played with obvious sincerity by Vittorio Gassman.  The streets of New York are rendered with a stunning chiaroscuro palette by DP Joseph Biroc. While the direction by Maxwell Shane could have been tighter, he also had a hand in the excellent script.  A gem worth seeking out.

Bogart: “needful yet closed off, cynical and ruefully philosophical”

Andrew Dickos, in his perceptive survey of film noir, ‘Street With No Name: A History of the Classic American Film Noir’ (University Press of Kentucky 2002), from a discussion of the films of Nicholas Ray, has this to say about the noir protagonist and by reference Humphrey Bogart’s portrayal of Dixon Steele in Ray’s In a Lonely Place (1950):

“The world of Nicholas Ray’s noir films so clearly coincides with his vision of the dislocated, violent individual trapped in postwar America that it is fair to say the noir perspective displayed in these films is simply a variant of a vision apparent throughout most of his work. His characters anguish on a personal battleground where social forces structuring human discourse are internally disavowed and raged at and the most formidable opponent finally becomes one’s own conflicted self trying to function in the world… (p. 82)

“In Ray’s world of the angry and spiritually discomfited, Dixon Steele is more tormented by paranoia than any of the others. Certainly the project of screenwriting as an agency of moviemaking challenges one to achieve creative expression only to see the end product so often distorted, mutilated, or made banal by commercial forces. Steele faces this but is, moreover, self-lacerated, as many of Ray’s characters are, by the psychic urge to find meaning in a life personally and routinely bereft of it. This vision, cast in the noir mode and personified by Humphrey Bogart in one of his most intriguing roles, is perhaps better explained by reference to another Ray film, Rebel without a Cause. Victor Perkins described the planetarium sequence, as James Dean and his friends gaze upward at the universe while the narrator comments about gas, fire, and the insignificance of the planet’s impending destruction. “It is against this concept of man’s life as an episode of little consequence”, he wrote, “rather than against society, or his family, that Dean rebels.” * Dixon Steele emerges as a glamorous cultural variant of such rebellion. Violent but not knowing why, provocative but to what end, needful yet closed off, cynical and ruefully philosophical, Steele is, finally, Hollywood’s figure of a troubled man. And who better to personify such a postwar figure than Bogart?” (p. 87)

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* Perkins, V.F. ‘The Cinema of Nicholas Ray’,  Movie, no. 9 (1963), pp. 4–10.

Bodyguard (1948): “I keep meat warm”

A suspended cop is framed for the murder of his former boss after he takes on a job as the bodyguard for a meat-packing heiress.

An RKO programmer of 75 minutes, Bodyguard is an entertaining mystery thriller that harks back to the hard-boiled pulp published in the 20s and 30s by Black Mask magazine.  The writers include a young Robert Altman.  While it never presumes to go beyond its b-origins, as an early feature  from director Richard Fleischer, better known for later b-noirs such as Follow Me Quietly (1949), Armored Car Robbery (1950) and The Narrow Margin (1952), the movie has some nicely conceived scenes that place it above the ordinary.  Solid turns by tough-guy Lawrence Tierney as a framed ex-cop and the cutest girl-next-door Priscilla Lane as his girl, complete the package.

Fast-paced and breezy, and aided by snappy dialog, the picture is all about entertainment. No angst or femme-fatales, just a a good old yarn about the corrupt rich and their criminal machinations.  The mystery is sustained with just the right hints so that when the bad guys are found out you are rewarded with having your half-held suspicions confirmed.  The climax at the meat-packing plant  has some ‘cute’ mis-en-scene involving a hog-saw and and a meat cleaver.  Great fun.

These shots from the movie attest to its visual panache.

The Big Clock (1948): “the wrong people always have money”

The Big Clock opens with the dark silhouette of skyscrapers against a New York night with bordello jazz on the soundtrack. After a pan tensely edging right across the screen, the camera rests on and zooms into the mezzanine level of a modernistic office building with the signage ‘Janoth Publications’. An anxious man in a suit narrowly avoids a security guard as he sneaks into the mechanism of a large clock that dominates the foyer below. His voice-over relates the circumstances of a dire predicament and events flashback to the previous morning.

But this is about as noir as it gets. The guy inside the clock is a suave Ray Milland, a family guy working for a dictatorial publishing tycoon as the editor of Crimeways magazine. His boss is a gargoyle in a suite sporting a Hitler moustache, and with the nervous habit of sliding his flabby forefinger across his bushy upper lip. A man who knows the cost of everything and the value of nothing. Charles Laughton occupies the suit and the executive suite in a building of apt fascist modernist lines fashioned by the film’s art director, Hans Drier.

Director John Farrow and DP John Seitz infiltrate this place with smooth and flowing steps that despite their elegance somehow render the whole space rather flat. Office space is sterile at best, and the result is a ponderous unraveling of a story that borders on the tedious. But such spaces can be rendered with atmosphere. Look at how – and this is indeed ironic – the same Dreier and Seitz under the direction of Billy Wilder make an insurance office look interesting in Double Indemnity (1944).

To cut to the chase, Milland is being framed for a murder by murderer Laughton, who doesn’t know the true identity of the guy he is trying to frame. It sounds better than it plays out. The whole scenario is played too lightly and with no atmosphere. The source novel by Kenneth Fearing has lost something in Jonathan Latimer’s screenplay. Though the tycoon’s final misstep as he escapes into his personal elevator is savagely noir.

Thankfully the affair is saved by an uproarious turn from a supporting actress in a part that occupies less than seven minutes of screen time. British-born character actor Elsa Lanchester – Laughton’s wife and Mrs Frakenstein in the camp classic Bride of Frankenstein (1935) – is a zany bohemian painter, who by chance gets tangentially mixed-up with Milland and proceeds to steal the picture – there is a pun here you will recognise if you have seen the movie or watch the clip below. She keeps turning up and closes the movie with a neat scene of comic irony.

This is her story. She first appears in an antique shop where she and a drunken Milland in the company of the tycoon’s girlfriend haggle over a rather grotesque painting.

Summary Noir Reviews: Desperate Suspense and a Fallen Sparrow

Desperate (1947)

An uber cool Anthony Mann noir. Raymond Burr dominates as an avenging hood. Brilliant chiaroscuro lensing and crazy angles satisfy.

Mann’s Desperate marks the beginning of a prolific three year arc for the director which saw the production of five iconic noirs: Desperate (1947), Railroaded! (1947), T-Men (1947), Raw Deal (1948), and Border Incident (1949).  While his legendary collaboration with master cinematographer John Alton did not begin until T-Men, DP George Diskant with Desperate can together with Mann take the kudos for the most stunning scene of the classic noir cycle, when a hapless trucker is given a going over in Burr’s dark  hideout, where the only light source is a swinging room lamp put in motion by the victim’s body as it is pummeled across the room. The scene has been described by Carl Macek as “a stunning example of American expressionist film-making” (Film Noir: An Encyclopedic Reference, 1979).  A clip of the scene was recently featured at filmsnoir.net here.

In Desperate a trucker is duped into a fur heist by a gang led by Burr, which goes wrong when Burr’s trigger-happy kid-brother kills a cop after the trucker flashes his truck’s headlights in a desperate attempt to alert the patrolman and the kid is left behind in the scramble to escape.  The brother is caught, and soon after the trucker escapes his captors.  The trucker, now pursued by the cops and Burr, hightails it with his pregnant wife.  The script and direction are taut but the plot is less then plausible as the pursuit drags on.  But the denouement played out on a tenement stairwell is classic Mann and is worth waiting for, and prefigured by a suspenseful sequence featuring a loudly ticking alarm clock.

Suspense (1946)

Monogram’s costliest feature a melodrama on ice only fires at the end when the absurd plot is put on ice. Olympic ice-skater Belita is hot!

Suspense directed by Frank Tuttle (This Gun for Hire (1942), Gunman in the Streets (France 1950), and Hell on Frisco Bay (1955)) features strong performances from the two leads: Barry Sullivan (Framed (1947), The Gangster (1947), Tension (1949), and Cause for Alarm! (1951)) as an ambitious homme-fatale, and Belita as the iconic blonde in a fatal love quadrangle.  The plot revolving around a follies-on-ice venue is novel, as are the extended musical numbers featuring the very nubile Belita.  But the story has a preposterous twist that stretches the suspension of incredulity.  Burdened by this very real weakness, the picture just about comes apart.  The movie is salvaged at the end after a murder propels the protagonists into a vortex of guilt, paranoia, and revenge.  Director Tuttle and veteran DP Karl Struss, who won an Oscar for Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in 1931, and worked on The Great Dictator (1940) and Journey Into Fear (1943), in the final scenes, reach a richly expressionist synergy.

The Fallen Sparrow (1943)

An anti-fascist thriller featuring a frenetic performance from John Garfield as a vet from the Spanish civil war battling post-traumatic stress and a Nazi spy ring. Compelling.

Garfield delivers a wonderfully nuanced portrayal as a guy suffering post-traumatic stress disorder after being captured and tortured by Nazis during Spain’s civil war.  He returns to New York from a convalescent farm when he learns his best friend has been killed in suspicious circumstances.  He thinks it is murder, and suspects a sinister pair of Austrian refugees, who have ingratiated themselves in a liberal and wealthy social set.  The screenplay by Warren Duff, from a source novel by Dorothy B. Hughes, who wrote the stories for Ride the Pink Horse (1947) and In a Lonely Place (1950), is tight and works on the level of a thriller while deftly weaving Garfield’s psychological entrapment into the plot, by linking recurring hallucinations with the search for his friend’s killers.  The dialog is snappy, and scenes between Garfield and a socialite girlfriend are nicely barbed and risqué.  The lovely Patricia Morison who plays the ex is lusciously sexy and engaging – check out the gown she is wearing in her first scene – production code censor Breen must have been asleep to let that one through!  The luminous Maureen O’Hara plays a diaphanous femme-fatale-cum-mata-hari.  Her performance is so elegant that by the end of the film her true feelings still remain a tantalizing mystery.   Director Richard Wallace (Framed (1947) and Tycoon (1947)) and  noted noir DP Nick Musuraca fashion an accomplished mise-en-scène of fluid and flowing takes, moody lighting, and angled shots, ably assisted by Roy Webb’s evocative score, which received an Oscar nomination. There is a memorable peroration towards the end to cement the film’s political intent.

Prefiguring Postmodernism: Flashback in Film Noir

I am currently reading a fascinating book on the career of activist Hollywood writer and producer,  Adrian Scott,  ‘Caught in the Crossfire: Adrian Scott and the Politics of Americanism in 1940s Hollywood’,  by Jennifer E. Langdon (2008 Columbia University Press),  which focuses on the production by Scott of three seminal RKO noirs, Murder, My Sweet (1944), Cornered (1945), and Crossfire (1947).

In a chapter on the making of Crossfire, Langdon relates that one of the most radical changes Scott and screenwriter John Paxton made in the adaptation of Richard Brook’s source novel, ‘The Brick Foxhole’, was the use of flashback.  Langdon goes on to expound a profoundly interesting take on the nature of the flashback in film noir:

flashbacks are a key narrative strategy in film noir, contributing to the genre’s existential exploration of truth and falsehood.  Historian William Graebner, suggesting the ways in which film noir prefigured postmodernism, explains, “By interrupting a traditional, linear narrative, the flashback challenged the form strongly identified with progress: the story with a beginning, a middle, and an end, and open to all possibilities.” Explicitly connecting the ruptured narrative strategies of film noir to the pervasive postwar sense of contingency and doubt, he argues:  “In the context of a military victory that seemed to have been won at the cost of demonstrating the inhumanity of humankind, and of a cold war that called for eternal vigilance, the ability of a cultural text to produce a conclusion consistent with, and implied in, everything that had gone before—what literary scholar Frank Kermode calls ‘the sense of an ending’ —withered and died.” * (p 85)

More on Langdon’s book in a future post.

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* William Graebner, The Age of Doubt: American Thought and Culture in the 1940s (Boston: Twayne, 1981), 54, 145.

Dead Reckoning (1947): “Sorry gorgeous I didn’t see what you looked like…”


Dead Reckoning
(1947 Columbia 100min)

It is as if at a meeting at Columbia Pictures in early 1946 it was decided to make a ‘film noir’. John Cromwell’s Dead Reckoning (1947) is so noir it is a parody of noir: they threw the then non-existent book at the film and produced a glorious pastiche of rip-offs and knowing references not only to earlier noirs but contemporary and future noirs.  The picture which was completed on September 22, 1946 – it was released on January 22, 1947 – would have been in production when Nino Frank coined the term ‘film noir’ in his seminal article, A New Kind of Policier: the Criminal Adventure, in Paris in August 1946.

The credentials.  John Cromwell went on to direct the important noirs, The Racket (1951), Caged (1950), and The Company She Keeps (1951), but he had no track record in noir in 1946, and the team of writers behind the screenplay doesn’t amount to the usual suspects to any degree – but for one exception. The script was adapted from a story by Sidney Biddell and Gerald Adams.  Adams went on to script The Big Steal (1949) and Armored Car Robbery (1950), and wrote the story for His Kind of Woman (1951 uncredited).  Allen Rivkin who wrote the film treatment, later scripted Gambling House (1950) and Tension (1949).  The screenplay was a joint effort of Oliver H.P. Garrett and Steve Fisher. Garrett has no other noir credits, so the perp has to be Fisher who had form. Fisher wrote the stories for I Wake Up Screaming (1941) and Johnny Angel (1945), and scripted Berlin Correspondent (1942) and Lady in the Lake (1947).

Veteran DP Leo Tover with no other noir credits establishes a strong expressionist cred, and the rococo costume designer Jean Louis squeezes femme-fatale Lizabeth Scott into some seriously flamboyant gowns.

It may be all down to serendipity, but I smell a rat.

The references. Great maxi rip-offs of The Maltese Falcon (1941), High Sierra (1941), Double Indemnity (1944), Murder My Sweet (1944),  The Big Sleep (1946),  Gilda (1946), Out of the Past (1947),  and The File on Thelma Jordan (1950) – I know – I am in some cases talking rip-offs of future noirs – so sue me!

The story.  Bogart is a war-hero turned hard-boiled amateur PI – he ran a fleet of cabs before the war – tracking down the mysterious death of an army buddy, who it turns out joined-up to escape a murder rap. Enter Lizabeth Scott as the dead guy’s glamorous but shifty girlfriend. Add a gambling den, hoods, and suspicious cops, and you get a noir – of sorts – the deal is not earnest and too knowing to be taken too seriously. But what fun! Bogie’s lines are classic wise-ass. To a bartender: “Come here sweet-heart”.

The lowdown.  The movie opens with Bogart being pursued down a city street at night in the rain, with the wet asphalt glimmering. He loses the pursuers after hiding in a church. He way-lays a padre in the gloom and tells his story in flash-back.  Vets Bogart and his buddy are on their way to Washington to get war decorations, but his buddy jumps the train after a press photo is taken. Bogart heads off to find him and find out why the guy has gone AWOL.  Bogart traces him to a university town that looks like Chandler’s LA – the guy has been killed in an auto accident.   The intrepid Bogie in mufti tracks down the girlfriend, Scott, an ex-chanteuse in a casino fronting as a cabaret, who after reprising her recent chart-hit and making an impression, introduces Bogie to the casino-operator, a suave foreigner engagingly played by Morris Carnovsky, and his sadistic henchman (a great camp turn by Marvin Miller).  Well one drink leads to another – the last one spiked – and Bogie wakes up with a heavy hangover in his hotel-room and a stiff in the other twin-bed for company.  You get the picture? Then all proceeds apace as Bogie endeavors to find out who killed his buddy and why. There is a double and later a triple-cross, with Bogie falling hard for Scott.  The femme-fatale smells of jasmine not honey-suckle, and she just happens to be the casino guy’s wife! The final shoot-out is Out of the Past out of The Big Sleep. I don’t know how Bogie kept a straight face with the almost verbatim rip of the lines from The Maltese Falcon as he drives with Scott soon to hold a gun on him:

Bogart: Then there’s Johnny. When a guy’s pal is killed, he ought to do something.
Scott: Don’t you love me?
Bogart: That’s the tough part of it, but it’ll pass. Those things do, in time…

The final scene is an angelic Thelma Jordan on a hospital trolley, with death a parachute jump down the High Sierras. “Geronimo”

No Way Out (1950): Is it a question or an answer?

Edie – Edie Johnson / Mrs. John Biddle (Linda Darnell)
Dr – Dr. Dan Wharton (Stephen McNally)

Edie – Look, if you don’t mind, I gotta get dressed now.

Dr – Are you going to work?

Edie – I work nights.

Dr – At what?

Edie – I’m a carhop in a drive-in. Anything wrong with that?

Dr – No, nothing at all.

Edie – It’s none of your business what I do. It’s a respectable job, and I pay my own way.

No Way Out (1950)

Dr – And you’re not living in Beaver Canal anymore.

Edie – Yeah, I’ve come up in the world. I used to live in a sewer. Now I live in a swamp. How do those babes do it in the movies? By now I oughta be married to the governor… and paying blackmail so he don’t find out I once lived in Beaver Canal.

Dr – The point is you got out.

Edie – Five blocks away.

Dr – Five million blocks – what’s the difference? You hate Beaver Canal. You hate what it stands for.

Edie – You talk like I was a poet or a professor. I found an open manhole, and I crawled out of a sewer. Wouldn’t anybody?

All concerned with the Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s No Way Out (Fox 1950), should have been justly proud of this ground-breaking movie. The story of a young black intern’s struggle against the prejudice of a deranged criminal confronts the issue of race head-on. This said, there are weaknesses. The otherwise great script by Mankiewicz and his collaborator Lesser Samuels veers too often towards melodrama, and racism is portrayed as largely a phenomenon of the white lumpenproletariat. Institutionalised prejudice – the wider cause of racial disadvantage – is ignored. Within these constraints a strong cast delivers an emotionally intense and harrowing depiction of race hatred at the level of the personal. Sidney Poitier in his first major film role is convincing as the young doctor, and he shows a wide emotional range. Richard Widmark as the foul-mouthed off-the-wall bigot is searing and dominates all his scenes. Stephen McNally as the chief resident of a city hospital and Poitier’s mentor is solid. But to my mind, the film’s acting plaudits must go to the beguiling Linda Darnell as the divorced wife of Widmark’s brother in crime, and the uncredited black actress Amanda Randolph as McNally’s housekeeper. What a terrible irony: a black actress who has a not insignificant role is not even credited!

Gladys – Dr. Wharton’s Housekeeper (Amanda Randolph uncredited)

Edie – Gladys, what do you do on your day off, like today?

Gladys – Oh, go sit in the park. Maybe go to church, maybe to a movie. Come suppertime, I go somewhere and cook.

Edie – Where?

Gladys – Friends. I fix ’em a good supper.

Edie – Some day off.

Gladys – [Chuckles] I like it. I’m a good cook. It’s somethin’ I can do better than other people. It makes me a somebody. Gives me a reason to be alive. Everybody gotta have that.

Edie – Or a reason not to be.

‘No Way Out’ is a very noir title informing the recurring noir motif of entrapment, and in this movie we have this motif woven seamlessly with three different threads: the young doctor struggling to find a way to save his career after he is accused of killing Widmark’s brother during a spinal tap procedure; Widmark trapped within his own paranoid bigotry; and Darnell in the face of Widmark’s venomous manipulation, desperately trying to keep the small advancement she has achieved after escaping her deprived social origins. Poitier’s struggle is the stuff of melodrama with his salvation assured, and tangentially noir. Widmark’s hood is mentally unhinged and full of hate, but even he in his pain-addled rantings at the climax is given a shot at justification, and his fate is pathetically cathartic, with Poitier sadistically applying with unbridled hate a tightening tourniquet around Widmark’s bleeding leg. The mis-en-scene of this closing scene is heavily symbolic: the makeshift tourniquet is fashioned from Darnell’s scarf and is tightened using Widmark’s gun after it has been emptied of bullets.

The overwhelming noir theme is Darnell’s redemption. A redemption she surely owns but that is equally owed to the decency of Randolph as the black housekeeper, and to Poitier’s demonstration of a morality that goes beyond vengeance and personal hatred. A white woman is redeemed by her decent self opening to the other: black people who show her a path to a life of decency free of prejudice and self-loathing. A great movie and a great noir.

Luther – Dr. Luther Brooks (Sidney Poitier)
Ray – Ray Biddle (Richard Widmark)

Edie – You all right?

Luther – [Wounded] My arm. Maybe my shoulder. I can’t tell.- It’s not so bad.

Ray – [Gasping] My leg! [Crying ] It tore. Somethin’ tore in my leg. [Crying Continues] It’s- It’s bleedin’. It’s bleedin’ hard. Please!

Edie – Let it bleed.

Ray – [Groaning ]

Edie – Tear it some more. Let it bleed fast.

Luther – You’ll have to help me.

Edie – To do what?

Luther – Whatever I can to keep him alive.

Edie – Why? What for? A human being’s gotta have a reason for bein’ alive. He hasn’t got any. He’s not even human. He’s a mad dog. You kill mad dogs, don’t ya?

Luther – Don’t you think I’d like to? Don’t you think I’d like to put the rest of these bullets through his head?

Edie – Then go ahead.

Luther – I can’t.

Edie – Why not?

Luther – Because I’ve got to live too.

Edie – Then give it [gun] to me.

Luther – You’ve got to live.

Edie – I will, believe me – happy as a bird with him dead.

Luther – Please help me. No. Look, he’s sick. He’s crazy. He’s everything you said. But I can’t kill a man just because he hates me.

Edie – What do you want me to do?

Luther – Take your scarf off. Put it around his thigh. There. And tie a knot. Not too tight.

Ray – [Groans]

Edie [to Luther] – You sure you’re all right?

Luther – Thanks.

Edie – [Siren Wailing In Distance] They took their time gettin’ here.

Luther – Don’t cry, white boy. You’re gonna live.

Ray – [Sobbing]… [Sobbing Continues]