Out of the Past

Out of the Past (Jacques Tourneur, 1947) A stranger comes into town looking for a guy. He's not from around here. The fancy suit gives it away at a glance—city-clothes, where the jacket doesn't zip up. And the manner. Tough, not friendly. Not altogether polite. In a hurry. Plus, everybody knows everybody else in a small town like Bridgeport. And everybody knows everybody's business. Nobody asks questions because everybody already knows the answers.

But, this guy's asking for Jeff Bailey (Robert Mitchum). You know, Jeff, "the mysterious Jeff Bailey" who owns the local gas station. What does he want with Jeff?—he's a guy on the level. Treats people decent, even the local deaf kid (Dickie Moore). Plus, Jeff is gone for the day, out fishing with Ann Miller (Virginia Huston), who's sweet on him. Her folks don't approve, though. Neither does Jim (Richard Webb)—you know Jim, he's been trying forever. Then, Jeff came into town and Jim's been playing second fiddle ever since. And this guy's asking for Jeff.

The Kid finds him while the city-guy pokes around the diner, and even though The Kid can't hear/can't speak, Jeff merely has to see him to know that something's up and the fishing has to be curtailed. The fishing in the lake, anyway. Jeff can relate. To the fish, I mean.

Turns out the guy is an "old chum from old times." And he has a message for him. Whit wants to see him. In Tahoe. Jeff's not a guy to telegraph what he's thinking or say what he's thinking. "I never found out much listening to myself," he says once. But, this...this is something he left miles out of the way. And Out of the Past.

Out of the Past came from a novel by Daniel Mainwaring, who used to be a private eye and a reporter before getting into pictures. He was a prolific writer of books and pictures and he was the natural go-to to adapt his novel "Build My Gallows High" (written under his pseudonym Geoffrey Homes). Humphrey Bogart read the script and liked it, but his bosses at Warner Bros. didn't. RKO bought it and were pleased enough with it to attach a good budget and a guy who knew his way around noir, Edward Dmytryk, to direct. But, there were conflicts with his schedule and so Jacques Tourneur (late of the Val Lewton horror unit) was brought in. Robert Mitchum was set to top-line and the script was punched up for him by Frank Fenton—who'd put words in Mitchum's mouth before—and James M. Cain, the godfather of noir, who'd written the novels of "The Postman Always Rings Twice," "Double Indemnity," and "Mildred Pierce." Together, these writers would craft dialog of a quality that was top-notch noir, that at its best is verbal shadow-boxing with its metaphors, its feints and jabs and dead-ends (but no knock-outs), a kind of gutter-poetry that evokes gruff chuckles or haunted thoughts.

So, Jeff has an appointment in Tahoe with a thing of his past. Best to take care of the present, so he goes to see Ann, maybe for the last time, and square up accounts and speak the truth, not avoiding it, even though "some of it's going to hurt". First, she tells him that the man she knows isn't him. He's Jeff Markham, and he was a private detective at one time, who had a reputation for being smart and honest, and a partner (Steve Brodie) who was neither. He'd been brought in by a "big op"—"an operator, a gambler" named Whit Sterling (Kirk Douglas, in only his third film) about "some dame (who) took four shots at him with his own .38. Made one of 'em good." Whit's only slightly wounded, but what really smarts is she took $40 G's with her when she beat feet. Her name is Kathie Moffat (Jane Greer), and he wants the money back, the girl is just interest.

After some digging and some hoofing, Jeff found her in Acapulco...and found her fascinating. Maybe it's the heat, or the waiting, or the anticipation, but when she walked into a bar, she walked away telling him were he might find her again...and walked away with his heart. He knew he was being a sucker, taking her side just because it was a nice place to be. And, as the waitress who works across from his future garage is given to say: "Seems like everything people ought to know, they just don't want to hear. I guess that's the big problem with the world." Jeff puts it more succinctly to Kathie: "Baby, I don't care."

"Baby, I don't care"

Famous last words. Jeff stops being smart, and he stops being honest...at least with his employer, Whit, who comes down to Acapulco to check on his progress. He doesn't tell him that he's found Kathie and that he's planning on leaving town with her that very day. They run to San Francisco, but the ends of the Earth wouldn't be far enough. He and Kathie are found by Jeff's old partner, Fisher, who tries to blackmail them for keeping quiet. Kathie shoots him, then runs out, leaving Jeff to dispose of the body. He never sees her again, and that's when he made his way to Bridgeport, to Ann, thinking he'd left his past behind.

Later, he'll say "You know, sometimes a bad memory is like what they call an ill wind. It can blow somebody luck." He doesn't specify whether it's good or bad. But, he leaves Ann to drive back to Bridgeport while he walks in to confront his past, too much of it, it turns out, knowing full well that it may doom his future. His talk starts to turn fatalistic, as he's led through a series of traps, trying to get ahead of it, but, seemingly, with his back always against something, hiding in the shadows trying to see his way to the light. But, he knows that this journey began with a bad step and like he told Kathie once "You're going to find it easy to take me anywhere." Even against his better judgment.

Out of the Past is one of the definitive film noir films, if not the epitome of the genre. But, it's not the world, or the machinations of the Universe, that's bad here, it's people, and how their influences on the world can drag you down, throw you off-course, even if you're smart, even if you're honest, even if you want a better life. It's your choices under their influence that make the difference and once you've made them, you can't escape them, whether physically or mentally. Past is prologue goes the saying, attached like a chain that binds you to it, and from which there is no escape, despite your best intentions. And no matter how nostalgic you may feel about them, it's best to not revisit old haunts.

That's why the ending to the film is so good. A lot of would-be film noirs will "cop out" the ending, tacking on the glimmer of hope, a way to redemption, and a warm hug. Out of the Past does that, but stays true to its cautionary theme, providing a moment of wisdom and of grace, a gift that jettisons the past and makes a clean start, free of regret. It deliberately brings hope and the good luck that an ill wind could toss. Mourning the past never did anybody any good. Leaving it behind and running towards the future is always the best path.

Donovan's Brain

Donovan's Brain (Felix E. Feist, 1953) Turgid and over-the-top '50's sci-fi pot-boiler (based on Curt Siodmak's 1942 sci-fi thriller) about a scientist, Dr. Patrick Cory (Lew Ayres) experimenting with trying to keep alive what Woody Allen called his "second favorite organ:" the human brain.

 
Volunteers are, naturally, hard to find.

 
After limited success with monkey-brains, opportunity falls from the sky with the conveniently nearby plane-crash that kills millionaire-industrialist H. W. Donovan--but leaves his brain undamaged (these millionaire industrialists have pretty thick skulls). And before you can say, "The ganglia's all here!" Donovan's brain squats in one of those big aquariums that can hold all sorts of veiltails and comets (there must have been one in the waiting room!) 

Now, this film was made in the "Ameri-CAN" era of the 1950's, so there is no thought given to defeatist talk like "Just because we CAN, doesn't mean we SHOULD" Not when Cory's wife is played by Nancy Davis, the-soon-to-be Mrs. Ronald Reagan! "You get in there, Daddy, and pickle that brain!"* 

Now, now. I'm letting my leftist agenda get in the way. The future First Lady is the best thing in the movie (Mr. Ayres being a little bit...restrained for the material, as maybe he thought he was still playing Dr. Kildare or something) and her palm-outward-looks of horror at the intractability of her favorite brainiac's single-minded purpose rise above the studio-prescribed requirements of the science-plagued ingenue. 

Now, because a brain in an aquarium is a lonely thing (despite being surrounded by bubbling water, flashing lights and the instrument that goes *ping!*), Cory devises a system for the brain to communicate (Davis could have told him that as it was a man's brain, he shouldn't make it a priority, but there's no stopping Cory). There being no cadavers lying around (but, boy, just you wait) and because Universal Pictures has the film-rights to "Frankenstein," he sets up a system so Donovan can electrically communicate via brain-waves, telepathically sending messages to the team. Sort of like using lawyers while he was alive. But requests to have his water changed just isn't enough for the industrialist. Suffering from unrequited lobe, once he gets Cory's ear, he soon wants the whole body, and Cory is helpless to resist Those Big Business Brain-Waves. 

Usually when you combine an entrepreneurial spirit with a scientist, you get a snow-storm of government-grant proposals. But Cory...goes to the lawyers, instructing them to turn over Donovan's fortune to him, so he can...Mwah-hah-hah...expand his empire. Living in an aquarium does that to you. 

Not very good, really. But, a bit ahead of its time when dealing with the possibility of altering brain-chemistry for purposes of rehabilitation. And Dr. Cory goes in with the best of intentions—to find a cure for alcoholism. 

But the story screams like a B-actress for a re-make that can touch political, social and pharmacological fronts. What if Donovan was on Xanax before the crash, and afterwards, the brain becomes stronger, but more hostile? What would an entrepreneur do given the power to control others? Well, control more, I'd think. He'd want to corner the market. What if the brain could be used as a power-source—a self-regulating power-source? And what might it do with that power? In an age of wireless gadgets and computers, and artificial limbs controlled by brain-impulses, what couldn't the brain do (besides the dishes—it's a man's brain, after all)? Think of the movie you could make now...if you had a mind to. 

Low-angle indicates dominance...

* Actually, I can hear Nancy Reagan saying that...

Desperate

Desperate (Anthony Mann, 1947) The same year Anthony Mann made T-Men, he also made this noir for RKO. Coming from that studio, it is low budget, fast-paced and. due to the sensibility of director Anthony Mann, filled with amazing images that show he was as capable of creating a dynamic image, with or without his cameraman John Alton (Desperate's cameraman is George E. Diskant).

And Desperate is as simple a tale as can be: an ordinary man discovers a dark world he had previously never known existed and must prove himself to save himself and those he loves. It's a plot right out of Hitchcock, but much less ornate, much less witty, and with a palpable sense of danger that seems to linger just out of the corners of the frame. That frame is edged in a terrifying, thick blackness, threatening to envelope and enshroud the poor figures in the frame.

Steve Randall (Steve Brodie) is a common enough guy, newly married and trying to scratch out a life for himself and his wife, Anne (Audrey Long). He's an independent trucker—"Long and Short Hauls"—and is used to jobs with strange hours and long absences with reasonable returns. But on the night of his first anniversary, his wife takes a message from a "Mr. Reynolds" who has "a load of perishables" that need to be hauled tonight. Steve starts to beg off but when the amount of $50 is mentioned, well, when you're starting out right out of the army with a new bride...

At least, that's how Walt Rattak sees it. Walt knows Steve from "back in school" and where the one has taken the right road, Walt has taken the dark path. He's a racketeer and a bit of a sadist, even if he doesn't want to get his hands dirty, and he has no qualms in placing his acquaintance, Steve, into a compromising position. He's much more reluctant about his baby brother Al (Larry Nunn), whom he dotes on. But, when Al starts to whine about going along on the job, Walt protests a little, but relents. After all, it's a bit-job, what can go wrong?

But, he still gives Al a gun.

Bad parenting skills.

And probably a little too cocky for his own good. When Steve gets to "the job," he becomes quickly aware there are no "perishable goods"—with the exception of him—and starts to back out, wanting nothing to do with criminal activity. Trouble is, he's already in it—the crooks could turn evidence against him, and then there's the matter of the loaded guns that could also turn—his way. He's in a tough spot.

But, a beat cop walking nearby gives him an idea. He flashes his headlights, alerting the cop, and a panicking Al starts to fire. There's just enough time for Randall to squeal out of there and Al, on the loading ramp of the truck, takes a tumble. The shots bring a patrol-car and Rattak and crew beat it, leaving an unconscious Al behind with a cop-killing charge—the officer he's fired at is hit—and for that, he'll swing.

This does not sit well with Walt. He starts to put pressure on Randall—a lot of pressure—to take the fall for killing the cop. Part of that is pure viciousness, but a lot of it is his cold feeling of responsibility for letting his kid brother go out on the job with no experience and abandoning him when the heat was on. He's not going to take the blame for that. Randall is.  Watch the scene below:

Amazing how Mann makes the beating seem so much worse by not showing it and he uses the available light in the room to suggest the violence and invoke a queasy feeling in the audience (yes, Hitchcock borrowed this for the basement scene in Psycho), but rather than have the light simply swing, it arcs in a circle and the way the light plays on Walt and "Mr. Randall" (William Challee—he played Jack Nicholson's elderly father in Five Easy Pieces) is cold and eerie, making them look like statues—they are the only still things in the room—before Walt threatens Randall's wife.

There begins a chase, with the Randalls, trying to evade both the police and the mob, leading to a tense scene that surely must have influenced the showdowns of Sergio Leone. For a low-budget film noir, it boasts a lot of A-list ideas and the efficiency and economy with which Mann shoots it—he was only a few years after assisting Preston Sturges direct at Paramount—shows a director who could satisfy both the demands of drama and the studio. He would move from RKO quickly to direct the low-budgeted T-Men and hone his craft in the dark recesses of film-noir before moving to more prestigious projects.

The Steel Helmet

The Steel Helmet (Samuel Fuller, 1951) Shot in ten days for a budget of $100,000, The Steel Helmet was the first film dealing with the, by-then, six month old Korean War. It was Fuller's third job as a director and his first established hit, but it marks a big contrast with the World War II films that were still making their way into theaters at that point.

The credits appear over a single steel helmet in the dirt. Once Fuller's director's credit fades away, the helmet begins to move. Underneath it is Sergent Zack (Gene Evans), tied and crawling out of his place in a pit where his entire captured squad was executed, he being the one survivor. He is untied and aided by a Korean orphan (William Chun), whom Zack dubs "Short Round" and while a bit of an annoyance, the kid is kept around while the soldier looks for other Americans.

Already Fuller is differentiating this film and this war from the squadron of films that came out of WW II. By the time of the film's release, movies made about the second world war were comfortably moving into the realm of myth, sanitizing the conflict and its hardships in the name of a "good war." But Zack is a different breed. He's scraggly, bearded, and a bit of a jerk, but a survivor. Suspicious of everyone and everything, he'll at least cut some slack if you're wearing the same uniform. But you have to prove yourself.

The rag-tag soldiers of The Steel Helmet

After fending off an attack from soldiers disguised as villagers praying at a small shrine, he and Short Round run into Cpl. Thompson (James Edwards), a medic, also the last survivor of his platoon. Thompson stitches Zack up and soon, they come across another group of dog-faces, lost in transit to a mission: to find a particularly strategically located Buddhist temple and establish a post. Along the way, the make-shift patrol is attacked by snipers hiding in the trees and attempt to disarm a booby-trap...unsuccessfully.

By this time, personalities have come to the fore. Every soldier is a "type," but not the usual religious and ethnic melting pot from the second World War films. Among the group is a yokel, a soldier who doesn't say much, a conscientious objector, a "green" college-educated officer, a Nisei soldier (who'd been to the West Coast concentration camps during the second world war and portrayed by veteran actor Richard Loo), and Thompson, who's black. This is stronger stuff than the Jews, Poles and Italians who provide "color" to white-washed war films of the previous decade. These guys are scruffy, too, and though typed, there's enough personality and grit to make them stand out as individuals, not tokens.

The crew makes their way to the temple, little suspecting there's a Korean sniper already entrenched there, outnumbered and biding his time, hiding in the shadows. As the soldiers set up a bivouac, the Korean takes out another of the rank and gets wounded in the process. The squad starts to squabble about what to do with their prisoner, while the whole time the huge Buddha observes mute in the background.  Eventually, Thompson treats the wounded captive, but once he's healthy again, the English-speaking prisoner starts to try to subvert Thompson and Tanaka by questioning why they would fight for America, given the racial prejudice visited on both their races.

That scene got Fuller in trouble with the FBI and the Army (who provided the film with stock footage) both for its portrayal of American troops and for bringing up American social deficiencies that might provide aid and comfort to the enemy (The Daily Worker also criticized the film for being too "right-wing"—leaving Fuller caught in the middle between idealized ideologies, something that would happen throughout his career).  

Thompson patches up "The Red."  Notice who's holding up the IV.

Warring ideologies inform the film, as well, especially over the POW. The GI's must battle between practicalities and the "better angels" of their natures over his fate. But, the point may be moot as a squad of North Koreans is advancing on the temple. Before the fight is over, more men will die and Zack will come to a greater understanding of his place in the war and rather than being hardened by his experience, learns to yield.

On an extremely small budget and a limited scope, The Steel Helmet still manages to pack more ideas and challenging points of view than most other war films, probably because there's less emphasis on battle and more on camaraderie, there's more getting along and survival skills than actual combat, which sets it apart. In typical Fuller fashion, the film is blunt, tough, practical and makes the most of its budget, while nudging insistently out of audience's comfort zones. Despite that (or maybe because of it) the film became a minor hit and launched Fuller into a Hollywood career directing and becoming a maverick doing it.