The Long Wait

If you liked Mirage, rent The Long Wait. It came ten years earlier, but it feels like a poor man's Mirage. Anthony Quinn stars in the film adaptation of Mickey Spillane's novel. He survives a terrible car accident, with amnesia and burned hands as his souvenirs. He has no memory of his past, but when he finds out he's wanted for murder, he has to work quickly to prove his innocence.

This is actually a pretty entertaining flick, with plenty of eye candy and good acting from Tony. The only detriments were the leading ladies in the film. They looked so much alike, I kept getting them confused, and their collective talent was maybe one tenth that of a normal actress. The only way I was able to excuse it was to believe they were all cast as favors to producers, and in the story, they all were supposed to look similar. Tony is trying to find a girl from his past, and he-and the audience-can't tell if she's Peggie Castle, Shirley Patterson, Dolores Donlon, or Mary Ellen Kay. I didn't really like being confused, but that was the point.

Charles Coburn adds a bit of class to the movie and somewhat makes up for the lousy acting of the four women. Really, though, it's Tony's show. Without him, it would be a terrible B-picture with low energy and bad pacing. Tony's incapable of giving a low energy performance, and he adds a fantastic spice to the tension-filled scenes with the ladies. And if you're wondering how many of the girls he romances, the answer is all of them. Want to rent it now?

Contemporaneous with the noir cycle came the rise of the cheap paperback, bringing lurid crime novels with provocative cover art to racks in drugstores and bus depots. Spearheading this pulp revolution were the scribbles of Mickey Spillane, several of which became films: I, The Jury; The Long Wait; My Gun Is Quick; and Kiss Me Deadly – the only indispensable title among them.

The Long Wait remains anomalous in that Spillane's thuggish protagonist, Mike Hammer, makes no appearance. Anthony Quinn hitches a ride in a car which promptly plunges into a ravine and bursts into flame. In the fire, he loses both his fingerprints and his memory. After two years working in an oil field, he's sent on a wild-goose chase to his home town, unaware that he's wanted for the murder of the District Attorney, who was prosecuting him for embezzling a quarter-million. His cauterized fingertips force the police to release him, but other parties want him dead. But he forges ahead with a two-pronged quest: to vindicate himself, and to find the girl he's told he once loved. She used to be called Vera – shades of Moose Malloy and Velma in Murder, My Sweet (Farewell, My Lovely) – but now she's...somebody else.

The four prime candidates for Verahood (Peggie Castle, Mary Ellen Kay, Shawn Smith and Dolores Donlon) become pasteboard targets at which Spillane can spew out his misogynistic venom. They're nothing more than scheming nymphos, throwing themselves at Quinn despite any prior arrangements they've made to insure their kept-women comforts. Inevitably they're terrorized and slapped around.

The movie's most visually arresting sequence (thanks to cinematographer Frank, or Franz, Planer) proves also its most sadistic: in an abandoned factory, lit with Expressionistic panache, Castle, bound with rope and under the muzzle of a gun, crawls across the floor to give Quinn a final kiss. Aficionados of film noir must, of course, grapple with the nettlesome problem of the femme fatale, the alluring but heartless Lilith who brings men gladly to ruin. But The Long Wait preserves an unregenerate, macho view of womankind that surpasses the merely dated or distasteful. It's a movie about the corruption of a small city that never questions the corruption of its own vision.

One professional reviewer calls this film "meandering, actionless." I'd call it complex and psychological, with well-developed characters and some memorable dialog. It is quintessential film noir with a torrid romance thrown in. You have to suspend your disbelief to buy it, but you'll gladly toss it away and revel in the intensity of it's emotions and unexpected plot twists. It's not just a battle of wits with dangerous adversaries, it's a hero's quest for truth and a search for lost love. You're kept guessing as to the finish right until the end -- more importantly, you care how it ends. I saw it at least a half dozen times back in the 1950s and 60s. I'd like to see it again and discover if it's as good as I remember it -- or whether I was just a hormone-charged teenager with a crush on Anthony Quinn. ;-)

It's worth every minute of the long wait in order to experience one of film noir's most indelible moments. A single, unforgettable set piece - stark, surreal, sensual and sadistic in equal measure. Opening with a crane shot, Anthony Quinn and Peggie Castle, battered and bruised by brutal bad boys (Gene Evans and Bruno DeSota), with no means of escape, seem about to bid a torturous farewell to the game of life. Castle, in particular, is stunning as the used and abused moll, bloodied and beleaguered, but demonstrating unquenchable defiance...... and it's not even the climax, which, when it arrives delivers an ironic twist, prior to the movie's playful romantic joker in the final scene.

Quinn is the ultimate three time loser. Following a horrific road accident, he temporarily loses the use of his hands, loses his memory and discovering that he is a murder suspect, stands to lose his life.

Fortunately, he hasn't lost his marbles. Moreover, having a head that's emptier than a hermit's address book, strangely works in Quinn's favour, quickening his thoughts, sharpening his awareness and heightening his survival instinct. His grim, relentless determination to clear his name, break the web of corruption which is strangling the town and find the killer, leads to close involvement with beautiful women of varied repute and to the bank where he was previously employed as a teller.

A sadly neglected and under appreciated picture, of genuine weight and substance, my one minor misgiving is that so momentous a movie be marred by so mundane a moniker. Still, at least it's better than: The BIG Wait.... Just!

Girls, guns, fists, and fedoras abound in Mickey Spillane's hard-boiled yarn about an amnesiac (Anthony Quinn) who can't remember if he stole a quarter mil from his boss (a doddering Charles Coburn) or killed the town's D.A. ...not to mention the fact that his girl went and got plastic surgery, so he doesn't know who she is, either. Could it be Venus (a smoking hot Peggie Castle) or one of the other babes who swarm around the craggy Quinn like moths to a flame when he's not dodging bullets? Far-fetched fun for fans of obscure fifties noir with as much sex & violence as the Code allowed -and some of it is quite surreal, especially a bound & gagged Castle crawling across the floor as if in an S&M fever dream.

Director Saville and leading lady Castle filmed Mickey Spillane's I, THE JURY the year before (in 3D, no less) but that "Mike Hammer" mystery was more of a sucker punch thanks to Biff Elliot's powder puff PI. It's too bad he and Tony hadn't traded films...