From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- Out Of The Film Noir Night- “Impact”

DVD Review

Impact, starring Brain Donlevy, Ella Raines, United Artists, 1949

…some guys, some tough customer guys, who would think nothing, nothing at all of rearranging your face for you, or run an off-hand sword through your heart just to see you bleed in primitive times, or today, today in modern times, what with everything all civilized and sewed up in those more physical fields, maybe cut your throat in the global financial markets, something like that, and laugh, laugh hard, when you come to his door asking for a dollar, but who will melt like butter if some femme fatale dame just whistles, or maybe just thinks about whistling. Go all to putty and so much purr at their beck and call.

Take Walter, yah, let’s take Walter, a big captain of industry in ‘Frisco town, widgets or something, in the film under review, Impact, a guy who would run you out of business and not look back to keep business up, keep production up, and, incidentally, to keep his ever-loving wife Irene in trinkets and toys. So naturally if she was a little out of sorts on any given day (most days) old Walter was at the ready to chase away her blues. Yah, Mr. Softy (a little inside coo-coo between our pair like a lot of couples but read Mr. Sucker, okay) would drop the daily production schedule, or fly forthwith (nice) out of a board meeting if his femme had the vapors, or the hint of such troubles.

But our teddy bear Mr. Softy had a problem, a big problem, his ever-loving Irene was two-timing him with some be-bop Jimmy, all hip suited out, a guy who knew all the angles, at least all the angles on how to get out of cheap street by latching on to Irene. Of course, old Irene had Mr. Jimmy on a string too and will have him too jumping through hoops at her first sign of the vapors. Now two-timing women (men too but this is about a woman), two-timing women in film noir anyway, have two choices- grab a divorce Reno-style and slide down to cheap street with fancy Dan Mr. Jimmy or take dear hubby Walter out of the picture permanently, yes, the big sleep, and then just spend her days with Jimmy (or the next best thing) counting up the proceeds from his estate. Guess which option Irene took.

Now here is something anyone, even a rookie at film noir, can take as wisdom from the ages, murder, murder most foul, is nothing for amateurs to fool around with. Leave such doings to the pros. Naturally Irene’s hare- brain scheme (hare –brain for openers for expecting hep cat Jimmy, maybe high on some goof balls, to stay calm enough to commit a capital crime and survive) breaks down in the execution. This caper was to involve Jimmy, posing as an Irene cousin needing a ride from ‘Frisco town east, to meet Walter in front of a Rexall drugstore in Sausalito, go from there to some convenient isolated spot along the highway after feigning car trouble and bop old Walter over the head hard, real hard. Done, well almost done, except two important factors, Jimmy didn’t hit Walter hard enough and Jimmy, damn those goof balls, wound up dead after colliding with an oil tanker truck during his get-away.

After Walter woke up (literally and figuratively) he finally figured out the score with Irene and it didn’t work in his favor so he drifted off east, east to Podunk Idaho where he, if you can believe this, started a new life as a lowly but very efficient auto mechanic for a good simple country woman boss, Marsha, and war widow (World War II if you are asking) who also became his new love interest. And Irene? Oh yah she was sitting a little peevishly in pre-trial confinement for the murder of her husband, her Walter. Ironic right, and served her right. Well almost. See Walter (and his country honey, after he tells her the skinny) cannot let even evil Irene step off for the big one since he is very much alive. So he returned to ‘Frisco town to face the music.

And here is the real beauty of all those evil femme fatales from Mary Astor (The Maltese Falcon) to Jane Greer (Out Of The Past) and their film sisterhood Irene in a fit of hubris (or maybe vapors) switched up on Walter and set him up for Jimmy’s death, Jimmy’s murder in her book. Beautiful. So Walter, as he must as a gallant, had to defend himself against a murder rap. And it really did look like he was going to take the fall. Not to worry though Irene will get hers, will get her just desserts. And what do you bet old Marsha will have tough guy Walter (or whatever little inside coo-coo name our pair like a lot of couples work out) jumping through hoops for her before things go too far…

Thoroughly Modern Miss Delysia LaFosse - Reflected

I have spent no little “cyberspace” ink in the recent past swearing off femme fatales in crime noirs, mainly crime noirs from their heyday in the 1940s and 1950s. I had grown tired, very tired, of two-timing dames (to speak nothing of those three, or hell more, timing frails) who saw nothing wrong, nothing in the world wrong, with off-handedly putting a couple of slugs in the likes of a prince valiant like Robert Mitchum as Jane Greer did in Out Of The Past just for trying to help her out of a jam, or seven. And him half-smiling, an ironic smirk really, half-wishing that finally just maybe he would be over her with those sweet embedded slugs. Ya, sure Robert, keep thinking she would ever loosen the claws she had into you. Sweet dreams, and RIP brother.

Or some half-addled, half-smitten, half-snake bitten, free-wheeling, half-mad poet fellow, blood cursed, irish blackie trying to shake off some tainted married woman and getting shook, getting square- framed, framed just for laughs to prove she could do it and slug-filled too. Framed hard right, framed hard left but framed and set up, with an invisible bulls-eye target right in the middle of his head, for the big house and the big tumble jolt without tears, or a look back, by a blond Rita Hayworth to Orson Welles in The Lady From Shang-hai (really not her color, blond, but that is a tale for another day and they don’t have to be blond to get to you in their clutches). And he, even after the mirror glass shattered, and he knew she was dead and gone and good riddance, would still remember, remember into old age remember, that first fragrance, some orchid scent, and that first look, some hidden larcenous look, as he walked along beside her and wonder where he had let her down. Have another shot, irish blackie, have one on me some cold dark night just before dream time.

Or, or, and just one last faint fragrance remembrance, this time maybe some blue dahlia scent or some oriental herbal splash, splashed on stone white-pancake faced killer in skirts who couldn’t play it straight for a minute and who just wanted her damn bird, and gold. And the stuff of dreams. And an off-hand slug in some desire belly on the way and falls, just not her’s. And not averse, not at all, to piling up the corpses high, to high heaven if necessary, to get them, the dreams that is, as Mary Astor did to dear, dear sturdy, worldly Humphrey Bogart, hell she even got to Bogie, in The Maltese Falcon. And he, hard guy, seen it all, done it all, will in fact spend many a long winter evening building a whiskey bottle pyramid to her, or that scent, always wondering if she had only played it straight for one minute what would have happened. But enough.

Fortunately after successful completion of the twelve –step femme fatale withdrawal program I am now cured, cured forever and a day, of those bad femmes. Jane Greer? I don’t believe I know the name. Rita Hayworth? Didn’t she marry some high sheriff over in Africa or something? Mary Astor? Is that some relative of John Jacob Astor? See, cured, fixed, done with all of that.

But what if, just for the sake of argument you understand, I had been on the wrong path, and got waylaid by those bad femmes. What about “good” femme fatales, or wannabes (from Pittsburg no less-pig iron steel provider to a hungry metal-craving world), who maybe are just a little screwy (okay, okay a lot screwy) and don’t even know how to handle a rod, or want to. Just men. And can warble you to tears when called upon. Well then fetchingly, and every other which way desirable, Miss Delysia LaFosse is just the type for you (and for me, especially sans those pistols that my, eh, advisors, have warned me off of ).

Rodded up, or not, Miss LaFosse knew one thing though, and knew it well in her time, in her post jazz- etched time, in her London just before the blitz 1939 time (and would have known it well in 1039 time and would know it well in 3039 time)- a girl has got to do what a girl has got to do. And while she may not have had a devil’s sinister heart she shared that truth with Miss Greer, Miss Hayworth, and Miss Astor. And so more than one man had to pay, pay the freight some way, if not with his life then still some way for that simple truth.

But even smart and wise girls from brawny Pittsburgh trapped in blitz-ready London can’t get things untangled all by their lonesome, especially screwy (if fetchingly so, okay) dames who are trying to work every angle by not working every angle and just letting thing fall where they will. What if all any self-respecting femme fatale, notorious for working the mantrap alone and net-less, really needed to stay away from hard guys, hard liquor, hard grifts, and mean streets was a sort of “fairy godmother” posing as a “social secretary” to work her plans. Especially if that social secretary was a wise and wishful aide, every way wise and wishful way. Then, my friends, you would have the substance of a plot for something of a little romantic comedy/social commentary/ nostalgia piece. And good PR for the femme fatale racket to boot.

And what if that good Miss LaFosse, aided by that help, not only untangled the little romantic triangle she had not worked every angle into with three beautiful young men who came of age after the war, the First World War that is, and who had “designs” on her free-wheeling spirit could sing your blues away. With no off-hand femme fatale gun play to “resolve” her fickle lifestyle dilemmas. Yes, what then. And I would not even be breaking twelve-step. Praise be.

Out In The 1940s Crime Noir Night- Gold Digger’s Lament –Scarlet Street- A Film Review

Out In The 1940s Crime Noir Night- Gold Digger’s Lament –Scarlet Street- A Film Review

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scarlet_Street

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the crime noir Scarlet Street.

DVD Review

Scarlet Street, starring Edward G. Robinson, Joan Bennett, Dan Duryea, directed by Fritz Lang, 1945

Personally, I like my femme fatales and round-heel gold-diggers wherever they may have come from down the social ladder to have a little pizzazz, a little class if you will. I definitely do not want them chewing bubble gum or Wrigleys' for that matter, putting out their ruby-red lipstick-ringed cigarette butts on the good carpet, or leaving a pile of dishes in the sink (or on that same carpeted floor) when company calls. I’m funny that way but that’s just my little thing because low-rent or not I know a girl has got to do what a girl has to do to survive in this wicked old world. And that is what the plot line of this 1940s crime noir, Scarlet Street centers on. As well as, of course, the old adage that we have been hearing about since we were in diapers, crime doesn’t pay, although here with an odd twist.

As for the girl who has to do what a girl has to do part, Kitty (played by a low-rent life loving Joan Bennett), is in love. No big deal there except she is in love with a classic grifter, Johnny (played by caddish-aficionado Dan Duryea), who is ready to make that nice big score to put them on easy street. If he only had some kale, dough, moola or whatever you want to call it to grease the way. And that is where Christopher Cross(played in a somewhat stilted Walter-Mitty like way by Edawrd g. Robinson last seen breaking legs in the gangster classics of the 1930s, but I guess 1940s times were tough), a no dough guy with a big front but a real talent for painting, no not house- painting, painting, but high if primitive art. Already this looks like no where right?

Right, except old Cal makes the fatal mistake of helping Kitty out of a few jams and falling in love with her in the meantime. And our boy Johnny ever quick to see the main chance tells Ms. Kitty to string Chris along on the assumption that he has dough. Well Chris doesn’t but he does have that artistic talent that Johnny (and Kitty) parley into their version of easy street, for a while. See Cal’s primitive art takes off as the big new thing except he can’t take credit for it because Johnny in his infinite wisdom has told the critics who are crazy for the stuff Kitty did the work. And Cal, foolish head-over heals in love, plays along with it. Plays along with it until he finally gets hip to the hard fact that Kitty is using him to keep her Johnny in clover. Then things turn ugly, as one would except when one has been played for the patsy.

But you have to be careful with the Walter Mittys of the world. When they turn you do not which way they might go. Cal goes for the heart, literally, and kills Kitty in a rage. Here is where the sweet, sweet for his part come in though, he sets up Johnny, Johnny whose whole life is aimed in this direction, for the fall. And brother he takes it, big time in the big house and the chair. And Cal? He gets his square guy mistreated revenge alright. Hey, you haven’t been paying attention to the subtext of this genre. Crime does not pay. And although Cal is finished as an artist, finished as a rational man, he can find no salvation even when he tries to cop to the crime. So he is left to wander, babbling in the mean New York streets waiting for his hellish end to come. See, there are a lot of ways to play the crime doesn’t pay story. This one had a lot of holes in the plot that made it rather surreal in places (Chris's marriage situation, for one) and Robinson falls down as the meek inheritor of the earth but that is that.

be-bop, femme fatales