HOUSE OF CARDS. Universal Pictures, 1968. George Peppard, Inger Stevens, Orson Welles, Keith Michell, Perette Prader, Barnaby Shaw, Genvieve Cluny, Maxine Audley, William Job. Screenplay: James P. Bonner (Irving Ravetch and Harriet Frank Jr.), based on the novel by Stanley Ellin. Directed by John Guillermin.

   The film opens with a the city of Paris shot from the surface of the Seine as if the viewer is floating lazily along. A man is watching from the Pont des Arts and as the POV changes we see the body he has spotted floating in the river. Soon a fisherman hooks the body and pulls it ashore, the corpse of a young well dressed man, The police are called and the man on the bridge watches as the body is recovered, a cruel smile on his lips.

   The camera focuses on the man on the bridge blacking everything else out and the colorful titles suddenly fill the screen

   Re-opening when they have finished on American Reno Davis (George Peppard) getting beaten badly in the ring in a prize fight and quickly tossing in the towel.

   He’s an ex boxer with a chequered career who has been kicking around Europe for six years trying to write something important, but mostly just avoiding living an ordinary life or going back to the states to work on his brother’s chicken farm (“Do you know what time chickens get up?”). He’s not lazy, just listless and without any real direction.

   That changes that night as he and his friend Leo are traveling back to Paris and someone takes a shot at them.

   That someone turns out to be Paul de Villemont (Barnaby Shaw) age eleven who has stolen his mother’s revolver.

   Returning to the villa where Paul lives, Reno meets his over protective American mother, Anne (Inger Stevens), and somewhat cooler of head demands the boy apologize leaving on good terms.

   The next day as he is planning to move on from Paris Anne shows up in a Rolls and offers him a job as Paul’s tutor and bodyguard, primarily to teach the boy how to be a boy and an American since his father, a French military hero from a distinguished military family , was killed in Algeria.

   The money is good, Anne is beautiful, and Reno has nothing better to do so he agrees.

   The boy very much needs to discover childhood. The household he lives in is that of an aristocratic French family run off their estates in French Algeria in the recent conflict and living in the past dreaming of past glories and injuries and something more sinister.

   There is the boy’s grandmother (Patience Collier) a cold-hearted type who makes the family watch home movies of their days in Algeria every night with Paul’s creepy aunts, uncles, and cousins (Maxine Audley, Paul Bayliss, Ralph Michael), and the creepier secretary Bourdon (William Job) who was the man on the bridge. And of course there is beautiful Jeane-Marie (Perette Prader) a house-keeper who throws herself at Reno, as Anne does, both wanting something he’s not sure he wants to give.

   Then there is Dr. Morillion (Keith Michell) the imperious physician who lets Reno know he is not really welcome, that Anne is off limits because she is his patient being treated for a breakdown she recently was hospitalized for explaining her paranoia about Paul being kidnapped, and that he sees to Paul as well.

   At a party Reno meets Leschenhaut (Orson Welles) a friend of the family who feels him out on some distinctly fascist political opinions and the night ends with Reno decking the snide Morillion.

   Still Reno isn’t fired, and continues with Paul, still thinking Anne drinks too much and is mentally unstable even claiming his predecessor was murdered, the man found drowned in the Seine. That paranoia seems more real when Bourdon and the family chauffeur try to kill him while he is fishing on the Seine with Paul then kidnap the boy and frame Reno for the murder of his friend Leo. And when he escapes the police and returns to the villa it has been closed and everyone is gone.

   House of Cards is based on a novel by Stanley Ellin which came from his later period, and while critics in general tend to dismiss some of the slicker novels of this era like The Valentine Estate and The Bind, they are well written, entertaining thrillers with complex heroes who have a bit more to them than just black and white heroics. Like Reno Davis in this book and film, his protagonists are people not quite committed to ordinary life who don’t fully fit into society. They are on a high order of well written and involving suspense novels.

   Hunted by the police, Reno will discover Anne had every right to be paranoid, uncover a world wide fascist conspiracy led by Leschenhaut that even reaches into the States, be pitted against fanatics determined to take over government and put the “inferior” races in their place, and arranging for Reno and Anne to die in a car wreck.

   He and Anne will escape from a burning fortress, discover the secret of Paul’s honored father’s death, and he’ll join Anne in a race across France and Italy to rescue Paul from being modeled into a replacement for his father, all ending in a confrontation in the Coliseum in Rome with Leschinhaut and a brainwashed Paul with a gun, coming full circle from the opening.

   Granted this is all sub-Hitichcock, and the film takes some liberties with Ellin’s novel, but I’ve always liked the film and the book, and have some fondness for Peppard’s films of this era anyway (The Executioners, The Third Day, Operation Crossbow,The Groundstar Conspiracy). I suppose it depends on your tolerance for Peppard, but mine is fairly high.

   Here he is perfectly cast as the guarded somewhat footloose Reno, and Stevens brings real vulnerability to a role that makes you regret she never got to play a real Hitchcock ice blonde. Welles is Welles, but not tiresomely so and he does project menace in a minor if perverse Sidney Greenstreet key while Keith Michell manages to be equal parts superior, snide, and threatening (he and Peppard also appeared together in The Executioners).

   John Guillermin captures a grittier view of Paris than say Stanley Donen’s Charade, but it is closer to the city I knew, without romanticizing the grungier areas or over relying on the usual tour of the high spots, and the film makes good use of several locations including at least one very good stunt involving leaping through a second story window to an awning below.

   For some reason filmmakers always make Paris feel claustrophobic and crowded, and this one opens the city up. Unlike too many American films shot on location in Paris it isn’t half travelogue. Like actual people who live there, no one feels the need to go to the Eiffel Tower or Notre Dame or drive beneath the Arc de Triumph just because it is there.

   Like Donen’s Charade and Arabesque, House of Cards it is modeled on Hitchcock with a mix of suspense, sex, sudden violence, and even some comedy. And while it lacks the star power of those two films and the genius of Hitchcock, it is handsome, diverting, has an intriguing score, beautiful cinematography, and attractive leads, with a plot perhaps more relevant today with the rise of extremism in Europe and elsewhere.

   It entertains and won’t insult your intelligence, and those are fairly high bars for any suspense film.

JOHN EVANS – Halo in Brass. Paul Pine #3. Bobbs-Merrill, hardcover, 1949. Pocket 709, paperback, 1950. Bantam 1727, paperback, 1958. McMillan, paperback, 1988, as by Howard Browne.

   Paul Pine, a Chicago P.I., has been hired by an elderly couple in Lincoln, Nebraska to find their missing daughter. Her last known residence was in Chicago, having fled the small towny-ness of Nebraska for the big city.

   His only lead is the girl’s high school friendship with a prostitute who also made her way to the city. But every time Pine finds a lead, the lead witness winds up dead.

   The plot hinges on a thread/threat of (L)esbianism (which word is capitalized in the book as if the women were immigrants from the island of Lesbos). Browne expresses regret for this in the 1988 introduction and says that with the benefit of hindsight he never would have written the plot the way that he did.

   I personally (though I am not a woman (and thus my opinion is of questionable import) and not a lesbian though I have joked of being a lesbian trapped in a man’s body) thought that the lesbian angle was not handled particularly poorly. In fact, (SPOILER ALERT) there’s a trans twist in the story that I think might cinematically work even today—and to some extent has already been used in The Crying Game.

   Browne himself as a young man made the same move as the missing girl, hitchhiking from Lincoln to Chicago, which perhaps lends some verisimilitude to his presentation of the narrative.

   While not up to the level of his masterful Taste of Ashes, Halo in Brass remains a very enjoyable and well done Chandleresque detective novel.

HOLMAN DAY – Clothes Make the Pirate. Harper & Brothers, hardcover, 1925. Grossett & Dunlap, hardcover, Photoplay edition.  Silent film: First National, 1925, starring Leon Errol and Dorothy Gish.

   I pause to appreciate the oddities of this world as I reflect that a book nearly a hundred years old turned up at Hussey’s General Store in Maine.

   Author Day alleges to have based his tale on an obscure historical record to the effect that the town of Pemaquid Maine was sacked sometime around 1770 by a Pirate known as Dixy Bull, who appears to have sailed off into the fog of History shortly thereafter.

   From this meager shard he fashioned a tale that would have made a fine vehicle for Bob Hope: The story of meek tailor Tidd in pre-revolution Boston, whose parents saddled him with the Christian name of Tremble-at-Evil, which seems to have fit him nicely, for he is henpecked at home, derided by his debtors, and pointedly ignored by his niece’s Redcoat paramour.

   Browbeaten by Boston, Tidd takes spiritual refuge in reading and re-reading an escapist epic, The Buccaneers of the Spanish Maine.  Indeed, his escapism has grown to the point where he has fashioned himself a suitably piratical outfit, purchased second-hand broadsword and cutlass, and practiced glowering in front of the mirror like a truly fearsome corsair.

   You’ve guessed where all this is headed. In short order, Tidd is mistaken for the notorious pirate captain Dixy Bull and finds himself in dubious command of a band of cut-throats on the high seas (well the coast of New England, actually, but High Seas sounds more romantic, don’t you think?)

   Holman Day takes an enjoyably light-hearted view of all this, and while Clothes is seldom actually funny, it is always consistently entertaining, especially as he winds up his story with the appearance of the actual Dixy Bull, thirsting for the blood of his impostor. Like I say, it would have made a fine vehicle for Bob Hope!

JOHN D. MacDONALD – The Drowner. Gold Medal k1302, paperback original, 1963. Reprinted several times.

   Paul Stanial, private investigator, is hired to investigate the drowning of a young, fit woman in a lake. The authorities have determined that it’s an accidental drowning. But her family doesn’t buy it.

   Stanial focuses his investigation on the drowner’s love interests: her rich playboy husband, from whom she is estranged; and her current boyfriend, a rich middle aged land developer currently facing tax fraud charges.

   MacDonald is masterful at altering his dialogue to fit the speaker. Obviously a bible thumper doesn’t talk the same as an unrepentant redneck. But you wouldn’t know it from many of the novels out there. With MacDonald he’s got the patter down. The dialogue rings true.

   About halfway thru the novel, the meaning of title changes from ‘the drowner’ as victim to ‘the drowner’ as the perp, as Stanial closes in on the suspect.

   It’s quite good. Maybe my second favorite MacDonald next to Soft Touch — another one where the meaning of the title horrifically shifts in the course of the book.

DENNIS LEHANE – Darkness, Take My Hand. Patrick Kenzie & Angela Gennaro #2. Morrow, hardcover, 1996. Avon, paperback, 1997.

   Lehane won a well deserved First Novel Shamus from the PWA for 1994’s A Drink Before the War, though the book didn’t even make the Edgar short list. Why are we not surprised?

   It seemed relatively innocent. A friend of Kenzie’s had a friend with a son she was afraid was being stalked by someone who meant him ill, and she wanted them to allay her fears. Then someone got killed in a particularly messy way, and the modus operandi matched that of a  crime more than a decade old, whose perpetrator was still in prison.

   That wasn’t the last of the bloody, perverse deaths, and yes, it all turned out to be connected. Everything that either Kenzie or Gennaro held dear would be threatened and damaged before the twisted skein was unraveled.

   Darkness, I guess so. This makes his previous book seem like a fairy tale. Well, maybe not quite, but it’s tougher than the back end of a shooting gallery. Don’t read it if you’re depressed, because the pain and bloodshed are, or seemed, unrelenting.

   Lehane did not fail of the promise of his first book in terms of writing, though this is an excellently written book.  You know I don’t like serial killers, and I’m not too crazy about cowboy PIs, and there’s both here, and that tells you something about how good a job Lehane did.

   This is going to be a strong contender for both an Edgar and a Shamus, unless the judges of each go completely brain-dead. Um. Come to think of it …

RAOUL WHITFIELD – The Virgin Kills. Knopf, hardcover, 1932. Quill, papernack, 1986. No Exit Press, UK, paperback, 1988.

   “The Virgin” is the name of a yacht. It’s called that because there’s no first mate.

   Yacht owner Eric Vennel invites a bunch of ‘friends’ to sail from NYC to Poughkeepsie on the Hudson to watch the regatta.

   Vennel owes a bunch of money to the mob and has put in the fix on the regatta. Heavily favored California’s star rower gets stuck with a morphine syringe right before the race, spoiling their chances.

   Unfortunately, the shot was too strong and the rower OD’s. Now the cops are involved, and Vennel has vanished, presumed dead. The remaining ‘friends’ aboard the yacht immediately become suspect, and the dead college boy’s rich father spares no expense in sending a fancy pants sleuth to find the killer.

   I enjoyed it. Not my favorite Whitfield by a long shot — but it’s still Whitfield; his dialogue is credible and vintage and his prose is tight.

THE AVENGERS “Mr. Teddy Bear.” ABC (Associated British Corporation), UK, 29 September 1962 (Season 2, Episode 1). Patrick Macnee (John Steed), Honor Blackman (Mrs. Cathy Gale). Guest cast: Michael Robbins, John Ruddock, Michael Collins. Written by Martin Woodhouse. Director: Richmond Harding.

   This was the first appearance of Honor Blackman as John Steed’s new partner in crime-solving, Cathy Gale, and it’s a good one. The villain of the piece is a notorious assassin for hire with a penchant for the dramatic and flamboyance in carrying out his tasks. Prime example: the episode begins with the death of his latest victim by poisoning on live TV.

   Playing to the killer’s obvious ego, Steed comes up a plan. Set himself as bait in a plot which would have Mrs Gale as Mr. Teddy Bear’s latest client. (The name comes from the man’s communicating with his clients via a radio hidden in a stuffed “talking” teddy bear.)

   The most common way a new leading character is introduced in a TV series nowadays is to have him or her having just been hired and needing to be mentored by the old guy that’s been around a while. Not so here. It is as if Cathy Gale has always been there. No introduction takes place. The somewhat flirtatious banter between the two leads is exactly that: relaxed and friendly, and a trademark of series from Day One.

   To that end, one other reviewer of this episode wondered if the two leads spent their nights as well as days together. The characters I mean. Come on. Obviously some people want to know more than I do.

   I also read an interview with Honor Blackman that was conducted much later on in which she was asked about this episode. She said she didn’t remember it very much at all. It was just a job, was her reply. No more than that. Who knew then that The Avengers was going to become such a worldwide phenomenon?
   

HENRY SLESAR – The Thing at the Door. PI Steve Tyner #1. Random House, hardcover, 1974. Pocket, paperback, 1976.

   Even though printed by Pocket Books in its Gothic series with corresponding cover to match the title, The Thing at the Door isn’t quite in that category. Private investigator Steve Tyner is on his first [and only recorded] case for the Fiduciary Bank. He does a minimum of detecting, however, all along amorously pursuing the wealthy young heroine Gail  Gunnerson whose nightmares have seemed to come to life.

   The culprit is disclosed mid-way through the book and  it is simply a matter of seeing how long it will take before he is trapped. The “thing at. the door” actually involves a clever psychological factor that the murderer puts to his own diabolic use. The suspense is nothing extraordinary or creepy, but rather well modulated. Retribution at the end is swift and highly ironic.

   Mr. Slesar has an otherwise good plot here which just does not quite come off. Perhaps it’s because the characters lack depth and fall short of being sympathetic. He won an Edgar for Best First Novel in 1959 with his The Grey Flannel Shroud.   He also wrote the novelization of the Edge of Night television series (The Seventh Mask, 1969).

   The Thing at the Door is the author’s fourth mystery novel, but unfortunately it is not a very good one.

THE ASPHALT JUNGLE. MGM, 1950. Sterling Hayden, Louis Calhern, Jean Hagen, James Whitmore, Sam Jaffe, John McIntire, Marc Lawrence, Anthony Caruso, Marilyn Monroe. Based on the novel by W. R. Burnett. Director: John Huston.

   Directed by John Huston, written by Huston and Ben Maddow, compared to Phil Rosen’s take on Dangerous Crossing [reviewed here ], The Asphalt Jungle mines W. R. Burnett’s novel for dramatic potential that I doubt even Burnett knew was there. It features career-capping performances by Sterling Hayden and Louis Calhern as players at the top and bottom ends of a jewel heist plotted by Sam Jaffe, backed up by a number of memorable cameos from such capable players as James Whitmore, Jean Hagen, Marc Lawrence, Barry Kelley and Marilyn Monroe.

   Huston’s pre-fab defeatism melds very nicely with scenarist Ben (Johnny Guitar) Maddow’s genuinely subversive left-wing sensibilities into a film that has become a well-deserved classic.

   Come to that, if you wanted a good notion of what a subversive screen-play really means, The Asphalt Jungle offers a prime example: To seemingly digress for a moment, novelist and screenwriter Borden (Red River, Winchester ’73, etc.), Chase once said that the secret of writing a good movie was to put in a part for John McIntire. McIntire appears (made up to look just exactly like the young Walter Huston) here as a Police Commissioner whose integrity stands out in sharp contrast to the corrupt tone of the film as a whole.

   Indeed, The Asphalt Jungle makes quite a point of portraying its nominal “criminals” as possessed of more honor than their “respectable” counter-parts. So one could well wonder what-the-hell he’s doing there at all, except that his whole character was probably written in as a sop to the censors.

   Yet even while making this nod to Convention, Maddow and Huston manage to sneak in a nice zinger: Late in the film, McIntire tells a bunch of reporters what a fine lot Policemen are, on the whole. And he’s convincing. For a moment, his speech almost seems to negate the whole tone of the film that preceded it. Then he concludes by characterizing Hayden, the one surviving member of the gang, as a “vicious hoodlum. A Man without human feelings or pity.”

   Cut from there to a shot of Hayden (WARNING!) racing back to his old Kentucky homestead, to die in the clean air (END OF WARNING!) and the perceptive viewer suddenly sees things that were never dreamt of in McIntire and his whole philosophy. A nice touch, just one of many in this film.

ROGER TORREY – 42 Days for Murder. Shean Connell #1. Hillman-Curl, hardcover, 1938. Mystery Novel Of The Month, nn, paperback, date? Hillman #23, paperback, 1949. Dennis McMillan Publications, softcover, 1988.

   Shean Connell, private detective, is hired by a rich dude whose wife has left him and gone to Reno for a divorce.

   The 42 days refers to the 6 weeks required for establishing Nevada residency, to take advantage of local divorce laws.

   The thing is, Mr. Moneybags can’t figure out why his wife would leave him. They loved each other, or so he thought. She never complained about a thing. And now she won’t even talk to him. He and a buddy were physically booted out of Reno by the Chief of Police after he went after her and tried to have a conversation. All Moneybags wants is a chance to talk to his wife. He’s sure that if only he can get in the same room with her and talk it over, they can work it out.

   It may sound simple, but it turns out that Moneybag’s wife has a doppelganger in a gangster’s moll, and ole mister moneybags may be worth more dead than divorced.

   It’s a tremendously confusing story in which violence is substituted for detection. Our detective, Connell, uses a similar strategy to that of the Continental OP in Red Harvest, Race Williams, and Cleve Adams’s Rex McBride: stir the pot, get everybody at each other’s throats and hope something happens.

   Something does indeed happen, as it always tends to do, and all’s well that ends well, I guess. But the writing is just okay and in the end the story is not complex enough (cf Red Harvest) to justify the messy plotting. The messiness is completely cleared up in a couple of pages of straight explication. I despise sudden thorough confessions that come out of nowhere. It’s like somebody told Torrey that the book was due and he needed to wrap it up in a hurry.