John Maxwell is appropriately cast as 'Bud'. A salt of the earth cop, who has never fired his gun throughout a long impeccable career. Off duty, he lives a quiet, exemplary life with wife Katherine Warren. If he ever heard The Rolling Stones' 'Rocks Off, ' he would have assumed it was a song about geology. Collecting ancient rocks from ghost towns is his spare time passion. In stark contrast, his partner Van Heflin is an opportunist womanizer. The victim of too many bad breaks and a life-long member of 'The World Owes me a Favour Club'.
Answering a call about a prowler at the home of Evelyn Keyes, Maxwell offers practical advice about security, whilst Heflin practically moves in. Returning initially to check on Keyes' safety, an unusual - perhaps unique affair ensues. Keyes much older husband is always present; on air, performing his schmaltzy, cheesy, cornball radio show. Though it provides the ideal set up for their deceit, Heflin finally turns off the set, refusing to allow rubbish radio to ruin their racy romance.
When the dinosaur dee-jay grows suspicious, Heflin calls for a cooling off period. He retires to his spartan apartment, where, bearing an uncanny resemblance to The Royle Family's Craig Cash, he stares blankly into space. Does his vacant, vapid facial expression disguise profound perceptions permeating his punctilious brain....or is he merely musing over a hot dog which he ate in 1946? At this point Keyes bursts in, unlocking his libido and reigniting the relationship. If only her dull, ageing husband, hardly the future of rock'n'roll, the cause of her unhappiness and the barrier to Heflin's future were out of the way.
In the kind of plot where one lie leads to another, then another, followed by a porky of gargantuan proportions, the desperate couple head for Calico, one of Maxwell's ghost towns, uninhabited for many years. Though, apparently Poco knew a lady from there! Heflin has become so entrenched in his own web of corruption and crime that life is like attempting to swim through an ocean of treacle, whilst carrying Cyril Smith.
Not a classic, but a rarely seen noir, The Prowler deserves further investigation. Hope I've sold it to yez.
Answering a call about a prowler at the home of Evelyn Keyes, Maxwell offers practical advice about security, whilst Heflin practically moves in. Returning initially to check on Keyes' safety, an unusual - perhaps unique affair ensues. Keyes much older husband is always present; on air, performing his schmaltzy, cheesy, cornball radio show. Though it provides the ideal set up for their deceit, Heflin finally turns off the set, refusing to allow rubbish radio to ruin their racy romance.
When the dinosaur dee-jay grows suspicious, Heflin calls for a cooling off period. He retires to his spartan apartment, where, bearing an uncanny resemblance to The Royle Family's Craig Cash, he stares blankly into space. Does his vacant, vapid facial expression disguise profound perceptions permeating his punctilious brain....or is he merely musing over a hot dog which he ate in 1946? At this point Keyes bursts in, unlocking his libido and reigniting the relationship. If only her dull, ageing husband, hardly the future of rock'n'roll, the cause of her unhappiness and the barrier to Heflin's future were out of the way.
In the kind of plot where one lie leads to another, then another, followed by a porky of gargantuan proportions, the desperate couple head for Calico, one of Maxwell's ghost towns, uninhabited for many years. Though, apparently Poco knew a lady from there! Heflin has become so entrenched in his own web of corruption and crime that life is like attempting to swim through an ocean of treacle, whilst carrying Cyril Smith.
Not a classic, but a rarely seen noir, The Prowler deserves further investigation. Hope I've sold it to yez.