Every scene change is an assault. When this movie cuts, it inflicts pain.

Point Blank (1967)

The film is now available on a smashing new 4K+Blu-ray two-disc edition from the Criterion Collection. The film is also available on Blu-ray.

Riding high after winning an Academy Award in 1966 for his comedy-Western Cat Ballou (1965), Lee Marvin had earned the right to “final cut,” as well as casting.

While filming his starring role in Robert Aldrich’s The Dirty Dozen, the actor met with director John Boorman, who had recently completed his first feature, known in the U.S. as Having a Wild Weekend, which was meant to launch the Dave Clark Five into the territory where The Beatles lived after Richard Lester’s A Hard Day’s Night. (It did not.)

Their meeting point was a script for MGM, based on The Hunter, an excellent crime novel by Donald E. Westlake, writing under his pen name Richard Stark. Major movie star Lee Marvin asked young British director John Boorman what he thought of the script. Boorman did not think the script was very good, but told Marvin that he very much liked the lead character. Marvin tossed his copy of the script into the garbage, and told Boorman that he agreed.

Thus, an unlikely partnership was formed. Marvin was so impressed by Boorman that he ceded his “final cut” and casting authoritty to the young director, giving him power that was unprecedented for such an inexperienced filmmaker.

John Boorman took full advantage of his newly-vested power, directing a stone-cold classic.

The story is simple. Lee Marvin stars as Walker -- renamed from Parker in the novel -- who escapes from Alcatraz with a single goal in mind: recover the $93,000 that his former friend and partner Mal Reese (Canadian actor John Vernon in his first screen role) stole from him. Oh, and perhaps exact some revenge for Mal stealing Walker’s wife and shooting him. (Or, perhaps Mal actually murdered Walker in the opening moments of the film, and the entire narrative takes place in the moments before he dies; that’s one interpretation that director Boorman never entirely dismissed.)

Walker marches from Los Angeles International Airport throughout Los Angeles in search of his $93,000. He makes his first stop at the apartment where his wife Lynne (Canadian actress Sharon Acker in her first screen appearance) has been shacking up with Mal Reese, but Mal is no longer there; he’s taken up with another woman and moved out. She gives Walker a clue.

Walker keeps looking for his money. He meets with Lynne’s dispirited sister Chris (Angie Dickinson), and starts working his way up a criminal food chain, dealing with car dealer Stegman (Michael Strong), then with Mal, then with Carter (Lloyd Bochner) and Brewster (Carroll O’Connor).

His relationship with Chris waxes and wanes. She hates him, she resists him, she lays down with him, she rejects him. Walker doesn’t seem to know or care about her.

He has continual encounters with the mysterious Yost (Keenan Wynn), or maybe he’s called Fairfax? It’s all a bit spatial and strange and suspicious.

Point Blank is strange and mysterious, layered and complicated and perplexing and transfixing. Lee Marvin is stoic, yet his eyes contain multitudes. Angie Dickinson is tired and fiery and alluring and frightening. Together they are a scary pair. Apart they are beautiful and dangerous.

In the audio commentary, director John Boorman notes that, since this was his first picture in color, he undertook a deep study of the subject, to understand the psychology of colors, and also how they affected the viewer.

Thus, he decided for a gradual shift in the colors from the beginning of the narrative to the end. He also decided to shoot each scene with a different primary color, which prompted one MGM studio person to call a scene planned with ‘seven men, all in green, in a green room’ untenable; it would be unreleasable.

Of course, from his study of the subject, Boorman knew that there are many shades of green -- some would read brown, and some would tend toward yellow -- and, thanks to Lee Marvin’s help, Boorman could ignore the concerns, since he had final cut.

On the 4K disc, the purity of celluloid in color is beautifully manifested. None of the colors really jump out, like some digital productions of recent vintage. Instead, the colors look burnished and deeply ingrained.

Where the 4K edition truly shines is in the booming sound, which makes the pounding, hammering sound of Lee Marvin walking down the Los Angeles Airport hallway thunderously loud and incredibly striking, like a sonic boom with each step. The details are finely rendered; it’s a great transfer.

The special features complement each other, digging far into how and why the film has affected filmmakers, film critics, and the general public alike.

First is the audio commentary, available both on the 4K disc and the Blu-ray, recorded in 2005 for a Warner Home Video release. It’s led by Steven Soderbergh, who has a number of questions that he puts to John Boorman throughout the movie. It’s not incessant chatter; it is, instead, a conversation between two filmmakers that is informative, friendly, respectful, and quite wonderful.

The other special features are only available on the Blu-ray. Film critic and historian Geoff Dyer visited Boorman in his country home in 2021 and talked with him for 41 minutes, mostly about Point Blank. Coming 16 years after the audio commentary, some of the same information is covered, but the two cover other points of abiding interest in the film, including a story that Boorman shares about Angie Dickinson’s relationship with Lee Marvin.

Author Mark Harris, who knows the late 60s era in Hollywood intimately, as evidenced by his outstandingly excellent book Pictures at a Revolution: Five Movies and the Birth of the New Hollywood, contributes an excellent 35-minute visual essay on the film, dissecting it from a critical and social viewpoint.

Filmmaker Jim Jarmusch talks about his love of crime films (?!), and spends 17 quite entertaining minutes narrating an essay about his special love for Point Blank -- and why.

Writer, television producer, and historian Alison Martino (Vintage Los Angeles) narrates a 9-minute tour of the locations used in the film, which is fabulous. Thanks to her, I realized that the Tiffany Theater, which is across the street from the apartment belonging to Lee Marvin’s ex in the first part of the film, is the same theater where I first saw Billy Wilder’s Double Indemnity (!!!). Talk about film noir coincidences!

A two-part promo film, running about 16 minutes in total, was produced around the time of the theatrical release of Point Blank. Titled The Rock, it understandably focuses on Alcatraz, since Point Blank was the first film that was shot on location at the prison, which closed in 1963. With behind-the-scenes footage and brief interviews, it’s quite interesting, especially Part 2, which features an interview with a former inmate who was confined in the prison.

Some 22 minutes of The Dick Cavett Show, broadcast on American television in 1970, covers the interview portion with Lee Marvin. I was surprised by how awkward the normally very smooth Dick Cavett sounded as he tried to get a conversation going with Marvin, who goes against modern-day talk show rules by not being terribly chatty. It’s also surprising to see him chain-smoking (?!). Jeanne Moreau and Truman Capote are also show in the segment.

The film’s original trailer is included, which, again, is fascinating for the contrast with modern-day trailers.

The package include a printed booklet containing Geoff Dyer’s essay “A Dream of Full-Color Noit” that is expansive, critically incisive, and wonderfully written.

The handsome new cover is by Jay Shaw.

Point Blank is a great film that rewards multiple viewings. Criterion’s new 4K edition is a keeper that gives Lee Marvin, John Boorman, and Angie Dickinson their proper due.

(Originally published on ScreenAnarchy.com. Reproduced with permission.)

Thanks to a recent Barnes & Noble sale, film noir once again has invaded my safe and secure home in Dallas, Texas, where our criminals have the decency to speak slowly and always wipe the blood off their boots.

A scalding pot of coffee makes the acquaintance of a beautiful woman’s face in the most notorious scene in The Big Heat. It’s so notorious that it’s the one scene mentioned in four of the six special features on Criterion’s 4K + Blu-ray edition, released on July 1, 2025. Even after watching the scene seven times this week, it retains its power, and I flinched every time. (Full disclosure: I am sipping hot coffee as I write this. Evidently, I am a masochist.)

From previous viewings on television, I was familiar with the film’s power. Paying closer attention, thanks for the gorgeous black and white imagery render in 4K resolution, allowed me to savor the lighting and the shadows, the way that director Fritz Lang composed his shots, how the camera moved only as needed during each scene for the maximum dramatic impact, and how Glenn Ford’s face steadily tightened as the narrative progressed.

A wonderful 30-minute video essay by Farran Smith Nehme made me aware, too, of how the women in the film are treated differently than the men, how each actress brought something different to their role to make their characters come alive, and even how Gloria Grahame’s body language changed from the beginning of the film, through the ‘coffee burning’ scene,’ to the end, when it changed again.

The superb audio commentary by film noir experts Alain Silver and James Ursini skillfully wove together insights into the film business at the time with analysis of Fritz Lang’s shot selection and experience with past films in his long career, as well as identifying and placing into context the actors used in various roles, including Lee Marvin, who truly broke out in a monstrously evil role as the coffee scalder.

Criterion’s package is irresistible. It also includes two audio interviews with Fritz Lang conducted in the 1960s with (separately) film historian Gideon Bachmann and filmmaker Peter Bogdanovich; two videos from 2009, in which directors Martin Scorsese and Michael Mann speak warmly about the film and the vivid impression it left on them; and a lovely fold-out essay by novelist Jonathan Lethem.

Produced during March and April 1953, the film was released in November 1953. In Britain, it received an ‘X’ rating, and even today, it definitely is not a movie for children, though I imagine that mature teenagers may be able to handle the often-brutal violence.

The Big Heat is a chilling experience that is disquieting in its depiction of violence and how it can tear families apart. And how women usually get the raw end of the deal. [Available from Criterion.]

In the late 70s, I began working at an insurance company as a Payment Analyst Trainee. 

Fresh out of high school, the title sounded quite good, and only required that the applicant be able to type and operate a calculator, two of the very few skills that I possessed. The prospect of college or any other type of higher education didn't appeal to me; I wanted to forge a career as a writer, and I thought the $600 monthly salary would help me. 

Instead, I quickly grew bored with processing payments in the Group Insurance Department and wondered how the men (and a few women) were able to move up and get their own private office and tell people what to do all day. Or so I fantasized, which explains why I thought Billy Wilder's The Apartment (1960) was fantastically aspirational, if unlikely, since I was still living at home and didn't have an a apartment which my bosses could "borrow" for their extramarital assignations. 

After I changed jobs and moved to New York, I saw Robert Wise's Executive Suite (1954), which instantly brought back memories of working at the insurance company in Los Angeles. It's a far different setup, naturally, but all the office politics felt familiar and sounded familiar in a strange sort of way, even though I never got close to the insurance company's executive suite during my three-year tenure. (I had some sort of a breakdown there near the end, where everything my boss said made me laugh and I was nearly fired before quitting.) 

Scripted by the great Ernest Lehman early in his Hollywood career, adapting Cameron Hawley's novel, first published in 1952, Executive Suite begins with the first-person point of view of a businessman as he departs his office in New York City one Friday afternoon before dropping dead -- of a stroke! (which makes me glad I survived my stroke) -- on the street. His wallet is picked up by a stranger and tossed in the trash, so no one knows his identity. 

Except, that is, for Louis Calhern as George Casswell, who just happens to be looking out the window at the moment that the anonymous man drops dead. It's a stroke of luck that Casswell recognizes the man as his own boss, Avery Bullard, the head of Tredway Corporation, a furniture manufacturer. Gambling that his boss is dead, Casswell quickly places an order to profit in the stock market from his unforeseen "tip," knowing the likelihood that no one else will benefit from his insider trading. All he has to do is wait until Monday morning, and then cash in.  

(I've always loved Louis Calhern, who, sadly, died just two years later at the age of 61.) 

The story moves to eastern Pennsylvania, where the Tredway Corporation and its furniture factory is headquartered. Before his death, Bullard called for a meeting of the board of directors, and so we are introduced to the gang of Vice Presidents: idealistic manufacturing man William Holden, numbers-obsessed finance guy Fredric March, gregarious salesman Paul Douglas, and the aforementioned slimy Louis Calhern, as well as the aging Walter Pidgeon and Dean Jagger. Because Bullard failed to name a successor, leadership of the company is up for grabs. Let the squabbling begin! 

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In addition to the men, we also see a few women: Bullard's efficient secretary Nina Foch, William Holden's loyal wife June Allyson, Paul Douglas' long-suffering mistress Shelley Winters, and the founder's daughter Barbara Stanwyck, who also had some kind of relationship with Avery Bullard and really wants nothing more to do with men, their toys, or the company, in which she is a major shareholder. 

Because this was an MGM production in 1952, there is no diversity amongst the cast; it's nearly all white men in business suits, arguing and cajoling and disagreeing and sometimes getting high-faluting. Since I am 50% Caucasian, I had no problems with that aspect, since it represents how things were in 1952 America. 

The women play to different expectations, and each fills a specific role assigned to women in 1952 America: Nina Foch -- nominated for an Academy Award for her performance -- as an uncomplaining underling who 'knows her place' as an uncomplaining underling; June Allyson as a dutiful and loyal housewife who must apologize when she does something that may hurt her husband's chances at ascension; Shelley Winters as an unhappy woman who nags her still-married lover; Barbara Stanwyck as a woman who clearly is suffering from mental health issues and clearly contemplates suicide. 

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Watching the men tussle, all without throwing a punch, is what fascinates me. Ernest Lehman's script is a model of efficiency and is filled with clever lines of dialogue, rising to a crescendo with William Holden's magnificent closing speech, suitable for any ambitious politician or commanding officer in the heat of battle. What's wonderful is that Holden builds his character organically throughout the movie, as he gradually comes to realize that he is best suited for the company's leadership position, and then, having convinced himself, must convince everyone else. 

It's the kind of speech that is written for a movie star to deliver, and Holden sinks his teeth into the material and gives a sterling performance that only gets better every time I watch it. After my first viewing of the movie, sometime in the late 1980s on videotape, I've seen it several times since on Turner Classic Movies. 

John Houseman produced the picture, which has no musical accompaniment. Newly released on Blu-ray as part of the Warner Archive Collection, the black and white photography by George Folsey, nominated for an Academy Award, looks great. With the higher definition, I was better able to appreciate the splendid production design by art directors Edward Carfagno and Cedric Gibbons -- both nominated for Academy Awards -- and the dresses designed by Helen Rose, also nominated for an Academy Award. I loved the awesome business suits, which look fantastic on the Blu-ray.  

The new Blu-ray also carries over the the special features included on the DVD release in 2007; most notably a commentary by Oliver Stone, who says he saw the film as a young person, and acknowledges it as one of the influences on his own Wall Street; the other special features are a Tom and Jerry cartoon, Hic-Cup Pup, and a Pete Smith novelty, Do Someone a Favor, as well as the original theatrical trailer. 

Something essential in the movie still speaks to me. Maybe you need to have worked in an office for years to understand its enduring appeal. 

Now Streaming: Did you know that The Maltese Falcon is set in the future?  

First published as a novel in 1930, the detective story by Dashiell Hammett was swifty adapted for a big-screen version in 1931 (not currently streaming), a pre-code production whose planned re-release was denied by Hayes Production Code censors due to its "lewd" content, including homosexualty and a scene in which the leading lady was strip-searched (per Wikipedia). That led to a comic version, Satan Met a Lady (1936; available to rent or buy via a variety of Video On Demand platforms), that was, reportedly, not well received by anyone, including co-star Bette Davis. (Early in the the novel, Hammett describes Sam Spade's "blonde Satan head," which likely inspired the ill-advised title) 

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The strip-search scene was dropped entirely by John Huston in his screenplay, though Peter Lorre plays his character, Joel Cairo, with some of the "mincing" that is mentioned repeatedly in the original novel. The strip-search is the penultimate scene in the novel and, by that point, the duplicity of Brigid O'Shaughnessey (Mary Astor) had long been confirmed by her actions. Her true motives are always under suspicion by Sam Spade, in both the novel and in Huston's adaptation. 

Indeed, Huston, then 35 years old, included much of the novel's snappy dialogue verbatim, from "When you're slapped, you'll take it and like it" to "I won't play the sap for you!" to Sam's spine-tingling speech to Brigid, just before the police arrive, at the conclusion, though "the stuff that dreams are made of," describing the titular black bird, is a line attributed to Bogart, paraphrased from Shakespeare's The Tempest. 

Huston also dropped something from his script that Sam Spade tells Brigid in private, relating a story that took place "some years ago" involving a man named Fitcraft who disappeared in 1942, to the mystery of his family, and tracked down in 1947 by Spade. It's a very good story, though it's not essential to the primary narrative. As you have noticed, though, that would appear to place the current setting of the novel 'some years after' 1947. Perhaps the early or late 50s? Or even later? (Hammett died in 1961.) 

Did Hammett intend to tell one of the first science-fiction stories, just three years after Hugo Gernsback began publishing Amazing Stories in 1926? Was it a proofreading, editing, or publishing mistake? (My personal copy is of the Vintage Books paperback, May 1972 edition, but purchased new by me on April 1, 1982.) 

In any event, Hammett's novel is a mystery that quickly absorbed me, which I recall from my first reading back in the early 80s. Initially a five-part serial published in Black Mask magazine, the stories were collected and published as the third of Hammett's five novel. As with his other novels, it features crisp writing, pungent dialogue, distinctive characters and evocative descriptions that make it easy to picture the scene. 

Reportedly eager to direct after writing dialogue and full scripts for some 10 years, the son of screen star Walter Huston trimmed the evocative descriptions while keeping most of the pungent dialogue, perhaps realizing that he could not improve upon it, simply by changing the words a bit. I've seen the movie multiple times over the years; my latest viewing on my new, bigger-screened television amplified the visual pleasures that abound. 

According to Rudy Behlmer's Behind the Scenes: The Making of … (as quoted by Wikipedia): 

"John Huston planned each second of the film to the last detail, tailoring the screenplay with instructions to himself for a shot-for-shot setup, with sketches for every scene, so filming could proceed fluently and professionally."

Furthermore, per David Thompson's Warner Bros.: The Making of An American Movie Studio (as quoted by Wikipedia): 

"​Huston was adamant the film be methodically planned, thus ensuring the production maintained a tight schedule within their budget. It was shot quickly and completed for less than $400,000."

The film moves like lightning, without ever appearing to hurry. Huston had very good ideas about individual shots and how the camera moved within scenes, which contributes to an atmopshere in which every action appears both spontaneous yet carefully planned. The famed seven-minute, unbroken take is a bravura sequence, even though, while it's playing, it's compelling on its own dramatic merits, not because the shot is unbroken; it doesn't call attention to itself for its technical merits. 

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From a modern viewpoint, Sam Spade is dapper yet dangerous, a cool cat who gets heated up instantly before dialing it back just as quickly. As suspicious as he is of Brigid's motives, for example, his own motives are under suspicion as well. 

Sam is off-handed in off-loading any responsibility to care about his dead partner's wife, Iva (Gladys George), with whom he was evidently involved, and also seems to be stringing along his secretary, Effie Perine (Lee Patrick), who remains loyal him, no matter what he does. He will brook no nonsense from anyone, including heavy-handed Police Lieutenant Dundy (Barton MacLane), prompting his longtime friend and former police colleague Detective Tom Polhaus (personal fave Ward Bond) to intercede and keep Sam from getting himself into more hot water.

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The wonderful supporting cast includes stage veteran Sydney Greenstreet, making his screen debut at the age of 61 as the balanced, dogged Kasper Gutman; he and Peter Lorre make a splendid pair, and ended up teaming on nine more movies. Also notable: 38-year-old Elisha Cook Jr.  playing Wilmer Cook, or "the kid," as he's referred to by Sam, as well as Walter Huston, making an uncredited, extremely brief cameo. 

Filmed at Warner Bros studios in Hollywood during the summer of 1941, The Maltese Falcon was released in U.S. theaters on October 18, 1941. Was it the first film noir? It is for my purposes, which is why I chose to watch it again and make my first entry in this year's cycle of Concrete Fall monthly posts. 

As a descriptive term, of course, "film noir" had not yet been coined, but the movie itself certainly serves as a great introduction for the darkness in come in a slew of memorable films that I'll be watching -- or re-watching -- in the coming months. (Also, it's available on a streaming service to which I am currently subscribed.) [HBO Max]

I love stumbling upon films that surprise and jolt me. Desert Fury did both. 

Released in 1947, Desert Fury features crackling dialogue by Robert Rossen and a lurid hothouse atmosphere, courtesy of director Lewis Allen, cinematographers Edward Cronjager and Charles Lang, art director Perry Ferguson, and costume designer Edith Head.  

Shot on location in Technicolor, using a single-strip process that was still relatively news, the production looks, primarily, colorful, which fits its setting -- a small town in the wide open spaces of Nevada -- while flying in the face of its darker narrative themes, which identify it as film noir. 

Lizabeth Scott, then 25, stars as the 19-year-old Paula Haller, who has just returned home from school Back East. Raised by the strong-willed businesswoman Fritzi Haller (Mary Astor), Paula wants to make her own way in life, but doesn't know what, exactly, she wants to do that will allow her to truly break free from her mother's dominant influence on her life.  

Among her business interests locally, Fritzi owns the Purple Sage, a casino and saloon that serves as the heart of Chuckawalla, a fictional community where everybody knows your name. True trouble arrives to town in the person of Eddie Bendix (John Hodiak), who is married (basically) to his best friend and running mate Johnny Ryan (Wendell Corey in his debut role). 

Eddie and Fritzi exchange meaningful glances once he arrives in town, which may or may not be related to a shared past of some kind. In any event, Eddie is a criminal figure from New Jersey who is trying to escape accusations that he murdered his wife. Fritzi is trying to escape memories of her deceased husband. 

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In the opening moments of the film, Eddie and Paula exchanged meaningful glances, even though they hadn't met yet, so that's gotta be resolve. Soon the simmering turns to outright boiling hot love, at least by 1947 standards. Naturally, that will eventually make things explode, especially with Fritzi seething in motherly romantic anger (toward her daughter and her former lover too!) and Johnny seething in jealous romantic anger (toward his "best friend"). 

There's a lot of simmering and a lot of anger, but you knew that already, because you saw that the film is titled Desert Fury and there's definitely a lot of Desert Fury in the film. Oh, and I forgot to mention that Burt Lancaster has the third-billed role, in support, as a local lawman With A Past Too, so of course he's got a lot of Desert Fury too. 

I loved this film, which isn't afraid to play to its pulpy roots. The film is based on "Bitter Harvest," published in 1945, a story by Ramona Stewart, which she later expanded into a novel, Desert Town. The story was optioned by producer Hal B. Wallis; the film was shot on location in Piru (Ventura County), California. Some of the exteriors were shot in Arizona.

John Hodiak is not my fave leading man, but I adore Lizabeth Scott and her honey-coated voice, Mary Astor as a very manly woman who never lets you forget she's a woman, Burt Lancaster standing tall and talking tough, and the sneering Wendell Corey, who absolutely plays a tough man in love to the hilt. 

I found the film thanks to The Criterion Channel's "Noir in Color" section, which is highly recommended. Its setting reminded me of another film in the section that I've seen before, Bad Day at Black Rock (1955). The section also furnished the basis for my previous article, "Color Me Desperate," which covered Niagara (1953) and Black Widow (1954).  [The Criterion Channel]

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When Robert Redford, then 78, appeared in Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014), I knew the end was near. 

Ten years younger, Sylvester Stallone, now 76, appears in Samaritan (2022) as a man haunted by his past. As Joe Smith, he is an ordinary garbage collector and amateur appliance repairman. He prefers a hooded sweatshirt and keeps a low profile in the working-class neighborhood in which he lives, which is not all that different, really, from the neighborhood in which Rocky Balboa burst forth upon the scene in 1976. 

One day, Joe is called upon by circumstances to come to the rescue of 13-year-old Sam (Javon "Wanna" Walton), in the process inadvertently revealing his superhuman strength, which confirms to Sam that he, Joe Smith, is actually the long-lost (and presumed dead) superhero Samaritan. Hero-worshiping Sam has been looking for Samaritan for years, stumbling upon one potential (failed) candidate after another, so he rejoices. 

Soon, though, a plot must manifest, and this is where Samaritan completely lost my interest. Director Julius Avery previously helmed Overlord (2018), which also had an interesting premise that got bogged down by blood and inertia, and followed a similar throughline of steadily decreasing reasons to keep watching. 

Based on an original screenplay by Bragi F. Schut, the story certainly has potential, but quickly falls in line with conventional superhero narratives, as neighborhood gangster Cyrus (Pilou Asbeck) is irresistibly drawn to become a supervillain, simply because that's what every superhero movie needs, a way to pit "good" versus "evil" in the basest manner possible. No doubt due to its limited budget, the visual effects are not terribly convincing. Originally envisioned as a theatrical release, the film now has a more fitting home on a streaming service where many other screening options await. [Prime Video]

Now Streaming: In response to Cinerama and 3-D, 20th Century Fox developed the anamorphic  CinemaScope lens series to make their own widescreen pictures that would lure people back into theaters, releasing The Robe in September 1953 and then expanding the process to more major productions on its slate. 

Released nine months before, in January 1953, Niagara was shot in the usual aspect ratio, yet expertly photographed by Joseph MacDonald in lovely, radiant color that belies its heart of darkness, quickly revealed in its opening sequence. Against the cascading falls, Joseph Cotten looks stern and angry as George, who stalks around a viewing area of the famed honeymoon location, voicing dialogue that sounds anguished, even doomed. 

We know there definitely must be something wrong with George as he returns to his motel cabin, because his wife Rose is lying in bed, and she pretends to be asleep as soon as he opens the door. And Rose is played by Marilyn Monroe, so there definitely must be something wrong with him. 

In the early 1950s, American history tells us that all husbands wanted a bombshell wife and, evidently, all husbands and wives slept in separate beds. 

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Written by Charles Brackett, remembered best for his 16 collaborations with Billy Wilder, and Richard L. Breen and Walter Reisch, Niagara is one of the relatively few films shot in color during the 1950s that were later identified as film noir. Watching the film for the first time recently, I was struck by the quality of the script --  smart dialogue, intricate plotting, solid characterizations, surprising twists -- and director Henry Hathaway's visual storytelling. 

My sole trip to Niagara Falls -- with my parents, not on a honeymoon -- came in the early 1990s, and it was a glorious time, since I'd long dreamed of visiting in person. Watching Niagara brought back a lot of those good memories, which also makes it an ideal location in which to set a murderous plot of homicidal intentions and suicidal impulse. 

Marilyn Monroe is sensational; she finds her way through the dialogue in convincing fashion, shading between emotions that demonstrate a great range. The film itself is all about how appearances can be deceiving, and I liked the idea that her character knew this as well, and used that to her desperate advantage as she acts deceitfully toward her husband, seeking a permanent way out of their union. 

Much of the picture plays like a quality melodrama; when it turns toward the more criminal aspects of the plot, the pace quickens and the suspense heightens until things boil over. One scene in particular is noteworthy for its great use of location, angles, pacing, and shadows to portray a very noir demise. 

By the way, do not adjust your television: the trailer below is in black and white, for some reason. [The Criterion Channel] 

Now Streaming: Released in October 1954, Black Widow fell under the Fox mandate to make more CinemaScope pictures, though it could just as easily have been made in the standard aspect ratio and in black and white. 

The vibrant colors, though, captured by cinematographer Charles G. Clarke, bolster the first half of the picture, which is very non-noir. Written and produced by Nunnally Johnson, who was making only his second feature as director, that first half establishes Van Heflin as successful Broadway producer Peter Denver. 

With his wife Iris (Gene Tierney) away to care for her mother, Denver invites Nancy Ordway, an aspiring writer he's met at a party, out for dinner. He keeps things cordial and chaste, and doesn't think much about it, yet as time goes on, he becomes more and more friendly with her, until he invites her to spend her daytime hours at his apartment with, of course, his maid around constantly, so that she can write without interruption.  

One day, she hangs herself in his apartment. What? 

Nunnally Johnson's screenplay sets up events like logs placed in a gradually narrowing flume that ends in Nancy's death. Each of the events are suspicious only in retrospect, but when investigated by NYPD Lt. Bruce (George Raft), all signs point to murder at the hand of the hapless Peter Denver.

A hapless character named Peter? Of course I want to see what happens!

Peter Denver spends the rest of the picture desperately evading the police so he can gather evidence that will prove his innocence. Like Niagara, the pace quickens in the second half of the story, and noir-ish aspects become more readily apparent. 

Both films are built around desperate people who become desperate and graduate to deception on a perilous scale. Both films are enhanced by their colorful palettes, which are used in contrapuntal fashion; the colors deceive the eye into ignoring the less palatable impulses that run rampant beneath, like rivers of desperate deception. [The Criterion Channel] 

Now Streaming: Before coming to Twentieth-Century Fox, Joseph L. Mankiewicz had established himself as a writer at Paramount Pictures and as a writer/producer for MGM, but he wanted to direct. His third picture as a director was the mystery thriller Somewhere in the Night (1946), scripted by Howard Dimsdale, who was a working writer into the 1980s, and Mankiewicz, from a story credited to Marvin Borowsky, with an on-screen credit to Lee Strasberg for "adaptation." 

Later, Somewhere in the Night would be identified as "film noir," but on its own individual merits, it's a satisfying, briskly-told picture that is enhanced by the visual stylings that contribute to its identification as noir. The mystery is established from the outset, as a soldier (John Hodiak) wakes up after stepping on a land-mine that blew up his body and wiped out his memory. He recovers from his physical injuries first without admitting to anyone that he can't even remember his name. The Army medics and hospital staff call him George Taylor, so he adapts that name, and accepts the idea that he should return "home" to a hotel in downtown Los Angeles. 

Once in Los Angeles, he immediately begins putting scattered clues together and following an uncertain trail that he hopes will get his life back on track. (No spoilers here -- this was a first-time watch for me -- but I absolutely love how all of his actions paint a picture of what kind of man he is, in reality, even though he doesn't know it yet.) He crosses paths with people who react strongly to his sudden presence, three years after he mysteriously disappeared, including Christy Smith (Nancy Guild), a singer at a nightclub owned by successful businessman Mel Phillips (Richard Conte). Christy and Mel take an immediate interest in George's mystery, the former for romantic reasons and the latter for financial possibilities. 

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The script is thick with sharp one-liners and elaborate exposition, and much of the action remains indoors. Even so, it moves at a quick pace (studio veteran James B. Clark served as editorial supervisor) and the black & white photography by Norbert Brodine, who also shot the seminal noir The House on 92nd Street, makes great use of the shadows that dominate the scenery in the second half of the picture, especially scenes set in San Pedro, in the neighborhood and at the docks.

The mystery becomes more complex as the film progresses, and the story takes turns that I wasn't anticipating, including major third-act resolutions that feel very well earned for the characters and very well justified by the script. As Mankiewicz' third film as a director, some unintentional rough edges remain, which he would sand off as his career progressed, replacing those uneven spots with intentional, and welcome, jagged edges. 

Hailing from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, John Hodiak stepped into the absence of star actors who were away serving in World War II, leaving space for him -- he evidently suffered from high blood pressure (?!) -- when MGM leant him out to Fox, where is where he made this picture. His relatively anonymity to my eyes lends credence to his role as an everyman type of character who is desperate to figure out his true identity. 

The other leading players, such as the debuting Nancy Guild, are perfectly fine, though my eye was especially drawn by actors who became better known later on, such as Richard Conte (he of the suave, clipped dialogue delivery), Lloyd Nolan (as a police detective), Sheldon Leonard (as a brutish, suspicious husband), Jeff Corey (as a bank teller) and Harry Morgan (as a bathhouse attendant). 

The film is included as part of the "Fox Noir" collection and makes for rewarding viewing. [The Criterion Channel]

Released by British distributor Eagle-Lion Films in December 1947, T-Men marked the first collaboration between director Anthony Mann and cinematographer John Alton. 

Born in San Diego, California, Mann moved to New Jersey when he was 14 and, a few years later, began his career as an actor on the New York stage. By 1933, he had begun directing stage productions, even as he later also began working as a talent scout, casting director, and screen test director for Selznick International Pictures. He became an assistant director to people like Preston Sturges (Sullivan's Travels) in the early 1940s, making his feature film directing debut in 1942. Mann made Strangers in the Night, his first noir, in 1944, his second and third, The Great Flamarion and  Two O'Clock Courage, in 1945, and his third, Strange Impersonation, in 1946. During this period, he also made a mystery, two comedies, two musicals, and a war film. 

Born in Hungary, Alton moved to the U.S. to attend college and became a lab technician in Los Angeles in the 1920s. After moving to France for a year and then to Argentina for seven years, where he photographed a number of pictures, he returned to California and began working as a cinematographer in 1940. He shot nearly three dozen titles over the next seven years, culminating in his first teaming with Anthony Mann. 

Presented in semi-documentary style, perhaps inspired by House of 92nd Street (1945), which featured FBI director J. Edgar Hoover in its opening montage, T-Men featured Elmer Lincoln Irey in its opening montage. The retired coordinator of the Treasury Department's law enforcement agencies introduces the film's story as a composite, meant to illustrate how the agencies worked together. In the screenplay written by John C. Higgins, the oft-present voice-over narrator (Reed Hadley) does the lion's share of explaining how the case is investigated and fills in story details. The visuals do the rest.

I've seen the film several times, and what struck me especially during my most recent viewing is how the narrative current, propulsive as it is, is deepened by the visual style. Law-enforcement officers and criminals emerge from and disappear into the shadows, which dominate each and every scene, no matter if the setting is outside or inside, nighttime or daytime. In less-forgiving lighting, the film's low budget might be more obvious, yet here it works to its advantage; by thoughtful framing and judicious camera movement, our eye is always drawn to what is most essential about the scene. 

In Alain Silver and Elizabeth Ward's invaluable book Film Noir, the point is made that advances in technical equipment made it more possible for low-budget productions to shoot on location. Largely shot on location in Los Angeles, T-Men has always resonated with me because of the landmarks that I could still recognize decades later, Union Station especially, but also City Hall. 

Yet so much has changed, and the film intentionally does not dwell on any familiar landmarks, the better to reinforce a spirit of lonely alienation. After all, the two lead 'T-Men' (Dennis O'Cooke and Alfred Ryder) are strangers to Los Angeles -- one is from St. Louis, the other from Indianapolis -- and so they are not familiar with nor especially interested in viewing the city as residents or tourists. Instead, after a brief meeting with their superiors, they arrive first in Detroit to begin their undercover assignment, and then travel to Los Angeles; they have been chosen, in part, because neither is from nor known in those two cities. 

As events play out, the specific location is inconsequential, though I was surprised at the evident reality that, in 1947, Los Angeles supported a number of steam-bath houses! Instead, the walls close in and the two undercover Treasury Department agents become wrapped up in their assumed personas as hardened criminals. Their world has become claustrophobic as they are swallowed up by the shadows that constantly surround them, trapped between darkness and the light. 

Director of photography John Alton shot two additional mystery thrillers for Eagle-Lion Films that are included in the John Alton Film Noir Collection, which I bought on Blu-ray a couple weeks ago. No extras are included, but T-Men looks very good to my eyes. And the film itself has already rewarded multiple viewings. 

The film is now available on Blu-ray and DVD, via Classic Flix. 

Now Streaming: Produced by Darryl F. Zanuck at Twentieth-Century Fox, No Way Out (1950) followed Pinky (1949), a drama about "a young, light-skinned Black woman who passes for white," according to Wikipedia. Both films fit into the studio's post-war social-issue dramas, which found receptive audiences and critical success. 

Filmmaker Joseph L. Mankiewicz was on a hot streak at Fox. He'd won two Academy Awards for A Letter to Three Wives (1949) and followed that up with the film noir House of Strangers (1950), photographed by Milton Krasner, who had already shot Fritz Lang's noirs The Woman in the Window (1944) and Scarlet Street (1945), and then noir features for other directors: The Dark Mirror (1946), directed by Robert Siodmark, and A Double Life (1947), directed by George Cukor (?!). 

Before coming to Fox, Mankiewicz had established himself as a writer at Paramount Pictures and as a writer/producer for MGM, but he wanted to direct. His third picture as a director was the film noir Somewhere in the Night (1946), so House of Strangers was his second noir and No Way Out would be his third, except that it's not really a noir in the sense that modern film lovers have come to think of as noirs. 

Indeed, it was not until the 1970s that "film noir" became a widely accepted category, which coincides with my own interest in learning and thinking more deeply about films of all kinds. By current expectations, then, No Way Out doesn't fit firmly into "film noir," yet it's, at least, 'film noir-adjacent,' and is included in The Criterion Channel's "Fox Noir" collection, which is how the film again caught my eye the wake of Sidney Poitier's recent death. 

Mankiewicz penned the original screenplay with veteran screenwriter Lesser Samuels. Poitier, who was just 22 at the time, is introduced as Doctor Luther Brooks, who has recently completed his internship and been offered a permanent position by the chief resident (Stephen McNally). Issues about his race are woven into the opening sequence, which lays the groundwork for his fiery confrontation with Ray Biddle (Richard Widmark), who has been brought to the hospital's prison ward for treatment after he and his brother were both shot in the leg during an attempted robbery. 

Biddle instantly identifies himself as a virulent racist, which is only inflamed when his brother dies under Luther's care. Blinded by his stubbornly racist ignorance, Biddle believes without hesitation that Luther murdered his brother, a fervent fever dream that quickly sows hateful seeds. 

Watching the film again, I was struck, first of all, by the craftsmanship of the script, which constructs characters who respond in sometimes unexpected ways to the narrative, even though they initially appear to be stereotypically good or bad. Ray Biddle, for example, is performed at a high pitch of anger and outrage by Widmark, who is outstandingly evil at an early point in his career, yet his character, as written, comes from an angry and impoverished background; of course he's desperate! It makes sense, even as he dodges his own responsibilities for his behavior and spits out racist insult after racist insult. 

Poitier is remarkably good in his feature film debut, giving an impressive performance that makes his character supremely empathetic, even as he allows that he may have made mistakes. Linda Darnell is also excellent as the dead man's widow, who has many reasons to be insulted, yet displays moral strength when it counts. She is not anything like a femme fatale, luring a man to his death. Her encounter with the good Dr. Brooks, though, shows her character on a night when she is still processing the death of her no-good husband, and so her strong emotions are understandable. 

As a fiery social drama, No Way Out makes for a fiery film noir. It's not principally about the criminal element, but instead what the criminal element can do and wants to do to anyone who is endeavoring to make straight paths for their feet. [The Criterion Channel]