Noir Diary # 17: Framed (Richard Wallace, 1947)

 

The very definition of an efficient, tightly plotted b-noir, 1947’s ‘Framed’ begins with a perfect visual metaphor for what’s to follow, as protagonist Mike Lambert (Glenn Ford) literally crashes into the small town in which the action takes place behind the wheel of an out-of-control truck with no functioning brakes.

The platonic ideal of a doomed film noir patsy, Lambert is an unkempt, down-on-his-luck drifter (an unemployed mining engineer, so he claims), who accepted the driving gig offered to him by an unscrupulous trucking company purely as a means to get himself to the next town along the trail. After painfully extracting his fee from said trucking firm’s local rep, he deposits it directly into the hat of the argumentative man whose fender he damaged in the process of bringing his death-trap of a vehicle to a halt, and heads straight for the nearest bar to see if he can scare up some credit.

Within the insalubrious environs of the La Paloma Cafe, we soon come to understand how Lambert has ended up in such dire straits. Clearly he’s one of those guys whose thirst for liquor is matched only by his inability to handle its effects, and, after a few shots of rot-gut, we find him trying to hock his gold watch to the barkeep for stake money to join the 24/7 crap game taking place upstairs, only to be saved from further humiliation when the crooked local fuzz waltz in to pick him up on a spurious dangerous driving charge finagled by the trucking company.

In spite of this world championship level display of loserdom however, archly mannered waitress Paula (Janis Carter) appears inexplicably enamoured of the new arrival; so much so that it is she who steps in to cover the fine Lambert is ordered to pay after a jerry-rigged court appearance, before also shelling out to provide the hotel room in which he sleeps off the effects of his subsequent drinking binge.

Anyone thinking that Paula’s efforts might be motivated by philanthropy, pity or good old fashioned lust however would be well advised to consult this movie’s title. Before you know it, our hero’s new guardian angel has quit her job at the bar, and is on the phone to arrange a meet-up with the smarmy vice-president of the local bank (Steve Price, played by Barry Sullivan), letting him know that she’s found exactly the right guy for their purposes. Same height as Price, same build, and no annoying friends or family to get in the way. Oddly, they’re not too concerned about his facial features… I wonder why?

Before we get the full dope on the ugly fate our hero is being measured up for however, ‘Framed’ takes an unexpected detour into B. Traven territory, as Lambert - suddenly determined to try to make something of himself - heads for the local Assaying Office. For the benefit of readers not based in the South-Western U.S.A. in the early 20th century, this was apparently a place to which would-be mining prospectors could bring samples of stuff they’d dug up, to get its mineral content analysed, and happily, Lambert’s visit happens to coincide with that of a garrulous fellow (Jeff Cunningham, played by Edgar Buchanan) who has just received confirmation that he’s struck a life-changing haul of silver up in them-there-hills.

Better still, when Lambert offers his services as an engineer for the forthcoming mining operation, Cunningham recognises him as the guy who paid him back for damage to his car the previous afternoon, clapping him on the shoulders and declaring him an HONEST MAN. So, hands are shaken, a partnership is born, and the new best buddies retire to nearby café (one which actually serves food, unlike the La Paloma) for a slap-up breakfast and some serious mining talk.

The only snag is, to finance the outfit, Cunningham will need to get a loan from the local bank, but don’t worry, it’s such a sure thing that…. ah. You see where this going. Forewarned by Paula, vice-president Steve turns Cunningham down flat, leaving the disgruntled prospector with no choice but to leave town to drum up some dough elsewhere, leaving Lambert to cool his heels… and to head straight back into the arms of one of the most robotically psychotic femme fatales ‘50s noir had to offer. Some guy just can’t get a break, huh?

Ben Maddow’s script for ‘Framed’ may not be high art, but it’s certainly high craft. A frustrated poet and documentarian before he turned to screenwriting to make a buck, Maddow cheerily lifts a few ideas from then-recent hits (Double Indemnity, ‘The Treasure of the Sierra Madre’, and the previous year’s ‘Gilda’, also starring Ford), but he nonetheless gives us one of those great, watertight yarns in which every detail pays off, every character trait serves a purpose, and in which the overriding theme of the piece remains consistent, without ever getting heavy-handed about it.

In the synopsis above, I’ve casually referred to Mike Lambert as the film’s ‘hero’, and, despite his chronic lack of gumption, that descriptor remains more accurate than was often the case in the realm of noir. For all his faults, Lambert is indeed a scrupulously honest man, trying to ply an honest trade, only to find the combined forces of state and capital (the police and judiciary, banks, employers, the idle rich, even disgruntled suburbanites in one case) lined up against him, working in cahoots to keep him penniless, homeless, and preferably consigned to a wooden casket ASAP, all as part of their venal, corrupt daily routine.

(With an outlook like this, it’s no surprise to learn that Maddow found himself blacklisted post-haste once the dark fog of HUAC descended upon Hollywood, his official screen credits drying up shortly after he earned an Oscar nomination for his similarly themed work on John Huston’s classic ‘The Asphalt Jungle’ (1950).)

The great ‘nearly man’ of 40s/50s household name leading men, Glenn Ford also does fine work here, dialling down the charisma he exuded to varying degrees in other roles to effectively portray a guy who is only one or two rungs up the ladder from the Elisha Cook Jrs of this world -- a stone loser, but one whose side-eye glances convey a sly, calculating self-awareness rather than mere blubbering self-pity, letting us know he’s possessed of just enough grit and smarts to overcome the forces rallied against him… if only he could stay away from the bottle, and the crap table - and most importantly, from Janis Carter.

Though she never scaled the same career heights as her co-star, Carter (whose other genre credits include ‘Night Editor’ (1946) and the notorious ‘The Woman on Pier 13’ aka ‘I Married a Communist’ (1949)) is equally memorable here, creating a character who ranks second only to Lizabeth Scott in ‘Too Late For Tears’ (1949) in noir’s pantheon of cold-blooded female predators.

When Sullivan’s character met her two years ago, Paula was modelling “someone else’s furs”; now she has to make do ugly, lace n’ polka-dot small town finery, but not for much longer. A dead-eyed, remorselessly amoral dame straight out of a philandering studio mogul’s worst nightmares, she’s clearly capable of leaving any of the men who dote upon her to perish in a flaming car wreck at a moment’s notice, just to gain an extra percentage point on the purloined dough which sits awaiting her in that numbered safe deposit box back in town.

There is kind of a performative, self-aware aspect to the behaviour of both lead characters in ‘Framed’ - a feeling that Mike and Paula simply complying with the expectations of their archetypes, if you will, unable to break free from the roles they’ve been assigned within Maddow’s rat-trap of a script. Some viewers might see as a weakness of the film, but personally I really enjoyed the weird, fateful quality it brought to proceedings.

Paula is so obviously ice cold and insincere in her interactions with Lambert and Price, it’s difficult to believe that either of them could believe her rote “I’m crazy about you / let’s run away together” jive for a second. Indeed, Lambert appears suspicious of her motives right from the get-go, but nonetheless, he still keeps trudging straight back to the horrible, chintzy bungalow she rents on the outskirts of town, accepting her stream of lies, rationalisations and half-hearted declarations of devotion with heavy-lidded resignation, like some cut price, off-brand version of Robert Mitchum’s storm-tossed fatalism in the same year’s ‘Out of the Past’.

Though ‘Framed’ has none of the high-falutin’ dreaminess we associate with such top tier noirs, Wallace’s direction is punchy and efficient in the best tradition of Columbia crime pictures, relying on fast cutting and simple visual storytelling to get its point across, whilst the film is further elevated by fine supporting performances from Sullivan, whose smarmy bank exec contains a finger of the same juice which would later fuel Fred McMurray’s character in Billy Wilder’s ‘The Apartment’ (1960), and Edgar Buchanan, who essentially plays the movie’s dishevelled, proletarian conscience, offering Lambert a fleeting glimpse of friendship, hard work and proper, American Dream-type redemption.

The work of Director of Photography Burnett Guffey was not generally as showy as that of his more celebrated competitors in the chiaroscuro racket, and with the best will in the world, this picture’s small town / daylight setting and familiarly drab Columbia interior sets offer little scope for expressionist grandeur.

Nonetheless though, Howe’s steady hand ensures that the movie always looks at least pretty good, employing the steady hand which led some wag to describe him as the “little black dress” of noir photographers to transcend the penny-pinching production design, using mirrors, blinds and jagged, asymmetric shapes to keep things interesting, whilst a few brief nocturnal street scenes evoke the kind of sleek, inky smooth menace he would go on to employ so beautifully on career highlights like ‘The Reckless Moment’ (1949) and ‘In a Lonely Place’ (1950). (1)

If anything in ‘Framed’ cuts against the grain of noir expectation, it’s probably the film’s ending, which - whilst straining here to avoid spoilers - does not proceed in the direction which the hard-boiled nihilist crowd might have wished, let’s put it that way. As much as such a conclusion sounds bad on paper however, in practice it’s handled here with an elegance and open-ended emotional ambiguity which actually works rather beautifully, leaving open the possibility that good ol’ Mike Lambert - now weighted down by an extra layer of cynicism and soul-sickening regret - might be back soon, trying hawk that damned gold watch in some seedy bar ‘round the corner from your place, next week, next year, or on into eternity.

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(1) I need to credit Imogen Sara Smith’s excellent audio commentary on the Indicator blu-ray release of ‘Framed’ for hepping me to that quote about Guffey, but I don’t remember who she attributed it to, and google hasn’t helped me put a name to it, so… answers on a postcard etc.

Horror Express: Censor (Prano Bailey-Bond, 2021)

When I initially read about writer-director Prano Bailey-Bond’s debut feature ‘Censor’ last summer, I was pretty intrigued. I mean, a phantasmagorical trip into the murky underbelly of the infamous ‘Video Nasties’ hysteria whipped up by the British tabloid press in the early 1980s, as seen through the eyes of a BBFC examiner who becomes embroiled in a missing persons investigation involving an underground horror movie director? Lots of fascinating stuff for a smart, self-aware 21st century horror film to get its teeth stuck into there, surely.

My enthusiasm dissipated however when I read Gav Crimson’s review of the film - a detailed and all-too-believable dismissal which sets out a catalogue of anachronisms, missed opportunities and failures on the part of the filmmakers to effectively engage with their chosen subject matter. Oh well.

Suitably forewarned, I took a “walk don’t run” approach to checking out ‘Censor’, but finally caught up with it last month through the eerie medium of streaming. [In view of the film’s subject, it feels weirdly ironic that I chose to ‘rent’ it for 48 hours from the BFI.] I’m happy to report though that, although Mr Crimson’s conclusions are essentially correct, I nonetheless found a lot more to enjoy here than he did, overcoming some pretty severe mixed feelings to eventually come away with a fairly positive assessment of the film.

Which doesn’t exactly sound like a whole-hearted recommendation, I’ll grant you, but… if you can engage with ‘Censor’ on its own terms, there is a lot of good stuff here. In terms of direction, visuals and performances in fact, I’d probably rank ‘Censor’ as one of the most effective and enjoyable films to have emerged from the post-2010 wave of UK art-horror pictures. At the same time though, well - let’s just say there’s a lot to unpack here too.

For a start, and as concisely summarised in the above-linked review, historical verisimilitude is all over the place. In spite of ‘Censor’s shamelessly retromantic fixation on the aesthetic of early 1980s, Bailey-Bond & Anthony Fletcher’s script is full of details both large and small which simply don’t ring true, holding together a series of plot developments which feel wildly unlikely, to put it mildly.

As the film’s story unfolds though, we come to realise that at least some of its more far-fetched events could easily be chalked up to the old “unreliable narrator” factor; and besides, at the end of the day, this is a heavily stylised psychological horror film, and I mean, it’s not like we watch ‘Deep Red’ to get a realistic picture of the life of young creatives in Turin in 1975, right?

On that basis alone, I feel I should extend ‘Censor’ the same courtesy, especially given that (along with the film’s director, I’m assuming), I was busy making my debut at play school at around the time the notorious Video Recordings Act was being fast-tracked through the Commons.

Perhaps more worryingly though, at a certain point whilst watching ‘Censor’, I also found myself concerned that the film might be taking a “the people who make these movies are sick and perverted and basically one step away from being serial murderers” kind of stance, rather akin to the approach Paul Schrader's ‘Hardcore’ (1979) took to pornography. Not exactly a good way to get us horror fans on side, needless to say.

Thankfully though, the film swerves away somewhat from this trajectory during its final act, instead instigating a script-flipping shift in perspective (‘twist’ doesn’t really cover it), the details of which will remain unspoiled here, despite being fairly obvious/inevitable in retrospect.

Though the lingering suggestion that the world of low budget genre cinema is a weird, alienating, sleazy and dangerous place to do business may still rankle with some viewers, on the whole I thought that the film’s big narrative turnaround was very nicely handled, packing an appropriate emotional punch.

And, once again, we need to remember that this is a horror movie, with all that that entails. If the people and situations our protagonist Enid (Niamh Algar) encountered in the lower depths of the film industry were friendly, respectful and welcoming, it’s safe to say ‘Censor’ would not exactly have hit its mark, tonally speaking. As it is, the film builds a Ramsey Campbell-esque atmosphere of liminal unease that I actually found quite effective, in spite of the concerns outlined above.

Although the world of the ‘Censor’s fictional horror director Frederick North isn’t as fleshed out as I might have liked, I nonetheless enjoyed the material dealing with his films. More than anything though, I just found myself wishing I could watch them. I mean, why DIDN’T we have some kind of British answer to Lucio Fulci lurking about in Sussex woods making weird, atmospheric gore films in blatant defiance of the Thatcher/Whitehouse brigade? That would clearly have been amazing. His absence from reality surely marks a collective cultural failure, which we in the UK should regret daily.

Whether it was consciously intended as a joke or otherwise, I liked the fact that North’s magnum opus ‘Don’t Go In The Church’ does not appear to feature a church, and, whilst on the subject, I also very much enjoyed Michael Smiley’s turn as the director’s sleazebag producer, a role which surely cementing his place as the closest thing 21st century UK cinema has to a fully paid up, never-knowingly-underacting ‘horror man’ (following his equally memorable performances in ‘Kill List’ (2010), ‘A Field in England’ (2013) and ‘The Toll’ (2021), amongst others).

Likewise, I also appreciated the detail of the scenes set within the offices of ‘Censor’s thinly fictionalised version of the BBFC. It is here that the film crosses over slightly into the realm of that distinctly British ‘comedy of awkwardness’ which has become such a ubiquitous element of 21st century UK horror, and whilst this kind of stuff is not usually my bag, in this case I found spending time with Enid’s mismatched colleagues to be more comforting than hellish, with their portrayals veering more toward the humane/relatable than the overtly grotesque.

In fact, I found myself quite taken with the idea of hanging around all day in a pokey pre-fab office with a bunch of failed academics and social workers, drinking tea, filing reports and watching films to obsessively count the “shit”s and “fuck”s. Aside from the inherently objectionable business of having to actually cut / ban films, that actually strikes me as a pretty great job. Given that they rarely do much cutting or banning these days, I was almost tempted to call up the BBFC’s website to see if they’re recruiting at the moment, and what kind of background they require, etc.

Meanwhile, ‘Censor’s overall aesthetic struck me as being very much on the same page as Peter Strickland’s recent ‘In Fabric’ (2018), mixing beautifully phantasmagorical neon/gel lighting and baroque, Argento-esque production design with painstakingly fetishised period detail and low key/naturalistic performances to create - especially in its latter half - a similarly vertiginous disjuncture between fantasy and reality (though I personally found Bailey-Bond’s film a less discomforting and more conventionally rewarding experience than Strickland’s).

One visual device I particularly liked - and which I don’t recall ever seeing previously - is the way ‘Censor’ plays with aspect ratio and film grain across its run-time. An idea which would presumably have been nixed on the grounds of expense and impracticality back in the pre-digital era, this now of course feels entirely appropriate to this archly referential horror film-about-horror films. (Once again, Strickland springs to mind here as a reference point, particularly vis-à-vis the intertextual monkey business which characterised ‘Berbarian Sound Studio’ (2012).)

When I first noticed horizontal bars appearing at the edges of the screen, I thought something had gone wrong with the streaming platform, but soon realised that this was deliberate as the film begins to move back and forth between scope anback and forth from “reality” to “video nasty-vision”.

This is a neat trick, and a nice wink to cinephiles and survivors of the format wars in the audience, but it also serves to foreground the suggestion that watching violent videos has actually warped our vulnerable protagonist’s mind beyond all recognition - a problematic notion which is never really sufficiently explored or resolved by Bailey-Bond’s film, for all its visual pyrotechnics and technical acumen.