THE latest in the weekly succession of Hollywood bullet orgies is Mark Hellinger’s production, “The Killers,” a powerful movie without a relaxing moment. It is concerned with Pittsburgh gunmen and is predominantly a matter of shocking events in great number—avarice, homicide, gunmen being searched for rods, killers being stalked by detectives and rival crooks—with a minimum of concern for personalities. More than other recent blood-bath films, this one pounds home how tenaciously and relentlessly crooks and the people associated with them—insurance investigators, cops, sweethearts—pursue their jobs. Besides its brutality, it has the noise, the jagged, tormenting movement of keyed-up, tough, flashy humanity that you get from a walk through Times Square.
The story, using flashbacks with the abandon and effectiveness that its gunmen use bullets, shows the tortuous route of an insurance sleuth (played in a stiff, breathless way by Edmond O’Brien) investigating the killing of an ex-pug called Swede (Burt Lancaster). Starting with his provoking murder (he is so hopeless about escaping that he waits in his room for the gunmen to get him) by a pair of professional killers who wear heavy overcoats and act as if they had been fed rivets for baby food, flashbacks then show Swede to have lived an exciting life, but one of practically continuous misfortune. In his last prize fight he catches punches that seem like mule kicks, and smashes his hand beyond repair. After that he falls for an icy gun-moll (Ava Gardner), takes a three-year rap to cover up her robbery of an ugly costume jewel, joins a gang that is planning a hat-factory holdup to be near his sweetheart, is double-crossed out of his share of the loot and then murdered.
While there are more tinny notes in this Universal production than in theatre swing bands, Swede is a fascinating, unstereotyped movie tough. He has a dreamy, peaceful, introspective air that dissociates him from everything earthly. This detachment, which gives one the feeling that he’s as little concerned with the morals of people as he is with the people themselves, makes him seem capable of any brutality. Lancaster, a hefty actor from the Broadway stage, does an excellent, quiet job that turns Swede into a singularly provocative character. With an almost too polished skill and without losing the basic detachment of the part, he changes Swede’s manner to blend with every change of occupation. As a pug he is slow-minded; as an affluent numbers racketeer he is hale, hearty and Broadwayish; as a grease monkey he is something else again.
The underworld people in “The Killers” seem to have been riding subways, scheming, going to prize fights from infancy. The most powerful gangster is “Dum-Dum” (Jack Lambert), who reminds you of Dick Tracy characters (he is four stories high and all muscle, dog-faced, uses a long cigarette holder, and it appears inconceivable that the investigator could hold him off with a small revolver, as he does in one scene). This is a surprising film for perfectly cast Scandinavian types. Besides “Dum-Dum,” there are a very foreign maid (Queenie Smith) in an Atlantic City rooming house, Swede’s first sweetheart (Gabrielle Windsor) and Swede himself.
Though there is a cheapness about “The Killers” that reminds you of five-and-ten jewelry, its scenes of sadism and menacing action have been formed and filled with a vitality all too rare in current movies. It is a production that is suspense-ridden and exciting down to tiny details in the background. The stolid documentary style; the gaudy melodramatic flavor; the artiness (most noticeable in the way scenes are sculpted in dark and light) are largely due to Director Robert Siodmak, who has made German movies as well as Universal thrillers.
September 30, 1946