The Hollywood B picture puppy mill was its own industry by the 1950's, churning out generic shlock on a weekly basis while Powerhouse blasted incessantly through employees' Orwellian inner ear implants. Samuel Fuller, Robert Siodmak, and their ilk managed to rise above the dross like a sterling T-800, most other journeyman directors melted together into indistinguishable husks like an abused T-1000. It took immense skill and balls like grapefruits (and I include Ida Lupino in this) to cobble together a satisfactory product in 5-10 days with lesser thespians and even lesser budgets. It was akin to assembling dolls while being given only two limbs and still having to make the buyer want your plastic monstrosity. Alas, mediocrity reigned supreme and audiences were often provided with basic competence and nothing more. Is there a worse selling point than "well, it was a competent film"? I'd much rather wallow in an outright failure. Which brings us to...
A film noir only in that chiaroscuro lighting was presumably necessitated by lack of luminescent equipment rather than dictated by style, Girl on the Run isn't even about a girl on the run in this 65 minute assembly line throwaway. Missing the point of the "wrong man" film entirely, we meet reporter Bill Martin having already been framed for the murder of his boss. No time is afforded to acquainting us with our burly protagonist pre-accusation therefore giving no reason for sympathy, a must in these scenarios. Bill, our man on the run, hides out at a local carnival with his precious dame Janet who is not quite on the run but could conceivably be the girl on the run if the film were in any way about her. In fact it's barely about anything. The plot just "happens", insofar as events must transpire for a movie to take place (though tell that to the nudie-cuties of the era). Our protagonists experience multiple forays into the carny nether-realm, such as boxing in fixed fights and barely-burlesque dancing, for the sole purpose of extending the runtime. The story as told could be resolved in twenty excruciating minutes.
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| Lover's exposition |
The carnival setting is fabulously cheap even featuring "exteriors" so cramped they seem erected in Edison's Black Maria. Often ladders and other debris lay astray throughout the frame, very possibly being actual tools of the cheapie studio this afterthought was shot in. Build a flimsy trailer over the garbage, one with a wall that teeters separately from the other three when a door is slammed, and a carnival set is born. If this is the truth (and only the truth is spoken on this blog) then at least this budget-less pariah made the best of its frugal conception.
An odd moment of nigh-magic occurs during the opening scene featuring Bill's monotone explanation of his plight to Janet. This mess of shameful exposition is regurgitated through a bravura long take that dolly-glides along with rigid unnatural blocking. Both actors stumble and stammer briefly but they are trying their damnedest to just get the words out, painfully and obviously praying that this struggle results, somehow, in acting. It does not, but it's clear this take was simply "good enough." It's as if we are viewing the production itself shrug as the scene ends, muttering "whatever" and heading to the craft table to nibble a stale croissant.
We are left with nonsense from then on. Something about a police lieutenant framing Bill for some reason, eventually shooting his wife who runs the showgirl act in the chest, requiring the application of a small bandage. Once his ruse is inevitably exposed by the need to end the film, the lieutenant tries to shoot his wife again but aimed down by 45º and kills the Dwarf because oh god who cares. No punches ever land in fight scenes and Steve McQueen is an extra. There. Done. Are you happy?
Bookending the film is an animatronic clown cackling maniacally, cruel visual criticism of humanity's existential quest for happiness. It acts as our Charon, for aren't we all simply drifting perpetually down the river of folly into the endless void of spiritual imprisonment on this island Earth? A satyricon for the ages, co-directors Arthur J. Beckhard and Joseph Lee accomplished their goals with such staggering effectiveness and biting precision that they never saw the need to direct again.
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| Carnivále? |
An odd moment of nigh-magic occurs during the opening scene featuring Bill's monotone explanation of his plight to Janet. This mess of shameful exposition is regurgitated through a bravura long take that dolly-glides along with rigid unnatural blocking. Both actors stumble and stammer briefly but they are trying their damnedest to just get the words out, painfully and obviously praying that this struggle results, somehow, in acting. It does not, but it's clear this take was simply "good enough." It's as if we are viewing the production itself shrug as the scene ends, muttering "whatever" and heading to the craft table to nibble a stale croissant.
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| I don't know if this newcomer Steve McQueen (pictured w/ hammer) has what it takes. |
We are left with nonsense from then on. Something about a police lieutenant framing Bill for some reason, eventually shooting his wife who runs the showgirl act in the chest, requiring the application of a small bandage. Once his ruse is inevitably exposed by the need to end the film, the lieutenant tries to shoot his wife again but aimed down by 45º and kills the Dwarf because oh god who cares. No punches ever land in fight scenes and Steve McQueen is an extra. There. Done. Are you happy?
Bookending the film is an animatronic clown cackling maniacally, cruel visual criticism of humanity's existential quest for happiness. It acts as our Charon, for aren't we all simply drifting perpetually down the river of folly into the endless void of spiritual imprisonment on this island Earth? A satyricon for the ages, co-directors Arthur J. Beckhard and Joseph Lee accomplished their goals with such staggering effectiveness and biting precision that they never saw the need to direct again.
