Hello? The lawyer for a Rockefeller Center sculptor’s on the line, and he wants to talk about your logo:
Nighttime! One of the worst times for cold, flu, and fear.
Recognize the star? NO GOOGLING or imdbing, now.
He’s in trouble - and it’s spelled n - o - i - r! Yes, he’s a man who’s fallen into a web of deceit and mystery. Or, he’s crazy. He wakes up one morning after dreaming he killed a guy, and there are marks on his neck. It seems so real he calls in sick to work. At the bank, which should be his first warning; guys who don’t work around money or hot dames don’t wake up with nightmares that not only seem very real, but leave throat-marks and a mysterious key in your pocket.
I love that shot – it would make a fine desktop picture if it didn’t come from a public domain movie that had spent the last 30 years at the bottom of an outhouse pit frequented by hillbillies whose main dietary ingredient consisted of grit and lye. And the soundtrack’s worse, too.
Well, he’s looking for the house in his dreams. A house with an octagonal mirrored room. His brother-in-law tells him he’s nuts, and he should forget it. His brother-in-law suggests a drive in the country with his girlfriend - she works at the bank, too, and handles the pineapple accounts:
The outing goes sour when it rains, and as the brother-in-law drives them home, they just happen to come across a house that looks like the one in his dreams, is abandoned, and:
So, recognize him?
Yes, it’s him. Not the greatest movie; not a career-defining performance. But it’s good to know that Bones had noir cred.
More than most men will ever have.