THE KILLERS (1946)
Directed by Robert Siodmak
Universal Pictures, 103 minutes
★★★★★
The 1946 version of The Killers was heralded in its day, but has retreated to relative obscurity. Too bad; it’s an exemplar of the film noir genre. It takes its title and basic plot from an Ernest Hemingway short story in which even the double crossers are double-crossed.
The film opens bold by offing its protagonist, Ole “Swede” Andreson (Burt Lancaster), before you can butter your popcorn. Two guys enter a Bentwood, New Jersey greasy spoon, ask for Swede, terrorize the staff, and trumpet their intention to murder him. When Swede fails to show up at the diner, customer Nick Adams–a character Hemingway fans know from other tales–rushes to Andreson’s house to warn him, but he acts as if he has been expecting them and orders Nick to leave. Sure enough, the killers (William Conrad, Charles McGraw) show up and fill him full of lead. The rest of the film is told in flashbacks.
Lancaster cut his teeth in impulsive, not-so-bright tough guy roles. In The Killers he is a boxer whose best buddy, Sam Lubinsky (Sam Levene) is a cop, who attends Swede’s last fight before he is forced to quit the game. Sam and Swede fall out shortly thereafter. Andreson dumps his wholesome girlfriend, Lily (Virginia Christine) for a sultry brunet, Kitty Collins (Ava Gardner). When Sam tries to pinch Lily for possessing a stolen broach, Swede insists he stole it, ignores Sam’s advice, pulls three years in prison, and disappears after his parole.
Sam and insurance investigator Jim Reardon (Edmond O’Brien) try to get to the bottom of Swede’s murder–Sam out of past friendship and his marriage to Lily, and Reardon because of a suspicious $2,500 life insurance policy Andreson left to a boarding house owner. They speculate that the gunmen were contract killers taking revenge for a $255,000 payroll heist in which Swede allegedly took part after his release.
Sam and Reardon are baffled, though. Swede didn’t possess enough gray cells to plan such a caper and, as his former boxing manager, his New Jersey gas station boss and, as fellow attendant Nick attest, Andreson was a loner who owned little more than the clothes on his back and his dopp kit. Who planned the caper and where’s the money? “Big Jim” Colfax (Albert Dekker), a Pittsburgh contractor, might not be as legit as he claims and several others are shadier than a rainforest, but proving guilt is easier said than done. What about Kitty? Is she a puma or a domestic tabby? All I will say is that Swede isn’t the last corpse and The Killers has a killer ending.
Lancaster plays a dim bulb, but he’s candescent whenever he’s on the screen. Levene exudes folksy charm, and they certainly don’t make insurance adjusters as tough as O’Brien anymore. Gardner positively sizzles in a role that will keep you wondering if she’s a femme fatale or just a gal who once kept unfortunate company. Toss in a thematically appropriate soundtrack from the masterful Miklos Rozsa and crisp black and white cinematography from Woody Bredell and you will wonder why a movie that once garnered four Oscar nominations is now infrequently viewed.
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If only Hollywood could resist the temptation to touch up a Michelangelo. In 1964, Universal released a remake directed by Don Siegel. It’s shorter (95 minutes) and in color because it was supposed to be a TV movie but was deemed too violent for the small box. (By today’s standards it’s practically Sesame Street.)
The 1964 movie is pared, though it follows the same arc as Siodmak’s 1946 film. In what now looks like a cheap ploy to appear hip, Swede was transformed into Johnny North (John Cassavetes), a racecar driver who also teaches at a school for the blind. (Really!?) His spurned best friend Earl Sylvester (Claude Akins) is a mechanic instead of a cop, and subplots of a gun-toting insurance guy and a dumped sweetheart are dropped. Sheila Farr (Angie Dickinson) is the female interest. She’s a built-for-speed bad girl, but also invites viewers to wonder if she’s misunderstood.
Lee Marvin plays one of the killers with icy ruthlessness and is easily the best thing in the movie, though Cassavetes is also competent. Alas, the script is so sappy that you need not queue the remake unless you’re a curious comparative shopper. The Colfax analog is Jack Browning–Ronald Reagan in his last movie role. Virginia Christine was the only actor to appear in both versions; she’s a blind secretary in Johnny’s school. Angie Dickinson was no Ava Gardner, nor John Williams the equal of Rozsa.
The 1946 film is worthy of its inclusion in the Criterion Collection, but that’s not the case for its 1964 counterpart. The first is a hearty stew; the second tomato soup from the can and mixed with water.
Rob Weir
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