The Informer (John Ford, 1935) John Ford's first Academy Award for Best Director (of four, ultimately and specifically) was for this underdog of a movie that was a pet project for Ford. His studio, RKO, didn't like the idea; it had been filmed before without any box office success, and the "suits" worried that nobody would go see a depressing movie encompassing a "dark night of the soul" with an unsympathetic protagonist.
But, Ford promised to bring the film in on-time and on budget—20 days and $243,000—and was aided immeasurably by a joint conference of artisans (including composer Max Steiner, photographer Joseph H. August, set designer Van Nest Polglase and screenwriter Dudley Nichols) before any scripting was done. "This, to my mind", said Nichols "is the proper way to approach a film production-and it
is, alas, the only time in 25 years I have known it to be done: a group
discussion before a line of the script is written." Nichols wrote the first—and only—draft of the script in six days aboard Ford's schooner, The Araner.
It tells the story of a night in the life of "Gypo" Nolan (Victor McLaglen—who won a Best Actor Oscar for his performance), an Irish mug with nothing going for him. Out of work and kicked out of the IRA for not killing a targeted constabulary, he's more than a wee bit desperate and his mood is made any better when his streetwalker-girlfriend (Margot Grahame) trying to pick up a customer. He man-handles the "john" and only gets grief from Katie because she wants to get out of Ireland and just needs 10 pounds to book a steamer to the States. A chance encounter with Frankie McPhillip (Wallace Ford) on the run from the Black and Tan and trying to make it home to his wife and sister, gives Gypo the idea that turning in his friend could solve all his problems; £20 could book passage to the States for both him and Katie Madden.
When the RIC go to his mother's house to arrest him, Frankie is killed while resisting arrest.
Gypo picks up his blood money from the contemptuous police and the first thing he does his buy a bottle of whiskey and tells a suspicious Katie that he got the money from rolling a sailor. But, at Frankie's wake, his drunkenness makes him less careful, spilling coins and handing pound notes to patrons, and the IRA begin to suspect that the newly-flush Gypo may not be so innocent after all, if only they can find the proof.
It is a through-line of Irish literature that desperation and temptation can turn a St. Peter into a Judas (because the Bible tells us so), and as twee and leprechaun-y as the culture can be, there is also the darkness of the guilt hangover, which can drive even the most self-righteous Irishman to his penitent knees. Director Ford knew full well the cycle, enjoying his grog and cursing his weakness, especially when he'd done someone wrong (and it was a tradition on a Ford set that every day one actor would be designated in "the barrel" for abuse—usually John Wayne whose complex father-son relationship with "Pappy" Ford made him a frequent target*). Then would come the regretful tears if reprimanded and the self-imposed penance of humiliation. And then...after a time...the cycle would start again. One reads Maureen O'Hara's autobiography ("Tis Herself," published in 2004) with horror regarding Ford's mood swings. "Love/Hate" are two sides of a coin, but despite that, it was currency that Ford's circle never wanted to toss.
It may be hard to understand. But, then one looks at the craftsmanship of The Informer, impeccably composed, draped perpetually in a fog of war, with its rawness of emotion and understand why his collaborators would always keep that lucky coin and never let it go. They knew, with Ford, they potentially could be doing their finest work, and doesn't one always suffer for art? Loyalty is, after all, earned (not given), but it is also a contract of endurance and the greatest and hardest lesson to learn of it is to whom you bestow its precious gift...and to whom it is valued. It is a trust and to betray it invites eternal damnation.
One watches The Informer contemplating these things and how life can inform art—the issues of loyalty and betrayal must have haunted Ford during this while he pushed for the project, making it personal, as if making a guilty trip to a confessional and paying some form of emotional penance.
For his part, when Ford was cooperative enough to provide an interviewer a straight answer, he would suggest that The Informer "lacked humor."
In 2018, The Informer was voted into The National Film Registry as being "culturally, historically or aesthetically significant."
It has been reported that it is the favorite film of director Samuel Fuller.
St. Patrick's Day, 2022
* Ford was always in "command" of his sets and Wayne owed his career to Ford and suffered his humiliations out of respect for the "Old Man," even after tables had turned and Ford depended on Wayne's box-office draw to get projects made at the studios.
I Shot Jesse James(Samuel Fuller, 1949) "Well, what're you waitin' for, Bob? There's my back!" That ironic line comes early on in Samuel Fuller's first director's effort, a low-budget Western he shot in 10 days and runs a quick hour twenty minutes. In it, he traces (somewhat truthfully) the story of Bob Ford, a member of the James Gang who shot Jesse James for the amnesty for past crimes and an offered reward (which was rescinded). And a legendary status as a turncoat and a "dirty little coward" which was never rescinded. Weep no tears for Jesse James. The guy was a psychopath drunk on his fame, a racist murderer of women and children, and loved his reputation as a Robin Hood who stole from the rich...and kept it. Forget that it was the money of ordinary citizens. It's those same ordinary citizens who lionized the creep. Fuller thought James was a rat and didn't want to romanticize him the way 20th Century Fox did.
But, he doesn't really paint the picture of James by historical record, either. The way James is portrayed (by Reed Handley), he's a smart, level-headed guy who robs banks and has a steely glare and a bit of a hair-trigger. Fuller always liked a "wow" beginning and after a Title sequence of wanted posters, he whip-pans to the "Cattlemens' Bank" as he holds a bank official at gun-point, while Ford (played by John Ireland) stuffs his money-bag. Fuller builds tension with close-ups of James and the official, who starts sweating more and more. The reason? He's inching his foot millimeter by millimeter to a foot-activated alarm button, as the sweat runs down his face.
It's a new deal for Jesse and Bob—they've never seen anything like that alarm mechanism before. But, it causes enough confusion for Bob to get shot in the getaway—and drop the money. James decides to lay low for a while with the wife under the alias Tom Howard, and Bob and his brother stay with the James family. "Mrs. Howard" doesn't like it, is suspicious of Ford, but James won't relent. In fact, he gives no argument.
"So, what are you waitin' for, Bob? There's my back!" The line comes when Jesse is taking a hot bath in the barn, Ford delivering freshly steaming buckets of water. James gives Ford a new pistol, and for long moments he stares at Jesse's naked back in the tub, thinking it would be so easy. But, what Jesse is talking about is scrubbing his back with a brush. The film has a few of these little Fuller tricks, raising expectations of one thing and totally subverting those expectations, keeping one step ahead of the audience.
Where Fuller departs from History is the back-story and what will comprise the main motivation behind the fatal shot to Jesse James. When Ford learns that his old sweetheart, actress Cynthy Waters (Barbara Britton) is in town appearing in a "heart-warming drama" (as they all seem to be), and he sees the amnesty promised for James' death as a way to have a future with Cynthy, who also has an interested suitor with John Kelley (Preston Foster), which only makes Ford more anxious to be able to walk free from regret. Killing James will only speed the way to his marrying Cynthy.
The opportunity will come soon enough, although there will be ample chances to make it happen, chances that Ford lets slip by for one reason or another. But, while James has his back turned, adjusting a picture on the wall, Ford shoots, using the same gun James has given him as a gift and seals both their fates. Ford gets his amnesty, but no reward, and when he rushes to Cynthy to tell her he's a free man, she's aghast, especially as he cites her as his main motivation—"It's just as if I pulled that trigger myself..." Ford is disappointed and confused by her reaction and her hesitancy to marrying him and becomes just as committed to making a stake so that he can have a foundation for a marriage not based on murder and betrayal. Sounds reasonable, but not to Ford's twisted bubble of reality.
The remainder of the film is a mixture of some (but not much) of the history of Ford subsequent to the shooting of James—yes, he did tour towns doing dramatic re-enactments of the shooting (but no, he didn't quit doing them from experiencing guilt-ridden flashbacks), and yes, he was targeted for reprisals—but, there's more Fuller fictionalization—no, he didn't go into silver prospecting and make a fortune (he ran a series of taverns and dance-halls, usually ruinously), the major character of John Kelly who spirals in and out of Ford's life, and Cynthy's affections, is entirely fictitious (although Ford was eventually killed by an Edward O'Kelley). Given the contrivance of the love interest, and Ford's less-than-thrilling post-assassination career, one can hardly blame him. Besides, Fuller's interest is internal, not external; Ford's fate as a pariah in the eyes of the public, despite ridding the world of a murderous thug is far more interesting than how he earns his money.
Bob Ford relives his shooting of Jesse James on-stage.
One of most tense scenes parallels that initial bank-robbery where it's done mostly in close-up, as the faces get more tense—it's when Ford is at a bar and a troubadour comes in to sing for drinks and tips and starts to sing a song "that everybody likes." He starts to sing "Jesse James"*, not realizing that one of the bar-patrons is the "dirty little coward" that is mentioned in the song. Once Ford identifies himself, he dares the singer to continue the song to the end, which he does, while sweat pours down his face. It's a tense scene with merely the threat of violence at its core. Fuller makes it excruciating and does it entirely in close-up, pushing the audience uncomfortably close, enough to make it squirm with the tension. It's the sort of in-your-face film-making that Fuller would perfect throughout his career.
* Jesse James (Traditional)
Jesse James was a lad that killed many a man, He robbed the Glendale train, He stole from the rich and he gave to the poor, He'd a hand and a heart and a brain. Well it was Robert Ford, that dirty little coward, I wonder how he feels, For he ate of Jesse's bread and he slept in Jesse's bed, And he laid poor Jesse in his grave. (chorus) Well Jesse had a wife to mourn for his life, Three children, [now] they were brave, Well that dirty little coward that shot Mr. [Mister] Howard, He laid poor Jesse [Has laid Jesse James] in his grave. Jesse was a man, a friend to the poor, He'd never rob a mother or a child, There never was a man with the law in his hand, That could take Jesse James alive. Jesse was a man, a friend to the poor, He'd never see a man suffer pain, And with his brother Frank he robbed the Chicago bank, And stopped the Glendale train. It was on a Saturday night and the moon was shining bright, They robbed the Glendale train, And people they did say o'er many miles away It was those outlaws, they're Frank and Jesse James (chorus) Now the people held their breath when they heard of Jesse's death, And wondered how he ever came to fall Robert Ford, it was a fact, he shot Jesse in the back While Jesse hung a picture on the wall Now Jesse went to rest with his hand on his breast, The devil will be upon his knee. He was born one day in the County Clay, And he came from a solitary race. (chorus)
Kansas City Confidential(Phil Karlson, 1952) One of director Phil Karlson's 1950's movies, the crime expose The Phenix City Story (released in 1956) was just put into the National Film Registry. You know the one where they vote in 25 films every year for films that are "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant." Karlson was another of those "maverick" directors, he could work in any genre, but spent a long time as an assistant director and quit that job so he could direct at bargain basement studios, where he could make movies the way he wanted to with little interference as long as he could keep the finances down. One gets the impression from watching his movies, that he'd just as soon throw a movie camera into the audience's face as do something fancy to get your attention. He made movies that were cynical, had no interest in authority, and where one could feel the grit right underneath the emulsion. It's why Desi Arnaz hired him to direct the pilot of the TV-show "The Untouchables," he wanted a low budget 20's-30's noir-equivalent. His most famous movies are the sequel to Willard called Ben, and the movie where he made his fortune, the original version of Walking Tall with Joe Don Baker. But, Quentin Tarantino's seen his movies. Watch Kansas City Confidential (and you can below—it's public domain on the Interwebs, although M-G-M retains the broadcast/movie rights to it) and you see where his Reservoir Dogs came from. Only Kansas City Confidential isn't so cute with the dialog or the cultural references.
It begins with a hand-drawn map, a clock on the wall and a notebook filled with the names of low-life's. "Mr. Big" (we'll call him, as played by Preston Foster) notes the activities of the bank across the way at opening time. He notes the activity—a regular one by Western Wholesale Florists to the flower shop next door, the arrival of the early-birds to do bank-business, and the arrival of an armored car a few minutes later. He carefully checks off the routine. Then, he makes phone-calls to numbers in that notebook.
The instructions to the three men on the other side of the phone-calls are the same. There's a job. Meet him at Room 302. Baker Street Hotel. There will be a big pay-off. First on the list is Pete Harris (Jack Elam), the proverbial nervous little man in a shabby room. He chain-smokes, has gambling debts—craps is his vice. He will be the King of Spades. When Harris comes to the door, he comes armed, but the man in Room 302 makes quick work of dis-arming him and slapping Harris to attention. Harris is shocked by the man in Room 302; he is masked, gives no name, no details, but promises a pay-out of $300,000 to start a new life in another country.
Next on the list is Tony Romano (Lee Van Cleef), a sharpie with creases in his suit as sharp as his cheek-bones. He likes the dames and he likes poker, but he isn't so lucky. He's smarter than Harris and a bit too sure of himself, but 300k, he'll play along. He'll be the King of Clubs. Finally, there's the cop-killer Boyd Kane (Neville Brand) who chews bubble-gum nice and slow, doesn't talk much but sweats a lot, and he's such a high-risk that he takes the job.
It's a typical day at the bank. Western Wholesale Florists shows up to make the delivery. Driver Joe Rolfe (John Payne—sorta Robert Mitchum without the sleepy eyes) has the misfortune of nearly running over a bank customer who says "Why doncha watch where yer goin'?" He's going to not make that mistake again the whole movie. He makes the delivery and takes off, none the wiser, as the armored car parallels up. Then, while the guards are in the bank, another truck with the same Western Wholesale logo slides up behind it. When the guards with the money-bag come out, the Florist truck pulls up alongside, two men in masks jump out the back, cudgel the guards and throw the bag to a third man waiting in the back. They pile in and squeal off, leaving the too-late, too-old bank-guard to fire at their long-gone retreat.
The delivery van speeds to a waiting moving van, and it ramps into the hold. The crooks, still in their masks, want their pay-out, but Mr. Big tells them to shut up and keep their masks on—they're too "hot" and the money is, too. Nobody knows anybody's name, making them all "cop-proof and stool-pigeon proof." "Big" hands each man a stipend for them to travel to Tijuana and await instructions and half-a-playing card to serve as I.D. at their rendezvous in the future. Then, one by one, they jump out of the moving van—it's up to them to make it to Tijuana, to wait for a cable-gram for what's next.
Good day for them. Bad day for Rolfe, who gets pulled over in his delivery van during his work-day and gets man-handled by the police, and his afternoon-deliveries get ransacked looking for the stolen dough. Hauled in for questioning, he gets roughed up and accused—what was he doing in that van? His job that he got from his parole officer after a stretch on gambling charges. Rolfe is a good suspect. Never finished college to be an industrial engineer, did a stretch in the service earning a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star ("Try buyin' a cup o' coffee with 'em," he snarls), and is trying to earn money to go back to school. Well, tough luck, kid. He just lost his job—he should understand says his boss—Western's clients are "very conservative people, you know how it is."
There the details stop for you. But, you get the gist—innocent man, desperate and hard-boiled, and with just enough brains to make him dangerous, especially to thieves with no honor and no idea who their "friends" are. But, once they all settle for that meeting in a Mexican resort town, they all—how did Raymond Chandler metaphor it?—"stand out like a tarantula on an angel-food cake."
Karlson was not a subtle director (remember what I said about throwing the camera?). There's a lot of casual violence, where people slap each other around with little provocation other than things are moving a little too slow—good thing the film's black and white, there'd be a lot of bruising make-up to apply—and even though the location's supposed to be Mexico, there's a lot of sweat going around. When the film's "good girl" (Colleen Gray) interrupts Rolfe getting a good beating, everybody starts to act "un-chalant" and saying they're just talking, to which she replies "...must have been a warm discussion." Nice. It's also tough to keep track of the fire-arms in Kansas City Confidential. Everybody's got a gat and they flash them a lot...or get caught reaching into their jacket-pockets. What was Bogart's line? My, my, so many guns, so few brains."
Except the one behind the camera. There are a couple fluff's here and there, not every "i" is dotted, not every double crossed, but Karlson makes sure Kansas City Confidential has the bad good's and it's a solid film noir where the world is so much against you that swapping it for the business-end of a gun actually feels pretty good. It may be "Take Out the Trash" day here, but every so often you find a nugget buried. Got 90 minutes to kill? This one will keep it a misdemeanor.
It tells the story of a night in the life of "Gypo" Nolan (Victor McLaglen—who won a Best Actor Oscar for his performance), an Irish mug with nothing going for him. Out of work and kicked out of the IRA for not killing a targeted constabulary, he's more than a wee bit desperate and his mood is made any better when his streetwalker-girlfriend (Margot Grahame) trying to pick up a customer. He man-handles the "john" and only gets grief from Katie because she wants to get out of Ireland and just needs 10 pounds to book a steamer to the States. A chance encounter with Frankie McPhillip (Wallace Ford) on the run from the Black and Tan and trying to make it home to his wife and sister, gives Gypo the idea that turning in his friend could solve all his problems; £20 could book passage to the States for both him and Katie Madden.
Gypo picks up his blood money from the contemptuous police and the first thing he does his buy a bottle of whiskey and tells a suspicious Katie that he got the money from rolling a sailor. But, at Frankie's wake, his drunkenness makes him less careful, spilling coins and handing pound notes to patrons, and the IRA begin to suspect that the newly-flush Gypo may not be so innocent after all, if only they can find the proof.
