Double Indemnity (1944) -- Billy Wilder

Walter Neff is an insurance salesman with Pacific All-Risk. A routine stop at the Dietrichson's to secure renewals on some automobile policies sends him down a slippery slope, where lust leads to murder, and murder takes him on a trolley ride all the way to the end of the line. It's a one-way trip and the last stop is the cemetery.

Double Indemnity is justifiably considered one of the great film noirs. Billy Wilder, having already found great success as a Hollywood writer, was just getting his feet wet as a director. This, only his third effort, placed him immediately in the ranks of America's top film-makers. A ground-breaking film, it has spawned decades of copiers, but no one made adultery and murder more fun for an audience than Wilder did here.

The film opens with an intriguing sequence--a car driving late at night and slightly erratic in downtown Los Angeles. It pulls to a curb in front of a tall office building. A man eases himself slowly out, supporting himself on the door for a moment. He is apparently hurt in some fashion. A night watchman opens the door, commenting that he looks all-in. The man's name is Walter Neff (Fred MacMurray). He makes his way to his office, where he drops exhausted into his desk chair. A cold sweat beads his forehead and for the first time we see the dark stain of blood on his shoulder. he's been shot. He switches on a dictaphone and begins to speak, confessing to a murder. His last lines grab you and capture the essence of all noir: "Yes, I killed him. I killed him for money -- and a woman -- and I didn't get the money and I didn't get the woman. Pretty, isn't it?"

Walter Neff can't resist that ankle necklace.

It's a daring start by director Wilder--he's already revealed that his star is a murderer. And it stands to reason that he will likely be caught given his condition and the strict morality code of the day. What remains for the audience to discover is who is the woman, why doesn't Neff get her, and who shot him? It's a clever way to engage us and create tension, wondering how the story will unfold. (Wilder liked the technique of revealing up-front what is essentially the end of his film so well, he used it again, effectively in Sunset Boulevard six years years later.)

The rest of the film unfolds through flashback, interjected with voice-over narration and occasional returns to the office and the dictaphone. It begins with Neff arriving at the Dietrichson's. Mr. isn't home but the wife is, and Neff is immediately smitten. Phyllis (Barbara Stanwyck), in perhaps the most seductive entrance in all the genre, appears at the top of the stairs, wearing nothing but a bath towel and high-heeled bedroom slippers decorated with pom-poms.

After dressing she comes down and Neff explains the purpose of his visit, but he's got his eye on her leg and his mind's not on insurance. The script (by Wilder and Raymond Chandler) jazzes up the source novel by pulp crime writer James Cain with snappy dialog. When the two antagonists get together it is laced with plenty of double entendres. The most memorable exchange takes place during their first meeting:

Neff: I wish you'd tell me what's engraved on that anklet.
Phyllis: Just my name.
Neff: As for instance?
Phyllis: Phyllis.
Neff: Phyllis, huh. I think I like that.
Phyllis: But you're not sure.
Neff: I'd have to drive it around the block a couple of times.
Phyllis: (Standing up.) Mr. Neff, why don't you drop by tomorrow evening around 8:30? He'll be in then.
Neff: Who?
Phyllis: My husband. You were anxious to talk to him, weren't you?
Neff: Yeah, I was. But I'm sort of getting over the idea, if you know what I mean.
Phyllis: There's a speed limit in this state, Mr. Neff, 45 miles an hour.
Neff: How fast was I going, Officer?
Phyllis: I'd say around 90.
Neff: Suppose you get down off your motorcycle and give me a ticket.
Phyllis: Suppose I let you off with a warning this time.
Neff: Suppose it doesn't take.
Phyllis: Suppose I have to whack you over the knuckles.
Neff: Suppose I bust out crying and put my head on your shoulder.
Phyllis: Suppose you try putting it on my husband's shoulder.
Neff: That tears it... (He takes his hat and briefcase after his advances are coldly rebuffed.) 8:30 tomorrow evening, then.
Phyllis: That's what I suggested.
Neff: You'll be here too?
Phyllis: I guess so. I usually am.
Neff: Same chair, same perfume, same anklet?
Phyllis: I wonder if I know what you mean.
Neff: (Opening the entrance door.) I wonder if you wonder.

Stanwyck as Phyllis Dietrichson, a dangerous blond bombshell.

Much has been made of Phyllis being an iconic femme fatale, perhaps the iconic femme fatale character in all of cinema. She is certainly devious, and a tempting seductress for a man like Walter Neff, who's attracted to her borderline trashy looks and honeysuckle perfume. It doesn't take her long to size him up. She's an experienced predator and Neff is an easy mark. She plays hard to get just long enough while flaunting her sexuality, then turns on the vulnerability. It's a dangerous combination.

Because of the opening scene, the audience knows before Neff that this woman is bad news, or at least it's reasonable to assume so. He'll catch up to speed in the next scene.  

She invites him to return to the house the next afternoon. The husband is conveniently away. They get comfortable on the couch. Walter, with lust in his mind, may not be the sharpest man, but when she asks if his company offers accident insurance and if can she buy some without her husband knowing, a red flag goes up. Suspicious she's contemplating murder, Neff tells her she won't get away with it and leaves. Wilder lets you know what the character is thinking in a voice-over:

"So I let her have it, straight between the eyes. She didn't fool me for a minute, not this time. I knew I had ahold of a red hot poker, and the time to drop it was before it burned my hand off."

But Neff is weak. When Phyllis turns up at his apartment that night to ostensibly apologize, she's wearing a tight angora sweater. He grabs her and kisses her, telling her that he is crazy about her. A shift back to the present with Neff and the dictaphone allows Neff to admit that what happens next isn't solely the result of being seduced by Phyllis. He's long wondered if he was smart enough to "crook the game," fraud the insurance company with a perfect crime.

Back to the apartment we find the couple still on the couch. Walter is reclined, having a cigarette. Phyllis is fixing her lipstick. The implication is clear--they have just made love. Walter tells her he will come up with a fool-proof plan to do away with her husband. A $50,000 accident policy with a double indemnity clause (paying twice the face amount for an accidental death) will yield them $100,000. The pact, and their fates, are sealed.

Phyllis provides the spark, but it is Walter who masterminds the crime. If throughout the film we feel some sympathy for the sap, it's also clear he is no innocent bystander. Several scenes depict him in what became a classic noir motif; shadowy venetian blind slats cross his face and body, suggesting prison bars. This is just one of the effective uses of shadow featured in one of the darkest of all noirs. Stanwyck gets the treatment too, and has a wonderfully dark scene at the end when she waits for Walter to arrive at her house. The lights are off and she fires up a cigarette. The smoke slowly wafts up as Miklos Rozsa's terrific score helps create a sense of ominous dread.

Another memorable scene takes place at Jerry's Market as the two co-conspirators surreptitiously talk over the plan as they reach for canned goods. Phyllis hides behind sun glasses. Filmed mostly on location, at least for the exteriors, L.A. provides a great setting for the action, one of the most entertaining aspects of classic films. Besides the 1940s wardrobe, we get the big period automobiles. There's a nice, atmospheric shot of the Hollywood Bowl from a wooded hillside.

The plan is all Walter's, and on the surface it's a fine one. They execute it well enough, knocking the unsuspecting husband off in a classic murder scene, with Neff hiding in the back seat of the car as Phyllis drives her husband to the train station. Director Wilder stages it all meticulously and with great suspense. Never showing the actual strangulation, the camera instead focuses on Stanwyck's face. A slight smile of satisfaction creases her lips, erasing any remaining doubt of the audience that the woman is anything but cold and wicked.

The sequence involves an impersonation, the placement of the body on the train tracks, and a tense moment when the getaway car fails to start. Walter has established his alibi. It all starts to unravel when his boss, Barton Keyes (Edward G. Robinson), a veteran claims examiner, starts to listen to his intuition. Convinced the death could not have been suicide based on statistics, and a highly unlikely accident, he concocts a murder scenario that remarkably mirrors what actually happened.

Walter and Phyllis dump the body.

As good as Stanwyck and MacMurray are--she received an Oscar nomination as Best Actress--it's Robinson's performance that most resonates and the character you most care about. He's completely believable and perfect as the slightly gruff, obsessive professional, whose passion is to protect the company and see his protege, Walter, get ahead. He's shrewd and can smell a phony claim a mile away. The two characters have a couple of terrific scenes together, masking their affection for one another in office banter. Keyes is always patting his vest pocket, looking for a match to light his cigar. Walter always produces one, lighting it with a flick of his thumb. In the film's last scene, the ritual is reversed.

"Closer than that, Walter."

For Stanwyck's character, Wilder famously had her don a blond wig. The wig, the anklet, and the sun glasses collectively help define Phyllis and demonstrate Wilder's skill at using little things to make one of his characters physically memorable. (Other examples in his canon are Jack Lemmon's bowler in The Apartment and William Holden's cigar in Stalag 17). She wears a lot of makeup too, suggestive of a less than high-class background, but a woman who knows how to flirt to get a man hot. Stanwyck fans won't find her unattractive, and the look works perfectly for Neff, a man not used to attention from a sexy woman.

Stanwyck could play anything, and do it damned well. Maybe that's why she never got a competitive Oscar. Academy voters likely took her for granted. If Phyllis Dietrichson isn't her best performance, it's right up there. Certainly, it is her most memorable one.

An important subplot with Phyllis' step-daughter and her boyfriend, a man named Nino Zachetti, comes into play. Zarchetti comes within a hair's width of being framed for murder, and Phyllis' unsavory past peaks Keyes' interest.

One of the best scenes takes place as Keyes comes to visit Walter at his apartment. Worrying about the case is causing him indigestion. He relates that he's starting to think that the "wide-eyed dame," as the beneficiary, may have murdered her husband. Phyllis arrives in the hallway as the two men talk and hides behind the open door when Keyes leaves for the elevator. Walter feels her presence, and for a moment, the audience gets to share his fear that Keyes will discover his relationship with the widow.



A narrow escape.

As Keyes closes in on the truth, the pressure ratchets up on the two lovers, and double-crosses make their ugly appearance. As Keyes so adroitly observes: "Murder is never perfect. It always comes apart sooner or later. When two people are involved, it's usually sooner." By film's end we are back in the insurance office, with Walter finishing up his story. It ends as all noirs do. No crime goes unpunished.

In all, the film nabbed 7 Academy Award nominations, including Best Picture; Best Director--the first of 8 for Wilder in this capacity; Best Actress--the third of four for Stanwyck; Best Cinematography; and Best Music--one of 15 career nods for Miklos Rozsa. Incredibly, it won none.

1944 was a terrific year for film noir. Besides Double Indemnity, there was Laura; Murder, My Sweet; and Woman in the Window. Joseph LaShelle's camera work for Laura went head-to-head with John Seitz for Double Indemnity and won. Director Wilder used both men during his career. Here's a list of their Wilder films:

Seitz: Double Indemnity, The Lost Weekend, and Sunset Boulevard.
LaShelle: The Apartment, Irma la Douce, and The Fortune Cookie

Author James Cain.

The Cranes are Flying (1957) - Mikhail Kalatozov

Tatyana Samojlova as Veronica.

Veronica and Boris are madly in love, as happy as two young people can be. But it is the eve of World War II, and already the Russian capital feels the effects. Boris, who can likely avoid the draft because of his talent as an artist, is caught up in the fervor. Out of duty, he volunteers to serve in the army as the German forces approach Moscow. Their planned marriage interrupted, Veronica and Boris are caught up in the horror of war. Can their love sustain them?

One of the most powerful anti-war films ever made, The Cranes are Flying has universal appeal. The first Russian film to capture the Cannes Film Festival's prestigious Palme d'Or, it was one of the first Russian films cleared for production after the death of Joseph Stalin in 1953. Russia, of course, suffered an estimated 25 million casualties during the global conflict, by far the most of any nation, so director Kalatozov and the Russian film industry had plenty of harrowing experience to draw upon.

For anyone not inclined to give foreign films a chance, this is a good place to start. You are likely to change your mind. Wonderfully directed, it has superb black & white cinematography, fine pacing, a beautiful star, and a story sure to touch any viewer.    

It starts with a sweet scene, two young lovers, euphorically skipping hand-in-hand along the river bank. Veronica (Tatyana Samojlova) radiates happiness. She is beautiful, and Boris (Aleksey Batalov) is tall and handsome. It is morning--they've been out all night. He affectionately calls her "squirrel," and because it is time for him to go to work in the factory, they plan their next rendezvous as he escorts her home. She tip-toes up the stairs so as not to wake her parents. In a nice moment, the camera pans to old couple in bed and we see a conversation every parent has at one time or another, worrying about their children. They hear their daughter's footsteps but pretend to sleep. The mother whispers, "She is crazy about him." "And he about her," the father replies.

The idyllic interlude is brief. Boris secretly plans on joining the army but holds off telling Veronica--he hasn't gotten his notice and next week is her birthday. It comes soon enough in the most moving "going off to war" sequence I have ever seen, beautifully acted and directed.

As Veronica is having fun contemplating their wedding, Boris' friend, Stepan, arrives with the exciting news. She is stunned; Boris must leave that afternoon. With no time to spare, they part having said little, but she promises to meet him later at his house for a quick celebratory lunch with his family. Like Veronica, Boris' father is stunned by the unexpected news, furious that his son has joined the army. It's not said, but the impression left by his reaction suggests the father knows well the horror of war from his own youth, perhaps during the Russian revolution. In any event, fearful that his son has put himself in harm's way, he is proud and must reluctantly accept the decision.

Delayed by traffic, Veronica arrives too late to join in cake and a toast. At the station, Boris scans the crowd, desperately looking for her, wondering now if she is so angry at him that she chose not to come. There is a crush of people saying goodbye to the young men, who are filled with illusions of great adventure, not thinking of the danger ahead. The camera pans the many faces of family members left behind, some happy and proud, but most with tears of worry and dread. It is a powerful scene.

Veronica arrives and forces her way through the crowd, finally catching a glimpse of Boris as he marches to the train. It is loud, martial music plays, the crowd cheers. She calls out but Boris doesn't see or hear her. Hurt and confused, his head is down, his eyes vacant. He looks dazed and disappointed. She tries to toss him some cookies wrapped in a package that she has brought as a gift, but they fall to the pavement beneath the feet of the volunteers. Boris leaves without knowing if Veronica still loves him. The emotional scene compels the viewer to feel his pain and anguish.

In turn, Veronica will be left wondering too. Boris has left her a present, a stuffed toy animal squirrel. He has hidden a note within the basket the animal holds, buried beneath some nuts. She doesn't see it, and won't find it until much later in the film. The hidden note is an interesting plot device that serves to balance the two characters and elicit our empathy for both. 

This entire sequence is highly effective, immensely sad and heart-rending; and perhaps at the time, highly surprising to American audiences, who must have assumed that Russia was a country of only unfeeling, godforsaken communists. But its new leader, Khrushchev, was keen on distancing himself from Stalin, and had granted film-makers new freedom in their art. Kalatozov took advantage of the opportunity and eschewed the usual propaganda produced by previous Russian directors.

As shot, the scene could have depicted any people from any nation that sends its young men off to war--fathers have to fight back tears and mothers and sweethearts are overcome with emotion. The message you take is simple: all wars rip apart a community like no other experience. It doesn't matter if they are American, Chinese, Russian, or anything else. Government leaders lead their nations to war, and common civilians bear the heaviest burden.   

(Note: spoilers follow)

To emphasize the fact that the world is changing, Kalatozov has already shown the audience that Moscow is readying for war: Boris digging defensive trenches, Veronica and Boris hanging blackout curtains, iron defenses aligned along the river downtown. When the German bombs begin to rain down, the populace head for the subway. In one such attack, Veronica emerges to find  her apartment building leveled, both parents killed. In a well-designed scene, she rushes up the open stairway amidst fire and smoke. It looks quite dangerous. Boris' father takes her in, telling Boris' cousin, Mark, that they have to protect her.

Veronica now waits for a letter from Boris that doesn't come, either because he hasn't time to write or because communication lines are disrupted--we never know. She grows increasingly depressed. Another bombing attack finds her and Mark together at Boris' family apartment. Mark, a musician who we later learned has avoided the draft by bribing an official to secure an exemption, has long harbored his own desire for Veronica. During the commotion of the bombing, he rapes her. Confused, feeling disgraced, and not knowing Boris' fate or feelings, she makes a regretful decision, and reluctantly consents to marry the scoundrel.

The focus shifts briefly to Boris on a reconnaissance mission traveling through the miserable landscape. Mud rises above his ankles. Gunfire from the enemy breaks the silence. He never forgets Veronica and carries her photograph close to his heart. His death comes quietly. He falls, spinning to the wet ground with his last thoughts of her as in a dream, imagining their wedding.

Boris helps another soldier.

In the meantime, Veronica continues to wait for a letter. She now works as a nurse in a hospital with Boris' father, a doctor. The separation is hard on her. One woman describes her as a ghost. 

The actor who plays Boris' father gives a strong performance. When Mark and Veronica announce they are going to marry, he sits silent, stirring his coffee, but his face lets you know he is furious. This is a betrayal of his son. As far as we know, she never reveals to him the circumstances of the rape, so his anger is understandable. Still, from here, he feels conflicted about Veronica. In a moment that hits too close to home, she overhears his harsh comments when a wounded soldier creates a loud commotion. The boy is upset, having been informed that his own girl friend has married someone else, a civilian. To rally the boy's spirit, the doctor argues that such a girl is contemptible, saying she married a coward who sits out the war at home, letting others protect him. Full of self-loathing and distraught, Veronica runs out. The doctor suddenly realizes the effect his words have had on the poor girl and is ashamed. It was an honest speech, but not one he meant for her. The pain on his face reveals he is sick at heart. Thankfully, he later gets a chance to apologize, saying only someone without a heart could reproach her.

But for now, Veronica contemplates suicide. The need to intervene to save a young child from being run over in traffic, jolts her out of her funk and gives her a new purpose. Coincidentally, the boy's name is Boris. She takes him in as if she were his own mother. 

Veronica eventually finds the note from Boris in another dramatic scene. She reads the contents, and in a voice-over we hear Boris explain his decision and profess to her his undying love. Her faith renewed, she continues to hold out hope he will return, even when another soldier later tells her he was killed in action. The film ends with the soldiers coming home as victors to a jubilant city, the war over. Stepan is among the veterans and confirms Boris' death. He then gives a stirring speech of hope to the crowd. Symbolically, cranes fly over the city as the music swells (an image seen in the opening moments of the film) and Boris' father leads Veronica away.

Boris and Veronica admire the cranes. 

Besides its moving message, the film is technically magnificent. The director makes judicious use of hand-held cameras to convey the terror of the battlefield and moments of panic, and selective closeups of Veronica at key moments. Always her face is perfectly lit and expressive.

Tatyana Samojlova is tremendous in the role as the heroine, and it would be tough for anyone to fault her character's decision to marry the reprehensible Mark. We can't help but feel compassion for the girl. As the father-in-law says at one point, she has been through a terrible ordeal. Just 23 at the time of filming, it is quite a performance from one so young, and only her second film. Compare it to Julia Christie's performance in a somewhat similarly themed film, Dr. Zhivago, and it is even more impressive.

Hush... Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1964) - Robert Aldrich

Charlotte Hollis has a problem. An aging recluse and spinster, she hopes to hang onto the family plantation and mansion, which lies in the path of a planned bridge and freeway. To stop the bulldozers, she solicits the help of her cousin, Miriam. At the same time, she is haunted with memories of a murder that took place in the mansion thirty-seven years earlier. Is she going insane?

"Get off my property!"

Thankfully, director Robert Aldrich's 1962 film Whatever Happened to Baby Jane was a commercial and critical success, earning 5 Oscar nominations and the year's fourth highest box office. It starred two giants of an earlier era, Bette Davis and Joan Crawford. Aldrich hoped to duplicate that smash by reuniting the two actors for another psychological thriller two years later. And though Crawford would drop out of the project shortly after filming started and be replaced by Olivia de Havilland, Aldrich achieved his objective. Hush... Hush, Sweet Charlotte is a terrifically atmospheric Southern Gothic thriller. While not earning as much in ticket sales, it surpassed the first film in Oscar nominations with 7.

The film opens with a flashback. It is 1927. Louisiana. Big Sam Hollis (Victor Bruno), an important man of wealth and power, is hosting an extravagant party at the Hollis mansion in one of parishes of New Orleans. Charlotte, his only daughter, is a young belle with mischief up her sleeve. That night she and John Mayhew (Bruce Dern), a neer-do-well who is already married, plan to elope. But Sam has gotten wind of their scheme. He intimidates the weak Mayhew into renouncing his love, leaving Charlotte heart-broken and furious. "I'll kill you," she screams at Mayhew, before storming out in tears. Later that night, John sits alone in the summerhouse, distraught over the turn of events. Suddenly he hears something and looks up. A raised cleaver falls and slices off his wrist. It drops again and again as he screams in pain and terror. 

We next see Charlotte, backing slowly into the main house through the front doors. The party is in full swing. She turns to face the revellers and the camera focuses to the front of her dress. It's splattered in blood. She appears almost catatonic. Naturally, everyone assumes she is the killer when John is later found dead, decapitated and one hand severed. It's not shown on screen, but Sam exerts his political influence in the state capital to get the case swept under the rug, but his health is broken and he dies within the year, leaving Charlotte as his sole heir. Ever since, she has been shunned by society.

A newspaper account of the gruesome murder.

With this intriguing start, Aldrich brings us to the present, 1964. The Hollis mansion and plantation lie in the way of a planned freeway. Charlotte stubbornly ignores the eviction notice, going so far as to threaten the bulldozer crew with a rifle. Her only ally is Velma (Agnes Moorehead), her devoted housekeeper, but Velma is as old and as tired as her employer. Charlotte thinks she has a trick up her sleeve--cousin Miriam (Olivia de Havilland), whom she calls for assistance.

Although Davis and de Havilland each had a few productive years ahead, their best years were clearly well behind them at this point, at least as headliners. Both were both two-time Best Actress winners and at various times arguably each the top actress in Hollywood, certainly among the most acclaimed. But that was more than a decade in the past. Joseph Cotten is also featured as Drew Bayless, Charlotte's personal physician. Though Cotten never reached their rarefied heights of popularity, he was a solid 1940s star in his own right. All three had legions of fans. It's a joy watching these three pros from Hollywood's golden age get the chance to act together in a thoroughly enjoyable, well-produced film at this stage of their careers. They look to be having great fun.

Davis has the flashiest and meatiest role, portraying a troubled and confused woman, whose behavior borders on looniness. It's no wonder. Charlotte is fragile by nature, was coddled as a youth, and continues to be haunted by a terrible past tragedy. Perhaps a little paranoid, maybe even demented, she's certainly worn down by the long ridicule she's had to endure. The cruel neighborhood kids make fun of the crazy lady in the old house with a nasty song, one no doubt passed down by their parents:

"Chop chop, sweet Charlotte
Chop chop 'tll he's dead
Chop chop, sweet Charlotte
Chop off his hand and head."

Davis gives a terrific performance, running a gamut of emotions, and as she seemingly descends into madness she elicits our sympathy. One horror scene sends her crawling down the stairs, gasping in shock. Only a confident actor could pull it off without looking a little ridiculous. Davis makes it seem all too realistic.

I prefer her performance here over her nominated role in Baby Jane, which seems intentionally over-the-top and one-dimensional in comparison. She is even effective during the first present-day sequence, when her slumber is interrupted by a boy who's entered her house at night on a dare. Likely dreaming of her old lover, she calls plaintively..., "John?" The frightened boy flees, leaving Charlotte standing in the door holding a music book that plays the theme melody. Quiet tears run down her cheeks as the opening credits role. Here is a character obviously suffering great emotional pain. You wonder how often she wakes in similar fashion, momentarily thinking John has finally come to spirit her away.

Miriam asks Drew how she has managed to live alone so many years. "People who are obliged to live alone have a habit of creating company for themselves," he explains. "Innocent fancies can become fixed illusions."

Charlotte in one of her less lucid moments.

The plot pulls elements from two earlier psychological thrillers, the French horror classic Diabolique, and Gaslight, and Aldrich adds his own touch of black humor. Eerie harpsichord music plays at night. Hounds bay. There are ghostly voices. Curtains billow and a cleaver and severed hand make a mysterious appearance. Do these things really happen or are they hallucinations of Charlotte's damaged mind? When asked if she's really crazy like the people think, she admits her own doubt, answering sadly: "There was a time when I was positive I wasn't."

And there are present-day murders, one when a character cracks a chair over another's head to send the victim careening down the stairs. The script is great fun, particularly when voiced by Davis and Cotten, whose Southern inflections drip with honey. Cotten also infuses his character with an overdose of self-confidence. He skirts just this side of sleazy as the physician, a little too casual and uncaring of Charlotte's predicament, and a little too fond of her wine cellar.

A favorite bit of dialog occurs when Charlotte and Drew sit down to dinner with Miriam upon her arrival. There's tension in the room, and for a while it's apparent past slights still fester between the relatives. Charlotte wants Mariam to go to Baton Rouge to put things right with the county commissioners. When she and Drew suggest once too often that there's no way to prevent the mansion being torn down, Charlotte finally reacts with anger. "What do you think I asked you here for?" she screeches, "COMPANY?" 

Olivia de Havilland as Cousin Miriam.

de Havilland, 48 at filming, looks lovely, and her elegant voice works perfectly for her character, who may not be what she first seems. In this film, no one is. As interesting as Crawford might have been in the role, de Havilland's fortuitous casting enhanced the film immensely because her character is so different from what her fans had come to expect from this Hollywood legend. Moreover, she was generally considered one of Hollywood's most graceful and nicest stars. When Miriam slaps Charlotte out of frustration and viciously scolds her like an unruly child, you are shocked. Crawford wouldn't have induced the same reaction from the audience, particularly given the well-publicized ill feelings the two actors harbored for one another.

Moorehead, nominated for a Supporting Actress award for her efforts here--her career fourth--also shines. Looking like she was rolled up wet and stuffed in a closet overnight, her hair hangs in disarray and her dress might be a Goodwill reject. She's more clever than she looks though, and better able than Charlotte to read people's character.

Think I don't know a due bill when I see one? - Moorehead as Velma.

Another star from the 1940s, Mary Astor, best known as the femme fatale from The Maltese Falcon, appears as Jewel Mayhew, the murdered man's wife. She holds the key to the mystery and has kept it secret for decades. Aldrich's story fashions a clever connection between her and cousin Miriam, who  lived at the Hollis mansion at the time of the original murder.

It's too bad that Astor is only in two scenes because her character is fascinating. One of the best scenes in the film occurs when she encounters Miriam on the street. Jewel, whose health is rapidly failing and whose pocketbook is nearly empty, is disgusted to find the woman in her town. She doesn't bother to hide her contempt. The viewer finds out later why she behaves so.

In the other scene she has tea with a visiting insurance man, Harry Willis (Cecil Kellaway), who helps unravel the mystery for the audience. Kellaway handles these types of roles wonderfully. He has a quiet, friendly voice, one that sounds pleasant and thoughtful. Charlotte and Jewel both instantly trust him. In the final edit, Aldrich unfortunately removed a part of their dialog, which would have given her character considerably more depth. Willis wonders why she never collected on an insurance policy on her husband. She explains that she simply couldn't capitalize on her loss. And she makes a confession:

"I believe you must know a thing I've been very late in learning...that the wickedest act in this life is to sit in judgement on others...and bring down vengeance upon them... The frightful things that happened when my husband died. And the other things, the quiet, slowly festering ones that have gone on happening ever since..." (a pause)

Me, alone here in this house---Charlotte alone over there, a frightened exile from the world. No matter what she did..." (she breaks off, lost in some private reminiscence, then she shakes her head) "More than one life was taken that night."

Jewel Mayhew's time is short.

There is something special about stories set in America's deep South that draw audiences in, that fire its imagination. Maybe for those of us not born there, it represents the closest thing we can get in this country to an exotic locale. Southern settings suggest the past. Aldrich and crew do a marvelous job of tapping into this sensation. You can almost smell the wisteria and feel the sweat dripping down your back.

Throughout, it is simply one of the most atmospheric films of its type. The old mansion has seen better days. It seems dusty and in need of a new paint job. Old nick knacks and relics adorn the big rooms. Wicker chairs sit on the veranda. It looks like someplace your rich old grandmother might have lived in. Charlotte can see the family graveyard from her balcony, and outside, the surrounding bald cypress trees drip with long wisps of moss that float in the breeze. Of course, Aldrich's decision to film in black and white just enhances the effect. 

The mood is also enriched by a lovely theme song (sung by Al Martino over the closing credits). It plays frequently in the background as the action unfolds and even gets a brief rendition by both Davis and Cotten during certain scenes. William Glasgow and Raphael Bretton earned well-deserved Oscar nominations for art and set direction.

Some viewers may find the film on the campy side, devoid of subtlety. Not me. And if some of the performances come off as exaggerated, they perfectly capture how I picture Southerners of the period to be: eccentric, possessing long memories--particularly when it comes to grudges--and having little restraint when it comes to their emotions. From start to finish it is a meticulously crafted and presented film, full of engaging suspense and characters.


Other Films by Robert Aldrich:

• Kiss Me Deadly  - 1955
• Autumn Leaves  - 1956
• What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?  - 1962
• The Flight of the Phoenix - 1965
• The Dirty Dozen - 1967

Favorite Films of the 1960s

The 1960s were my formative years and my introduction to movies. Here are some of my favorites from the decade--I tried but can't cut it to ten. Some on the list may not be the decade's best, but they're ones I revisit often, ones that I can't resist watching when I come upon them surfing the TV,  from whatever point in the film.

A transitional decade for American film, by the end the old Studio system was kaput; and mirroring the changing society, films became progressively more permissive and violent. Most Classic film-lovers undoubtedly lament the change. Ever since, most actors seem less discerning in their choice of roles, and more producers more interested in capturing box office than putting out quality work. This may not be so, but it seems like it. In any case, 1960s cinema is a fine place to take a journey in nostalgia.

I never list these things in order, most to least favorite. It's impossible. Instead, I'll go with chronological order.

The Apartment - 1960

Shirley MacLaine's best role as a cute elevator girl unlucky in love. Jack Lemmon is the schmuck who loans out his apartment to office execs for hanky-panky. Whoever thought Steve Douglas a cad? (That's Fred MacMurry for those of you unfamiliar with the 1960s sitcom, My Three Sons). Favorite scene is the Christmas party when C.C. Baxter looks at Miss Kubelic's broken compact mirror, and realizes that she's the girl the boss is taking to his apartment. It's Wilder's best -- humor wise.

Psycho - 1960

Hitchcock took it up a notch with this creepy suspense thriller, paving the way for countless imitators to follow. Two iconic death scenes and Anthony Perkins' best performance. Favorite scene is the dinner conversation between Marion Crane and a disturbed Norman, who'd never hurt a fly. Stuffed animals never looked innocent again.     

To Kill a Mockingbird - 1962

Robert Mulligan's beautiful take on Harper Lee's timeless Pulitzer Prize-winning novel about growing up in the South. Gregory Peck's sensitive performance of courage in the face of racial prejudice is the best of his career, but it's Mary Badham's innocent Scout that is most memorable for me. Elmer Bernstein's haunting theme song, the old preacher telling Scout to stand because her father is passing, Boo Radley, and Atticus and Scout on the porch swing--it all adds up to a beloved film. Favorite scene is Scout on the courthouse steps, shaming the mob.     

Hatari - 1962

A sentimental favorite, perhaps the first drive-in feature I ever saw. Animal rights activists surely deride the film today, but it's still exciting and a great blend of adventure and humor. One of the last times John Wayne gets the girl--this time the lovely Elsa Martinelli. I love the Mancini score and still jump during the dangerous rhino chase.

The Great Escape - 1963

So what if John Sturges stuck Americans into Stalag Luft III on the eve of the war's largest prisoner escape? Authenticity aside, it's still the best of its kind. It solidified Steve McQueen's status as a superstar and showed the Allies putting one over on the Gestapo, albeit momentarily. A great all-star cast of the decade's top action heroes, and another memorable score by Elmer Bernstein. The night they go is nail-biting stuff. Favorite scene is McQueen's (stuntman Bud Ekins) motorcycle jump.

Charade - 1963

Cary Grant's last terrific film. Audrey Hepburn still looks great in Givenchy. Mancini's memorable theme. A nice twisting plot and the closest you can get to Hitchcock without the man. Everyone looks like they're having fun in Stanley Donen's delightful farce. Favorite scene is the romantic boat ride down the Seine at night and the stars' first kiss.

Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte - 1964

Southern Gothic was never more fun than in the hands of Robert Aldrich. Bette Davis is perfect as a woman who thinks she is coming unglued. A Classic film-lover's treasure with Davis, Joseph Cotton, Mary Astor, Agnes Morehead, Cecil Kelloway, and Olivia de Havilland, all nearing the end of their careers. A great theme song, though I wish Aldrich had included Patti Paige's vocal. Favorite moment is Davis' cutting remark to cousin Miriam: "What do you think I asked you here for? COMPANY?"

Seven Days in May - 1964

A not-so-far fetched political thriller about a planned military coup during the height of the Cold War. Fredric March's last great performance. Director John Frankenheimer was on a roll, sandwiching this between The Manchurian Candidate and The Train. Favorite scene is March's "tunnel of tyranny" speech at the end as President Jordan Lyman.

The Spy Who Came in From the Cold - 1965

Richard Burton's best performance as a seemingly burnt-out spy, Alec Leamas. From John Le Carre's terrific thriller, no film exposed the dirty underbelly of the spy game better. Burton's speech about men who devote their lives to espionage is his finest moment: "Seedy, squalid bastards like me: little men, drunkards, queers, hen-pecked husbands, civil servants playing cowboys and Indians to brighten their rotten little lives."

Alfie - 1966

Michael Caine breaks the fourth wall as an unrepentant ladies' man who likes his "birds." Hard to believe Caine was ever this thin and handsome. The film does a terrific job at capturing societal mores of the decade. Caine makes a cad charming and funny, at least up to a point. Favorite scene is Shelley Winters' giving him a taste of his own medicine. What's it all about, indeed.

The Good The Bad The Ugly - 1967

No one made a Western more fun to watch than Sergio Leone in this third "man with no name" feature. Three treasure hunters vie for buried gold in the middle of the Civil War. A terrific Morricone score and plenty of memorable sequences in Leone's signature style, highlighted by Eli Wallach's fabulous Tuco. Favorite scene is the last one: the shootout at the cemetery with Blondie leaving Tuco atop the shaky cross.

Bullitt - 1968

Steve McQueen at his coolest. As tight a police story as you will see with the best car chase of the decade. It provides a perfect snapshot of late 60s' fashion and culture. Favorite moment is the bad guys losing McQueen in the hills of San Francisco, only to see him appear in their rear-view mirror.

Planet of the Apes - 1968

What other film better captures the folly of the nuclear age? Perhaps the decade's best ending, even if you suspect the big reveal earlier.Totally mesmerizing in its day. It's still hard to picture Stella (Kim Hunter) in that makeup. Favorite moment is Charlton Heston's "Take your stinking paws off me you damn dirty ape!"

The Alamo (1960) - John Wayne

The defense of the Alamo mission in 1836 by a small band of Texians against superior forces under Mexican General Santa Anna has been brought to the scene numerous times, but none so famous as John Wayne's 1960 directorial debut. The battle was a pivotal moment in the Texas Revolution, one that over time evolved into one of America's greatest myths. Wayne, at the time America's biggest star, was the perfect man to take on the role of the myth's biggest hero, Davy Crockett. He did so, only after financial backers insisted the popular star assume one of the major roles.

Though it has faults, the final film is exciting and a rousing tale, one that captures the spirit of the times, the heroic nature of the men, and the ideals that Wayne embraced in this very personal project. All in all, he had ample reason to be proud of the film, particularly considering the number of hats he was wearing: producer, director, actor, and financial backer.

Wayne kept the story's basic structure, with three equally-stressed leads. Besides his own Crockett, Richard Widmark appears as Jim Bowie, and Lawrence Harvey as Colonel Travis. Thanks in part to the script, Wayne comes off best. As Crockett he gets the best speeches, the first with Travis in a cantina. Harvey's right for his role of a martinet. He always strikes me as somewhat unpleasant, bordering on obnoxious, a little full of himself and self-righteous. The character of Travis comes off similarly, so it works. Travis wonders if Crockett and his men will join the fight to free Texas. Crockett explains his motives:

Crockett: Republic. I like the sound of the word. It means people can live free, talk free, go or come, buy or sell, be drunk or sober, however they choose. Some words give you a feeling. Republic is one of those words that makes me tight in the throat - the same tightness a man gets when his baby takes his first step or his first baby shaves and makes his first sound as a man. Some words can give you a feeling that makes your heart warm. Republic is one of those words.



Widmark as Bowie and Harvey as Travis.


Later, there's a beautiful scene with Crockett and Flaca (Linda Cristal), a native Mexican woman from San Antonio. They talk beside a small stream beneath a majestic tree. Crockett expands on his reasons for coming to the territory.

Crockett: It was like I was empty. Well, I'm not empty anymore. That's what's important, to feel useful in this old world, to hit a lick against what's wrong for what's right even though you get walloped for saying that word. Now I may sound like a Bible beater yelling up a revival at a river crossing camp meeting, but that don't change the truth none. There's right and there's wrong. You got to do one or the other. You do the one and you're living. You do the other and you may be walking around, but you're dead as a beaver hat.

Wayne as Crockett and Linda Crystal as Flaca. 

Cristal, who doesn't have much to do except look beautiful, is only in a few scenes before the action takes off. Her character could have been excised from the film for pacing purposes, but I'm glad Wayne left her in. The only other time I've seen her is in the 1960's television Western The High Chapparral. She's lovely.

Sometimes Widmark's performance seems slightly strained. In the film, as in real life, Bowie severely injures his leg before the final battle. Bowie also suffered from consumption. Perhaps Widmark tried too hard to infuse his character with what he perceived must have been the man's sour mood. Either that, or Widmark felt slighted knowing he was playing third fiddle in the film.

He does get my favorite line in the film though. The Mexicans have arrived and Santa Anna sends out an officer under a flag of truce to suggest the defenders capitulate. As the man reads the message, Travis gives his answer by touching the end of his cigar to ignite the fuse of a cannon. It fires, interrupting the man's speech. Bowie, who up to this point has found nothing to like in the arrogant Travis, turns to Crockett: "I'd hate to say anything good about that long-winded jackanapes, but he does know the short way to start a war."

The actual battle is well directed, though depicted in full daylight instead of pre-dawn darkness as actually happened. The physical layout of the Alamo complex helps. You get a real sense of its weakness as a defensive position. Clearly, Wayne strove for authenticity here, having built a close replica, purportedly from surviving blueprints. It begins with martial music punctuated by drummers as long lines of infantry and cavalry take their positions. There's plenty of courage from both sides. Cannon and gunsmoke and the sounds of battle work to enhance the viewers' feel of desperation for the heavily out-numbered defenders, and several impressive stunt sequences include riders and horses falling, and exploding adobe walls that send defenders flying through the air.

This is the best part of the film, demonstrating that, as director, Wayne was more adept at action than the buildup.

The most valid knock against the film is its length, evidence that Wayne as a director had difficulty exercising restraint when it came to editing. It takes nearly 80 minutes before the Mexican army arrives on scene. Wayne mimics his mentor John Ford and includes a few moments of forced humor--supporting actor Chill Wills doesn't help matters--and there is a long sequence that precedes the battle where Crockett and some of his men tussle with a local merchant who's trying to manipulate Flaca into marriage. It's not needed, other than to show that the Texas population included both supporters and opponents of Santa Anna.

And the film has its historical inaccuracies, one of the most glaring being the timing of the death of Jim Bowie's wife--it happened well before the events shown in the film. Wayne placed it during the siege and has Bowie read the news in a letter, one of the film's most dramatic moments. It's also Widmark's finest moment.

Still, Wayne wanted to make a film about ideas--that it takes courage to fight against all odds for something you believe in--and in that he succeeded wonderfully.

More importantly, he gets one of the most essential facts right. If not prominently displayed, Wayne doesn't shy away from the fact that Sam Houston, Travis, Bowie and men of their ilk were rebels, seeking through violence to break away from what they perceived was a despotic leader. And when Wayne includes the fabricated sequence of Crockett composing a letter, supposedly from Santa Anna, to trick his men into joining the Alamo defenders, he calls the Tennesseans "interlopers," arguing this isn't their fight. It is an accurate description.     

The film earned 7 Oscar nominations, including Best Picture. The music by 16-time Oscar nominee Dimitri Tiomkin is one of his best scores.

Cinematographer William Clothier, best known for Westerns, did spectacular work in certain scenes: the men from Tennessee riding through the tall grass, the lone sentinel atop the church at dusk, the grand scale of the final attack. There's also some nice scenes of the Mexican army's march through the harsh countryside. It includes thousands of extras, looking resplendent in their colorful uniforms.

A beautiful composition by cameraman William Clothier.

The Asphalt Jungle (1950) - John Huston

Doc is fresh out of the pen with a foolproof plan to knock off a jewelry store, one last big score before he retires to chase pretty girls in Mexico. He recruits a small group of low-life criminals to help with the job: Gus as driver; Louis to crack the safe; and Dix for muscle. With "the goods" secured, Doc and Dix make their rendezvous with Mr. Emmerich, the financier and fence, whose attempt to double-cross the thieves sends things spiraling out of control.

Director John Huston carved a sub-genre in noir with this stylistic and moody heist film. Often copied, no one has equaled it for its brilliant character development and ability to suck the viewer into the lives of bottom-rung criminals living on the dirty edge of post-war society. The film also exemplifies wonderfully well why black & white cinematography captured the mood of the genre in ways that color photography never could. The dark and shadowy scenes perfectly match the souls of the amoral characters here, and are analogous to the blanket of desperation that grips their lives.

We meet Dix (Sterling Hayden) first, slinking along in the early morning. The cops are looking for him, suspecting him of a nearby hold-up. Dix makes his way to Gus' diner (James Whitmore). Gus hides Dix' revolver in the cash register just before the officers arrive to take him in for questioning. We'll soon learn that Dix likes to play the horses--not well--as he'll return to Gus' to hit his friend up for a loan. At the station, Dix stands in a line-up. He has a long rap sheet. (Look for the middle suspect--a young, skinny Strother Martin in his first screen role.) Dix is released after a victim refuses to finger him as the perpetrator.

Dix hides to elude the police.

Next, we meet Doc Riedenschneider (Sam Jaffe), just out of seven years in prison. He comes to Cobby (Marc Lawrence), a smarmy bookie who has connections. Doc asks him to arrange a meeting with Mr. Emmerich, an attorney who'll finance Doc's caper. Dix arrives to place a bet, and while there, takes offense at something Coffy says and storms out; but in the process, leaves Doc impressed that here might be a man he can count on in a pinch. Later that night, Cobby and Doc visit Emmerich (Louis Calhern). They don't know it, but Emmerich is broke. Unable to support his lavish life style, he sees Doc's plan as a way to get out from under. Emmerich agrees to put up $50,000 so Doc can hire help. He also offers to fence the stolen goods, thereby increasing the overall take for all of them, estimated at upwards of $1 million.

Calhern is perfect as a man who hides behind a facade of wealth. Ostensibly calm, he is a practiced liar, devious, and as desperate as the thieves. In one scene, he confesses his plight to an associate, wringing his hands across his face in anguish. Emmerich has the film's best line. Talking with his bed-ridden wife, he calms her fears about the awful people he comes in contact with. "Oh, there's nothing so different about them," he says. "After all, crime is only... a left-handed form of human endeavor."

As the other two men leave, Emmerich steps into the adjoining room and we discover the cause for the man's financial straights. He leans over his mistress, Angela (Marilyn Monroe), dosing on the couch. A girl like that costs a lot of money to keep happy. Monroe, just 24 here, had appeared on screen before, but this surely was the start of her rocketing to fame as a sex-symbol. She looks like a girl used to getting what she wants, and knowing how to string along a sugar daddy. She only gets two scenes in the film, but they do the trick. Alluring and sensual, she is surprisingly thin and quite lovely. She'll look even better later in an off-the-shoulder black number. Emmerich's expression says it all. All he can do is utter "some sweet kid."

Dix receives a visitor at his simple apartment, Doll, played by Jean Hagen. Hagen gives a fine performance, the best in the film. Doll needs a place to stay for a few days; because the cops raided her place of employment, a clip joint, she's missed payday. Dix and Doll's relationship is the most interesting in the film. We can infer from their conversations they have a history. Perhaps once lovers, they at least seem kindred spirits, similarly downtrodden and unable to catch a break. Like all the characters in this dark story, they clearly haven't made the best choices in life. Still, you sort of feel sorry for both.

Dix either isn't able to express his feelings or doesn't want to. When she asks to spend the night, he says sure, "just don't get any ideas." Still, a smile creased his lips when he saw who'd come to call, and her face lights up expectantly later when he calls her on the stairs as she's leaving the next day. By her gaze, you know she has feelings for him. Like the men in the story, she seems scarred by life, trapped in a dead-end existence. The way she watches him finish his drink, you wonder if she's also an alcoholic.

Hayden as Dix and Hagen as Doll.

By now all the principals have been introduced, and we already know everything we need about the men in a few short scenes. Huston and collaborator Ben Maddow knew how flesh out their characters with little dialog. The script is highly entertaining, filled with clever slang and the nomenclature of the criminal underworld. Doc calls a safe cracker, a "boxman," and when Cobby insults Dix, Dix reacts angrily: "Don't bone me!"

In the asphalt jungle, no one is clean. A corrupt police lieutenant, Ditrich, who's earlier been read the riot act by the police commissioner for losing tract of Doc after his release from prison, interrupts Doc and Cobby in Cobby's office. He's obviously taking money under the table from Cobby. When he realizes who's sitting there, he leaves without speaking.

Doc: That copper, he recognized me.
Cobby: How'd you know he was a copper?
Doc: I can smell one a block off.
Cobby: Oh, don't worry about Ditrich. He's on my payroll. Practically a partner. Me and him, we're like that. [Cobby holds up his index and middle finger]
Doc: Experience has taught me never to trust a policeman. Just when you think one's all right, he turns legit.

A heavy sense of dread permeates the film, the end preordained. Capers like this never end well. The script portends the unrealized hopes for two of the gang. Besides Doc's wish to make Mexico afterwards, Dix laments to Doll about the loss of his family's horse farm, an incident from his youth that has left him deeply scarred. One big score will enable him to buy it back, and the first thing he'll do is "jump in the creek and wash off the dirt of the city." Louis echos the thought that urban life in the post-war city is filthy. Upset that his new son is sick because his wife takes him out in the morning for fresh air, he says it's too cold and barks, "there's no fresh air in this city!"

Doc goes over the plan with his men.

In a wise decision, director Huston doesn't linger on the actual robbery--it's not really the point of the film. It starts off like clockwork, but soon begins to unravel. A night watchman enters the scene. Dix wrestles the man, who drops his weapon. It goes off and Louis is fatally wounded in the stomach. With loot in hand, the robbers disperse. Doc and Dix meet Emmerich to make the exchange, but the shady lawyer doesn't have the promised cash. Doc rejects his offer to stash the jewels there, a decision that doesn't sit well with Emmerich's hired thug.

The end comes as expected, with all the bad guys paying a price for their crime. Cobby proves to be the gang's weak link, confessing under police pressure. As the cops close in, Emmerich isn't man enough to face the music. He at least lets Angela off the hook. His alibi, he tells her to "just tell the truth, baby." The old sap actually loves her.

Doc and Dix split up. Doc looks on his way to safety with the jewels sewn inside his coat, but is waylaid as he stops at a diner where he sits enchanted as a young girl jitterbugs to a juke box. Huston pushes the censor envelope with Jaffe's lecherous look. The best camera shot in the film occurs here, the lens following the girl as she moves to the window, slapping hands and twisting hips. She moves away and we glimpse two cops in the shadows, standing outside looking in.

Doc's vice.

Capturing the mastermind.

The film ends as it began, with Dix. He and Doll escape toward Kentucky. Shot in the side from his encounter at Emmerich's, he's hallucinating from loss of blood and barely conscious. Doll stops at a doctor who proclaims that he won't get far: "He hasn't got enough blood left in him to keep a chicken alive." Somehow they manage to cross the Ohio River and arrive at the old family farm. Dix staggers into the field of bluegrass and collapses as a colt comes to nuzzle his face. Home at last.

Dix makes it home.

The story is based on a novel by W.R. Burnett, who also authored Little Caesar (1931) and High Sierra (1941), two other crime dramas brought successfully to the screen. He also wrote the screenplay for The Great Escape (1963).  Harold Rossen handled the cinematography, so central to the mood of the film. He received an Oscar nomination for his efforts. For his career, Rossen was a five-time nominee.