When Edward G. Robinson Gave 'Em Something to Talk About

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"You know something, a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke."

Arthur Ferguson Jones (Edward G. Robinson)

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I'm sorry to say that I had not heard of "The Whole Town's Talking," which premiered 80 years ago today, until a month or two ago. Then I watched it online, and I must say that it is one of the most underrated movies of all time.

It had a great cast — Edward G. Robinson, Jean Arthur and Lucille Ball in a small uncredited role. It was directed by John Ford. It was a great comedy, not exactly what you'd call a screwball comedy, although Arthur was very good in those. It was more a case of mistaken identity.

Robinson actually played two roles in the movie — mild–mannered clerk Arthur Ferguson Jones and a notorious killer. The resemblance was so strong that, after the initial mistake was clarified (in which the clerk had been detained on the suspicion that he was actually the notorious killer) and the police knew who he really was, they issued him a special pass instructing anyone who stopped him to let him go.

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Word got out about this special pass that he had been issued, and the notorious killer saw an opportunity to take advantage of his look–alike.

It was kind of a refreshing change. Robinson was mostly known for his gangster roles — and roles that, while not exactly of the gangster type, were rugged individualists. Arthur Ferguson Jones was, to use modern labels, a wimp, a wuss.

Now, "Killer" Mannion was precisely the kind of character everyone imagines when they think of Edward G. Robinson. Robinson probably could play that role in his sleep. For 1935 filmmaking technology, though, it was pretty impressive to see Robinson confronting Robinson on the big screen.

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Anyway, as I say, I wouldn't call this a screwball comedy — but I could call it a romantic comedy, given the sparks between Robinson and Arthur.

And Arthur's character, as she so often did in her movies, fell in love with her leading man. It usually made for a rather unconventional romance bristling with extraordinary obstacles. In this case, the obstacle was that her leading man happened to look like a notorious killer, public enemy #1 — yes, they actually used that phrase in the movie — and he posed quite a threat to their lives.

To be fair, there was a kind of screwball, slapstick quality to the final minutes of the movie. At times, it resembled a human shell game. Which Edward G. Robinson was the mild–mannered clerk, and which one was the killer? Don't look away from the screen for even a second, or you might miss something important.

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Arthur, wrote Robinson, "was whimsical without being silly, unique without being nutty, a theatrical personality who was an untheatrical person. She was a delight to work with and to know."

Someone who may have benefited from working with and knowing the "quintessential comedic leading lady," as Turner Classic Movies' Robert Osborne called her, was Lucille Ball, whose memorable TV career almost certainly was influenced by Arthur.

The Spell of the Woman in the Window

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Richard (Edward G. Robinson): The flesh is still strong, but the spirit grows weaker by the hour. You know, even if the spirit of adventure should rise up before me and beckon, even in the form of that alluring young woman in the window next door, I'm afraid that all I'll do is clutch my coat a little tighter, mutter something idiotic and run like the devil.

Dr. Barkstane (Edmund Breon): Not before you got her number, I hope?

Richard: Probably.

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A lot of movies are labeled film noir, but "The Woman in the Window," which debuted 70 years ago today, is a classic of the genre — purely film noir.

And, when I say it is "purely film noir," I mean that is really all that it is — no distracting subplots.

Fittingly, then, "The Woman in the Window" is credited, at least in part, with the first use of film noir as a description of that particular genre. It is my understanding that film noir was first applied to American movies in 1946 when several of the movies that are now recognized as the early ground–breakers — among them "The Maltese Falcon," "Double Indemnity," "Laura" and "The Woman in the Window" — were first released in France.

In many ways, it reminded me of "Double Indemnity," another film noir that was in the theaters only a couple of months earlier and featured Edward G. Robinson — but in a different kind of role. In "The Woman in the Window," he played the same kind of part Fred MacMurray played in "Double Indemnity." He, too, was involved with a seductress; he, too, killed a man who was connected to the woman.

MacMurray's character killed as part of a plot, though, whereas Robinson's character killed in self–defense. Or did he? Was he an unsuspecting pawn manipulated by the woman in the window?

Robinson's femme fatale was played by Joan Bennett. Before I saw "The Woman in the Window," I knew her only as Elizabeth Taylor's warm–hearted mother in "Father of the Bride." But that was a later phase of her career. It really was like watching a completely different actress in "The Woman in the Window" and "Scarlet Street," both of which were directed by Fritz Lang and starred Bennett, Robinson and Dan Duryea.

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As I say, Robinson's character shared some similarities to the one played by MacMurray in "Double Indemnity," but there were some differences as well. MacMurray was in insurance; Robinson was a psychology professor. Well, I suppose there were some similarities there as well. I mean, an insurance salesman has to comprehend a certain amount about human psychology, right? Actually, I guess that is true of a successful salesman of any kind.

They both tried to dispose of the bodies of their victims, and the women with whom they were involved tried to help. Afterward, they both tried to nonchalantly learn details of investigations into the disappearances of their victims — in "Double Indemnity," MacMurray, as an insurance salesman, tried to learn about the investigation from the claims adjuster, played by Robinson.

In "The Woman in the Window," Robinson tried to find out what the police knew by prying details from the district attorney, played by Raymond Massey. And Robinson took some good–natured teasing from Massey — not unlike the joshing Robinson threw MacMurray's way — about really being guilty of the crime (wink, wink, nudge, nudge) that was much more on the mark than any of the characters knew.

Of course, the audience knew — and, in "The Woman in the Window," Robinson actually managed to make viewers sympathize with him. He was, after all, a lonely professor whose wife and children were on a vacation; it was purely a random thing that he found himself in the wrong place with the wrong person. He and Bennett met when he noticed a painting of her in a display window, and it turned out she was there to observe people's reactions to the painting.

They struck up a friendship and went back to Bennett's home, where her wealthy lover showed up and got into a fight with Robinson. In self–defense, Robinson stabbed him with a pair of scissors.

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The rest of the story was about how Robinson and Bennett (Robinson mostly) disposed of the body and tried to keep from being discovered.

That led to a surprise ending of which the filmmakers were quite proud.

By and large, film noir can be a bit heavy–handed for my taste. For example, the first time we saw Robinson in this movie, he was lecturing his students about the legal degrees of homicide.

"The various legal categories such as first– and second–degree murder, the various degrees of homicide, manslaughter, are civilized recognitions of impulses of various degrees of culpability," Robinson told his students, neatly foreshadowing what was to come. "The man who kills in self–defense, for instance, must not be judged by the same standards applied to the man who kills for gain."

Did I say "foreshadowing?" It wasn't as subtle as that. How about "telegraphing?"

If there was a theme to the story, I suppose it was that conditions often resolve moral dilemmas, one way or the other. That certainly was true of Robinson and Bennett. Everything they did was dictated by things that, for the most part, appeared out of their control.

And if I have a blanket criticism of film noir, it is the general absence of subtlety. Maybe it is because the facts of the case are assumed to be known — or at least strongly suspected — by the audience, whether that much information actually has been communicated to the audience or not.

I'm not saying that was the case with "The Woman in the Window," only that it has been a problem with many of the film noirs I have seen in my life.

"The Woman in the Window" was a pretty good movie. It's a shame that many of the entries in the film noir genre that followed didn't come close to its standards.

A Trail-Blazing Film Noir

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"It was a hot afternoon, and I can still remember the smell of honeysuckle all along that street. How could I have known that murder can sometimes smell like honeysuckle?"

Walter (Fred MacMurray)

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Most people probably associate Billy Wilder with outrageous comedies like "Some Like It Hot," but he worked on some of the great dramas in film history as well — like film noir "Double Indemnity," which premiered on this day in 1944.

Film noir became something of a refuge for movie people who had been pigeonholed. Take Dick Powell, for example, who found a whole new career, thanks to "Murder, My Sweet," which premiered a few months after "Double Indemnity."

Rightly or wrongly, many film historians have said "Double Indemnity" was the first film noir. There were others that were made around the same time but, like "Murder, My Sweet," premiered later. It cannot be said that those films were influenced by "Double Indemnity," only that they came along later — by a few weeks or months.

But because of its chronological prominence, I suppose, "Double Indemnity" is perceived as the first and, therefore, the one that established the rules for film noir. That was true to an extent, I suppose. But film noir has always been reinventing itself, rewriting its rules.

On the surface, "Double Indemnity" was a story of two people who used each other to commit murder and collect the insurance money — all the while insisting they loved each other. But they didn't act the way I would expect two people in love to behave. They didn't have to be bumping into the furniture, but they could have been more convincing.

I thought I knew what motivated Barbara Stanwyck's character, Phyllis. The victim was her husband. Through Walter (MacMurray), she got a life insurance policy with a double indemnity clause if her husband died accidentally. The $50,000 payoff seems like chump change in the 21st century, but it was a small fortune in the '40s. Phyllis was clearly a phony, with her obvious wig, and she oozed sleaziness with that anklet she wore. Shouldn't an insurance salesman like Walter Neff, who dealt with all kinds of people every day, be able to see through her?

What was it that motivated Walter? Did he lust for Phyllis the way he said he did? Or did he want his share of the money? Or both? Maybe even he didn't know.

I guess most critics interpret Walter as being overcome with lust and greed. Walter was a weak man, and he was easily manipulated by Phyllis, who was much stronger psychologically. Perhaps Phyllis was driven entirely by profit — the audience knew her husband had been losing money so it was easy to accept that as both her motivation and the source of her sense of urgency — and she used Walter to accomplish her goal.

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The first time I saw "Double Indemnity," I had no problem believing that Walter and Phyllis worked together to kill Phyllis' husband for the insurance money. I just never really felt they were as into each other as they claimed to be.

And the more I thought about it, the more I doubted that either one was in it for lust or greed. Money was the surface motivation; I think it was more primal than that. They were in it for the thrill of the kill — one of those cases you hear about from time to time, like the killers of that family in Kansas that Truman Capote immortalized in "In Cold Blood." Alone, they were capable of primarily petty crimes, might even hurt someone now and then but could never kill anyone. Paired with a complementary personality, they could.

They became like one.

If you watch the movie, pay particularly close attention to how Phyllis reacts to Walter's first visit to her home. It is as if a light bulb suddenly has come on in her head and a plan to kill her husband begins to take shape. Was Walter its inspiration? Did Phyllis really love him, or was he merely a convenient element of the plan?

By the time the movie was over, I just didn't think they were behaving like two people helplessly in love. I guess that goes without saying, though; I mean, they did shoot each other in the end.

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I really liked Edward G. Robinson's character, the veteran claims adjuster. Even after repeated viewings, though, I still can't figure him out. Not entirely.

Was he wise to Walter all along? Or did he only learn the truth when he overheard Walter recording his confession?

The thing I can figure out is that his character was good at his work.

"This Dietrichson business," he said. "It's murder, and murders don't come any neater. As fancy a piece of homicide as anybody ever ran into. Smart, tricky, almost perfect — but I think Papa has it all figured out. It's beginning to come apart at the seams already. Murder is never perfect. It always comes apart sooner or later. When two people are involved, it's usually sooner."

I guess the folks who vote on the Oscars didn't really know what to make of "Double Indemnity," either. It got seven Oscar nominations — including Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actress and Best Writing — but didn't win any.

Bogie and Bacall's Last Flick

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Frank McCloud (Humphrey Bogart): When your head says one thing and your whole life says another, your head always loses.

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Some 30 years ago, Bertie Higgins had his only hit song — well, it was a semi–hit — "Key Largo."

It was inspired (supposedly) by the movie of the same name that made its theatrical debut 65 years ago today. I liked the movie, but I never liked the song.

I guess I was too much of a movie purist at that time, in spite of my tender years. But I was a Humphrey Bogart fan, still am, for that matter, and I didn't like to see his work trivialized.

I had seen most of his movies (I've probably seen them all by now), and I knew the song wasn't entirely accurate — nor was it entirely about "Key Largo," the John Huston–directed film noir set in Florida in the years after World War II.

A recurring line gave it away — "We had it all / Just like Bogie and Bacall / Starring in our own late late show / Sailin' away to Key Largo."

Bogart and Lauren Bacall did co–star in "Key Largo," but neither of their characters sailed there. Bogart arrived by bus in the earliest scene of the movie, and Bacall's character was already there, the daughter–in–law of the proprietor of a Key Largo hotel.

I guess Bacall could have sailed there when she first arrived — unless she was born and raised in Key Largo. It was never mentioned in the movie.

(The proprietor was Lionel Barrymore, who was only a couple of years removed from his infamous turn as Mr. Potter in "It's a Wonderful Life," the sixth–most villainous character in movie history, according to the American Film Institute. With Barrymore confined to a wheelchair in this one, a new generation of viewers who know him only as Mr. Potter may find it astonishing that such a reprehensible individual in one movie could arouse such feelings of empathy from the audience in another.)

That song also made use of lines that were familiar from "Casablanca," which was a Bogart movie as well — but his co–star was Ingrid Bergman, not Bacall.

Oh, well.

I didn't care for the song, but I did like the movie.

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It was the last one that Bogart and Bacall made together, and it was the most chaste of the four, by far.

Movie viewers who went to see it at the theaters in 1948 expecting to see another "To Have and Have Not," in which the Bogart–Bacall on–screen relationship sizzled, undoubtedly were disappointed. Bacall's character was the widow of one of Bogart's Army buddies, a woman who had just about given up on everything but there was still a smoldering sensuality to her.

Beyond a rather liberal interpretation of glances between the two, though, there was no overt indication of an attraction between Bogart and Bacall, with the possible exception of the final scene (and their only interaction in that scene was via ship–to–shore communication technology).

In what was perhaps an odd response, I was reminded of another Bogart movie — "The Petrified Forest" — when I first saw "Key Largo." In both movies, a group of people were being held hostage by a gangster (played in "Key Largo" by Edward G. Robinson).

But there were differences between the movies that, I suppose, reflected changes in America and the world from the depths of the Depression, when Bogie made "The Petrified Forest," to the postwar environment, in which "Key Largo" was made.

In "The Petrified Forest," there were noble perceptions of self–sacrifice, and ample justification was given for the casualties of World War I. It had been, after all, "the war to end all wars."

In "Key Largo," the emphasis was on one's moral obligation to oppose evil and the value of individual lives. (I always thought Claire Trevor, who won the Best Supporting Actress Oscar, was a good example of the latter. She played Robinson's alcoholic and frequently abused girlfriend who showed plenty of dignity in spite of Robinson's demeaning treatment of her.)

In between the two movies, of course, was World War II, probably the greatest and costliest clash (in terms of both lives and treasure) between good and evil in world history. It changed how many people perceived things. Given the fact that "Key Largo" was made against the emerging backdrop of the Cold War, it is hardly surprising that there was a strong we're–all–in–this–together feeling to it.

Bogart himself was the ideal example of this. His character in "Key Largo" began the movie with no confidence in himself and ended it recognizing that it was necessary to remain, as Donne put it, "involved in mankind."

A nice reminder — then and now — that there are still battles worth fighting and winning and even causes worth dying for.

Peering into the (Now) Not-So-Distant Future?

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"It's the year 2022 ... People are still the same. They'll do anything to get what they need. And they need SOYLENT GREEN."

Theatrical tagline

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Five years ago, after Charlton Heston died, I remember hearing radio accounts when I was driving to work.

Those reports focused mainly on the high points of his acting career, as such reports tend to do when a prominent actor or actress dies — "Ben–Hur," "The Ten Commandments," "Planet of the Apes" and "Soylent Green."

It was the last two that contributed the most recognizable sound clips, and I heard them over and over. Especially from "Soylent Green."

In case you never saw the movie, let me try to briefly summarize it for you.

Set in an overpopulated future in which many, if not most, natural resources have been depleted, the key to survival is consumption of processed food, notably a product called Soylent Green.

The movie was set at a time that was roughly 50 years in the future. Since today is the 40th anniversary of the movie's release, it is safe to say that it was describing a future that is now less than a decade away.

Clearly, it may not be true. But we are closer to finding out. Much closer.

If it is true, population growth in the coming decade will be astonishing. In the movie, set in the year 2022, New York City is about five times larger than it is today. If that math holds up across the board, the U.S. population will be well over 1 billion people in nine years.

No wonder the earth's resources were mostly depleted.

The story began as a police investigation into a murder, but it rapidly morphed into a science fiction tale.

The murder victim was the director of Soylent Corporation, the maker of Soylent Green and its predecessors, and Heston played the investigator in the case. Among the first people he interviewed were the victim's kept woman, played by Leigh Taylor–Young, and his bodyguard, played by Chuck Connors.

Heston suspected the murder had been planned, that it was not a burglary that went horribly awry. There was no indication that anything was missing. The security cameras and the alarm system had not been triggered as they would have been if there had been an intruder.

And the bodyguard was away at the time, escorting the kept woman to a place that sold meat under the counter.

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In the course of his investigation, Heston discovered that Soylent Green, which was supposed to be made from plankton from the sea, was, in fact, produced with human remains. His elderly roommate (Edward G. Robinson in his final movie role) couldn't live with that knowledge and his memories of what life had been like. So he chose assisted suicide.

It was a fascinating world that was depicted in "Soylent Green" — fascinating as much, I suppose, for what it did not say as for what it did.

Made at a time that was arguably at or very near the dawn of the modern feminist movement, it did not paint a very rosy picture for the future of feminism. The dead man's mistress was called "furniture."

That was the slang term for a concubine in the 21st century — according to this particular account.

And it says so much about how society viewed women in this vision of the future.

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Granted, Taylor–Young was quite beautiful — and, in 1973, she was hardly a household name although she had been in more than half a dozen movies since bursting onto the scene five years earlier with an endearingly quirky performance in "I Love You, Alice B. Toklas" — but being known as "furniture" really doesn't leave much room for personal growth, does it?

I guess feminism went out the window along with the food supply in the fictional 21st century. If "Soylent Green" is going to prove to be prophetic, though, feminism is going to have to decline considerably in the next decade.

Robinson gave a touching performance, and that, I thought, added a much–needed emotional understatement, especially standing, as it did, in stark contrast with Heston's rather hammy overacting — on display in his delivery of the line everyone remembers from this movie ...

"Soylent Green is people!"

Need a Tax Day Diversion?

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Tomorrow is April 15, Tax Day, and, whether you've already filed your taxes or you've been putting it off, you can probably use a diversion.

And Turner Classic Movies has a good one planned — "Double Indemnity," a 1944 film noir directed by the legendary Billy Wilder and starring Fred MacMurray, Barbara Stanwyck and Edward G. Robinson.

Many folks may remember MacMurray and Stanwyck for their TV roles — MacMurray as the patriarch in the TV series "My Three Sons" and Stanwyck on "The Colbys" — but their performances in "Double Indemnity" were truly electric.

So was Robinson's. His career didn't include any TV roles that I know of, but "Double Indemnity" was, in many ways, a departure for him. Robinson is mostly remembered for his work in gangster movies, but his role in "Double Indemnity" had few things in common with his previous work.

As for Wilder, what can one say? He directed many classic films, and "Double Indemnity" was one of them. People may remember Wilder's comedies, like "Some Like It Hot," but he could clearly direct a drama with the best of them.

And this one will keep you on the edge of your seat.

TCM will be showing it at 7 p.m. (Central) on Wednesday.