Premiered January 23, 1946: THREE STRANGERS, starring Sidney Greenstreet, Geraldine Fitzgerald, and Peter Lorre. Directed by Jean Negulesco (The Mask of Dimitrios, Nobody Lives Forever, Road House).

On the eve of Chinese New Year in 1930s London, Crystal Shackleford (Geraldine Fitzgerald) lures two complete strangers to her apartment and presents them with a peculiar proposition. Fitzgerald possesses a statuette of Kwan Yin, the Chinese goddess of fortune, and according to legend, if three complete strangers make a wish to the idol at the stroke of midnight, it will be granted. The two men she has recruited are Jerome Arbutny (Sidney Greenstreet), a prosperous but ethically compromised solicitor, and Johnny West (Peter Lorre), a mild-mannered gentleman with a serious drinking problem. Fitzgerald’s wish is a simple one – that a sweepstakes ticket the three have agreed to share will win the Grand National horse race, bestowing each of them with a small fortune. Greenstreet is dismissive, Lorre is indifferent, and after making the midnight wish, the three go their separate ways. The remainder of the film is devoted to following the individual lives of the titular strangers in the days leading up to the sweepstakes drawing and subsequent horse race, as each struggles with challenging personal circumstances. The film slows down considerably at this point, spending the majority of its time on Lorre’s story, which unfortunately meanders for quite a while before his situation comes fully into focus. It turns out Lorre was an innocent bystander who, while stumbling drunk in the streets, happened to get caught up in a robbery that resulted in the killing of a policeman. The killer (Robert Shayne) is now on trial, while his partner (Peter Whitney) forces Lorre to go into hiding with him until the trial is over. Possessing an easygoing approach to life, Lorre seems content to let the winds of fate carry him where they will, as long as there’s an ample supply of alcohol within reach. Events seem to wash off him like water off a duck’s back, so when Shayne lies and pins the murder on Lorre, Lorre absorbs the news and goes off to prison with such equanimity, it’s difficult for us to find an emotional foothold in his predicament. In spite of his grave circumstances, the film treats Lorre’s predicament with an unusually light touch, never letting the narrative become overly serious or dire, and even throws in a budding romance with Joan Lorring, who is a friend of one of the criminals and is sweet on Lorre. By contrast, Greenstreet and Fitzgerald’s stories are considerably more gripping and sordid, even if covered in comparatively fewer scenes. Both character’s lives are on the brink of devastating personal ruin, and the toll on their psyche is substantial. Fitzgerald’s obsessive determination to keep her estranged husband (Alan Napier) bound to her reveals darkly sinister aspects of her character, as she carries out disturbingly manipulative schemes to undermine Napier’s desire to become free of her and marry Marjorie Riordan. Greenstreet’s arc is a familiar one – a man of influence whose financial improprieties gradually close in on him and threaten to dismantle his privileged existence. Before our eyes, Greenstreet gradually transforms from a smug, self-satisfied lawyer into a frantic man driven to increasingly frenzied desperation. Without giving too much away, the ending manages to be both predictable – given the moral bookkeeping required by the Hays Code – and refreshingly unexpected. Only one of the three strangers comes away with anything resembling a happy ending, and the film does its best to misdirect us, keeping the final outcome uncertain until the closing minutes. Fortunately, the film’s uneven pacing is more than compensated for by the excellent cast. Lorre’s storyline, the most long-winded and muddled of the three, is kept afloat almost entirely by the force of his personality. He has a remarkable gift for injecting a glimmer of resigned humor into even the most dire circumstances, and without his singular presence anchoring the material, his character’s thread could easily have bogged down to the point of tedium. Greenstreet, equally charismatic in his own commanding way, holds our attention effortlessly and makes his character’s descent feel genuinely calamitous. Fitzgerald, for her part, delivers a deeply unsettling portrait of an unhinged femme fatale. At first she seems merely eccentric with her unusual faith in Chinese idols and a talent for luring strangers to her apartment. But the first clear signal that something darker lurks beneath the surface comes during her initial confrontation with Napier, in which a tense but civil conversation about the breakup of their marriage is jarringly shattered when she suddenly screams, “I’ll never give you a divorce as long as you live!” with such volcanic ferocity, it might jolt you out of your seat. From that moment on, she spirals into a kind of controlled madness, calmly scheming and sabotaging Napier’s ambitions with chilling composure.  Three Strangers offers a compelling premise coupled with an interesting storytelling approach. It’s unfortunate so much of the film is spent on the least captivating of the three narratives, but if you stick with it, you’ll be rewarded with engaging performances by three talented Hollywood veterans and a conclusion that delivers more than you might expect. We give Three Strangers 3 out of 5 fedoras.

Released November 3, 1949: CHICAGO DEADLINE, starring Alan Ladd, Donna Reed, and June Havoc.  Directed by Lewis Allen (The Unseen, Desert Fury, Suddenly).

A young woman (Donna Reed) with the intriguing name of Rosita Jean d’Ur, is found dead of tuberculosis in a seedy Chicago boarding house. Newspaper reporter Alan Ladd happens to be present when the body is discovered and wonders how such a beautiful young woman ended up dying destitute, alone, and forgotten. Before the police arrive, he pockets her personal address book and embarks on a rogue quest to find out who she was and how she came to such a tragic end. What follows is essentially a portrait of a life assembled one piece at a time, as Ladd works his way through the names in the address book, attempting to put together the story of Reed’s life. The investigation proves more dangerous than anticipated – most people he contacts won’t admit to having known her, the ones who do have a troubling habit of turning up dead, and Ladd gets knocked around and shot in the process. Through a series of flashbacks, we come to know Reed as a beautiful young woman whose looks and circumstances drew her into increasingly dangerous company, and whose story grows more complicated with each new revelation. As Ladd digs deeper, becoming increasingly consumed by her memory, it becomes clear that Reed was less a willing participant in her own downfall than a victim of the world she was drawn into. While the film’s overall setup has definite potential to be an intriguing mystery, Chicago Deadline turns out to be a problematic film on several levels – the most glaring and fundamental of which, is Ladd’s improbable motivation. A reporter is always on the lookout for stories that are headline-worthy, but the unremarkable death of a woman in a flophouse from natural causes is certainly not that, as is pointed out repeatedly throughout the film as Ladd battles with his editor (Harry Antrim), who wants Ladd to drop his obsessive quest and go back to reporting real news. Comparisons to Laura (1944) are easy to make, except in that superb film, Dana Andrews’ obsession with Gene Tierney develops while he’s doing his job – investigating her disappearance and suspected murder. Decidedly higher stakes than anything we get here. Compared to Andrews, Ladd seems a bit unhinged and irrational, lending his quest an air of absurdity that’s difficult to shake.  It also doesn’t help that the story gradually uncovered by Ladd can be maddeningly difficult to follow. So many different characters intersected with Reed at different points in time and for different reasons that keeping track of them, and how they relate to one another, becomes a formidable challenge. Compounding the problem is that many of these individuals are reluctant to tell their story, forcing Ladd to resort to alternate approaches and work through several intermediaries before arriving at the truth. The one saving grace is that all plot threads converge with surprising neatness at the end, when in a succinct monologue, Ladd explains to us exactly what transpired in Reed’s life. It’s too bad the story itself proves unworthy of the elaborate and convoluted buildup to get us there. What we’re left with is essentially a tale of possessive men exercising their jealousy over Reed – hardly a payoff befitting the front-page headlines depicted in the film. But perhaps the most frustrating problem of all is that even though Ladd’s goal is to reconstruct Reed’s life and understand her tragic fate, we actually get to see very little of her throughout the film. The majority of Chicago Deadline focuses on Ladd’s dogged investigation and the parade of characters he encounters. Reed herself remains a veiled, underdeveloped presence. Contrast this with Laura, where Gene Tierney is fleshed out as a fully realized person, making Andrews’ obsession feel genuinely earned. Here, it never does, and we come away from the film knowing precious little about who Reed really was and how she felt.  But it’s not all bad. Chicago Deadline’s greatest asset is the talented supporting cast that supplies the film with a varied and colorful assortment of character types. June Havoc plays Leona, who becomes Ladd’s nominal love interest, though he treats her with an indifference bordering on rudeness. At one point he drags her to a boxing match only to tell her to find her own seat while he goes off to chase down a lead, then never returns to join her. Berry Kroeger is frighteningly effective as Solly, an intimidating thug boss who casts a menacing shadow over everyone in his orbit. Shepperd Strudwick as Blacky Franchot, is a likeable but shady operator – the first in a line of questionable men who will end up having a negative impact on Reed’s life. And Dave Willock, who bears an uncanny resemblance to a young Frank Sinatra, brings an easy charm to Pig, Ladd’s loyal right-hand man at the newspaper, who assists Ladd’s investigation without ever questioning his boss’s sanity, which, given the circumstances, shows remarkable forbearance.  Chicago Deadline is a frustrating puzzle of a movie. It assembles all the right pieces for a compelling mystery, but regrettably, hobbles itself with an inplausible premise, a confusing narrative, an unremarkable mystery, and a subject whom we barely get to know, even though she’s at the center of the story. Perhaps if more attention were devoted to Reed, it might’ve made up for the film’s many deficiencies. We give Chicago Deadline 2 out of 5 fedoras.

Released January 25, 1941: HIGH SIERRA, starring Ida Lupino, Humphrey Bogart, and Alan Curtis. Directed by Raoul Walsh (They Drive By Night, The Man I Love, The Enforcer).

Humphrey Bogart is a seasoned felon freshly released from prison and recruited by an aging criminal boss (Donald MacBride) to lead a heist at a California resort hotel. MacBride has already assembled a crew of young henchmen (Arthur Kennedy, Alan Curtis, and Cornel Wilde in his first credited screen role) for the job, but wants Bogart to run the operation due to his experience, no-nonsense attitude, and trustworthiness. Sure enough, when Bogart meets up with the crew at a camp in the Sierras, he wastes no time establishing who’s in charge. One of the toughs (Alan Curtis) brought along a girl (Ida Lupino), and Bogart initially insists she leave. But after standing up for Lupino when Curtis strikes her, he earns her heartfelt devotion and she convinces him to let her stay. Meanwhile, Bogart has his eye on a young woman (Joan Leslie) he encountered on the drive up to the mountains, and pursues her with an unexpected tenderness, striking up a warm, friendly rapport with her family and going so far as to pay for an expensive operation to treat a deformity in her foot. But the relationship with Leslie never materializes, and eventually he and Lupino find their way to each other. After the heist goes sideways, the two find themselves on the run from the police, with the pursuit culminating in a tense and memorable climax high up in the mountains. High Sierra is a compelling crime thriller, expertly paced by Raoul Walsh, who wisely keeps the human elements of the story front and center, and takes full advantage of the spectacular mountain scenery and locations to give the film a visual grandeur that sets it apart from most noirs of the period, lending the story a sweeping, almost elegiac quality that lingers long after the final frame. Bogart of course, was no stranger to playing hardened criminals, and was a natural fit for this role, which incidentally, George Raft turned down. But unlike his earlier gangster films, High Sierra was a pivotal milestone in Bogart’s ascent to stardom, providing the opportunity for him to play a more complex and nuanced character. What makes his performance so compelling is its dimensionality – he’s tough, uncompromising, and capable of genuine menace, yet the time he spends with Leslie and her family, and subsequently Lupino, reveals an unexpected capacity for warmth and decency. This was a new kind of on-screen criminal. Not the brash wiseguy of early gangster pictures, but a man of conviction who operates under an unwavering moral code, remains steadfastly loyal to those who earn his trust, and is capable of expressing compassion and caring for others. Lupino, who was actually the top-billed star of this film, is marvelous in a role that could easily have been reduced to window dressing. She plays her part with a finely balanced mix of world-weary cynicism and tenderness. Her chemistry with Bogart feels utterly authentic, and like Joan Leslie’s role, provides a lens through which we’re able to view the multi-faceted aspects of Bogart’s character. Both Lupino and Bogart would go on to achieve great things in film, and both would leave an indelible imprint on classic film noir in particular. Initial steps on that journey can be seen in a pair of early back-to-back noirs in which they played opposite one another: High Sierra and They Drive By Night the year before. Their pairing in High Sierra is an important part of what makes it a landmark film – beautifully crafted, powerfully performed, and as gripping today as it was in 1941. We give High Sierra 5 out of 5 fedoras.

Premiered August 21, 1953: 99 RIVER STREET, starring John Payne, Evelyn Keyes, and Brad Dexter. Directed by Phil Karlson (Scandal Sheet, Kansas City Confidential, Tight Spot).

John Payne is a washed-up boxer turned cab driver, struggling to hold together a crumbling marriage to his resentful wife (Peggie Castle), who has fallen for a smooth-talking jewel thief (Brad Dexter). Dexter has promised to whisk Castle off to France once he collects payment for a cache of stolen diamonds. But the fence (Jay Adler) backs out of the deal at the last minute, fearing Castle knows too much about the heist and can’t be trusted. So being the despicable heel that he is, Dexter coldly murders Castle and frames Payne for the killing. Meanwhile Evelyn Keyes, a casual acquaintance of Payne’s, uses him in a harebrained scheme to land herself a part in a Broadway play – a stunt that inadvertently leaves Payne embarrassed and humiliated. Feeling guilty, Keyes desperately wants to make it up to him. She happens to be with Payne when he discovers Castle’s body and realizes he’s been framed for her murder, so Keyes resolves to square herself by helping him track down Dexter to prove his innocence.  All of this, plus Payne’s ensuing search to find Dexter before he escapes to France, occurs in the span of one very busy night, so the film moves along at a brisk pace, taking us on a tour of varied locations that includes a backroom poker game, boxing arena, soda fountain, backstage at a theater, saloons, and culminates in a climactic gun battle and brutal fistfight on the city’s shadowy shipyard docks. Franz Planer’s cinematography is one of the film’s strengths, heightening tense moments with uncomfortable close-ups, and using unexpected angles to accentuate feelings of fear and power. The narrative is enlivened by a colorful supporting cast. Jack Lambert is an intimidating presence as Adler’s chief henchman, whose path crosses Payne’s with predictably violent results. Frank Faylen is endearing as Payne’s cab dispatcher and former boxing coach, who proves invaluable in helping Payne elude the police, even if his questionable marriage advice leaves something to be desired. But it’s the villains, Adler and Lambert, who make the most vivid impression, as is often the case in crime noir. Unfortunately, the screenplay fails to take full advantage of all its interesting characters. None of them, including Payne, are developed with sufficient depth to fully draw us into their world. Most feel like cardboard cutouts of predictable stereotypes, often making it seem like we’re watching pieces being moved on a chessboard rather than experiencing an emotionally immersive journey. Keyes provides the most compelling characterization, displaying a broad range of emotions and motivations. Her guilt-ridden desire to redeem herself gives her character a relatable dimension that most of the other characters lack.  But in spite of the narrowly drawn characters, 99 River Street is actually a solid noir thriller that combines all the right ingredients to cook up an engaging redemption and revenge story. We give 99 River Street 3.5 out of 5 fedoras.

Premiered July 25, 1946: THE STRANGE LOVE OF MARTHA IVERS, starring Barbara Stanwyck, Van Heflin, Lizabeth Scott, and Kirk Douglas. Directed by Lewis Milestone (All Quiet on the Western Front, Of Mice and Men, Ocean’s Eleven).

The film opens in the small town of Iverstown in 1928, where three childhood friends share a traumatic secret after young Martha Ivers (Janis Wilson) murders her wealthy, controlling aunt (Judith Anderson) in a fit of rage. Her two friends, Walter O’Neill (Mickey Kuhn) and Sam Masterson (Darryl Hickman) become unwitting witnesses to the crime. Sam flees immediately, but Walter stays with Martha, petrified by what he just saw. Walter’s opportunistic father (Roman Bohnen) seizes on the incident by helping Martha cover-up the murder, ensuring he and his son remain close to her, the only surviving heir of a powerful family. Meanwhile Sam, who had planned to run away with Martha that same night, hops a circus train and disappears from Iverstown for good. Fast-forward eighteen years, and the adult Martha (Barbara Stanwyck) inherited her aunt’s estate and dominates the corrupt town with an iron hand. She married Walter (Kirk Douglas), now the town’s district attorney, but not out of love. Their union is one of cold practicality – a mutually beneficial arrangement built on the dark secret they share, rather than affection. Douglas is painfully aware of this, and drowns his unrequited love for Stanwyck, and guilt over complicity in the murder cover-up, in the bottle, cutting a deeply tragic figure. A chance event happens to bring Sam (Van Heflin) back to Iverstown, and his appearance immediately disturbs the tense equilibrium between Stanwyck and Douglas. Heflin’s presence reignites long-suppressed feelings of affection that Stanwyck had for Heflin, and threatens to expose the dark secret both she and Douglas have spent nearly two decades burying. At the same time, Heflin becomes involved with Toni Marachek (Lizabeth Scott), a young woman freshly released from prison who has been knocked around by life and is in desperate need of a break. The storylines involving Heflin and the two women run in parallel – Heflin nurturing his relationship with Scott on one side, while navigating the treacherous emotional terrain of his past with Stanwyck, and an increasingly jealous and desperate Douglas, on the other. Stanwyck and Scott share only one brief scene together, yet the contrast between them – one cold, ruthless and manipulative, the other good-hearted, but powerless and resigned – is one of the film’s most potent sources of dramatic tension and lends emotional weight to every step of Heflin’s journey. The entire cast is excellent. Barbara Stanwyck is in her element as a powerful woman of formidable intelligence and steel-edged ambition. Van Heflin is the moral center of the story, a man who had no intention of ever returning to Iverstown and now finds himself caught in the crossfire of Stanwyck and Douglas’ emotional warfare. Lizabeth Scott, in only her second film, is a revelation, playing a complex character who is vulnerable but resilient, damaged yet steadfast, and tragically accepting of a life without happiness. In spite of all the hard knocks she’s endured, she’s not bitter and bears no ill will, making her instantly sympathetic and the perfect counterweight to Stanwyck’s domineering energy. We also get to see Kirk Douglas in his film debut, playing a character who is essentially the polar opposite of the strong, dynamic screen persona he would spend the rest of his career building. Audiences encountering Douglas for the first time would’ve had no trouble accepting his portrayal of a weak-willed, guilt-ridden drunk. But for those of us who know him as one of Hollywood’s most self-assured masculine icons, a small mental readjustment may be required. But it’s well worth making, because Douglas is tragically devastating in the role. If the film has a fault, it’s the overwrought, melodramatic tone that permeates some of the scenes, especially when reinforced by Miklos Rozsa’s exceedingly dramatic score, causing the film to periodically skim the edges of soap opera territory. Fortunately, by the midpoint of the film, when all the moving parts of the story are in full motion, the compelling narrative easily overshadows any melodramatic tendencies.  The Strange Love of Martha Ivers is one of film noir’s most elegantly crafted explorations of guilt, ambition, unrequited love, and moral compromise. It’s a film that reveals its full depth in stages, with the complex web of relationships growing richer and more layered as the story unfolds, and a conclusion that delivers on every emotional thread the film has carefully woven. We give The Strange Love of Martha Ivers 4.5 out of 5 fedoras.

Premiered November 9, 1941: SUSPICION, starring Cary Grant, Joan Fontaine, Cedric Hardwicke, and Nigel Bruce.  Directed by Alfred Hitchcock (Shadow of a Doubt, Strangers on a Train, I Confess).

Suspicion exemplifies one of Alfred Hitchcock’s greatest strengths as a director and storyteller: the art of misdirection.  Starting out as a lighthearted romance infused with comedic levity, the story very subtly and gradually turns darker and more ominous, until the tension becomes overwhelming.  Hitchcock takes his time, letting the charming romance between Cary Grant and Joan Fontaine develop in a swirl of playfulness and wit.  But right from the start, Fontaine is continually kept off balance by Grant’s cavalier attitude and irresponsible decisions.  At first, Grant’s behavior is that of an impulsive man-child, and can easily be forgiven, but his actions become increasingly questionable as the story develops, eventually leading Fontaine to believe he has truly evil intentions.  Hitchcock pulls off the gradual transformation in tone using every tool at his disposal, including subtle alterations in the music, lighting, camera angles, cuts to close-up glances, and by the end of the film, drenching the frame in oppressively dark shadows.  Fontaine serves as the audience surrogate, letting us experience the story through her eyes, as Hitchcock deftly plays a game of cat and mouse with the audience.  Every time Fontaine sinks into darkness and suspects Grant is lying, scheming, or worse, Hitchcock leaves us dangling uncomfortably for a short while, then abruptly pulls us back into the light with a whimsical explanation that sets everything right again.  This disorienting rollercoaster ride of doubt and relief is particularly effective because of the brilliant casting of Cary Grant.  Even when Fontaine becomes certain Grant is plotting to kill her, we still believe there’s room for hope because for God’s sake, it’s Cary Grant after all! He can’t possibly be a killer! What are you doing, Hitch? And indeed, the film’s ending deviates from the novel on which it’s based, Before the Fact by Francis Iles, because RKO was concerned about tarnishing Grant’s positive screen image. Film historians have differing opinions about whether Hitchcock wanted the ending to adhere to the book or not, and some have suggested the ending is actually inconclusive and leaves room for potential ambiguity.  Either way, the film’s climax is tense and satisfying.  Joan Fontaine gives an excellent performance laced with subtlety and emotional range, that deservedly earned her an Oscar win. Cary Grant is superb as always, but was snubbed at the Oscars, and reportedly deeply resented the accolades and attention given to his co-star.  Nigel Bruce is on hand to infuse the story with added levity, delivering one of his trademark performances as a bumbling good-natured Englishman, almost as if his Dr. Watson character just stepped off the set of a Sherlock Holmes movie. Suspicion is a superbly crafted thriller, that’s masterfully written, acted, and directed. We give Suspicion 5 out of 5 fedoras.