• This Gun for Hire, 1/3/23 (Tues)

Frank Tuttle’s 1942 film is supposedly a pioneering noir classic, but it has aged badly in its stale dialogue, stereotypical characterizations, and limp acting. A killer named Raven is hired to retrieve some valuable information for a client but is double-crossed when the money received from the client turns out to be marked bills that have been reported as stolen. He then becomes both hunter and hunted as he seeks revenge on the client while being sought by the police. Meanwhile, Veronica Lake, a singer/magician, has been hired by the client to work in his nightclub, which he apparently runs on top of his day job. She is subsequently approached by the government to spy on the client, who as it turns out works for a major chemical maker that is suspected of turning over secrets to the Japanese (it was a wartime film). When she gets on the train in SFO to go to work at the LA club, who should sit next to her but the killer? Also on the train, as it happens, is the client. The killer manages to escape while effectively taking Lake hostage, but gradually her feelings about him change. And did I mention that her boyfriend, Crane, is the cop looking for the killer (i.e., Crane is hunting Raven – wonder what’s up with the bird talk)? In any event, many twists and turns later, the complicated plot comes together, and justice reigns.

The film has a killer opening, so to speak, as the hired assassin wakes up in a half-lit room, coolly prepares his papers and gun, impassively slaps the cleaning lady across the face when she innocently wanders in – and, before leaving, stops to tenderly pet a stray cat who he has let in through the window and given milk. I was having déjà vu when I realized the uncanny resemblance to Alan Delon many years later in Le Samouraï, which had a similar intro involving a tight-mouthed killer, a gun, a cat and snappy clothes. It was a great set-up, followed by an encounter with a little girl (a potential witness) on the stairs when, after a moment of tension, he simply hands her the ball she dropped. In the next scene, the killer gets the papers he needs and murders the man anyway, plus a woman who happens to be there, all with the least dialogue possible. If the rest of the movie and characters had been at this level, it would have been an entirely different experience. Unfortunately the clichés come fast and furious, like the thunder and lightning that appear on cue when the killer is bearing in on his prey. It’s as if the director didn’t trust his material (based on a Graham Greene novel and relocated from England to California).

It helped enormously that Raven was being played by Alan Ladd in his first major screen role, billed last (“Introducing Alan Ladd”) but clearly intended as the star alongside Lake and indisputably the film’s greatest asset. His no-nonsense portrayal of the killer elevates every scene he’s in and triumphs even over the dodgier moments, like the nonsense about his abuse at the hands of an aunt. He was obviously the inspiration for Melville and Delon in the far superior Le Samouraï, as noted, and for that alone we can be thankful.

Conversely, Lake seems to be going through the motions here as a woman who is unwittingly caught up in events, a contrast with the femme fatale roles in which she excels. Her nightclub scenes are embarrassingly flat, and her energy elsewhere seems low. Robert Preston, the other over-the-title star playing her policeman boyfriend, is practically invisible. The only other memorable performance was that of Laird Cregar, who does a nice turn as the effete client/chemical company executive whose nerves are constantly on edge as he tries to keep clear of the killer.