A fine film noir where a thin plot is overridden by an engagingly gloomy mood and a fantastic set-up, "D. O. A." is defined by its relentless pace. It's worth seeing for the editing alone.
Frank Bigelow (Edmond O'Brien) is a small-town accountant who finds himself with an upset stomach while vacationing in San Francisco. To his shock, he is told he has ingested a luminous poison which attacks the vital organs and has already been absorbed into his system. Realizing he is a dead man walking, Bigelow sets out to solve his own murder before time runs out:
"Sure, I can stand here and talk to you. I can breathe and I can move. But I'm not alive. Because I did take that poison, and nothing can save me."
"D. O. A" has a famous opening sequence, watching Bigelow from over his shoulder entering a police station to report his pending homicide. What gets me is how the cool detective behind the desk registers no major surprise at the stranger telling him he's been murdered. He just looks at a sheet of paper he happens to have.
"Your name Bigelow?" the detective finally asks. "Frank Bigelow?" Talk about existential dread; it's right out of Kafka!
The film does have a problem, which is the next 20 minutes. Establishing Bigelow's normal life before his poisoning is an exercise in tedium. Many reviewers here point to the annoying wolf whistles which are scored whenever Bigelow crosses path with a young woman. More annoying for me was Bigelow's girlfriend, Paula (Pamela Britton), who smothers her man in every scene while reciting unbelievably trite dialogue in polished rapid-fire. Bigelow's annoyance in turn is understandable, but hardly sells their relationship.
Both Frank and Paula dodged a bullet when he ingested poison; marriage would have been something out of a Sam Kinison routine.
There are a lot of holes in the actual crime, like how the murderer was able to catch Bigelow at a jazz bar or how he's able to jump to the right conclusions from a wayward glance. But the film sells its many MacGuffins with style, playing a nifty shell game with the audience where you never know what's happening next.
Neville Brand is the cast's supporting standout, a psychopath named Chester who grins ferociously at the pain he's about to inflict between punches: "Soft in the belly Can't take it. See, whadda tell yuh!" Future femme fatale Beverly Garland puts in her first screen appearance, going by her then-married name of Campbell, but her dark hair and there being two other deadlier femme fatales in this film may cause you to miss her.
Director Rudolph Maté made his name as a cinematographer; it's easy to appreciate "D. O. A.'s" distinct visual texture and style even if it was made on a small budget. A smart, clever wind-up sends you home with no false notes of optimism, somehow satisfied that not every good ending has to be a happy one.
Frank Bigelow (Edmond O'Brien) is a small-town accountant who finds himself with an upset stomach while vacationing in San Francisco. To his shock, he is told he has ingested a luminous poison which attacks the vital organs and has already been absorbed into his system. Realizing he is a dead man walking, Bigelow sets out to solve his own murder before time runs out:
"Sure, I can stand here and talk to you. I can breathe and I can move. But I'm not alive. Because I did take that poison, and nothing can save me."
"D. O. A" has a famous opening sequence, watching Bigelow from over his shoulder entering a police station to report his pending homicide. What gets me is how the cool detective behind the desk registers no major surprise at the stranger telling him he's been murdered. He just looks at a sheet of paper he happens to have.
"Your name Bigelow?" the detective finally asks. "Frank Bigelow?" Talk about existential dread; it's right out of Kafka!
The film does have a problem, which is the next 20 minutes. Establishing Bigelow's normal life before his poisoning is an exercise in tedium. Many reviewers here point to the annoying wolf whistles which are scored whenever Bigelow crosses path with a young woman. More annoying for me was Bigelow's girlfriend, Paula (Pamela Britton), who smothers her man in every scene while reciting unbelievably trite dialogue in polished rapid-fire. Bigelow's annoyance in turn is understandable, but hardly sells their relationship.
Both Frank and Paula dodged a bullet when he ingested poison; marriage would have been something out of a Sam Kinison routine.
There are a lot of holes in the actual crime, like how the murderer was able to catch Bigelow at a jazz bar or how he's able to jump to the right conclusions from a wayward glance. But the film sells its many MacGuffins with style, playing a nifty shell game with the audience where you never know what's happening next.
Neville Brand is the cast's supporting standout, a psychopath named Chester who grins ferociously at the pain he's about to inflict between punches: "Soft in the belly Can't take it. See, whadda tell yuh!" Future femme fatale Beverly Garland puts in her first screen appearance, going by her then-married name of Campbell, but her dark hair and there being two other deadlier femme fatales in this film may cause you to miss her.
Director Rudolph Maté made his name as a cinematographer; it's easy to appreciate "D. O. A.'s" distinct visual texture and style even if it was made on a small budget. A smart, clever wind-up sends you home with no false notes of optimism, somehow satisfied that not every good ending has to be a happy one.