Pushover (Richard Quine, 1954)

Kim Novak in Pushover

Cast: Fred MacMurray, Kim Novak, Philip Carey, Dorothy Malone, E.G. Marshall, Allen Nourse. Screenplay: Roy Huggins, based on novels by Thomas Walsh and Bill S. Ballinger. Cinematography: Lester White. Art direction: Walter Holscher. Film editing: Jerome Thoms. Music: Arthur Morton.

Pushover is a noirish cops-and-robbers movie that gave Kim Novak her first big role -- the only reason some people remember it. But it's a good deal better than that bit of trivia would suggest -- a well-paced, well-acted film that begins with a skillfully directed bank robbery, played entirely without dialogue. Then it cuts to mink-clad Lona McLane (Novak) coming out of a movie theater -- Pushover was made for Columbia, so the posters and marquee titles are those of 1954 Columbia releases. She finds that her car won't start, but a guy (Fred MacMurray) offers to help, then takes her back to his apartment while it's being repaired. They hit it off immediately and begin an ongoing affair. It turns out that their meeting is a set-up: The guy, Paul Sheridan, is a cop, and Lona is the mistress of one of the bank robbers, Harry Wheeler (Paul Richards), who killed a bank guard making his getaway. Sheridan is part of a team staking out Lona's apartment -- which they can see into from another apartment across a courtyard -- in expectation that she'll make contact with Wheeler. But Sheridan is a bad cop, and he soon enlists Lona in a plot to double-cross Wheeler and take the loot from the robbery. It's this dual role -- cop and robber -- that generates much of the film's suspense, as things go wrong, one by one, with their plans and Sheridan has to keep coming up with alternate plans to foil the cops with whom he is supposed to be working. One of the complications involves the occupant of the apartment next to Lona's, a nurse, Ann Stewart (Dorothy Malone), whom Sheridan's partner, Rick McAllister (Philip Carey), begins watching through his binoculars more avidly than he does the real object of the surveillance. The voyeurism in Pushover is reminiscent of Hitchcock, and though that master might have made a richer film of the material, Richard Quine does a good job of it.

Drive a Crooked Road (Richard Quine, 1954)

Mickey Rooney and Dianne Foster in Drive a Crooked Road

Cast: Mickey Rooney, Dianne Foster, Kevin McCarthy, Jack Kelly, Harry Landers, Paul Picerni, Dick Crockett. Screenplay: Blake Edwards, Richard Quine, based on a story by James Benson Nablo. Cinematography: Charles Lawton Jr. Art direction: Walter Holscher. Film editing: Jerome Thoms. Music: George Duning.

Mickey Rooney, usually the most ebullient, not to say overbearing, of actors, gives a subtle, reined-in performance in Drive a Crooked Road as a shy, quiet auto mechanic and amateur race-car driver who is seduced into becoming the getaway driver for bank robbers. But the film is also subtextually about sex in that most ostensibly repressed of decades, the 1950s. Rooney's Eddie Shannon works in a repair shop where the fellow mechanics gather at the windows and hoot lasciviously at any passing "dame." One mechanic even slobbers on the plate glass. They poke fun at Eddie, whom they call "Shorty" for obvious reasons, because he doesn't follow suit, questioning him on his sex life. The pack behavior suggests that any male who doesn't behave the way they do must be "queer." And then one day a beautiful woman named Barbara Mathews (Dianne Foster) shows up at the auto shop wanting her car checked out and asks for Eddie by name. She flirts with him, and though he responds with shy embarrassment, she calls on him again the next day, after he has repaired her car, to say that she can't start it. So he pays Barbara a visit at her apartment, fixes the connection that had somehow come loose, and gets flirted with a bit more. Gradually, she breaks down his reticence and, though even at the height of their relationship he's still so awkward that he doesn't even kiss her good night, he's hooked. We know by now that she's up to something, and we find out that her real boyfriend, Steve Norris (Kevin McCarthy), who had seen Eddie in an auto race, needs a driver who can negotiate the backroads between Palm Springs and the highway to Los Angeles, so he and his friend Harold (Jack Kelly) can rob a bank and make their getaway before the police have time to set up a roadblock. Barbara has grown ashamed of deceiving Eddie, but she's forced to go through with the plan of persuading him to take part in the job. This can't end well for anyone, and surprisingly for a Hollywood film of the era, it doesn't. Drive a Crooked Road lags a bit in its storytelling and doesn't build the suspense it should, but the performances are good. And the sexual subtext is what makes the film fascinating. In the depiction of Eddie's repressed sexuality, there's a suggestion that he may be afraid that he really is gay, just as there are suggestions that Steve and Harold may be more than just friends. The rampant machismo of the garage mechanics is also present in Steve's treatment of Barbara, whom he expects to do his bidding come what may. Sometimes hindsight makes a film more interesting than it was when it was released.

The Naked Kiss (Samuel Fuller, 1964)

The Naked Kiss (Samuel Fuller, 1964)

Cast: Constance Towers, Anthony Eisley, Michael Dante, Betty Bronson, Patsy Kelly, Karen Conrad, Marie Devereux, Virginia Grey, Linda Francis, Bill Sampson, Edy Williams. Screenplay: Samuel Fuller. Cinematography: Stanley Cortez. Art direction: Eugène Lourié. Film editing: Jerome Thoms. Music: Paul Dunlap.

The Naked Kiss begins with a bang: a woman beating the crap out of a man, using her shoe and everything else that comes to hand, even spritzing him with seltzer from a siphon before she finally knocks him cold, collects the $75 he owes her, replaces the wig that has fallen off her bald head during the fight, and departs. It's going to be hard to top that, you might think, unless you know Samuel Fuller's movies and can be sure that he will. We learn that she's called Kelly, that she's a prostitute, and the man she's beating up is her pimp, who shaved her head as a punishment. Some time later, long enough for her hair to have grown back fully, we catch up with her arriving in the town of Grantville, posing as a traveling saleswoman with a sample kit of a Champagne called Angel Foam. And it's there that she will try, after one last trick with the good-looking town police captain named Griff, to go straight. She gets a job in the local hospital for children with disabilities, thrives, and gets engaged to the town's most prominent citizen, a man named Grant. Of course, when we first encounter Grant, who is handsome in a particularly oily way, we know that things won't go right -- even after Kelly confesses about her past to him and he accepts her anyway. This is melodrama at its pulpiest, and Fuller makes the most of it in his own special way. There is nothing "realistic" about The Naked Kiss. You might even call it "para-realistic" -- existing somewhere alongside reality in the way lurid fictions do. Fuller's films, made without benefit of the budgets and technical resources of the big studios, look like the work of someone playing with the available money and resources to express a private vision that's slightly askew, like memories or even dreams of big studio movies. They're filled with unexpected details, such as Kelly's wig or the dressmaker's dummy that Kelly's landlady costumes in the uniform of her late fiancé, killed in the war. They make us laugh as much as they creep us out. There's even a slightly hallucinatory quality to the disabled kids Kelly works with, who are called on for a performance of a song known as "Little Child," which takes on a sinister irony when we discover that Grant, for whom Kelly stages the performance, is a pedophile. Sometimes I'm not even certain if I watched The Naked Kiss or if I dreamed it.