The Scarlet Hour

The Scarlet Hour (1956) is an intriguing specimen of American film noir, weaving together the combustible ingredients of romantic obsession, marital infidelity, avarice, murder and an audacious jewellery heist into an engaging tapestry of criminal intrigue. Directed and produced by the redoubtable Michael Curtiz, the film constitutes an interesting, if somewhat unjustly overlooked, contribution to the crime cinema of the 1950s. Starring Carol Ohmart, Tom Tryon, Jody Lawrance and James Gregory in the principal roles, it combines romantic melodrama with the conventions of the suspense thriller, gradually transforming an apparently familiar tale of adultery into a labyrinthine narrative of deception and duplicity.

The narrative centres on E. V. ‘Marsh’ Marshall (Tom Tryon), a real-estate executive in the employ of the affluent businessman Ralph Nevins (James Gregory). Marsh is clandestinely conducting a passionate affair with Ralph’s wife, Pauline, affectionately known as Paulie (Carol Ohmart). An emotionally disenchanted woman ensconced in a marriage that provides material opulence but precious little romantic fulfilment, Paulie finds herself torn between her attachment to Marsh and her reluctance to relinquish the considerable comforts afforded by her husband’s wealth. Although Marsh is deeply enamoured of her and earnestly wishes her to abandon Ralph, Paulie remains unwilling to exchange financial security for the uncertainties of an independent existence. This uneasy contest between emotional gratification and material self-interest becomes the fulcrum upon which the film’s increasingly convoluted proceedings revolve.

One evening, while meeting surreptitiously, Marsh and Paulie inadvertently overhear three criminals discussing an elaborate plan to rob a wealthy doctor’s residence of jewellery valued at $350,000. What begins as an accidental discovery soon presents the lovers with an unexpected, albeit perilous, opportunity. Rather than alerting the authorities, they find themselves drawn into the contemplated enterprise, partly because any disclosure of what they have overheard might expose the compromising circumstances of their clandestine rendezvous. Matters acquire an altogether more sinister complexion when Ralph discovers his wife’s infidelity. The ensuing confrontation unleashes a chain of events in which jealousy, wounded pride and violence threaten to overwhelm whatever vestiges of restraint the characters might possess.

What initially presents itself as a relatively straightforward tale of adultery and criminal conspiracy gradually metamorphoses into a considerably more intricate mystery, encompassing murder, deception, assumed identities and an ingenious insurance fraud. As the narrative progresses, the protagonists discover that the proposed jewellery robbery is merely one component of a scheme considerably more elaborate than they had anticipated. The screenplay is adept at introducing fresh complications and unsettling revelations, continually revising the audience’s understanding of the characters, their motivations and the true dimensions of their duplicity. The resulting succession of reversals gives the film an agreeable element of unpredictability.

Carol Ohmart, portraying Paulie Nevins, is arguably the film’s most compelling presence. Making her feature-film debut, Ohmart delivers a persuasive performance as a discontented, manipulative and temperamentally mercurial woman whose emotional impulses are frequently at odds with her material ambitions. Paulie is neither a conventional romantic heroine nor an uncomplicated femme fatale. Rather, she inhabits an ambiguous moral territory, propelled by competing appetites for affection, financial security, personal independence and revenge. Her inability to reconcile these contradictory aspirations renders her a fascinating, if profoundly flawed, personality. Ohmart captures her shifting emotional registers, simmering jealousy and formidable capacity for manipulation with commendable assurance.

Tom Tryon, as E. V. ‘Marsh’ Marshall, provides the narrative with its romantic and dramatic anchor. Marsh is an ambitious but essentially vulnerable individual whose emotional enslavement to Paulie repeatedly subverts his better judgement. His infatuation progressively entangles him in circumstances over which he exercises diminishing control. Tryon’s understated performance is well suited to the character, conveying with quiet effectiveness the predicament of a man whose romantic idealism is gradually exposed as a potentially ruinous weakness.

Jody Lawrance, as Kathy Stevens, introduces a welcome measure of warmth and emotional sincerity. In her capacity as Ralph’s secretary, Kathy provides a striking counterpoint to Paulie’s mercurial temperament. Where the latter is calculating and self-serving, Kathy embodies compassion, loyalty and a more dependable form of emotional attachment. Her growing involvement with Marsh introduces an element of romantic redemption, suggesting that affection need not invariably be accompanied by manipulation or moral compromise.

James Gregory is particularly effective as Ralph Nevins, the prosperous businessman whose possessiveness, authoritarian disposition and volatile temper contribute substantially to the unfolding tragedy. Gregory invests the character with an imposing presence, skilfully juxtaposing the outward respectability of an affluent businessman with the unpleasantly controlling instincts of a husband accustomed to having his wishes obeyed.

The supporting cast merits equal acknowledgement. E. G. Marshall lends credibility to the proceedings as Lieutenant Jennings, while Elaine Stritch, making her feature-film debut, makes a noteworthy appearance as Phyllis Rycker. Their contributions enrich the film’s ensemble and provide additional character and texture to its narrative fabric.

Michael Curtiz demonstrates throughout the picture the professional craftsmanship that distinguished his long and prolific directorial career. His command of cinematic storytelling is evident in the manner in which he sustains narrative momentum while gradually intensifying the atmosphere of apprehension. The screenplay, fashioned by Alford Van Ronkel, Frank Tashlin and John Meredyth Lucas, is constructed around several intersecting strands of intrigue and misdirection. The romantic triangle, the contemplated jewellery heist, the murder investigation and the insurance conspiracy are progressively interwoven into a larger design of calculated deception. Curtiz handles these narrative complexities with sufficient dexterity to prevent the film from becoming unduly cumbersome.

The cinematography by Lionel Lindon is among the picture’s most appreciable assets. Filmed in atmospheric black and white, the production possesses a visual character entirely consonant with its noir sensibilities. The judicious deployment of shadows, meticulously composed interiors, nocturnal settings and contrasting patterns of illumination creates an evocative world in which secrecy and apprehension seem almost tangible. The visual texture reinforces the moral ambiguities of the narrative, suggesting a universe in which appearances are deceptive and seemingly respectable lives conceal decidedly unsavoury realities.

Curtiz also employs the camera with considerable effectiveness to accentuate psychological tension. Characters are frequently situated in circumstances where facial expressions, pregnant silences and seemingly inconsequential reactions communicate considerably more than the spoken word. This visual restraint is particularly effective in the sequences depicting Paulie’s mounting desperation and Marsh’s increasingly troubled realisation that his romantic entanglement may have precipitated consequences far beyond his control.

One of the film’s most pleasurable diversions is the appearance of the legendary Nat King Cole, who performs Never Let Me Go, composed by Jay Livingston and Ray Evans. His nightclub rendition provides a welcome musical interlude, introducing an element of urbane sophistication into the proceedings. Cole’s mellifluous, exquisitely expressive voice is ideally suited to the song’s romantic melancholy, and his performance constitutes one of the film’s memorable attractions. The musical score by Leith Stevens complements the suspenseful narrative without imposing itself unduly upon the dramatic action. The interplay between the jazz-inflected nightclub ambience and the conventional orchestral accompaniment lends the production an unmistakably contemporary flavour of mid-1950s American cinema.

Beneath its engaging crime-thriller exterior, The Scarlet Hour explores several enduring themes: the uneasy rivalry between love and financial security, the destructive consequences of obsession, the corrosive influence of greed, the fragility of marital fidelity and the moral repercussions of calculated deception. Its characters are driven less by an uncomplicated pursuit of happiness than by the conflicting demands of desire, self-preservation and material ambition. The film thus offers a modest but interesting examination of how private indiscretions, when compounded by avarice and dishonesty, can precipitate consequences of an altogether more devastating magnitude.

The Scarlet Hour remains an enjoyable and somewhat underrated example of American crime cinema from the 1950s. Its appeal resides in its engaging amalgamation of suspense, romantic intrigue, psychological manipulation and criminal machination. Although it may not occupy the highest echelons of the film-noir canon, it possesses sufficient narrative ingenuity, atmospheric cinematography and accomplished performances to warrant the attention of enthusiasts of vintage Hollywood thrillers. Above all, Carol Ohmart’s memorable portrayal of Paulie Nevins provides the film with much of its dramatic electricity. Her impressive screen debut, complemented by the capable performances of Tom Tryon, Jody Lawrance and James Gregory, makes The Scarlet Hour a worthwhile cinematic rediscovery.