Noir (pt. II)

Detour

The Killers

Happy November, dear readers. I hope you’re recovering from the post-Halloween fugue state better than I am. I’m glad that film people have dubbed November to be Noir-vember, not just because it sounds Australian when you say it, but because it keeps the spooky vibes from October going just a little bit longer before the dreadful cheer of the holiday season sets in. As with last year’s Noirvember, it is unlikely that I’ll be filling the whole month with noir double features—not because I have anything against noir, but because it is an area of film that the bros love to gatekeep, and quite frankly, one that has been explored ad nauseam. I’m still a rookie when it comes to this category, and rookies never tend to last long in noirs. I still have much to explore within film noir, so let’s dive right in. Edward G. Ulmer’s 1945 film Detour is a splendidly short thriller with a clever premise and an unpredictable ending. It begins as most noirs do: with a troubled man narrating himself into a flashback. Al Roberts (Tom Neal) is a recently unemployed pianist looking downright depleted in a diner late at night, recounting his woes to himself in a classic “you’re probably wondering how I got here” manner. Up until recently, Al spent his nights playing piano in a seedy all-night bar in New York where his girlfriend Sue sang alongside him. He wants to marry her, but first she wants to make a better life for them—by trying to make it in Hollywood. She goes off, and after awhile Al becomes depressed so he decides to drop everything and hitchhike to California—where he makes it all the way to Arizona before he finds any trouble. Al gets picked up by a man named Charles Haskel who lets Al drive for awhile while he sleeps, only to die very suddenly shortly after. Al knows that the police will just assume that he killed this man, so he does what any rational adult would do: he steals the man’s clothes and ID, buries his body off the side of the road, and takes over his identity and car. Stressed out of his mind, Al finds his way to a hotel where he meets a woman named Vera, who’s looking for a ride. Vera (Ann Savage) is a real tough cookie, with eyes that never blink and a sharp silver tongue that never quits. Al describes her as “a beauty that’s almost homely because it’s so real” which feels like a attemptedly-poetic way of saying “medium ugly”. She does enough fast-talking and wise-cracking for the both of them, and she’s got Al all figured out in a matter of two minutes. They have excellent banter for the entire film, and somehow zero chemistry. They both have a lot to run from, and they both have a lot of “life’s like a blank” sayings. I shan’t reveal more to this quick but compelling story, because it’s too juicy to spoil. It is equal parts harebrained and equal parts harrowing, with an aura of post-Depression cynicism and timeless capitalistic melancholy constantly floating through it. The sets and smoke made this film seem like a stage play, and it had this very cool, almost psychedelic lighting—that was mostly caused by the poor restoration of this old film. Much like last year’s viewing of D.O.A., Detour flew by but made an impression, which is more than I can say for the other film I watched, another Edmond O’Brien film—The Killers. Not to be confused with the band The Killers or the Cameron Diaz-Ashton Kutcher film of the same name that currently holds a generous 10 percent on Rotten Tomatoes, Robert Siodmak’s 1946 film The Killers is a turbulent tale of murder, mayhem, and misappropriation. Based on a story by Ernest Hemingway (no offense, but yawn), and starring a young, baby-faced Burt Lancaster (who, last we saw on this blog, was older and tanner but still hot) who goes by the nickname “The Swede”. It begins with two very aggressive men in suits entering a diner, harassing the staff, asking for The Swede. The Swede, aka Ole Anderson, typically shows up at this diner every night for dinner, but not this night. This night, he’s lying alone in his house in this small, sleepy little town, awaiting the hitmen to come finish the job, which they do, rather swiftly and violently. Cue life insurance agent Jim Reardon (Edmond O’Brien), who spends the whole film talking to everyone who ever knew Ole, to get to the bottom of this mysterious case. Along the way he meets old friends, flames, and a dame who’s prone to double-crossing: Kitty Collins (Ava Gardner). Kitty Collins is one of those femme fatales upon which it seems the whole story was created for. Which is why I found it to be a shame that we hardly get to hear from her. She seems to be a mastermind of some kind, but the film doesn’t really let her prove herself. Instead, in one of the various flashbacks, they have her singing—which isn’t that odd for the time period, but ummm… I mean she’s an alright singer. Like not very very good, and she also didn’t know the words to the song she was singing? So it was just kind of weird, and felt a bit like that one Kristen Wiig SNL skit where everyone’s at a party gathered around a piano just chatting and she interrupts to say “oh don’t make me sing”. The Killers is not a bad noir, I just found the constant use of character witnesses giving their accounts to be a bit tedious at a certain point. They kept alluding to the mysterious Kitty Collins and her influence, but again, I feel like we barely got to actually know her. And if you’re gonna have a femme fatale named Kitty Collins played by Ava Gardner, like… please let her have more screen time? Because while she was gorgeous and her wardrobe was divine, she was seemingly just there to be gawked at—and not to be understood. Despite an underutilized silver screen queen, The Killers still has a decent story, decent wisecracks, and men’s pants that go as high as the heavens. If you’re a fan of noir, both of these films are must-sees, but if you’re just a casual fan like me, I’d pick the breezy but not-so-easy Detour to watch. We’re living in harsh, hardboiled times ourselves, and I can’t think of a better way to cure the blues of being, than watching a movie or two. Until next time, readers 🍸