BLOWING WILD. Warner Brothers, 1953. Gary Cooper, Barbara Stanwyck, Anthony Quinn, Ruth Roman, Ward Bond, Ian MacDonald. Screenplay by Philip Yordan. Directed by Hugo Fregonese.

   The spicy pulp and paperback original spirit lives in this adventure film/soap opera with a few noirish touches.

   The setting is somewhere in Central America in what was then contemporary times. Jeffrey Dawson (Gary Cooper) and Dutch (Ward Bond) are wildcat oilmen whose lease is destroyed by bandits leaving them to hitchhike back to civilization looking for work. Along the way they meet a tough smart but vulnerable girl (Ruth Roman) of a type not unusual in adventure fiction — good girl, but not a fanatic about it — and get cheated out of money owed them for delivering nitro to a well through bandit country by a four-flusher (Ian MacDonald).

   Dutch is wounded and Jeff needs money, meaning he has to turn to old pal Paco Conway (Anthony Quinn) who the two encountered earlier, but turning to Paco, now a successful oilman, is the last thing Jeff wants to do because Paco is married to Marina (Barbara Stanwyck) who Jeff once loved, and Marina is bad news, twisted, destructive, promiscuous, and sick to death of her husband. Both she and Roman’s character might have crawled out of any Gold Medal paperback of the era full blown.

   To say Marina has a thing for Jeff is putting it mildly, Marina is a female jaguar in heat, and just about as dangerous to all involved. There is enough wattage in the scene where she comes to Jeff’s bedroom and he turns a lamp on her in the doorway like a spotlight to power a small town for a week, although it is all underplayed, and fully clothed.

   Stanwyck was unsurpassed at portraying female lust with just a smoldering look and a raspy tone of voice. Just watching her, and remembering the heat she and Cooper engendered back in Ball of Fire and Meet John Doe, you fear for Cooper’s characters virtue — however tarnished and shopworn it may be.

   Paco, meanwhile, has troubles, a wife who doesn’t love him and who, along with his success, has caused him to lose his nerve; and, those self same bandits who blew up Jeff and Dutch’s well and now threaten all that Paco owns.

   No surprises in this film. It is shot handsomely on location and you get a lot of shots of Stanwyck whipping her galloping horse in various states of sexual frustration to the Frankie Laine theme song from Dimitri Tiomkin, plenty of the patented Stanwyck look of passionate fires just barely tamped down enough not to escape, and, of course, also Stanwyck flaring whenever crossed by her husband or Jeff. At times you half to expect her to throw herself off the screen and sexually assault the nearest man.

   You know going in there will have to be a shootout with the bandits and that Stanwyck won’t long put up with Paco in the way of her passion for Jeff, that Paco will finally interpret those hot long looks Marina gives Jeff and react violently, and just as certainly the pump jack in the courtyard of their hacienda, that was the first well Paco hit it big with and the noise from which drives Marina mad, is going to play a role in how both their marriage and their lives end.

   Having spent part of my youth with an oilman father and grandfather, I can testify to how annoying a pump jack in the yard can be, even if it is pumping your family’s money from the ground. Blowing Wild is a bit closer to oil field reality than most. At least it got a few details right, and God knows I knew enough men like Jeff, Dutch, and Paco in my youth, and no few women like Stanwyck’s Marina or Roman’s character around them if they didn’t quite look like their Hollywood counterparts or have Philip Yordan writing their sharp innuendo laden dialogue.

   Even Ian MacDonald’s four flushing cheat is true enough to life. The oil business may be one of the few industries in the world as colorful as its publicity. at least it was then.

    Blowing Wild is professionally done, tightly directed, and with an impeccable cast. It is pulp dressed up with a touch of Freud and Kraft-Ebling and a slight noir glaze, but it is well done for all that, diverting, and just about any film with that cast, screenwriter, and director would hold me for at least the running time.

   Granted it is almost done in semaphore, the obvious nature of every scene telegraphed well before it appears. It’s a not-quite Western in an adult mode, more than worth watching, just for Cooper, Stanwyck, and Quinn in my case, and if you can get that Frankie Laine theme song out of your head for a day or two after watching it you are a better man than I.     (*)

   (*) And yes, I could hear Bosley Crowther, the famous film critic who liked to sum up films in plays on their titles, commenting, Blowing Mild, but honestly it is a perfectly good middling Gold Medal original of a film you will almost certainly enjoy in the right mood.

JAMES HADLEY CHASE – We’ll Share a Double Funeral. Robert Hale, UK, hardcover, 1982. Corgi, UK, paperback, 1983 & 1988 (the latter shown). No US edition.

   It’s a great title, and more than that, it’s appropriate too. It comes up in the course of the book more than once. The cover is very nice, too, not that it has anything much to do with the story, but when did that stop a paperback publisher from doing whatever they could to catch a would-be buyer’s eye?

   As for the book itself, Chase was no wordsmith, there’s no doubt about that, but as always he’s as direct and single-minded in telling a story as he needs to be to keep the pages turning, and there’s nothing more complimentary I can say about an author than that.

   The main protagonist in Double Funeral is Chet Logan, as ferocious a killer when he’s cornered as a rabid animal, and by the time he’s finally tracked down and killed in the final chapter, he’s taken nearly a dozen others with him. Taken as a hostage in a Florida fishing lodge is Perry Weston, a big-time screenplay writer for the movies who’s come down from New York City to get away from his much younger wife who’s been cheating on him, and who decides to come down herself to make up.

   One paragraph is all it takes to sum it up, but when you finished reading all 176 pages of the paperback edition, you’ll know you’ve read the most hard-boiled book you’ve sped your way through all day. I guarantee it.

EDMUND CRISPIN – Buried for Pleasure. Lippincott, US, hardcover, 1949. First published by Gollancz, UK, hardcover, 1948. US paperback reprints include: Bestseller Mystery #187, digest-sized, 1949; Pyramid X1937, 1969; Perennial Library, 1980; Felony & Mayhem, trade paperback, 2009.

   Faute de mieux, Professor Gervase Fen decides to run for Parliament as an Independent. It’s an odd constituency, but Fen, of course, is even odder: “He was haunted … by a growing fear that he might actually be elected…. A whole-time preoccupation with democratic politics, he rapidly discovered, is not easily imposed on a humane and civilised mind. In no very long time the gorge rises and the stomach turns.”

   Luckily for Fen, as something to take his mind off his own problem, a woman in the area who was being blackmailed has been murdered and then another murder occurs. As Fen campaigns and investigates, he must deal with Elphinstone the lunatic who thinks he is Woodrow Wilson, the non-doing pig, a most peculiar poltergeist, a not very competent psychiatrist named Boysenberry, assorted eccentrics, and, of course, his would-be constituents.

   Marvelously amusing. Fen’s final speech of the campaign with all its home truths should not be missed. Oh, it’s a fair-play mystery, too, but you should be too busy laughing to figure it out.

GEOFFREY NORMAN – Blue Chipper. Morgan Hunt #2. Morrow, hardcover, 1992. Avon, paperback, 1994.

   Let’s get one thing out of the way. The publicity material describes Norman as “…a worthy successor to John D. MacDonald.” Not. Norman is a competent writer, but light-years away from MacDonald in both depth and style. Nor, as intimated, is Morgan Hunt a reincarnation of Travis McGee. None of which is to say, mind you, that this isn’t a good book, and Hunt not an engaging character.

   Hunt is an ex-con, now pardoned, who made a pot of money playing the commodities market while in jail. A licensed private investigator, he works occasionally for a Pensacola lawyer, more for something to do than anything else. In Chipper, a black friend who is a sheriff’s deputy asks his help. A young black who has no redeeming qualities has been arrested for a drug-related murder; no problem there. The problem is that his brother is the best basketball player ever to come out of Florida, and that within an hour of the arrest a white man shows up at their mother’s house offering to get the murder charge reduced — if the basketball star will sign with the state university.

   Hunt calls his lawyer friend (who has represented the miscreant before, and they begin a chase which leads them deep into the world of major college athletics.

   I enjoyed the book, as I did the first Hunt opus, Sweetwater Ranch. Norman writes in a spare, lean style with a lot of well-done dialogue, and has a feel for the look and smells of the Florida Panhandle. His characters are well realized and appealing, particularly Hunt’s lady, the Cajun Jessie Beaudreaux. Hunt himself is laconically competent, and overly given to introspection.

   My only cavil was with the plot. I am quite cognizant of and devoutly opposed to the hypocrisy and avarice with which major college athletics are saturated, but I think Norman may have made it all a little too evil — assuming that’s possible.

Bibliographic Note: There were only two more books in the Morgan Hunt series: Deep End (1994) and Blue Light (1995).

DON VON ELSNER – Just Not Making Mayhem Like They Used To. Signet S2040, paperback original, 1961.

   It’s not often I review a book I haven’t actually finished but here goes. And I warn you at the outset that there may be SPOILERS lurking in the shadows here.

   I bought this because the title seemed clever, and as I got into it, it looked fast, fun and forgettable… well it turned out to be two out of three. In fact, it starts off pretty well, with a particularly nasty blackmail racket, run by a team of ruthless professionals. We get a terse opening as they ply their trade, and then…

   Then the scene shifts to our hero, Colonel David Danning, retired from the military and working, when he chooses, as a high-powered attorney-cum-investigator with a specialty in arrogance directed at those whose problems don’t interest him. Author Von Elsner surrounds Danning with the usual entourage: loyal and shapely secretary; brilliant and beautiful love-interest; bungling admirer…. Sort of like the Doc Savage Gang slanted a bit toward James Bond for the swinging ‘60s.

   Danning grudgingly agrees to look into a surprising spike in suicide claims for an insurance conglomerate, then becomes intrigued as he finds the common link among them, which of course is the nasty blackmailers.

   From this point on, Von Elsner runs the usual gamut of clichés: The unwilling witness withholds valuable information; someone figures it all out but gets knocked on the head and put in a coma; Danning is framed for theft and murder and fired by his client; and (my personal favorite) someone involved arranges to tell him everything “later” and ends up dead. And may I say I have often thought that if I ever want to end my life I will use the simple expedient of calling the Police to say I know the identity of the Real Murderer and arrange for them to come over for the information, secure in the knowledge that I will be dead when they get here, in the grand tradition of mystery books through the ages.

   Mayhem moves too fast for all this to get tiresome however, and I zipped easily through it until I got to the penultimate chapter, when Danning explains everything to the Bewildered Cops and sundry bystanders. But when he got to the part about Transvestite Acrobats I could take no more. I mean, really: Transvestite acrobats? Really?

   Von Elsner may have written something meaningful and significant in the last few pages, but I shall never know; I threw the book into my “Sell This Book” pile, sadly aware that I had squandered those hours of my precious youth. I recommend you save yourself the effort.

A vocal duet with guitarist John Starling from her 2008 CD All I Intended to Be.

THE ULTIMATE WARRIOR. Warner Brothers, 1975. Yul Brynner, Max von Sydow, Joanna Miles, William Smith, Richard Kelton, Stephen McHattie. Screenwriter and director: Robert Clouse.

   As much as I wanted to like this 1970s science fiction movie, I have to admit that The Ultimate Warrior was an ultimate letdown. Directed by Robert Clouse, the film opens with significant promise. The year is 2012 and New York City has been decimated by a plague/nuclear holocaust (it’s never revealed what actually happened). Yet, the Twin Towers are still standing, looming large above a city ravaged by death and hopelessness. It’s even creepier, since we know from the vantage point of 2016 that New York City is thriving, but the Towers are gone.

   As it turns out, there’s a commune somewhere in midtown Manhattan led by an erudite man known simply as the Baron (Max von Sydow). He and his followers are carving out an existence for themselves in the midst of chaos and decay. Their immediate threat, however, is a gang of violent street people led by a man simply known as Carrot (William Smith). Why does Carrot hate Baron’s people so much? Is he an evil man or just a rival? Unfortunately, we never learn much about him other than that he’s a bad dude.

   And if there’s a bad dude, there needs to be a good dude to counter him. In this film, Yul Brynner’s character fulfills that role. Carson is a fighter who sells his skills to the highest bidder and eventually takes up employ in Baron’s commune. Soon, he’s tasked with not only protecting the inhabitants, but also with guiding Baron’s pregnant daughter to a protected haven off the coast of North Carolina.

   Sounds like an interesting premise, right?

   Unfortunately, the movie never develops the characters to any great extent. They are more or less the same people the moment they appear on the screen as when they leave. And without any substantial changes in their personalities, wants, or desires, they end up one-dimensional caricatures. Baron = the erudite scientist. Carrot = the bad guy. Carson = the good guy. Just because stuff happens in the movie does not mean that there’s actually much of a story.

   Despite these harsh criticisms, I would be doing you a disservice if I didn’t mention how effective the movie’s soundtrack is. Indeed, the score by Gil Mellé is so thoroughly captivating that it’s a real shame that the movie wasn’t such a missed opportunity.

   A short clip from the movie Swing Time:

PHILIP MACDONALD – The Polferry Riddle. First published as The Choice (Collins, UK, hardcover, 1931). Reprinted as The Polferry Mystery (Collins, UK, hardcover, 1932). Reprinted under this title by Doubleday, US, hardcover, 1931. Also: Vintage Books, US, paperback, September 1983.

   This one starts out as an ace number one detective puzzler, complete with a dark and stormy night, two visitors to the mansion rescued from the river, then sudden death, with the young wife of the home’s owner found with her throat slashed some time during the night in her bedroom. No weapon can be found.

   The three men give each other solid alibis. Each of four others asleep upstairs could have done it, but none of them have a motive. The house was locked tight. An outsider could not have done it. Even Colonel Anthony Gethryn is stumped. With no leads and no evidence the case is put on hold until two of the four members of the household meet with fatal accidents — or are they?

   A good chunk of the middle of the story basically becomes a thriller, as Gethryn and his friends from Scotland Yard make a frenzied chase halfway across England to avert the murder of a young woman who was also one of the four.

   What each of the “accidents” also does is narrow down the list of possible suspects to the original killing, one at a time, and still the police are stumped. No one could have done it, and with no weapon in the room, it could not have been suicide.

   But with Anthony Gethryn on the case, not all is lost, of course. I think the ending is a cheat, though, and I say this reluctantly, since until then, this was a highly readable example of the Golden Age of detective fiction. When it comes down to it, though, I don’t think Gethryn’s logic holds up, nor was I happy when the vital clue was found at nearly the very last moment. Why the police didn’t find it in their original investigation, when they claimed they scoured the house from top to bottom, I have no idea. Put this one solidly in the “Disappointing” category.

SECOND CHANCE. RKO Radio Pictures, 1953. Robert Mitchum, Linda Darnell, Jack Palance, Sandro Giglio, Roy Roberts, Dan Seymour, Mlburn Stone. Director: Rudolph Maté.

   A classic case of a movie that doesn’t know what it wants to be. The opening scene, as gangster hit man Jack Palance offs Milburn Stone in his hotel room suggests that this is the beginning of a fine film solidly in the noir category. But the bulk of the middle of the film is both a travelogue filmed in at fiesta time in beautiful downtown Cuernavaca, Morelos, Mexico, and a romantic drama that’s as dull as dishwater.

   Linda Darnell is, as it turns out, a mobster’s ex-girl friend on the run from the aforementioned Palance. As fate would have it, she finds a soulmate in all-but-burned-out boxer Robert Mitchum, and the cure for her run-away-from-it all blues. The ending, though, eventually, especially for those with their 3-D glasses on, as they did during the film’s initial release, is a spectacular thriller set on a stranded cable car stranded hundreds of feet above a rockier terrain than you can ever imagine.

   You have to wait a long time before the ending, though, or at least so it seemed that way. Mitchum is Mitchum, as always, and that’s all to the good, but Linda Darnell, who was only 30 when she made this film, looks 10 years older, and believe it or not, utterly matronly. But I also hasten to add that even going up cobbled streets in high heels, she’s a better runner than Jack Palance is, and no, I didn’t believe it either.