aka Face the Music

• Directed by Terence Fisher
• Written by Ernest Bornemann, based on his novel Face the Music
• Starring
  • Alex Nicol
  • Eleanor Summerfield
  • John Salew
  • Paul Carpenter
  • Geoffrey Keen
• Produced by Michael Carreras

What this movie really has going for it, above whatever production values are common to the Robert Lippert-Hammer Films crime drama co-productions of the 1950s, is snazzy music. The protagonist is a superstar trumpeter and most of the supporting characters are connected with the music biz, so understandably the story is leavened with musical numbers which showcase some terrific vocals and instrumental work. Not that the lip-syncing (and whatever the parallel term is for faked trumpet work – brass-syncing?) is always spot-on, but if the plot occasionally gets annoying, you can just shut your eyes and wait for the next musical number.

James Bradley, the galoot who can toot!

Alex Nicol, an actor who’s resume includes both The Screaming Skull (1958) and A*P*E (1976), plays James “Brad” Bradley, American heartthrob trumpet player just beginning the British (naturally) leg of his tour. Having had no sleep since he left America three days ago, he opts out of the high-class party whipped up by his manager Max (John Salew) and takes a cab to his hotel after the show. On the way, he hears a jazzy blues singer through the open window the cab, stops his ride, and enters a closed basement club where a jazz ensemble is practicing, headlined by Maxine Halbard (Ann Hanslip). He even pulls out his horn and improvises some solos along with her rendition of “Got You On My Mind.” Afterward, they go back to her place for some dinner and flirtation. (Ah, the Golden Age: when a woman’s first priority was showing a potential suitor that she could cook.) Things don’t move much further than that; there are definite sparks between them, but Maxine’s got a Canadian boyfriend–an excuse which probably didn’t sound as lame fifty years ago–so Brad leaves with a promise of dinner out tomorrow night.

“Sorry I have to go, but I think your wallpaper is picking a fight with my jacket.”

Unfortunately, he leaves his trumpet behind, which is why the police interrupt his sleep the next morning to tell him that Maxine has been shot dead. Brad is, as we would say these days, a “person of interest,” though not necessarily a hot suspect; and though Brad’s trumpet is held by the police as evidence, he soon finds a suitable replacement to use in his shows. So there’s no compelling reason for Brad to be desperate to find Maxine’s killer… except, you know, that spark between them. So ignoring the social requirements of his tour, and heedless of his name showing up in the papers (it’s only his involvement that makes the murder a cause celebre), he starts poking around. Because you can never depend on law enforcement professionals like Sgt. McKenzie and Inspector Mulrooney (Fred Johnson and Martin Boddey) to solve murders and stuff.

The wallpaper won.

Brad’s investigations start with the name on the back of an envelope that Maxine wrote her phone number on, Barbara Quigley at the Underground Club. Barbara (Eleanor Summerfield) turns out to be Maxine’s sister (the different last names are never explained), the Underground Club turns out to be a dangerous dive, and Barbara’s piano player Johnny (Paul Carpenter of Paid to Kill (1954)) turns out to be Maxine’s Canadian boyfriend. From there, Brad’s investigation branches out to the interrelationships between them and just about everybody in the London jazz scene: Jeff Colt (Arthur Lane of Wings of Danger (1952)), the piano player who swears he never cut the record with Maxine that turns up on her turntable; Gloria (Paula Byrne), Jeff’s jealous wife who used to be in a singing trio with Maxine and Barbara; and Maurie Green (Geoffrey Keen of The Glass Tomb (1955)), owner of the Green Recording Co., where the mysterious record Jeff denies was apparently recorded. Just about everyone denies knowing anything about either Maxine or the mysterious record (or both) until Brad uncovers little bits of the truth, which means he runs back and forth between locations over and over, occasionally getting into fistfights which never mar his features. Oh, and every once in a while he performs, which is why he’s in England to begin with, after all.

“I guess this loaner will do while my iPod is in the shop…”

It’s not a poorly made little feature, but it does show some roughness around the edges. Brad uses a voiceover during montages three times (I think) during the movie, and each time shows the signs of the worst and most common reason for using voiceovers: to fix things in post-production. This feature was early in the career of Terence Fisher, who went on to direct some of the most iconic films of Hammer’s famous horror series, and it’s far less sure-footed in its direction than the movies which would eventually make him famous.

Though I usually dislike blaming screenwriters for anything, as they usually get overruled by people who can’t do the screenwriters’ job, I think in this case that culpability for one of the annoyances in the climax of the movie could reasonably be placed at the feet of Ernest Bornemann; the movie was based on his original novel Face the Music, so I imagine that he had a fair amount of pull in how the story turned out. In classic whodunit fashion, Brad manages to assemble the various suspects and interested parties for the Grand Reveal of the conflicted motives and contradictory self-serving lies of all involved, and ultimately the homicidal guilt of one party. But Bornemann cheats. In his final accusation, Brad makes use of clinching evidence that we, the audience, weren’t made privy to; we never knew that the photograph whose clues allow Brad to piece together the puzzle even existed, much less the details contained therein. Brad even went on an exploratory outing to dig further into the implications of the photo, a trip on which we weren’t invited.

“Yeah, real tough guys DO drink milk in Canada!”

There’s a certain expectation in a whodunit that the readers/viewers are made privy to all of the clues that lead the detective on, or at least the ones that fall into his lap. After all the red herrings are shown to us in full detail, it’s dirty pool to solve the mystery without us by pulling out a whole line of evidence which had been hidden from the audience for the sole purpose of keeping us in the dark.

As you know, there’s no place in a movie where a flaw can do more damage to a viewer’s walk-away opinion than in the last few minutes. So my general good opinion of The Black Glove is marred by the mishandling of the murderer’s revelation. (That, and the fact that the title turns out to be irrelevant; yes, the murderer does wear black gloves, but the only person who sees them is Maxine, and they’re scarcely a clue or a point of interest.)

But hey, it’s refreshing that a movie which dwells on musical culture, and especially on the top-of-the-heap musical abilities of the protagonist, manages to realize those story points with gosh-darned good music.

Some Notable Totables:

• body count: 1
• breasts: 0
• explosions: 0
• ominous thunderstorms: 0
• actors who’ve appeared on Star Trek: 0