Dead Reckoning

Dead Reckoning (John Cromwell, 1948) Notice the title in the poster—John Cromwell's Dead Reckoning, (as it is in the film's credits) indicating a special prominence. Producers don't allow the possessive credit (relinquishing some of their ownership, which they only do kicking and kvetching) unless the director is so powerful they can't refuse.

So, who's this John Cromwell?

We'll get to that; how's the movie? Well, it's Bogart—not looking too healthy and struggling with the material, although it's tailor-made for him...if measured a bit too tightly. But it's warmed-over Bogart, stale and picked from elements of Bogart movies past, with all the presentation of a Chef's Mess. And you know how it is when you get the last leavings of anything Bogarted: not only is there a feeling of disappointment, but also a feeling of resentment.

Things start off well enough: Bogie's a coming-home paratrooper with his buddy to receive medals for valor, but before they can exit the train, the buddy disappears, prompting Bogart's character to start a search to see what's at the bottom of it. The film is introduced by Bogart's character eluding the police, and ducking into a church where, in complete shadow, he makes a confession of sorts to a priest serving as a first-person narration. So far, so good. However, the narration, like the dialog, is as purple as can be, with tortured metaphors and a desperation to remind of Bogart's detective roles (the best of which were done—of course—without narration).* We're introduced to the buddy's wife, Carol "Dusty" Chandler (Lizabeth Scott, meant to evoke Lauren Bacall, no doubt, but more of a bleached, washed out version of her), a low-throated chanteuse at a club run by the mob—and although it's surely unintentional, you get the impression that she must be sleeping with the owner, as Scott can't sing well, even by Bacall's (or the young Andy Williams')** standards.

The movie lurches along with some fine shadow-play, photographically, but that's about it, and it ends with one big howler of a leaden line, meant to have deep meaning and import, but is merely typical of the dumb lines Bogie has to chew through. There are a lot of immortal lines associated with Humphrey Bogart: "Geronimo, baby" is not one of them. ***

So, who's John Cromwell and why was he given possession of this stinker of a movie?

John Cromwell was a well-respected actor, who was also put of the directing fast-track at Paramount Studios when he signed with them in 1928. He continued in his capacity as an actor throughout his career, winning a Tony Award in 1952 for "Point of No Return" and appearing in Robert Altman's 3 Women, and A Wedding late in life.

But forget Dead Reckoning for a moment. Look at some of the other films he directed: the 1930 version of Tom Sawyer, the Bette Davis-Leslie Howard version of Of Human Bondage, the Freddie Bartholomew version of Little Lord Fauntleroy, the Ronald Colman version of The Prisoner of Zenda, Algiers with Charles Boyer and Hedy Lamarr, Abe Lincoln in Illinois with Raymond Massey, Son of Fury with Tyrone Power, the "they also serve" war movie Since You Went Away, Anna and the King of Siam with Rex Harrison and Irene Dunne, the lurid Caged with Eleanor Parker. These are really good, and sometimes spectacular films made with a fine craftsman's hand.

So, why is John Cromwell not mentioned in the same breath as Hawks and Ford and the other film-makers of their generation?

The answer is simple. Cromwell was black-listed during the McCarthy era and his career seemingly thrown into a black-hole. Born in 1887, he was in his 60's when he filmed Paddy Chayefsky's The Goddess in 1958. He was still pushing the envelope of what could be brought to the screen at the tail-end of his career.

You might also know him as the father of actor James Cromwell.

Dead Reckoning aside, a re-evaluation and appreciation of his career as a pioneering film-maker is very much overdue.

 

* You'll also recognize lines and sentiments from The Maltese Falcon, To Have and Have Not, and The Big Sleep. More than once, the film evokes a "Deja Vu" feeling: "Now, where have I heard a better version of that?"

** The story goes that Andy Williams, when he was a kid, dubbed in Bacall's singing voice for one of her movies, but I've yet to see any concrete evidence (and a lot denying it) that that was the case, and not some malicious gossip (Bacall got a lot of that).

 
*** I think you have to chalk this one up to that period of time between the acknowledgement of Bogart as a big box-office star, and studios trying to figure out what to do with him. The roles and writing became better once Bogart took charge of his career and formed his own production company.

They Drive By Night

They Drive By Night (Raoul Walsh, 1940) Warner Brothers-style action-and-intrigue pot-boiler about...wild-cat truckers. Well, that shouldn't be much of a surprise. In lieu of gangsterism, the trucking world could serve as a substitute for rough-and-tumble world of trying to make a fast buck on the legitimate side of the ledger in the world of capitalism The subject hit something of a zenith combining trucking and film-noir in Jules Dassin's Thieves' Highway. This tough little film from Raoul Walsh—who made definitive films on both crooked and straight paths to success concerns the brothers Fabrini (George Raft and Humphrey Bogart) are partners in a truck who decide to stop working for other shipping companies and do the deals themselves. This pushes their murderous schedules to the edge and consequences determine a change of focus. An interesting little movie where two Warner's tough-guys—Raft and his understudy at the time, Bogart*—do "everyman" jobs and mine real drama out of it. Of course, it couldn't be a Warner's picture without action and the film boasts two nail-biters where truck-drivers fall asleep at the wheel, filmed with the snap that one can expect from Raoul Walsh.

Where the movie excels is the smart patter that spins drama in the economic realities of this corps of transport specialists. The movie manages to slip in lessons in Unionization and Modernization amid the wise-cracks and the trumped murder-plot that dominates the film's second half. You begin to feel like you're learning something without being preached to.

And there's enough good acting going on that raises it above "B" level. Raft is a bit looser than usual in the starring role, but Bogart has the most dramatic...and fun part. Ann Sheridan does well with her wise-acre dialog and Ida Lupino manages a mine-filed of femme fatale neuroses with dexterity and quick-silver reactions. But the stand-out is Alan Hale—"The Skipper''s" dad—who takes the part of a trucker-who-owns-a-company and can't believe his good fortune. Hale's "Ed Carlsen" never has a "down" moment, and is carried out with wolfish good spirits and the sense that he's making it up as he goes along. His performance is the diamond in the rough in this rough little film about trucking. 

*At this time in his career, Bogie was still upset at the way his career was going, he was still doing the occasional western, and just the previous year he starred in the worst movie of his career--The Return of Doctor X! But in his next movie would be a part that Raft tosses aside--"Mad Dog" Roy Earle in High Sierra. And the next part meant for Raft but inherited by Bogart would be detective Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon.

Action in the North Atlantic

Tom Hanks has a movie out on AppleTV+ called Greyhound, based on C.S. Forester's "The Good Shepherd." For the similar scenario from the time-frame in which it occurred, there was this movie...

Action in the North Atlantic (Lloyd Bacon, 1943) Rousing war-time propaganda film about the Merchant Marines and their attempts to distribute supplies for the war effort while fighting off Nazi air and sub attacks. Directed by Lloyd Bacon whose experience in the WWI Navy lends an undisputed air of authenticity to the scenario, if the visuals don't exactly hold up due to some sub-par model work mixed with chock-a-block stock footage (expertly shuffled by soon-to-be director Don Siegel). Still, the opening sub attack on the vessel Northern Star is impressive for its brutality and its dangerous looking fire work. The actors look convincingly too close for comfort, and the sense of peril is very real. And that's just the beginning of the film. After that first explosive set-piece, there is a lull as the survivors get back to the home front (Skipper Raymond Massey goes home to a young Ruth Gordon, who's a treat to watch). Then it's back to sea as part of an intricately planned flotilla, delivering supplies to...Murmansk, Russia. We're all in this together, comrade.

Massey's the skipper, but the star is Humphrey Bogart, two steps away from gangsterism, and cracking wise. He's First Mate Rossi, whose "too easy-going to be a skipper," but given a chance could be a cracker-jack commander. Bacon sets up the rules and procedures for the vast convoy, but an attack in the mid-Atlantic separates the "Sea Witch" from the rest of the ships, and the rule-book goes overboard as the ship plays a cat-and-mouse game with a lone sub determined to sink it. 

While the flotilla attack is dependent on that unconvincing model-work, there's a later Luftwaffe attack on the ship that features amazing wire-work effects, not only on the planes maneuvering through the clouds, but also of bodies being blown from their stations when the ship takes a direct hit. There's no sugar-coating the dangers of war, but the difference between the sides seem to be that the Nazi's scream when they go their watery grave, while the Americans merely have their quips halted. Various strategies are employed to evade the sub, including "going quiet," thanks to the Scottish engine-man who will remind any watcher of a certain star-ship engineer willing to eke out "a wee bit more."

The action doesn't slacken as Bogart's Rossi makes a bold move setting the "Sea Witch" on fire to draw in the sub, and the film ends with a Rooseveltian declaration of solidarity (probably voiced by Stan Freberg), which would prove to be problematic in the 50's when McCarthy went after Hollywood. All in all, an interesting film for all sorts of historical reasons beyond the propaganda factor.
Bogart has a great speech about bravery mid-way through the flick that's worth noting:

"Let me tell ya something about my "iron nerve," son. It's made of rubber, just like everybody else's, so it'll stretch when you need it. Ya know, people got a funny idea that being brave is not being scared. I dunno, I always figured if ya weren't scared, there's nothin' to be brave about. The trick is...how much scarin' you can take?"

In a Lonely Place

In a Lonely Place (Nicholas Ray, 1950) Risky Hollywood-noir/murder mystery/psychological drama produced by Humphrey Bogart's Santana Production Company and directed with a sure grip by the great Nicholas Ray. Bogart plays Dixon Steele, a hot-headed screenwriter on a cold streak. His temper has gotten him into a lot of violent scrapes that the studios have managed to sweep under the rug. Now, a hat-check girl that was in his apartment the night before has turned up strangled and the police are certain he was the culprit.

His one alibi is his neighbor, Laurel Gray (Gloria Grahame), part-time actress, who has a fairly air-tight alibi for Steele, and the two of them subsequently begin an affair that keeps Steele on the straight-and-narrow and the police suspicious. They'd be less tenacious if he didn't have that long rap sheet, the sick sense of humor and the unhealthy glint in his eyes when the subject of murder comes up. Steele is an odd bird who can't control his temper and pretty soon the police's suspicions make Laurel have her doubts which Dix only amplifies by his actions.

Can love survive? Can Laurel?

This is a great mystery in which the central murder ultimately doesn't matter; the players and their ability to destroy each other in a cynical battle of survival when they're at their most vulnerable does. Gloria Grahame, who would endure a career of also-ran women's roles, displays the gifts of a great character actress in the lead. And Bogart exploits his dual persona playing a bad-good man (or is that the other way around?) who has no control and betrays a self-loathing that's painful to watch. 

He and Grahame are great together—she's one of the few women who doesn't kiss Bogart awkwardly, and their relationship feels real and not phony—and the screenplay crackles with the good dialogue that makes great Bogart movies. That the movie is taking shots at Hollywood and the loungy L.A. lifestyle is merely a refreshing bonus (What was it about 1950 that turned out all these anti-Hollywood movies?). Bogart is at his best when he's taking chances with his material, and In a Lonely Place provides a wealth of opportunities: a creative murder mystery with a great romance and the possibility of mutual self-destruction. It's a stunning noir that's a highlight of the careers of all parties.

Dark Passage

Dark Passage (Delmer Daves, 1947) Soapish film noir with "Bogey and Baby" that manages to have a few interesting things to recommend it, amidst some howler material.

The story isn't much: Vincent Parry (Humphrey Bogart, eventually), convicted of murdering his wife, escapes from San Quentin, and is able to make his way back to San Francisco with the help of Irene Jansen (Lauren Bacall), a rich-girl painter who knows all about Parry's case—because her own father was falsely accused of murdering her mother.

Small damn world.

Irene gives Parry a place to crash, and a change of clothes. Then, making his way to Frisco to meet an old buddy, his cab-driver gives him a line on a disgraced plastic surgeon, who's not adverse to doing last-minute surgeries at 3 a.m. It takes Parry a week to heal, which he does at Irene's—something he didn't want to do, but seeing as his buddy was murdered and all...

Grave-eye view of a post-op Bogart finding his musician-buddy dead.

Wait a minute! If you hadn't said that yet, what kept you? It would appear that San Francisco (nice location work, by the way) is the smallest town in America, as everybody knows everybody else and their business, besides. While convalescing at Irene's, Parry becomes aware that the place is being watched by a couple people, a potential blackmailer (Clifton Young) and Madge (Agnes Moorehead), the buttinsky friend of Irene's who used to go out with Bob (Bruce Bennett), Irene's current beau, but was also old friends with the Parry's back in the day. As Bogart would say, "Everything's starting to look nice and cosy..."

When the bandages come off, we get to see The Man with Bogart's Face, but before then, all we're allowed to see of Parry was his picture in the paper, or his face in shadow. Daves employed a technique not much used in movies—the first-person subjective camera, so we see everything from Parry's point-of-view; there's a lot of people speaking right at us throughout the first part of the movie and answered back by Bogart's disembodied voice. Daves pulls off some miraculous inter-cutting between location-work and studio set-ups (in a moving car, yet!), and it's interesting to see how he gets himself out of jams of timing and transitions. He also employs an interesting angle every now and again, like the vantage point of a murder scene...from below the floor!

There's a lot to quibble about (did I mention the plastic surgery only takes an hour?), but any excuse to see Bogart-Bacall together again, and to see another of Agnes Moorehead's unabashedly demonstrative performances. Those are enough reasons to give Dark Passage a watch.

Here's looking at you looking at me, kid.
Subjective POV of Lauren Bacall in Dark Passage

Black Legion

Black Legion (Archie Mayo, 1937) "That means one white boy don't get to play"  The words of John Jordan "Buck" O'Neill in Ken Burns' documentary "Baseball." He was talking about the integration of baseball in the 1950's, a great thing. A major-league accomplishment. "But," said "Buck," "every black player that gets to play, that means one white boy don't get to play..." "Ya see?"  is how he concluded.

People have been seeing as long as they've had eyes, and as long as the societal see-saw ensures that as one person goes up, another has to go down. And in that imbalance of opportunity germinates prejudice, disguising jealousy, as if in sheep's clothing, with "principle."

This is the situation that Frank Taylor (Humphrey Bogart, playing a regular "joe," for once) finds himself in, when he finds that his sure-fire promotion goes to a studious young man with a "ski" at the end of his name.  Bitter and isolating himself from his family, his wife and son, he's recruited by a co-worker to join a secret society of white supremacists (who are so discriminating they only prey on other whites). They run offenders out of town, but not before meting a punishment of whipping, then destroying all the property they own. The police are a little slow in this burg to follow up on clues, especially when there's a motorcade of guys in robes speeding through the night (they can't trace tire tracks?)—but, as the group is composed of prominent whites in town, maybe some of them have badges under the robes.

For a time, the short-term benefits are great for Frank. He gets a night out with the boys, drinking and crowing over their nocturnal activities, and he even gets the promotion previously denied him when his rival if given the bum's rush on an outbound train. Then things start hitting close to home, affecting his home-life and the lives of his friends. But Frank has sworn an oath of silence not to rat out his prey-mates. And the contract is non-negotiable. 

"In the name of God and the Devil, one to reward and the other to punish, and by the powers of light and darkness, good and evil, here under the black arch of Heaven's avenging symbol, I pledge and consecrate my heart, my brain, my body, and my limbs and swear by all the powers of Heaven and Hell to devote my life to the obedience of my superiors and that no danger or peril shall deter me from executing their orders. That I will exert every possible means in my power for the extermination of the anarchist, the Roman hierarchy and their abettors. I swear that I will die fighting those whose serpent trail has winnowed the fair fields of our allies and sympathizers. I will show no mercy but strike with an avenging arm as long as breath remains. I further pledge my heart, my brain, my body, my limbs never to betray a comrade and that I will submit to all the tortures mankind can inflict and suffer the most horrible death rather than reveal a single word of this, my oath, before violating a single clause or implied pledge of this my obligation. I will pray to an avenging God and an unmerciful Devil to tear my heart out and roast it over the flames of sulfur, and lastly may my soul be given into the torment that my body be submerged into molten metal... and stifled into the flames of Hell, and that this punishment may be meted out to me through all eternity. In the name of God, our creator, Amen."

Sounds like some contracts I've had to sign recently. Credit card statements. Creepy stuff, and Frank's spineless enough to fold at any opportunity to stand up. It's an American tragedy, although whatever punishment he receives doesn't compare to those he's dished out. There are no heroes in this one, only victims and the Warner Brothers production takes on the topic of vigilantism, domestic terrorism, and prejudice with a semi-soft-pedaled spirit of outrage. It could be—and probably should be—considerably rougher, but for the time—before World War II and it's institutionalized terror—it's a parable for the common man to "get along," something else that war taught us in the concentrated efforts of allies of every color and faith to band together and truly deliver us from real evil.

The Roaring Twenties

The Roaring Twenties (Raoul Walsh, 1939) 
Forward: "It may come to pass that, at some distant date, we will be confronted with another period similar to the one depicted in this photoplay. If that happens, I pray that the events, as dramatized here, will be remembered. In this film the characters are composites of people I knew, and the situations are those that actually occurred. Bitter or sweet, most memories become precious as the years move on. This film is a memory—and I am grateful for it."  Mark Hellinger.

Every decade is full of event, often to the point where the world of the 0's is very far afield of the one in the 9's (of course, if you're "of an age" you can always find an exception to the rule—Hell-o, '80's). The 1920's started with troops coming home from World War I to become "the lost generation" while the country was experimenting with Prohibition. Rather than the temperance leagues creating a heaven on Earth by exorcising the demo rum, everything went to Hell with the rise of illegal liquor manufacturers, the rise of organized crime to gain some monetary control over the free-for-all, "the jazz age," flappers, wild dancing and, as with any "bender," a collapse...of the Stock Market in 1929. The Nation went from speak-easy's to soup kitchen's. Prohibition wasn't nearly as sobering as the Wall Street Crash.

It's the time of World War I, and trench soldiers Eddie Bartlett (James Cagney),  George Hally (Humphrey Bogart), and Lloyd Hart (Jeffrey Lynn) are spending the last few hours of the War To End All Wars, just trying to survive it. They have no idea that their last acts in the conflict will be their final as soldiers and they're already thinking to what they'll be doing in peacetime. Hart had just graduated from Harvard law school and that's what he'll be doing; Eddie just wants to get back to being a mechanic; Hally ran a saloon. Hart takes aim at a German soldier and hesitates—"He looks like a kid, about 15 years old." Hally fires. "He won't be sixteen."

Another soldier dives in to the "hold." The war is over. Peace-time begins.

Not that peace-time will be easy. Lloyd does become a lawyer, Hally comes back to the States when the country is in the fever to make the country dry through Prohibition—not a good job prospect for a saloon-keeper—so he becomes a bootlegger and Eddie can't get his job back as a mechanic, so he starts driving a hack to get by. 

His fortunes change a bit when a fare hires him to deliver a package to Panama Smith (Gladys George), who runs a speakeasy and that "package" turns out to be a shipment of booze. Eddie has the bad luck to deliver it right before the place is raided by the cops and he and Panama are escorted to jail. At trial, Panama gets acquitted, but Eddie takes the fall without revealing he was an innocent dupe. He does time, but once he's out, Panama repays the favor of not ratting her out by taking him on as a business partner in her own bootlegging enterprise. Taking a note from experience, Eddie starts buying up a fleet of cabs to used for "distribution" and the two start to prosper, Eddie becomes a bit of a high-roller.

Around this time, he runs into Jean Sherman (Priscilla Lane), a gal he knew from her writing to him in the war when she was in high school. She's all grown up now and he takes enough of an interest that he gets her a job as a chanteuse at the club Panama is propping up as the hostess.

Eddie does very well with taxi-delivery business, but he makes a mint as a boot-legger; he has sure-fire ways to solve the supply and demand issues of the industry—besides watering down their own product, he also takes advantage of the enterprise's illegality by tipping off the constabulary to the shipments of competitors, then raiding the warehouses where said constabulary keep it as evidence for disposal. This creates some tensions among the competing distributors—Eddie gains a lieutenant in Jeff, when he finds him on one of their raids, but Eddie's buddy Danny Green (Frank McHugh) is killed when he tries to broker a deal between the rivals.

That's Eddie's professional life. His personal life doesn't go so well. He's sweet on Jean, his singer-friend, but she'd rather be with Lloyd, now Eddie's lawyer, who's successful, good-looking and who doesn't stink like bathtub gin. Eddie barely stops himself from changing his reputation by way of smacking him in the face. He wants what's best for Jean, and if it's Lloyd, that's the way the drink is poured.

Wall Street literally melts, thanks to Warners FX wizards in The Roaring Twenties

The name of the movie, though, is The Roaring Twenties, so the stock market crash can't be too far in the future—and it's represented by surrealistic effects shots of Wall Street skyscrapers melting off the screen. The Depression manages to kick Eddie's assets and he's forced to humiliate himself by asking Jeff to buy him out so he can pay his debts. Jeff, being the vindictive sort, does so gladly, leaving Eddie with only one remaining cab with which he can eke out a living.

It's a precipitous come-down for Eddie, and, combined with the repeal of Prohibition, he falls prey to the very vice that he has earlier profited from—he becomes a drunk and susceptible to sentimental foolhardy urges that he was always too careful, too smart and calculating to indulge in before.

It's another of the Warner Studio's cautionary tales where the smart guy gets his comeuppance, and the street-wise becomes confronted with events far beyond his capacity to control, and is punished, all the while the film revels in the very exploits, good and ill, that he is ultimately judged for. Eddie will eventually die on the steps of a church, just shy of its doors and any possible redemption.

He won't make it to the '30's.

Sahara (1943)

Sahara *(Zoltan Korda, 1943) Columbia Pictures propaganda film (based on "an incident" in a Russian screenplay) disguised as a war-time action picture. Humphrey Bogart stars as Sgt. Joe Gunn,** a cranky old Yank in a clanky old tank, the LuluBelle, who, making his way back to a friendly base, gathers together a rag-tag crew of Allies (French, British, Australian, South African, Italian and Sudanese) in North Africa. Voted in charge of the make-shift troop, he makes priorities—keep LuluBelle running, find water, deal with the Nazi troops nearby, stay alive. Along the way, through the collective effort, manage to sustain a stronghold against a large Nazi desert-troop. Filmed in the California desert, it still feels like rough duty for the actors amid the sand, the flies and the sweat. Director Korda and multiple screenwriters, including John Howard Lawson and Sidney Buchman keep the surprises and the intrigue sustained through the entire picture, while promoting brotherhood and cooperation between the lines.

Bogart really has the least interesting part, but he excels at being the crux of the movie and meriting being the guy to whom all eyes turn. It's an effective, oddball role. Of all the films with people of obvious ethnicity pulling together whether in American or Japanese war films, Sahara succeeds brilliantly, betraying neither the prejudices of the period, nor moving too far into caricature. The movie even takes a stab at trashing the "master race" theories of the Nazi's.

Amidst the water retrieval methods and the tense negotiations and full-on battle scenes featuring big guns and deceiving trench-warfare, the stranded Allies still have time to compare cultures and rememberances of home. "The things you learn in the Army," says a smiling Texan to the Sudanese in conversation.

There's your recruitment headline right there.

* Not to be confused (as if it could be) with the 1983 Brooks Shields vehicle, or the 2005 Clive Cussler adaptation with Matthew McConaughey and Penelope Cruz.

** Presumably Luger being too German, and Beretta to be used in a 70's cop show and Joe Rifle...sounding as dumb as Joe Gunn, frankly.

Up the River (1930)

Up the River (John Ford, 1930) Here's something you don't see every day—a prison comedy. There are very few movies in that sub-genre, but this one's directed by John Ford during the "pre-Code" days at Fox Studios, with the first credited feature film appearances of both Spencer Tracy and Humphrey Bogart—the only time they appeared in a film together.*

Now, of all that information the most important element here is "pre-Code," those lascivious days in old Hollywood, where you could get away with just about anything except murder, and "community standards" were flouted right and left (if anybody could agree on what a community's "standards" were while keeping a straight face and holding firmly to their hypocrisies).

"Man, I hate country prisons!" Two con-artists, "Saint" Louis (Tracy) and Dannemora Dan (Warren Hymer), escape from a "Prison in the South" and make their ways separately to Kansas City. Their fates diverge: Dan goes straight and joins the Salvation Army, and just as he's testifying that "crime doesn't pay," up drives Louis in a fancy rig putting a lie to his argument. An altercation between the two lands them both in Bensonatta prison, where they share a cell—"not too high up with southern exposure" Louis asks the warden and is promptly turned down—with Steve Jordan (Bogart), just a kid who got into a fight that didn't end well for one of his friends going to China. 

Steve's working in the prison now as a clerk, and he's sweet on one of the inmates of the next-door women's prison, Judy Fields (Claire Luce), who's in for fraud (telling fortunes mixed with oil-well tips). Trouble is, Steve is up for parole soon and Judy's still in for another five months. It's eating Steve up, but as the rest of the prisoners know the score, they conspire to get messages between the two of them.

But, there's another party that isn't so interested in them getting together. Judy's old partner, who ran the fortune-telling scam, finds out about their plans and has a mind to profit from it. He worms his way into the Jordan family and decides to blackmail Steve by threatening to tell his mother he hasn't been in China the whole time, but in prison. To add injury to insult, he's also trying to get her and her neighbors to invest in his oil-well scheme. Steve has no idea how he can get his family out of this mess...at least not without going back to prison.

But, help comes in the form of Saint Louis and Dannemora Dan who get wind of the swindle and break out of prison...again...this time during a "follies" show for the inmates. They have a good home cooked meal at the Jordans and get the lowdown. "Don't be a sap" Louis says. "He'll be taken care of...well taken care of." The only thing Louis wants to know is...is Steve "on the level" with Judy (he's already asked her...) and his "Yes" is all he needs to take care of business...and then break back into prison just in time to play in the cooler's baseball game.

It's very much a comedy; there are stakes involved but not of much import, but the movie ends on an interesting note. While the game goes on, the prison choir director starts to lead the inmates in a song about friendship while the camera pans along the inmates—all of them, not missing one. And the song goes on, until every inmate is seen. Dramatically, the sequence has no purpose...except for the prisoners...and their families back home who might be watching just to catch a glimpse of someone they know or love. Family is paramount to John Ford (hence, Steve's predicament in the film's storyline). But, the last touch—sending a present back to the families is Ford at his sentimental best and most charitable.

* That may seem strange if you know both men's backgrounds—they were best friends and drinking buddies. Acting jobs were assigned when the studios ruled Hollywood and the two were contracted for different studios: Tracy for M-G-M and Bogart for the Warner brothers. But, in the 1950's, when stars gained power by forming production companies, they were briefly attached to the same picture—1955's The Desperate Hours—but because their representatives couldn't decide who would get top billing, Tracy stepped aside (Frederic March took the role). Tracy would work again with Ford in The Last Hurrah. Bogart never did.