Hot Summer Nights

We're trying to catch as many of the Guild Cinema's 10 classic noir films in its 10-day annual July fest as we can:

NORA PRENTISS (1947) (B) - Ann Sheridan smolders in this slow-building potboiler about a married doctor who falls for a love-sick lounge singer. Kent Smith is fairly wooden throughout as the model family man who walks away from his punctual, dignified existence and gets swept up in a quaint affair.

Journeyman director Vincent Sherman (who ended his career in television overseeing episodes of "Baretta" and "Trapper John, M.D.") takes his time setting the table here, giving us a good glimpse of Dr. Talbot's homelife and letting a friendly, innocent relationship with Nora gradually morph into a full-blown affair. (They meet when she has a street accident outside his office and he brings her up to treat a bruise on her (gasp!) upper leg. This film shows "Mad Men" what's what when the doctor not only lights her cigarette while she's still on the examining table but also fixes her a stiff drink to calm her nerves.) At 111 minutes, this clocks in long for the genre, but the groundwork done in the first reel pays off with a key turn halfway through that propels the story into deep noir territory.

Sheridan sparkles throughout. Nora has nuance to her. She's not a cliched femme fatale; nor is she a standard loose woman ruing another busted romance. (Although you do wonder what she sees in the buttoned-up doc.) Nora comes alive in her interactions with lounge owner Phil Dinardo (a subtle Robert Alda). Both San Francisco and New York get equal billing in authentic street scenes.

The climax is dark and depressing, unrelenting in its punishment of those who sinned. (First, of course, we have to trot out the corny plot twist of the man who's face gets burned beyond recognition and the big reveal of removing the bandages.) In the end, this is a satisfying classic. 

STRANGER ON THE THIRD FLOOR (1940) (D+) - Beyond cartoonish, this one doesn't even amount to mindless campy retro fun in this early example of the genre.

A newspaper reporter (remember those?) is the star witness in the trial of a vagabond caught at the scene of the murder of the owner of a New York diner. The evidence is circumstantial, but the poor clod is convicted. Soon the reporter himself finds himself at the murder scene of a neighbor.

In a nod to the simplicity of the times, the reporter notes to police that both dead men had their throats cut in the same way -- why, it must be the same killer! Could that killer be the creepy homeless guy -- sorry, "bum" -- (over)played by, zoiks, Peter Lorre?

There is no intrigue. The writing is atrocious. You can figure everything out in the first five minutes. The actors (led by the vanilla pairing of the forgettable John McGuire and Margaret Tallichet) are mediocre. For much of the movie McGuire gives us hilarious narration of his character's thoughts, including such pointless observations as "I couldn't hear a thing" while standing outside an apartment door -- no kidding, we can't hear anything either.

The shadows and light are far too exaggerated, as if this were a failed prototype for real noir movies to come. There's nothing interesting to see here, and it feels long even at a paltry 65 minutes.