Wednesday, July 30, 2014

MURDER IS MY BEAT (1955)

A cop is questioning a woman about a murder. He searches her bureau and closet as if he lived there.

WOMAN: You're pretty free with my apartment, aren't you?
COP: Do I have to buy a ticket?

I might not have ever heard of Murder is My Beat if it hadn't been for the beautiful three-sheet poster I bought a couple or three decades ago. Unfortunately, someone -- a nervous theatre-owner, perhaps? -- covered "MURDER" with "DANGER." Still, I could tell it was a movie that was certainly my beat, especially with the Wim Wenders of Poverty Row, Edgar G. Ulmer, directing.

Make no mistake, Murder is My Beat follows the usual film noir recipe by the teaspoon. Plainclothes flatfoot Ray Patrick is on the prowl for Eden Lane, a blonde floozie wanted for murder. First putting his life in jeopardy by tracking her 7,000 feet up a mountain in a blizzard, he finds himself putting his job on the line when he falls for hard for her. Doing a belly-flop off a prison-bound train, Ray and Eden go rogue in order to find the mysterious man whom Eden claims is the real killer.

The Abominable Detective
Nothing new here, unless you count the blizzard, which probably counts as a first for a film noir (film blanc?). But nobody watches these things for breakthroughs in storytelling. Cops, saps, blondes, twists and double-crosses -- that's all we ask for. And Murder is My Beat delivers. No, the dialogue doesn't give Double Indemnity for a run for its money. The story might be a little convoluted for its own good. It suffers from an unwelcome happy ending. Nor are there what might be called high-wattage stars. This was, after all, an Allied Artists (formerly Monogram) B-picture.

"No problem, this is the way
I always look."
But you know what it does have? A cast of real-looking (rather than Hollywood-looking) actors you wouldn't have been able to pick out of a police line-up. The sad-eyed Paul Langton (Det. Patrick) spends a good deal of the movie beat up worse than a banker at a May Day Parade. Occasionally lapsing into Bogart patois, Langton is more sympathetic than the average film noir hero, seeing that he's a decent cop who doesn't know if he believes Eden or is merely falling in love -- make that in sexual heat -- with her. Langton's the kind of actor who may not have made a major impact in his 100+ movie and TV roles, but was always real.


"C'mon, baby, you can spare a little of that
make-up to cover my hematoma."
Barbara Payton (Eden) drips with sex, yet there isn't really anything that sexy about her, at least from my perspective. Tight sweaters, close-cropped hair, make-up that's been applied with pancake spatula -- the '50s were apparently a time when drag queens were what women aspired to be. Or, more likely, what men aspired women to be. And yet she and Langton look perfect together, as do the equally-plain Hugh Beaumont and Ann Savage in the previously-discussed Apology for Murder. Sex appeal comes in strange packages. (Feel free to google Barbara Payton's sorry life -- alcoholism and prostitution just scratching the surface -- to see just how her biopic could rival any classic film noir... and without a happy ending.)


"Careful with those things, lady, or you'll hurt
somebody with 'em!"
The budget restrictions of Murder is My Beat (great name for an album of dance music, by the way) heighten its realism. You can see a real downward trajectory from 1930s movies in terms of fashions, decor, even cars. The cop's Nash Rambler is a sorry ride compared to the flashy coupes of 20 years earlier, while there are enough dangerous-looking bullet bras for an ammunition depot. The plentiful location shots, too, show that even Los Angeles was starting to look seedy. In fact, there isn't anything particularly attractive about Murder is My Beat, and that's a good thing. 

Edgar G. Ulmer does a good job here, concentrating on close-ups to heighten the emotional drama. His occasional cutting from location to studio to process shot in the same scene can be whiplash-inducing, but again, that's more due to budget than talent. One chance where he gets to show what he's capable of -- cutting back and forth from Langton's emotional third-degree of Eden to the relentless drive of the train's steel wheels -- screams of sexual arousal. All aboard! 

All things considered, Murder is My Beat might not be the Acela, but it gets where it's supposed to in a timely, efficient manner.

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To read about the B-movie mentioned in this piece, Apology for Murder, click here.

Thursday, July 24, 2014

POSTAL INSPECTOR (1936)

The 1935-1936 movie season marked something of an apex with Hollywood's hagiographies of federal investigators. Warners' G-Men and Grand National's Tough Guy (which chronicled the "adventures" of an Weights-and-Measures inspector), both starred James Cagney. Universal got into the act with Postal Inspector, but settled for Ricardo Cortez in the lead role of Bill Davis.

Probably realizing that there's nothing inherently exciting about a guy who's primary job is listening to saps who've been suckered out of their money by mail-order scams, Postal Inspector's producers padded out the movie's screentime by throwing in three songs (one of which is performed three times), a romantic subplot involving the postal inspector's brother and a nightclub singer, and newsreel footage of a Midwest flood, and endless speeches about how important it is listening to saps who've been suckered out of their money by bogus mail-order scams.  A voice-over impersonation of President Roosevelt gets into the act as well, reminding us how important it is listening to saps who... Well, you know. And the damn thing still runs only 56 minutes!


Ricardo Cortez looks for a loophole in his
contract to get out of this movie.
With everything but postal drama taking charge, the story proper doesn't really kick in until about the 30-minute mark. Bill Davis' brother Charlie, another fed, is in charge of delivering worn-out currency to the Treasury Department for eventual destruction. His girlfriend, nightclub thrush Connie Larrimore, innocently spills the beans to her boss, Gregory Benez, who steals Charlie's $3,000,000 shipment. If the producers had been honest, they'd have called this movie Treasury Guy with the The Big-Mouth Girlfriend. 

To jazz things up further, a flood of Biblical proportions threatens to destroy the city. (That's where the newsreel footage comes in.) Super Inspector Bill Davis risks his life by flying to a neighboring town to help move the contents of a post office to the second floor of another building, just so people can continue receiving junkmail. Thanks, Bill. The flood, however, offers the unique chance to watch a climactic motorboat chase in the middle of downtown, which looks as weird as it sounds.

"So, you re-used a one-cent stamp, hunh?
It's curtains for you!"
Ricardo Cortez, as usual, is better than the material he's given here, probably having choked on lines like "A postage stamp is the best insurance in the world" during the first read-through. He must have suffered some unfortunate deja vu as well, when warning Connie Larrimore, "You're in this, too, up to your neck" -- a line almost identical to one he recited as Sam Spade in the original version of The Maltese Falcon four years earlier. It's quite a comedown from ace private eye to mailman cop.

Lugosi gives the day's special:
blood pudding.
Most fans of obscure movies know Postal Inspector only because of fourth-billed Bela Lugosi as Benez. It's a nothing role for a guy who, five years earlier, was Universal's biggest draw in Dracula. Still, it's a treat to see Bela in a non-horror role for a change, even if he doesn't strike one as a nightclub owner. Never explained, however, is why a guy with a Spanish surname has a Hungarian accent.

Never explained, either, is why the songs featured in Postal Inspector survived the final cut. Connie Larrimore (Patricia Ellis) sings the pseudo-rhumba "Hot Towel" while taking a shower:

When you're through with your shower,
Do you shiver? Do you quiver?
Well, you're wrong.
When you're through with your shower,
You should treat it, you should heat it
With a song!

If only she met her fate before the musical numbers.
What is this, a first-grade glee club? (The best part of the number is the maid -- who else but Hattie McDaniel? -- using bottles of bathbeads as makeshift maracas.) Nothing, however, beats the song with quite possibly the worst title in music history, "Let's Have Bluebirds on All Our Wallpaper":

Let's have bluebirds on all our wallpaper
Decorating our dreams.
Shy little rosebuds on the chinaware,
Murmurs of love from the Frigidaire...

Either someone at Universal thought this was going to be a big hit or he lost a bet, for this song is performed three times -- twice accompanied by an obnoxious kid playing a harmonica. The incompetent hack responsible for such atrocious lyrics? Frank Loesser, who would go onto write Guys and Dolls and the Pulitzer Prize-winning How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. Forget about Robert Johnson; I think Loesser met the devil at the crossroads of 44th and Broadway. There's no other way to explain that kind of improvement.

It's tempting to speculate just what the guys who ran Universal really thought of nonsense like Postal Inspector. They didn't have to make this for financial reasons; unlike Warners, M-G-M and Paramount, they didn't own a chain of movie theatres that needed a constant supply of product. If they wanted to jump on the federal agent bandwagon, why not the Secret Service? Surely there's some real drama involved in protecting the president, rather than... well, listening to saps who've been suckered out of their money by mail-order scams -- or by ridiculous movies like Postal Inspector.

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Saturday, July 19, 2014

DARK DELUSION (1947)

It's always fun to watch old medical-based movies. Procedures taken for granted by naive audiences then would be grounds for malpractice today. It's a real hoot, too, when watching these melodramas since my wife's a nurse. They make her gasp, "Oh my God!" more than the investors in Malaysian Airways.  

Dark Delusion ups the entertainment value by exploring the world of mental illness, presumably a ripe topic after the success of Hitchcock's Spellbound two years earlier. But while the latter strove to be a serious, mature take on one man's psychological breakdown, Dark Delusion is Freud by way of M-G-M's Department of Romantic Melodrama.
"She may be crazy, but she's my  kind
of crazy!"
Dr. Tommy Coalt is a headstrong sawbones who's been quite successful at alienating patients and hospital management alike. Sent to the fictional New York suburb of Bayhurst to temporarily replace the town's only doctor, he immediately becomes entangled in the case of Cynthia Grace. Cynthia has a psychological condition that makes her appear to be photographed in semi-shadow even when in direct sunlight, and her every move accompanied by a woozy organ, glockenspiel, and off-key violins. But speaking professionally, she's all kinds of maniac -- depressive, klepto, and pyro topping the list. While her father wants her admitted to the local laughing academy, Coalt ultimately proves that she's no crazier than anyone else in town. That, of course, isn't saying much.


"I now pronounce you man and lung."
Tommy's a nice guy once you get to know him. He even plays cupid when he's not alienating people. One young woman hospitalized for polio wants to break off her engagement, until Tommy convinces her that her fiance has absolutely no problem being married to someone who's living in an iron lung. And thus we are allowed to witness the most bizarre wedding scene in movie history before Chained for Life, starring real-life Siamese twins Violet and Daisy Hilton.

But Tommy is fully aware of his professional standards. When talking to a newly-adoptive mother, Tommy notices she has baggy eyes, so he prescribes her sleeping pills. When Cynthia shows up unexpectedly at his office, he slips tranquilizers in her water. Keeping up with his madcap drug dispensing, Tommy gets to the root of Cynthia's problems via narcosynthesis. Shooting her up with an unidentified drug for about 10 seconds -- "This is an awfully long injection," my wife rightly noted -- Tommy gets her to talk about the root of her problem. It seems Cynthia banged her head after falling off a horse. With absolutely nothing else to go on, Tommy immediately diagnoses her with having a blood clot on the brain, and arranges for surgery the following day. It took my doctors six weeks to diagnose me with renal cancer, followed by seven weeks of waiting before the surgery. Medicine obviously has gone backwards since 1947.


"Hey, I know that person!" alert. That adoptive mother I mentioned is played by a pre-game show Jayne Meadows. Her onscreen husband is cured of his fear of heart trouble when his doctor deliberately picks a fistfight with him -- a treatment no longer covered by Cigna. That MDF (Doctor of Fisticuffs) is played by the great Keye Luke, formerly Charlie Chan's #1 son. Confucius say, When co-pay not paid, broken jaw suitable substitute. 


Barrymore is disgusted by playing
third banana to a wanna-be Gable
and a crazy lady.
Dark Delusion, oddly, was the final entry in M-G-M's Kildare/Gillespie series, starring the cantankerous Lionel Barrymore. You wouldn't know it by any of the posters, since Dark Delusion was sold, quite falsely, as a romantic mystery. (The tagline -- "How Much Can A Guilty Girl Hide?" -- seems to have been created to further throw the audience off the scent.) It almost seems like the Gillespie scenes were an afterthought in order to pad the movie's running time to an A-length 90 minutes. Barrymore is off-screen for the bulk of the movie, which is a shame since his playing-to-the-rafters style is sorely missed. There are times, however, when he seems to be channeling his fellow character actor Edward Arnold -- but you'd recognize that, wouldn't you?


"Frankly, my dear, I don't give
a damn that I'm aping a better
actor."
And speaking of channeling, James Craig, as Dr. Coalt, struck me as doing a Clark Gable impersonation for much of the movie. That was no surprise, since he was Gable's replacement at Metro when the latter went off to war. Once Clark returned, Craig had no place else to go except, well, Dark Delusion. He, like his ilk of washed-up actors, retreated to the far more lucrative refuge of real estate. I could name a dozen actors today who should make that career change, but I'd only be wallowing in my own dark delusion.


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Monday, July 14, 2014

THE HAT BOX MYSTERY (1947)

How, you may wonder, can a mystery be created out of a hat box? Easy, if you made Poverty Row nonsense like this.

Two-bit private dick Russ Ashton has been called out of town on a case when his secretary/mistress Susan is arrested for shooting socialite/criminal shill Marie Moreland. But don't blame Susan -- she thought the gun inside her client's hat box was a camera, which was going to take an incriminating photo of his philandering wife. 

Yeah, the cops don't believe it, either. Russ puts on his gumshoes to prove that not only didn't Susan pull the trigger, Moreland was actually shot by one of the members of a criminal gang. If the cops had been doing their damn job, they would have discovered the bullet had fired from a completely different angle. But then the movie would have been a one-reeler.

The cop sees nothing strange about this.
The Hat Box Mystery appears to have been angling to be a little different from the average B-crime movies of the day. For one thing, it clocks in at 42'55" -- even shorter than Hal Roach's "Streamliner" comedies. Another difference is that the Roach movies were supposed to be funny. The only time The Hat Box Mystery isn't funny is during the comedy relief. In fact, the only relief the movie offers is when it ends. 

"Hi, folks. We've put armed guards outside the
theatre, so don't even think of leaving."

Too, in the opening scene, immediately following the title card, Russ Ashton addresses the audience, explaining, in so many words, what a lousy detective he is. He then goes on to introduce Susan and his sidekick Harvard (named,we learn, because he didn't go to Yale. That's as good as the jokes get, folks), and Harvard's idiot girlfriend, Veronica, a burger-flipper who feeds them for free. 

But then he takes it one step further by introducing himself and the others by their real names -- Tom Neal, Pamela Blake, Allen Jenkins, and Virginia Sale -- before the rest of the credits roll. This is without doubt the most interesting part of the movie, giving it the feel of a very early TV pilot. However, it was more likely the first of a proposed series of movies with these characters -- if there was audience demand. Since there was no sequel titled The Dress Bag Mystery, we should assume the obvious.

"I love you, honey. Now just go out and get a brain."
Unlike, say, classic private eyes like Phillip Marlowe, Russ Ashton's attempt at clever banter doesn't rise above personal insults. (He confides to us that his pal Harvard is "plenty D-U-M-B" right in front of the guy.) His treatment of Susan borders on the psychologically and emotionally abusive, forever reminding her how bad she is at her job and how much she's screwed up in the past. He willingly partakes of Veronica's free food even while complaining about it and borrowing money from her. He even has the nerve to physically threaten a repairman who calls him out for the phoney-baloney that he is. No wonder why he never gets any work.

Ashton puts his lion-taming skills to good use.
The closest Ashton gets to wit -- and by "closest," I mean halfway from here to Jupiter -- is when he's kidnapped by the criminal gang. While tied to a chair, he spins a few yarns to his captor to kill time, winding up at fairy-tales. "Didja ever hear the one about the momma bear, the poppa bear and the baby bear?" he asks in his usual sarcastic delivery. "Momma Bear was a Democrat, Poppa Bear was a Republican. Baby Bear was too young to vote." Make that halfway to Betelgeuse.

Character actor Allen Jenkins is always worth a look, but it's Tom Neal who's the real draw for me here. Not that he's particularly good. If you've read this blog long enough, you'll know he's the star of the greatest of all film noirs, Detour, where his wooden style works for the one time in his career. Tom started at the top as a contract player at MGM, only to bounce down the ranks to Warners, RKO, and finally landing in Poverty Row studios like PRC. (The Hat Box Mystery was released by the even more obscure Screen Guild Productions, whose other epics include the previously-discussed Scared to Death.)

Never more than a competent actor -- he at least follows Spencer Tracy's dictum to know your lines and not trip over the furniture -- Neal seems out of place in his early movies at the major studios. He appears far more at home in his Poverty Row pictures, where his dime-store Gable looks and vaguely uneasy demeanor fit well with the low-rent surroundings. You can almost feel his bad luck vibe -- he was convicted of shooting his wife in the back of the skull in 1965 -- as his career petered out over time. The Hat Box Mystery, not even strictly qualifying as a feature with its brief running time, wouldn't have been worth watching without his doomed presence. Desperate to be a movie star, Neal would probably be happy to know that.

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