From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- Out In Be-Bop 1950s Crime Noir Night- “Heat Wave”

Click on the headline to link to a Noir of the Week blog entry for the 1954 British film Heat Wave.

DVD Review

Heat Wave, starring Alex Nichols, directed by Ken Hughes, Hammer Studios, 1954

Sure, I like my femme fatales as bad as possible, wicked even (cinematically that is, since I don’t always want to in real life be constantly looking over my shoulder to see if some off-hand brunette is waiting to put a slug, or six, in me for some supposed transgression, or just because). And, again theoretically, I suppose I am as likely, maybe more likely, than any other guy to be “swayed’ by some perfumed request of said femme fatales to do a little off-hand heavy lifting in the way of freeing them of some burden. But, damn, I would, and I will, swear on a stack of seven bibles or whatever holy book you want, draw the line at murder. No way, no way at all.

Well, no way except that just maybe I would consider that line of work if white shorts, white blouse, white bandana Lana Turner in The Postman Always Rings Twice gave me that second look that she gave John Garfield. And it is not beyond the realm of possibility that I would be tempted to tumble to some scheme Barbara Stanwyck had worked up in Double Indemnity after seeing that ankle bracelet come down those stairs. But really I am not build for that heavy lifting, and remember my drawn in the sand line against murder policy. So there is no way, no way in hell, I would fall under the spell of Carol (Hillary Brooke) in the film under review, Heat Wave (aka The House Across The Lake).

See, I don’t mind a blonde or two for company, although I prefer brunettes, but I am always a little wary when they, those blondes, have that look, that you are going to tumble for me but as part of the package I have job for you look. And that job always, always involves some in the way a hubby to be cleared out of the way before she (and I, of course) can be really happy. Like I said I draw the line. I draw the line doubly because in this case this blonde is no big-hearted blonde out of a Dorothy Parker Big Blonde short story but an ice queen, a serious ice queen. Of course our skirt-addled, high-end bourbon -addled, perfume whiff- addled protagonist here, Mark (Alex Nicols), is smitten right off by this butterfly swirl. Worst as the story develops he actually likes the husband (likes him well enough to drink that high-end bourbon when offered).

Of course the story line here in this very B film, very B British noir, very B noir 1950s Hammer production, is as old as Adam and Eve. Maybe older. One young gold-digging wife with no moral compass (and frankly no apparent charms) is tired of older hubby, Beverly, and wants something done about it. And quick. Now today, here in America at least, thank goodness, she could juts file for divorce, make a hefty sum, and go on about her business with the next six guys who come along. That, needless to say, would make for a very short noir, and moreover not satisfy dear Carol’s lust for depravity. Enter patsy, yes, patsy, Mark who while allegedly out in the England country-side taking in the airs in order to write the great English (or American) novel seems to have nothing better to do that drink proffered high-end bourbon and fall under the spell of our damsel in distress.

As with all these, as someone put it, divorce-noir style films the evil deed, the murder, is done (and done with some bravado by Carol) but as with all amateurs and non-professional career criminals this job gets so botched up and the suspects and motives are so apparent that the police can just sit around and wait for the guilty to step to the crime, and the rope. Our boy Mark was clearly not build for this heavy lifting and falls to his part in it after a few more bourbons (assumed to be high-end still although who was paying seems to be have been left up in the air.) Lesson: guys, when some perfumed country estate damsel with ice in her veins gives you that come hither look, check the wedding finger, and get the hell out of there fast. Except if she is a foxy little brunette then maybe you can stop long enough to listen to her story. Enough said.