The Delightful Little Moneymaker

Most murders are solved.

The murder in 1954’s Dial M for Murder is no different.

By the film’s end, the audience has seen everything that happened, so the joy in this crime thriller is in arriving at the pre-destined conclusion intact. Along the way, there are a few bumps and hiccups and there is quite a bit of genuine tension, but the end product is about the crime and its results and if the film is saying anything here it is that there is no such thing as a perfect crime, even the complicated one concocted by Ray Milland’s desperately verbose husband in Dial M for Murder.

It is no secret Hitchcock disliked this film. He admitted to Francois Trufault that he made Dial M for Murder because it was simple and safe and he knew it would make bags of money he needed to finance other, more interesting films. Dial M for Murder was already a successful stage play when Hitchcock latched onto it and transferred it to the cinema. The degree to which that transition works is a large part of why this film remains enjoyable. Hitchcock said he resisted the temptation make the play “more cinematic,” opting instead to leave it virtually as it is on stage. Accordingly, virtually all of the film’s action occurs in one room.

 

A few other things here keep us interested here, but chief among them would be Milland’s excellent performance as the kind of cultured villain who would turn up again in North by Northwest. The other would be Grace Kelly, who simply is Grace Kelly. She made just three films with Hitchcock, this being the first, but she is just as good here as she is in Rear Window or To Catch a Thief, even if she has much less to do here because she is largely the unaware victim of her husband’s complicated machinations.

The other notable twist, preserved from the stage play I presume, is the decision to stick with the conniving husband as the film’s protagonist. This twist puts the audience in the odd position of seeing the film’s events almost entirely from the perspective of the culprit – not the victim. Thus, we know more than Kelly does about what is happening and the drama of the film becomes whether Kelly can figure out what the audience already knows, and in doing so, save herself from first death and then prison.

The film’s further success is down to the dialogue, which Trufault particularly liked. Put simply, this movie is a “talkie” and you have to listen to the dialogue very closely to keep track of the plot and attuned to who knows what, when. Very few films work this way anymore and perhaps more should. Dial M for Murder races by at almost breakneck speed and lurches the audience into caring – almost rooting – for the criminal before forcing moviegoers into Kelly’s corner near the end of the picture. And all of this largely through words and acting. A simple, fun moneymaker that stands up to multiple viewings largely on account of how fun it is to watch these people talk to, at and around one another.

A Tepid Departure for Brighter Shores

Film historians, critics and audiences everywhere have largely forgotten Jamaica Inn, Alfred Hitchcock’s final British film before he began working in Hollywood, and after watching it for the first time, I can hardly blame them.

Based on Daphne du Maurier’s novel of the same name, this 1939 film is bundle of confusing aspirations and failures, beginning with the fact that the creative team hardly seems certain on what sort of picture they wanted to make. Hitchcock’s defenders generally blame this on the machinations of Charles Laughton, the actor who produced the film, starred in it and supposedly overcame Hitchcock’s notorious ego and imposed his own creative vision on the final product. Such claims are impossible to confirm or deny, of course.

What we can talk about is what we see on-screen, and what we see is a historical drama that depicts a rather straightforward crime story through familiar elements of film noir and the swashbuckling/sword-play pictures popular from the 30s and 40s. If that mixture of genres sounds confusing, that is because it is.

Set in the 19^th century, the film essentially follows the misadventures of Mary Yellen (played by Maureen O’Hara), an Irish orphan who falls into a nest of cutthroats when she lands in Cornwall to search for her aunt’s family. The cutthroats, who all work for Mary’s Uncle, play a deadly game that involves luring ships onto the Cornwall coast with false lights, killing the crew and then plundering the cargo. What little mystery there is in the film revolves around the identity of her uncle’s employer.

Mary’s unexpected arrival at the inn, and her subsequent discovery of the racket, is the convenient catalyst that launches a whirlwind of chases, captures, escapes, pistol shots and dramatic confrontations with raised voices. Unfortunately, none of it feels very dangerous, due to the ham-handed foolishness of the cutthroats, one of whom cannot stop whistling, and the quick revelation of the existence of a lawman in the gang’s midst (played by Robert Newton, the famous swashbuckler himself). Low production values that include bad sound, special effects that age poorly and some awfully obvious makeup work on Laughton do not help matters, either.

Foul deeds done at night...

I also struggled to follow the film’s timeline. The action seems to occur in just two or three days, but with the vast majority of scenes all taking place at night, it is difficult to say that for certain. Being something of a Gothic affair, the choice of nocturnal settings does not surprise me. Unfortunately, the quality of the camerawork is not up to the challenges demanded by the plot, and as a result, we must suffer through scenes that are incredibly dim (see the above snapshot).

It is not all doom and gloom, though.

Laughton’s performance as Sir Humphrey Pengallan has been criticized by some, but I found his portrayal of a gentrified madman absolutely mesmerizing. The first clue that all is not well with Pengallan comes when he brings his horse into his dining room (precisely the sort of thing Caligula did). As bizarre as this is, it is not readily apparent to the audience that Pengallan is crazed until we witness his mania for luxury goods when he is in the company of the cutthroats he employs to further his aesthetic proclivities.

From that point on, he literally bounces jovially from scene to scene, excusing all manner of iniquity by his ironic claim of exceptional breeding (madness runs in his family) and his open desire to serve his preference for the good life, regardless of human cost. Such is the level of Laugton’s sinisterly-enduring performance, Frank S. Nugent is absolutely correct to write, “we can’t recall when we’ve ever held a monster in such complete affection.”

Laughton excels, almost saves the film.

Hitchcock takes a stab at a further bit of psychology by chronicling the complicated and tender dysfunction of Joss and Patience Merlyn’s marriage, in which Joss beats her, abuses her verbally but ultimately takes care of her and stands up for her needs, which in turn, breeds affection and loyalty from her. More of this might have elevated the film beyond a plot that runs too fast between scenes to show what happens next, but instead, we are left with Laughton, and our curious pity for him at the end. That, too, might have saved this effort, as he is clearly the best thing going here, but Hitch’s usually astute radar for balancing motivation and action is slightly askew in most of this film.

O'Hara and Newton

Somewhere, inside this uneven jumble, there is a great movie trying to break through and blossom. The shame of it all is that it the breakthrough never occurs, the proverbial petals remain closed and we end up stuck in a valley of mediocrity, peering up at hill full of brilliant roses that might have been. Nugent argues Jamaica Inn “doesn’t seem like Hitchcock.” And while I cannot agree with that sentiment, because there are too many Hitchcock tropes on display here, I can understand why he wrote it. Hitchcock made better movies before Jamaica Inn (see Secret Agent or Sabotage), and less than a year later, he made Rebecca, which won him an Oscar. Compared to that record, to say nothing of all his other Hollywood masterpieces, this is disappointing. Period.

Loyalty, Split Three Ways

People tend to forget that Alfred Hitchcock had a flair for spy films long before they were fashionable.

Gems such as Notorious, The Man Who Knew Too Much and Foreign Correspondent are all excellent examples of the genre, especially when set beside today’s over-sexed and gratuitously violent offerings. Unfortunately, each of the above films tends to be lost – or overlooked – among the great auteur’s better known and more psychologically powerful work. Of the aforementioned trio, the final film is perhaps the least recognized and least appreciated today.

Released in 1940, the film has an impeccable sense of time and place, in that it takes audiences in America to the final few days before war between Britain and Germany began. That the 1940 audience would watch the film just after seeing the era’s ubiquitous newsreels – most of which probably had some footage of war-torn London – was probably not lost on someone as cagey as Hitchcock. In other words, not for nothing did certain Mr. Goebbels famously label this film “propaganda.” And knowing so little about that particular genre, who am I to argue with the undisputed master of it?

Regardless of which side’s tale is told more obviously, Foreign Correspondent is at its heart a thriller whose plot likes to toy with its participants and provoke interesting responses from them. In this, we see a preview of the master of psychology that Hitchcock was to become, and a film that begins as a seemingly straightforward whodunit slowly expands into a remarkably suspenseful and unexpectedly honest study of espionage and conflicted loyalty. Along the way, we are treated to a number of delightful set-pieces, each centering on powerful and moody images.

Joel McCrea is not terribly likeable as the American journalist sent to London in 1939 to cover Europe’s decent into war, but his confused performance – sometimes the plot has him behave over-intelligently, while at other times he is boorish and stupid – is bolstered by an excellent supporting cast that includes George Sanders, Laraine Day and Herbert Marshall.

Sanders portrayal of British journalist Scott Ffolliot is especially impressive. The ease with which he takes to the double-dealing of the great game of spying had me believing he was a British intelligence officer, but alas, that twist is one too many for this film’s somewhat muddled but generally rather clever script.

McCrea falls in love with Day’s character, but unbeknownst to either of them, her father – played to chilling perfection by Marshall – is actually behind much of the cloak and dagger the pair get mixed up in after they witness the assassination of a prominent European diplomat. It all ends with a plane crash that still looks good 60-odd years later after some earnest soul-searching from the cast about where their loyalties lie.

Marshall proclaims his treachery has been in the service of his birthplace, while his disappointed daughter affirms she will remain loyal to her father even though she is repelled by his cause. As journalists, McCrea and Sanders remain dedicated scribes who serve “truth.” Thus, we have national, familial and ideological loyalties all on display. That everyone in the film has, at some point, lied or misrepresented themselves – even McCrea is forced by his paper to adopt a ridiculous pseudonym for his news reports – may seem like cheap relativism, but it actually is a pretty honest look at how espionage harnesses immoral acts – lying, stealing and manipulation – to foster moral ends.

The only disappointing addendum one must add is that the journalists in the film are never forced to face any serious moral challenges about their loyalty the way the other characters are. Dedication to the concept of truth seems to remove all the difficulty the others confront. McCrea begins the film as a news hound and ends as a news hound, and the importance of the journalist’s dedication seems to be elevated above all other commitments.

While I have no problem believing that dedication to an absolute concept like truth is somewhat more worthy than dedication to a country or blood relation – if only because these require compromises – I am not sure the film makes that case as strongly as it believes it has. Even so, Foreign Correspondent stands tall as good, old-fashioned thriller and deserves a great deal more attention from audiences today.