On Friday, TCM had a day-long tribute to Robert Ryan, that gifted yet underappreciated actor, and I took advantage of the opportunity to see some of his less widely-available flicks. Here reviewed are a trio of his early films, films noir from top-notch directors where he made his name as one of Hollywood's premiere tough guys.
(Also perused were two of his Anthony Mann collaborations, Men in War (1957) and God's Little Acre (1958), films of different genres which may or may not get their own article.)
Crossfire (1947, Edward Dmytryk)
Ryan's breakout film, Crossfire is a somewhat awkward cross between a noir and a social message film. Its attack on biogtry and intolerance may have been groundbreaking in its time, but the film seems rather stilted and preachy today.
Jewish GI Samuels (Sam Levene) is murdered, and detective Finlay (Robert Young) believes some of his service mates to be responsible. Finlay initially suspects Private Mitchell (George Cooper), who conveniently cannot remember the night in question, but with the reluctant help of Sergeant Keeley (Robert Mitchum), Finlay turns his attention towards Montgomery (Robert Ryan), a loudmouth who slowly reveals a nasty strain of anti-Semitism.
Leftist director Edward Dmytryk (later one of the Hollywood Ten) really wants us to know that prejudice is bad. Unfortunately, the point is made in a regrettably hamfisted way. The movie takes the easy route of stressing that Samuels was a great guy and there was no reason to kill him. An eloquent speech by Finlay portrays all intolerance as one and the same, a gross, patronizing oversimplifcation of a complex issue. It's especially telling that the biggest and most pervasive intolerance of post-war America - racism - is not once mentioned; it's much easier to show that the intolerance practiced by Nazi Germany is bad, I suppose. What may have seemed daring and provocative in 1947 now seems very much a product of its time.
As a straight noir, Crossfire is decent enough. Dmytryk's direction is rather unremarkable, although he makes fine use of Harry Gerstad's interesting editing, with its distinctly dreamlike flashbacks. The story is straightforward but its moral ambiguity is interesting: the soldiers are reluctant to help Finlay's investigation out of service solidarity, and peripheral characters - especially a call girl (Gloria Grahame) and her obsessive husband (Paul Kelly) - seem equally seedy. Without employing gangsters or usual genre cliches, Dmytryk successfully creates a rather disquieting and cynical view of '40s America.
Ryan excells in his star-making turn: no one can play a charming creep better than him, even if his guilt is never really in doubt. He would play a nearly-identical character in Bad Day at Black Rock eight years later, which did a somewhat better job with a similar story and the same issues. Robert Young (Western Union) is the nominal protagonist, and he's good if rather stiff. Robert Mitchum has a rather weak secondary role and doesn't make much of an impression. Gloria Grahame (It's a Wonderful Life) gets a meaty part as a hard-nosed call girl.
Act of Violence (1948, Fred Zinnemann)
A noir by the great Fred Zinnemann (A Man for All Seasons), Act of Violence also makes use of post-WWII America as a setting, with tormented, guilt-ridden GIs as protagonists. A bit uneven in its plotting, its central story is superb, and fine direction and acting make it a must-see.
Frank Enley (Van Heflin) lives a seemingly-idyllic life as a building contractor in Middle America, with a beautiful wife (Janet Leigh) and child. Into the picture limps Joe Parkson (Robert Ryan), a crippled WWII vet who knows service buddy Frank's secret: as a POW, Enley betrayed an escape attempt which led to a massacre. Frank flees to Los Angeles to escape the vengeful Joe, getting mixed up with a woman of doubtful virtue (Mary Astor) and a gangster (Berry Kroeger) who determines to bump off Joe. Joe's girl (Phyllis Thaxter) tries to convince her beau to call off the hit, while Frank wrestles with his own conscience.
Act of Violence is a wonderfully ambivalent movie. It seems like an odd cross between The Best Years of Our Lives (veterans struggling to adjust to civilian life) and A History of Violence (idyllic family man whose past comes back to haunt him), but has a darker tinge than both. The film refuses to make its morality easily codified: Frank provides a noble "excuse" for his wartime treachery, but it seems just as likely that cowardice motivated him. Joe comes off as a psycho at first, but he has a justification for his actions, and the film provides a loyal and loveable girlfriend as a foil. Frank, eager to forget the war, easily rejoined society while Joe remained a neurotic outsider obsessed with the past; when the two strands cross, it's hopelessly messy. Do we cheer for the past traitor and present model citizen, or the war hero-turned-psycho?
Zinnemann's direction is fine, with appropriately-moody photography by Robert Surtees heightening the tension. The story takes an odd sidetrack when Frank gets mixed up in with criminals; it seems as if Zinnemann and writers Robert L. Richards and Collier Young feared the main plot was too thin. Still, this development sets the stage for the wonderfully surprising finale, which really spins the film's moral compass out of whack.
Van Heflin (Shane) gives one of his best performances; Frank is never less than likeable but Heflin makes him convincingly complex and guilt-ridden. Ryan is equally good: he's dependably creepy early on, but Zinnemann makes him gradually more sympathetic as the film develops. A remarkably unglamorous Mary Astor (The Maltese Falcon) and Berry Kroeger (Gun Crazy) ably represent the seamy underbelly of post-war America. Janet Leigh (The Naked Spur) and Phyllis Thaxter (Jim Thorpe - All American) sweeten the deal as likeable "nice girls."
The Set-Up (1949, Robert Wise)
The real gem of this group is Robert Wise's (The Sand Pebbles) take on the crooked, grimy world of professional boxing. Ryan gives probably his best performance (with all due respect to Billy Budd and The Wild Bunch) as the tragic Stoker Thompson, a past-his-prime boxer who career - and life - are pulled out from under him by his supposed friends.
Stoker Thompson (Robert Ryan) is an aging heavyweight champ due to fight against up-and-comer Tiger Nelson (Hal Baylor). Stoker's manager Tiny (George Tobias), however, agrees to throw the fight without telling Stoker; he's so sure his charge will lose that he doesn't bother to cut Stoker in. Stoker gives the fight his all and somehow manages to win, leaving him to face the wrath of tough guy Little Boy (Alan Baxter) and his goons.
Filmed roughly in real-time, The Set-Up is a wonderful little film. The story is pretty straightforward but plays out like an epic tragedy: Stoker's playing against a rigged deck but doesn't realize it, and he has to pay the consequences for his manager's perfidy. Wise's sparse direction adding a documentary-real feel to the proceedings, bringing the seedy world of boxing to vivid life. It's a remarkably grim and downbeat film, showing a horribly amoral and destructive world in chilling detail.
This has to be Ryan's best performance. He rarely got to play sympathetic characters but he really shines here, convincing as the proud, aged boxer and the man betrayed. Audrey Totter adds a welcome glimmer of humanity as Stoker's girlfriend. The supporting cast is filled out by a dependably seedy bunch: Alan Baxter (Abe Lincoln in Illinois), George Tobias (Mildred Pierce), Hal Baylor (Sands of Iwo Jima), James Edwards (Patton) and Wallace Ford (The Man From Laramie).
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