Cage of Evil

The photo is from Cage of Evil, directed by Edward L. Cahn, starring Ronald Foster and Pat Blair. That's really just about the best take I could find of Pat Blair...which says something about the directing and over all quality of the picture. I think she was more impressive in this more familiar role:

In this film noir, Blair plays the strong, criminally connected female. Her greed becomes the millstone that drags the decent but flawed detective to his doom beneath the sordid sea of lies, robbery, and murder. On a scale of one to ten, the film ranks as a solid disappointment. At just over an hour long, the story is fairly bare-bones; it felt rushed and incomplete. The characters possessed all the depth of...well...something really thin...without a lot of depth...like drawn-on eyebrows. The writing kept the characters and the story confined to the wading pool. Shallow. That's the word that comes to mind. It's as shallow as a cookie sheet, or that guy at work who can only talk about his new tattoo.

The initial set up reminds me of the beginning of one of my favorite films, Double Indemnity; except in this film it's the police captain, the poor corrupted detective's boss, who does the narration rather than the unfortunate protagonist himself. The directing includes plenty of unremarkable shadows. I don't remember any great classic noir shots of semi-darkened stairways, or seedy streets with lighting that captures the fleeing protagonist's silhouette. However, I did find this guy playing a minor role:

I think his most famous roles have him on a golf course or in a newsroom.

I chose to watch Cage of Evil because the plot synopsis mentioned diamonds. Diamonds play a significant role in my noir novel; I wanted to see what this movie did with them. These diamonds are uncut; my diamonds are stolen Nazi treasure. My protagonist at one point observes:
“I can’t argue with a diamond,” I said. Technically, it was true. I couldn’t argue with a diamond any more than I could argue with a dead man. Both tended to rely on the single assertion of their being, or not being…to which there was no rebuttal. 

Erotomania

From the 2003 French movie He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not, starring Audrey Tautou, and Sam Le Bihan. It would be the former rather than the latter pictured above.
Audrey Tautou plays a promising art student in love with a married doctor. Unfortunately for the artist, the doctor is unwilling to leave his pregnant wife. The movie begins with the girl's face among the red roses of a flower shop where she purchases a single rose for her love. This cute little stick-of-a-girl finds disappointment in all of her attempts to become the sole owner of the doctor's heart. When the burden of this heaping pile of unfulfilled expectations drags her to the brink of ending her relationship with the doctor (and everyone else), she has a full conversion to the dark side; her efforts to obtain her desire intensify to full Mumm Ra mode. The film goes full noir from that moment. Neither her life, nor the doctor's life will ever be the same again.

To borrow from the lyrics of Red Rider's "Lunatic Fringe" (how's that for a segue?), I was "out upon the water"...except I just discovered that those are not the lyrics; that's just what I thought that I had been hearing all these years. Turns out the actual lyrics are "out along the walkway" which isn't nearly as interesting, nor at all a propos to a discussion of my fishing trip with El Supremo and The Musketeer. I only bring that up because of an exchange wherein El Supremo mentioned something about how quiet the environment was. The Musketeer agreed. Naturally, this reminded me of a gunman and sometime-sheriff. I mentioned that to my companions who appeared entirely lost by the reference. But of course they had not heard of that lesser known individual with the famous brothers...Quiet Earp, about whom the historical record is largely silent because of his calm and tranquil nature.

More importantly, another break-through on the noir novel. The death of an important character has left a void which requires filling. One character's entrance had already been planned, but another important character would benefit the story...and the more I thought about it, the more essential the character became. So now I have key players in place for the protagonist to interact with when he takes his investigation into the dangerous gambling den.

Dumas' Progeny

Although this picture of Faye Dunaway and Christopher Lee in The 4th Musketeer: Milady's Revenge would be from 1974, it causes me to think of the Bonnie and Clyde movie from 1967 in which she starred with Warren Beatty. The coach in this picture seems to have more headroom than the stolen Ford Deluxe in which Bonnie and Clyde met their demise in May 1934, but the shoulder room looks a little tight. Perhaps those two pistols behind the heads of Milady and Rochefort are what raised that memory of the two young bandits jerking like electrified frogs' legs under a relentless spray of lead which perforated both the Ford and its occupants. I saw that movie as a kid on television many years after its theatrical release; the memory of that scene is still quite vivid.

Although I was allowed to watch Bonnie and Clyde on television, I did not get to go to the theater to watch The Three Musketeers, or The 4th Musketeer....because...Mom. I suppose the fact that I was less than 10 years old could've had something to do with it. Fortunately, I did get to see both of these movies after I was married--which was a considerable number of years later--and I'm still angry that I never got to see those movies as a kid. Of course I had not read Dumas' Three Musketeers in either English or French at that time, I just knew that I would love the story--it had SWORD FIGHTING. I did read the book in English when I was a freshmen in high school; several years later I was able to read it in French...and I continue to reread it in that language every few years for fun. It's a great story. My theory is that Dumas' characters were at least part of the inspiration for the Cartwrights of Bonanza, as well as Kirk, Spock, Bones, and Scotty of Star Trek. Some day I may compare the various movies based on Dumas' book...but not today. My copy of the book in the original language came to me via one of the booksellers along the Seine in Paris...but I digress.

The Three Musketeers is an outstanding story because it has adventure, intrigue, sinister villains, beautiful women, interesting characters,...and did I mention sword fighting? Why do I bring that up? Because those are significant elements in memorable stories. No doubt, Dumas has influenced my own writing. In Justice in Season, the hero, McBride, is certainly like D'Artagnan; Parker may be a little like Captain Treville, or Athos; Shorty and Vaughn compare with the musketeers Aramis and Porthos; Sheriff Upton has a whiff of Cardinal Richelieu about him; and McBride's nemesis correlates with Rochefort. The stories are certainly different, and I never made any intentional transposition of characters. However, looking at the completed story, I can see the parallels...except for the sword fighting...unless the gunfights count.

In a Lonely Place

The above photo from IMDB of Humprey Bogart and Gloria Grahame was part of the publicity for the movie In a Lonely Place, directed by Nicholas Ray, 1950. Bogart and Grahame were film noir royalty. Grahame usually played a moll who took more hits than Sylvester Stallone's Rocky. Bogey, or course, delivered a lot of hits. In one scene in this movie, Bogart's disturbed character, Dixon Steele, beats up a young man and nearly brains him with a rock. Grahame plays Laurel, the girl who can't decide whether her lover is a murderer.

I haven't had the pleasure of seeing this entire film. I have seen several parts of it, and want to see all of it. Bogey's character is a writer; he is asked what position he works from. He replies that it's usually from the sitting position. The most memorable lines from the film are spoken, and written by Bogart's character: "I was born when she kissed me. I died when she left me. I lived for a few weeks while she loved me."

In my own noir novel, I find that the conversation flows easier than the exposition. The characters take on their own personalities; they carry the story. Their desires and dilemmas draw forth the tale. Each character forms an inherent part of the vehicle that propels them to the final destination...which may be terminal for some of them.

Centaurs and a Full Moon

Here is a link, and an excerpt from chapter 4 of my newest book on Amazon,

 Finding Jack Book One - The Orb

The horn blasts startled Jack. It did occur to him that the series of notes would make a nice ringtone, or maybe an alarm. He thought it worked better as an alarm. That’s when he understood that it was an alarm. The centaur was sounding an alarm.

Jack looked around to see two more centaurs galloping toward him, and he heard another horn signaling farther along the road. He knew that running down the roadway between the trees would only allow the centaurs to catch him quickly. He spun and ran to the east. He hoped to find bushes or trees or some other obstacles that would allow him to elude a pursuer.

“I think we’ve got us a necromancer.” The centaur shouted. “I’m lucky to be alive. He made a light in his hand and his face went to glowing like some demon after blood. Shoot first and don’t let him throw magic, I say.”

At that point Jack’s knee crashed into something solid. He fell over a stone wall about three feet in height. His knee hurt so badly that he couldn’t imagine trying to get up and run. He began crawling along the base of the wall, out of the centaurs’ sight.

If the centaurs crossed the wall they probably still wouldn’t see him in the shadow of the wall, away from the light of the moon.

“He’s disappeared,” said the centaur he had been dealing with.

“I’m not going across the wall for him. Not on a night with a full moon. There’s no telling what manner of witchery or beast might be waiting out there, besides the slavering glorvogs.” The voice was from one of the other centaurs.

“You should’ve shot him when you had the chance, instead of blowing your horn,” another voice said.

“When he was all fixed to hurl a magic on me? Like as not that arrow would’ve come flying right back at me. No. I’ll not be taking chances with such sorcery. He’s off the King’s Way and that’s all my job requires. I’ve done my duty. Maybe we should stay close together for a while…in case he returns. Did you notice the strange raiment that he had? I should’ve known right off that he was no normal trespasser.”

Jack crawled a few feet along the base of the wall until he came to a large ditch. He appreciated the fact that the ditch was dry. The ditch appeared to go under the King’s Way through a sort of stone culvert or small bridge. He started his flashlight app and directed the light into the culvert. He couldn’t see anything. He didn’t hear anything either. He liked that.

Jack extinguished the flashlight and looked at the screen of his phone. It showed that he had two unread text messages. It also showed a single, small bar of service. He opened the text messages. Jennifer’s text said, “Jack r u ok?” Mizu’s message read, “Jack, say something.”

Jack remembered his anger at the girls over the text messages and that anger returned. He typed a reply to Mizu’s message and tapped “send.”

As he watched his phone to see if the message would send, he thought he detected a low rumbling sound. Maybe it was a growl.

Veronica

Lake was not like any of the people that I encountered at a recent hospital visit, but her name is similar to the name of a pulchritudinous character in my noir novel. Veronica was a different kind of beauty than the Monica of my novel, but she was still a beauty; although, the character named Pip from my book probably resembles Veronica Lake a little bit.

Here is a picture of Veronica from This Gun for Hire, co-staring Alan Ladd. Enjoy the picture and then read about the hospital visit, given from the point of view of an unimportant character in an old crime movie.

We walked into the joint through a torrential downpour. My forehead felt like it was Niagra Falls. My two associates, a man and a woman, went to confirm the appointment with one of the henchmen who keep out the riffraff, meaning those who can't pay to play. This particular henchman was a dame. She called me over from her seat behind a desk covered in a pale wood veneer. It was the desk that was covered, not the dame; her veneer was kind, and attractive, but not remarkably so. I could tell that she liked me; she asked me for my phone number, and she wrote it down; so I could see she was serious. She sent us up to the next floor. We were going places.

There were stairs, but we took the elevator. My associates moved a little slowly, but we got to our destination. Only, the thing was, it wasn't supposed to be our destination. We were allowed to wait there until the new henchman, a tall drink of water with unshaven facial hair that resembled the growth in the bottom of an old garbage can, told my associates that they could proceed to another chamber for their appointment.

It struck me as sort of suspicious that my associates could go on without me. I suspected a trap. Then I realized that the dame downstairs with my number might want me somewhere that I could take her call. So I waited. I filled the time writing the remnant of a chapter on my noir novel...and I must say that it was fabulous; I did real good.

Eventually, one of my associates, an older gentleman whose handsome blue eyes still delighted women of all ages, returned with news. We were to wait. So we waited while the skirt who was in charge of our operation got down to the business of spilling her guts to some special investigator. After a few hours, the flunky with the garbage-can-facial-hair informed us that we would now be privileged to wait...at the other end of this very same room where the investigator could tell us how the deal went. I tell ya, we was overjoyed with anticipation.

The specialist arrived after we had put in some more quality time cooling our heels. This guy was nobody's lackey. He told us how it was, and brought the pictures to back up his story. It was okay. He told us that after we waited another couple hours, the babe would be at another place where we could see her. Well, naturally, we was excited to hear that.

Finally, fungus-face announced that our doll was getting her own room, and we could go up to behold her with our own eyes. We took the lift up, and, after some debate about directions, we chose correctly. The gal at the desk seemed surprised to see us. She had no idea that our doll was being set up in a room on her floor. Needless to say, the privilege of waiting for further information was extended to us again. The administrative wheels in that joint suddenly began to turn at a breakneck creep. So we waited some more.

Just when we was about to give up all hope, they wheeled our doll in like some exotic sultana on her own recliner. She refused to speak to us for a while. So we waited till she felt like making conversation. I guess the investigator had twisted her arm a bit to get her to give everything up, but she had. She was pretty sore over the whole matter, but she got the deal that she had insisted on for all of us. None of us were going to go to the slammer, and she would be allowed to return home the next day with no stain on her record, if all of her information checked out. So it was fabulous.

What I can't believe is...that that dame who took my number never did call me.