SPOILERS. Sounds like it might be a good unpretentious flick, maybe a noir, doesn't it? "Pickup on South Street," "Call Northside 777," "The House on 92nd St.," "13 West Street." It isn't, though. The story is simple enough. Ladd is driving home from work late at night and his car chugs to a halt on an ominously deserted city street -- the only good location shooting in the movie. He's a rocket scientist, so when he sees that his car is out of gas, he tries to restart the engine. (A rocket scientist, mind you.) At this point, the good part is more or less over. Ladd is set upon and brutally beaten by a handful of well-dressed white thugs. He recovers in the hospital but spends the rest of the film on crutches or canes. The police of course investigate, under the guidance of Rod Steiger, but they are too slow for Ladd. He becomes obsessed with finding these punks and begins poking his nose into the investigation. Each time he does so, the juvenile delinquest somehow become aware of it and threaten him over the phone, throw rocks through his window, or beat him yet again. And all the time Steiger (who underplays -- for him) threatens to throw him in jail for "interfering with justice." And in fact he IS thrown in jail. In the end, things turn out as you would expect them to in a routine crime drama like this.
The script is full of holes, beginning with the unmotivated beating of Ladd by rich, educated kids. Not that it doesn't happen, but they're given no motivation before this incident, or afterward. One of the kids, who feels he might soon be queried about the beating, hangs himself because he's upset. Both Ladd and his assailant act in the worst possible way, as far as their self interest is concerned. Ladd, a middle-aged engineer on a broken ankle, is able to subdue an athletic high schooler armed with a pistol. Well, I won't go on. The direction is perfunctory. There isn't a shot after the first few minutes that couldn't have been done by following an instructional manual. Oh -- one thing, perhaps. The head thug, Mickey Callan, after throwing his buddies out of his car for reasons known only to him, forces his way into Ladd's house and confronts Ladd's wife, Dolores Dorn. He plans to shoot Ladd, then rape her, he explains. Then, upon thinking things over, he decides to assault her first, and he throws her to the floor, shredding her bodice in the process. (This is known as "ripping a bodice".) At this point the director has the good taste to give us a glimpse of Dolores Dorn's bra and stockinged legs as she writhes on the floor terrified.
The acting. This is the sad part. Ladd by this time in his career was pretty well shot, and he looks and sounds it. Some of this is due to the normal process of aging, for which no one, thank God, can be held responsible. But he was also doing beaucoup booze and pounding a lot of barbiturates. He looks puffy, the way Clark Gable began to look puffy when he was drinking heavily. Both his voice and his mannerisms are slurred, so much so that at times he utters a sentence that seems to consist of nothing but one long vowel and no consonants. And he needs to be seen on cane or crutch to be believed. He wobbles and flaps frantically when he moves quickly, and when he walks slowly or stand still the image evoked is Frankenstein's monster. Dolores Dorn, alas, is no actress but is nevertheless sympatico. Not only because of her role as the patient and understanding wife but because her voice, unprofessional as it sounds, seems imbued with a kind of pathos. We feel sorry for her. She's also quite attractive in a not quite conventional way. Her skin seems to have a tawny quality that suggests she is naturally tan all over, and her pale blonde hair complements the tone exquisitely. Steiger engages in little of his usual bravura acting. He's a reliable cop, but almost always in the background.
Sometimes a film of this kind can be redeemed by a supporting cast of seasoned and familiar players, but not here. A bartender has a prominent bit part. The guy looks like an overweight actor -- when one thinks of what John Ford would have done with a part like that, it brings tears to the eyes. Mickey Callan I admire, as I do all dancers, for being able to do things I would never have dreamed of trying with my own body. But he's merely pretty, and a poor actor in a dramatic role. (He was better at light comedy.)
I don't enjoy being this negative about a movie like this. I've enjoyed the performers' work in other films. And I do feel sympathetic towards Ladd. But there is simply nothing to recommend this movie.
The script is full of holes, beginning with the unmotivated beating of Ladd by rich, educated kids. Not that it doesn't happen, but they're given no motivation before this incident, or afterward. One of the kids, who feels he might soon be queried about the beating, hangs himself because he's upset. Both Ladd and his assailant act in the worst possible way, as far as their self interest is concerned. Ladd, a middle-aged engineer on a broken ankle, is able to subdue an athletic high schooler armed with a pistol. Well, I won't go on. The direction is perfunctory. There isn't a shot after the first few minutes that couldn't have been done by following an instructional manual. Oh -- one thing, perhaps. The head thug, Mickey Callan, after throwing his buddies out of his car for reasons known only to him, forces his way into Ladd's house and confronts Ladd's wife, Dolores Dorn. He plans to shoot Ladd, then rape her, he explains. Then, upon thinking things over, he decides to assault her first, and he throws her to the floor, shredding her bodice in the process. (This is known as "ripping a bodice".) At this point the director has the good taste to give us a glimpse of Dolores Dorn's bra and stockinged legs as she writhes on the floor terrified.
The acting. This is the sad part. Ladd by this time in his career was pretty well shot, and he looks and sounds it. Some of this is due to the normal process of aging, for which no one, thank God, can be held responsible. But he was also doing beaucoup booze and pounding a lot of barbiturates. He looks puffy, the way Clark Gable began to look puffy when he was drinking heavily. Both his voice and his mannerisms are slurred, so much so that at times he utters a sentence that seems to consist of nothing but one long vowel and no consonants. And he needs to be seen on cane or crutch to be believed. He wobbles and flaps frantically when he moves quickly, and when he walks slowly or stand still the image evoked is Frankenstein's monster. Dolores Dorn, alas, is no actress but is nevertheless sympatico. Not only because of her role as the patient and understanding wife but because her voice, unprofessional as it sounds, seems imbued with a kind of pathos. We feel sorry for her. She's also quite attractive in a not quite conventional way. Her skin seems to have a tawny quality that suggests she is naturally tan all over, and her pale blonde hair complements the tone exquisitely. Steiger engages in little of his usual bravura acting. He's a reliable cop, but almost always in the background.
Sometimes a film of this kind can be redeemed by a supporting cast of seasoned and familiar players, but not here. A bartender has a prominent bit part. The guy looks like an overweight actor -- when one thinks of what John Ford would have done with a part like that, it brings tears to the eyes. Mickey Callan I admire, as I do all dancers, for being able to do things I would never have dreamed of trying with my own body. But he's merely pretty, and a poor actor in a dramatic role. (He was better at light comedy.)
I don't enjoy being this negative about a movie like this. I've enjoyed the performers' work in other films. And I do feel sympathetic towards Ladd. But there is simply nothing to recommend this movie.