Kiss of Death (1947)

You know what I do to squealers? I let 'em have it in the belly, so they can roll around for a long time thinkin' it over. -- Richard Widmark, as Tommy Udo in Kiss of Death.

Over the weekend I watched Henry Hathaway’s Kiss of Death, commonly known among film fans as “the one where Richard Widmark pushes the old lady down the stairs.”

It’s about a down-on-his-luck ex-con (Victor Mature) who can’t support his family, turns to robbery, and gets quickly caught and convicted. After refusing to squeal to the prosecutor (Brian Donleavy) about his accomplices, Mature is sent up the river. While in prison, he meets Tommy Udo (Widmark), a sadistic sharpie who breaks into a broad ecstatic grin whenever he talks about subjects dear to his heart, like torture and murder. When Mature learns that his own wife has committed suicide and his daughters are in an orphanage, he rats out his fellows, ultimately putting him in a showdown with Widmark.

It’s a terrifically paced and structured movie. I liked the fact that, although the story frequently involved courts, there were no courtroom scenes; as if Hathaway and writers Ben Hecht, Charles Lederer and Eleazar Lipsky wanted to keep the story squarely on the streets and in the cells. Mature is perfectly cast, and Widmark is immortal – in fact his work here seems to have served as a template both for Frank Gorshin’s Riddler character on “Batman” and Joe Pesci’s character (also named Tommy) in GoodFellas.

Like a lot of gangster films of the time, it’s overtly theatrical and overtly moral, that old balancing act of trying to please the Hays office and trying give the audience something worth looking at. Also, I hated Mature’s little girls, who are as gratingly sweet as 1940’s Hollywood kids get. But it’s a little like reading a 19th Century novel; look past the period conventions and you have a terrific film noir that still packs a pretty good punch.

A few days ago, I got into this terrific chatroom argument over what defines film noir. My opponent was this imperious purist who used to teach film and really knew her stuff, eventhough I disagreed with her heartily on everything she said. What set us apart was White Heat. She didn't think it was really a noir, and I told her she didn't really know what the hell she was talking about, and the cyberfists flew after that. I forget her reasons; something very stiff, academic, and rule-oriented about mankind trapped in society. Some people define these things like the Catholic Church defines sainthood.

This little scuffle sent me straight to the library, where I checked out a pile of books about film noir that I will almost certainly never read, although I thumbed though enough of them to know that most of the world thinks the Cagney classic is a noir, and that there’s debate as to whether noir is an actual genre (like the Western) or a mood.

Whatever you call it, it’s a supercharged crime film.