This doesn't pretend to be a documentary-style drama of Murder, Incorporated, the 1930s organization that accepted murder contracts, although the Introduction tells us, "ThIs Story is True. The People are Real." A good guess is that Peter Falk's character, Abe Reles, was a real historical figure, along with some ancillary characters, but I don't believe Mai Britt's character, as the innocent schlub Stewart Whitman's wife, had its genesis in anything but the writers imagination. She embodies the anima of the film, the tender-hearted part designed to appeal to the women in the audience, while the men are wringing their hands in anticipation of the next homicide. And the truth is, if you have to have a female victim in the movie, Mai Britt will do as well as anybody else. She may not be much of an actress but her beauty is practically extraterrestrial. Each of her wildly slanted blue eyes seems to look in a direction of its own choosing, like a chameleon's. She's stunning.
So is Peter Falk, but in an entirely different way. He may be wearing a fedora and a suit and tie, or even evening dress, but he still looks as seedy as Lieutenant Columbo. There the resemblance ends. He's a cold-blooded merciless killer (he uses an ice pick) and he's first-rate at scanning other people for their emotions. If, for instance, a gangland lawyer like Vincent Gardenia rescues him from the cops (Simon Oakland) with a writ of habeas corpus and then, when Falk tries to shake his hand, remarks, "I wouldn't be caught dead with you," Falk knows right off the bat that Gardenia doesn't like him. But Falk is not only perceptive, he's sensitive. He's HURT when someone insults him. The problem is that he's the kind of guy who's chagrin can express itself in only one way -- violence. It's a nasty trait, and this is probably Falk's best dramatic role, not that there were that many of them.
Stewart Whitman, alas, is stuck with the part of the innocent guy who agrees to do a few small favors for Falk in order to work off the money he's borrowed, but then discovers he's been swept up in some nefarious doings. You know, along the lines of Marlon Brando's Terry Malloy in "On The Waterfront." "Geeze, Charlie, I thought you was just gonna LEAN on him a little." This true story of real people turns Abe Reles into a sadistic rapist as well as a hit man, so the ending isn't inappropriate. Any sorrow one might feel at Abe Reles' passing, a spectacular exit through the window and off this mortal coil, is limited to the realization that now he won't be able to testify against Albert Anastasia and the rest of the Goombas he works for. The police are supposed to be the good guys here, but I don't know. Of the three priceless witnesses they're holding under close protection, two manage to get murdered.
It can't have cost much to make this picture. There's little attempt to evoke the neighborhoods of Brooklyn in the 1930s. The hair styles are entirely modern, as if the producers didn't really care whether the audience noticed or not. Even the sets are spare and functional. When Falk shows off a palatial apartment to Mai Britt, it's risible because it resembles a set left over from a high school play about rich people.
Falk is entertaining, though, and Mai Britt is Venusian, and simmering in the background is something about Murder, Inc.
That's about it. The movie is strictly routine.
So is Peter Falk, but in an entirely different way. He may be wearing a fedora and a suit and tie, or even evening dress, but he still looks as seedy as Lieutenant Columbo. There the resemblance ends. He's a cold-blooded merciless killer (he uses an ice pick) and he's first-rate at scanning other people for their emotions. If, for instance, a gangland lawyer like Vincent Gardenia rescues him from the cops (Simon Oakland) with a writ of habeas corpus and then, when Falk tries to shake his hand, remarks, "I wouldn't be caught dead with you," Falk knows right off the bat that Gardenia doesn't like him. But Falk is not only perceptive, he's sensitive. He's HURT when someone insults him. The problem is that he's the kind of guy who's chagrin can express itself in only one way -- violence. It's a nasty trait, and this is probably Falk's best dramatic role, not that there were that many of them.
Stewart Whitman, alas, is stuck with the part of the innocent guy who agrees to do a few small favors for Falk in order to work off the money he's borrowed, but then discovers he's been swept up in some nefarious doings. You know, along the lines of Marlon Brando's Terry Malloy in "On The Waterfront." "Geeze, Charlie, I thought you was just gonna LEAN on him a little." This true story of real people turns Abe Reles into a sadistic rapist as well as a hit man, so the ending isn't inappropriate. Any sorrow one might feel at Abe Reles' passing, a spectacular exit through the window and off this mortal coil, is limited to the realization that now he won't be able to testify against Albert Anastasia and the rest of the Goombas he works for. The police are supposed to be the good guys here, but I don't know. Of the three priceless witnesses they're holding under close protection, two manage to get murdered.
It can't have cost much to make this picture. There's little attempt to evoke the neighborhoods of Brooklyn in the 1930s. The hair styles are entirely modern, as if the producers didn't really care whether the audience noticed or not. Even the sets are spare and functional. When Falk shows off a palatial apartment to Mai Britt, it's risible because it resembles a set left over from a high school play about rich people.
Falk is entertaining, though, and Mai Britt is Venusian, and simmering in the background is something about Murder, Inc.
That's about it. The movie is strictly routine.