1944. Starring Fred MacMurray, Barbara Stanwyck, Edward G. Robinson. Directed by Billy Wilder.
“I couldn’t hear my own footsteps.” So says Walter Neff, who has just sold his soul. But you have to admit, it was a pretty good sale – as an insurance agent, he knew how the accident policy would pay off, even “double indemnity” if the person named in the policy died in certain circumstances, such as an unlikely fall from a train. And with the help of the unhappy wife, he was in the position to make that unlikely accident occur exactly by plan.
This sounds like it was all his idea. The significance of Billy Wilder’s “Double Indemnity” is in the quintessential portrayal of the manipulative beauty, a film noir staple. Walter Neff arrives at Phyllis Dietrichson’s home full of smarmy confidence and snarky comments, but he’s the fly coming to rest on the spiderweb.
Wilder casts Fred MacMurray as the smooth Walter Neff – and for those who don’t remember My Three Sons, it would be like casting Ray Romano today – against noir veteran Barbara Stanwyck, who plays Mrs. Dietrichson like a cold straight razor. MacMurray rises to the level of his co-stars, including Edward G. Robinson as his boss, his best friend, and the hardest-working insurance adjuster ever.
Based on a story by James M. Cain, adapted by Raymond Chandler, it’s comprised of all the best of film noir: shadowy sets, sharp dialogue and bitter conclusions. MacMurray sounds like he’s threatening Stanwyck when he calls her “Baby.” They certainly don’t love each other but, as he repeatedly says, they’re on the trolley together until the end. Last stop is the cemetery.
There are so many great scenes in Double Indemnity: Stanwyck wearing sunglasses at the grocery store meeting place; Robinson nearly catching the two together; MacMurray lighting Robinson’s cigars; the ankle bracelet; the little moment after the perfect crime when the car won’t start.
Wilder has the story narrated by MacMurray, recording his confession to Robinson in the empty office, despite an obvious bloodstain growing on the lapel of his jacket. I’ve wondered why MacMurray spends all night building his own gallows instead of making a run for the border. Maybe it’s a last chance for redemption, telling the truth to the one person who believed in him. Or maybe he just wants to brag about how he almost got away with it.
That’ll tear it. . .
1955. Starring Jean Servais. Directed by Jules Dassin.
Has there ever been a cinematic caper that has gone to plan? Jules Dassin filmed one of the best, an unforgettable crime tutorial, where the “Rififi” – the rough-and-tumble men – are willing to risk everything for a successful heist.
The craggy Jean Servais leads a group of conspirators who have every step of the crime planned, every move timed, every potential hazard covered. Their target is a secure jewelry store, and their planning pays off to the tune of 240 million francs. But you know that something’s going to go wrong. . .
Servais plays Tony le Stephanois, fresh out of the pen, having served a stretch for an earlier heist, but much respected because he kept his mouth shut. He is brought into the plot by two younger hoods, Mario (Robert Manuel) and Jo (Carl Mohner), along with Cesar le Milanais – played by no other than Jules Dassin himself. It is said that “there’s not a safe that can resist Cesar and not a woman that Cesar can resist.” Everyone who has seen a crime flick in the 50 years since can guess where the trouble begins.
The heist is painstakingly portrayed, illustrated in a 32-minute wordless sequence that maintains its suspense throughout. And this is no Ocean’s Eleven sleek inside job. The thugs of Rififi bust through plaster, cut through metal and wipe the sweat from their eyes, just long enough to reach in for handfuls of diamonds. As the successful operation unravels, the gang drops one by one, and an innocent life is endangered.
The streets of 1950s Montmartre are wet and grimy, filmed under overcast skies, but streets have rarely looked so good. The cafes, nightclubs and apartments are all standard film noir fare, but this is what city streets should look like.
Jules Dassin died on March 31 of this year, but left behind some classics: Brute Force (1947), The Naked City (1948), Thieves’ Highway (1949), Night and the City (1950) and then, finally, Rififi. That’s one hell of a streak. An American director, Dassin was a victim of the Hollywood blacklist and moved to France and married Greek actress Melina Mercouri. I meant to write something when I read of his death, but decided that watching Rififi would be a much more enjoyable way to honor him.
The Boston Globe’s The Big Picture site is a new blog that features great news photography at a greater size than normally found online. The photos are amazing — and the size adds a level of intensity to stories I wouldn’t have thought of as dramatic, such as Korean protests against American beef. Seriously. This photo gallery on the Cassini spacecraft’s journey past Saturn is beyond words.
Country music has a lot of comedy acts, almost all of whom aren’t funny. But the great country artists all seem to have a pretty good sense of humor, and there aren’t many who don’t have a humorous song in their act. Hell, Hank Williams recorded Settin’ the Woods on Fire and Nobody’s Lonesome For Me, and he suffered severe back pain for nearly all his 29 years.
Onie Wheeler isn’t quite as well-known but was just as talented. He recorded plenty of heartbreakers and sacred numbers, but his original “That’s What I Like” is full of charm, even if some of the lines might, um, be interpreted less innocently these days.
That’s What I Like (recorded by Onie Wheeler)
Written by Onie Wheeler
When you kiss me ’til my heart begins to flutter
And then you pet me just like a mother
When you get through, all I can do is st-t-t-t-tutter
Well, that’s what I like
And when you’re walkin’ me down the street
The boys all eye you from head to feet
And you say, ‘Honey, they’re not for me’
That’s what I like
I like you ’cause you’re just the same,
morning, noon and night
When I’m in the wrong, you take the blame
You never start a fight
And when I order up a drink for two
And you don’t want it but you say you do
And you pay the bill when we get through
That’s what I like
When we plan a six o’clock date
And I don’t get there ’til half-past eight
And you say, ‘It’s early — it’s not too late’
That’s what I like
Then we go out on a great big spree
And don’t get home ’til 2 or 3
You say, ‘It’s early’ and make love to me
That’s what I like
You’re just the kind of girl for me
Honest, sweet and true
If you didn’t cling to me like a honeybee
I don’t know what I’d do
If I said, ‘Honey, please marry me’
And you didn’t wanna, you’d still agree
That’s what fills my heart with glee
That’s what I like.
Let’s see — Onie has a gal that buys him drinks, ignores the other guys, overlooks his faults and still finds him irresistible? I don’t suppose she has a sister. . .
There are very few of rock and roll’s innovators left. Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis are the only ones I can think of, now that Bo Diddley has gone. His records have always made me happy — the standard riff, the shuffling beat and tumbling bass. The songs were rarely about anything, and that worked out fine, since Bo Diddley found a groove and stayed in it. Music fans never got tired of it.
The saddest thing was that most of the tributes I’ve read in the past day or so mentioned that, despite the enormous impact he had on music — his riff can be clearly heard in songs by Buddy Holly, the Stones, the Clash and U2 — he felt he hadn’t been rewarded sufficiently. I have no doubt that he, like so many others, were lied to and underpaid, cheated and forgotten. But I hope that before he died, he forgot the promises that were broken and the long tours he worked, and imagined a million bands beginning in garages around the world, all working on that riff that wouldn’t quit. RIP Mr. Bates.
Bo Diddley on Hollywood A Go Go