The Sound of Fury (1950)

The Sound of Fury (aka Try and Get Me!, Cy Endfield, 1950) I was watching an old repeat of "British Antiques Roadshow," when Cy Endfield's name came up. Brought up for appraisal was an elegantly designed silver and gold portable chess-set to commemorate the Bobby Fisher-Boris Spassky match in 1972. Much ooh-ing and ahh-ing was made over the piece for its design characteristics and it was mentioned that the fellow responsible was Endfield, described as a "polymath," as magician, engineer, writer, director and inventor. His most famous (and successful) film was Zulu (1964), a genuine British classic, but he also made Mysterious Island (along with Ray Harryhausen)—his Hell Drivers has been posted here. Those films were made in Britain, but he started his career in America, working at RKO (where his magic legerdemain brought him into the orbit of Orson Welles), and where he directed B-movies like The Underworld Story, only to be black-listed for his political beliefs during the McCarthy era.

The film we're talking about today (no matter which title you use) was particularly labeled by the House Un-American Activities Committee for being "un-American." Seeing as the film—and you could properly call it among the darkest of the film noir genre—is an indictment of capitalism, yellow journalism and mob violence, particularly lynching, one could see where this might cause a stir in '50's America. But, seeing as how it was based on an actual incident (which also inspired Fritz Lang's first American film, Fury), one might consider the source.

The film begins with a blind street-preacher haranguing passers-by that judgment day is coming and they should prepare to meet their lord (you know you're in for a rough time at the movies when that's the first thing you hear—evidently his appearance wasn't enough to assuage HUAC). The passersby ignore him, as does Howard Tyler (Frank Lovejoy), who's now out of work and prospects are thin. He's getting tired of it, especially when his wife (Kathleen Ryan) reminds him of his responsibilities and that they have a son to take care of...with another on the way.  

Tyler moves the family to Santa Sierra, California to get a job in the mines, but is unsuccessful. To get away from his wife's nagging, he goes to the local bowling alley where he meets a sharp named Jerry Slocum (Lloyd Bridges, pushing his acting boundaries considerably). Jerry's a vain-glorious dandy who talks big but is a bit schizy and convinces Tyler that working in the mines is a sucker's game, one that'll kill him without much to show for it. Slocum knows of a guy who needs a good driver for some jobs that need a certain level of confidentiality and Tyler agrees.

Those jobs turn out to be knocking over gas stations, and, as much as he doesn't like his part in it, he is at least able to take care of his family...if only his wife didn't ask so many questions about what he does at night. Meanwhile, the robberies are starting to get the attention of a local reporter (Richard Carlson), who gets the assignment to pump up the story as an incipient crime wave to sell papers. Things are starting to get hot and the added attention makes Jerry want out, but that inspires Slocum to pull one last crime—a big score—kidnapping the son of one of the town's rich folk and holding him for ransom.

But, Jerry's not the best at the "long game," being so fidgety and all. When the kid tries to make a run for it, Slocum picks up a boulder and smashes his head in, then dumps him in the river—but not before taking a distinctive tie-pin for evidence. He's still trying to get the ransom for a dead man. The two head out of town, the better to mail a ransom note, and Slocum decides to make things a night on the town with women, so that there's no show of two strangers showing up in town. But, Tyler's in bad shape and starts to drink...and well...you know. Plus, with the added attention of a blood-thirsty press, the temperatures in Santa Sierra start to soar above the boiling point.

Between Bridges' histrionics and Endfield's off-kilter camera-view, The Sound of Fury has more than its share of amped-up energy that starts to explode near the film's end in a sequence of mob violence that still stiffens the hairs on the back of the neck to this day. It's a bit mitigated to off-screen action, but, really, is that something you want to see? Endfield's suggestiveness is enough to give nightmares and paint a grim picture of majority rule when it becomes a mob.

It's been tough to see The Sound of Fury, as it wasn't a hit, and there weren't many prints. One, however, was owned by Martin Scorsese (for whom it's a favorite film) and, with his permission and efforts, the film is back to its pristine, if begrimed, glory.

Hell Drivers

Saturdays are "Take out the Trash" Day

Hell Drivers (Cy Endfield, 1957) British feature directed by blacklisted American director Endfield—and the first to carry his actual name and not a pseudonym*—about the rough and tumble day-to-day of short-haul truckers, battling deadlines and each other to try and meet quota and be top-driver hauling ballast (gravel) on sub-standard equipment at speeds that are break-neck, even under the best of conditions. Each driver has to make at least twelve loads a day; if they don't, they're fired. Competition is so fierce that the other drivers aren't above sabotaging each other's rigs. Work-place harassment is just part of the job and a way of life.

Into this demolition derby come Joe Yately (Stanley Baker)—call him "Tom"—who's just served a year stretch in prison and is trying to make a new honest life for himself. A position is open at Hawlett's Trucking after a driver has gone through a bad accident and although the manager, Cartley (William Hartnell) is reluctant, his secretary Lucy (Peggy Cummins of Gun Crazy) intercedes on his behalf. Tom is taken on a training run and does okay, despite near-collisions with a couple of other drivers.

The other drivers are a motley crew: there's Scottie (Gordon Jackson), Ed (Wilfrid Lawson), Dusty (Sidney James), Tinker (Alfie Bass), and Johnny (Sean Connery), all rough types who aren't above intimidating Tom—it's all in fun, after all. More receptive is Gino (Herbert Lom), an Italian (Herbert Lom?) who's in love with Lucy and wants to give the new driver a chance.

Less friendly is Red (Patrick McGoohan), the driver foreman, who always sits at the head of the table—as a rib, the drivers let Tom sit at the head and Red knocks him off his chair when he enters the room. Red is the most reckless of the drivers, does eighteen runs a day winning him a gold cigarette case, and lets it be known that no—no one—will take that case away from him, even if he has to cripple the driver to do it.

The first thing you notice, given hindsight, is the cast, early in their careers, and before they achieved their biggest success in the 1960's. Sure, there's Connery and McGoohan (who'll ride the 1960's spy-craze), but there's also Jackson from "Upstairs, Downstairs," Lom and Alfie Bass, Sidney James from the "Carry On" films, and Hartnell would become the first "Doctor Who."

But, that's not all. Playing the waitress at the driver's mess is Jill Ireland. And when Tom goes home to try to make amends, David MacCallum plays his younger brother. That's an amazing group of young actors, briefly doing washing duties in the "kitchen-sink" era of British film-making. As a result, the most subtle of the actors is star Baker, while the rest of the cast do their best to garner attention to themselves.

Lom's accent might be a little thick, but the actor who does the most egregious over-acting is a surprising one—McGoohan. He'd be known for merely quietly smoldering with a less-is-more kind of acting during his starring days, but here he's at full villainous boil, manking about like he was Richard III, hunch-shouldered and bull-headed. You hope for him to get his comeuppance early, as its a little painful to watch. When throws away a cigarette, you expect it to explode off-screen.

That aside, Endfield keeps the action going almost constantly, making it a visceral movie. Sometimes too much so. The driving scenes are viciously under-cranked, giving it an almost comic effect, rather than causing white knuckles. By the way, the cinematographer is the storied Geoffrey Unsworth, who would move on to far greater things.

Still, it's interesting to see if only for the young turks who would burn up the screen in the next decade.

* Well, it's listed as C. Raker Endfield, a slight obfuscation from how he was listed on his American films.