Black Angel: Second Look

 

 

 

 

BLACK ANGEL (1946)

Directed by Roy William Neil

Universal Pictures, 81 minutes, Not Rated.

★★★★

 

I keep a careful list of movies I’ve seen. Or so I thought until I borrowed Black Angel again on Monday. Because I was an idiot, I thought I’d watch it again and I liked it better this time. Here’s a slightly altered review from an earlier post.

 

Black Angel was considered a second-tier film noir, though its reputation has trended upward and is now viewed an underappreciated classic. “Classic” might be a tad grandiose, but it’s worth 81 minutes of your time.

 

It’s one of those did-he-or-didn’t-he movies that will leave you guessing until the very end. Catherine Bennett (June Vincent) is married to Kirk (John Phillips). He’ burning the candle at both ends with such heat that he is being blackmailed by his blonde bombshell mistress, nightclub singer Mavis Marlowe (Constance Dowling). Marlowe is two- or three-timing her estranged alcoholic husband, songwriter Martin Blair (Dan Duryea) who mopes outside of her apartment.

 

Things go considerably more than wrong when Kirk shows up and finds Marlow dead in her bedroom. Like the sap he is, he touches things in her swanky apartment, including a gun on Marlowe’s bed. Kirk is arrested for the slaying and the evidence is airtight. Catharine knows that her hubby done her wrong (as thugs might say), but she doesn’t believe him capable of homicide. Because justice moved faster in those days, Kirk is quickly convicted, and if Catharine she doesn’t clear his name, Kirk ‘s last breath will be in the gas chamber.

 

So, who else would you enlist to help you find the “real” killer other than Martin, a hopeless boozer so pathetic that he needs a keeper/friend Joe (Wallace Ford) to pick him up off the street and tuck him into his flop house bed. Marty’s cynical about most things, but he has a soft spot for Cathy’s sob story. Or is it the shapeliness of her legs and her décolletage? The cops don’t want to help, as they have Kirk dead to rights. Captain Flood (Broderick Crawford) tells Cathy that, though sympathetic, he’s heard sob stories like hers before.  

 

Martin, though, saw another man coming out of Marlowe’s building. The more he and Cathy investigate, the more they believe that Marko (Peter Lorre), a former thug turned nightclub owner, killed Marlowe. Marty doesn’t stick his neck out for anybody, but he doesn’t have much to lose and the more time he spends with Cathy the more he finds himself falling for her. What ensues is a cat-and-mouse story that hinges on a brooch. 

 

Both June Vincent and Constance Dowling–both successful models– were knockouts. Then we have two guys born for the roles they played. Crawford as a flatfoot? The man made his future living playing one (TV’s Highway Patrol) and was always convincing in doing so. Of course, there’s Peter Lorre, who is like a ferret-come-to-life and as furtive as one. (Would you trust Peter Lorre?) Dan Duryea is also superb. He was a malleable actor who excelled at playing world-weary losers as he does in this film. He was equally adroit as a chiseler, a cowboy, a romantic lead, and a dancer.

 

Now for the head-scratching stuff. If you were trying to prove that a wise guy was guilty of a murder, would you form a lounge act? Marty can tickle the ivories and Cathy can pass as a sultry torch singer. Now all Cathy has to do is get the act booked at Marko’s club, catch Marko’s eye, gain his confidence, and find evidence without being fingered herself. Her motive is odd. We can sympathize with her desire not to see an innocent man die–if Kirk is indeed innocent–but what’s with her professions of love for the man who jilted her? At some point, we also wonder about Marty’s dangerous subterfuge. He’s physically attracted to Cathy, but all he can foresee is that he’ll be left in the lurch if Kirk is sprung.

 

Some 81-minute films are taut. In this case, more background into the evolving relationship between Catharine and Martin would help the ending make more sense. Blame the film’s shortcomings on holes in Roy Chanslor’s script, not Roy Wiliam Neill’s direction. Black Angel is often stylish and it holds together, but not brilliantly so. Call Black Angel a B-level noir with lead performances that make it a B+.

 

Rob Weir