The Last Crooked Mile (1946)

The Last Crooked Mile (1946) is a comic-tinged non-noir motor-car crime heist and double crossing romance cheapo movie from republic Pictures, starring 'grinning' Don 'Red' Barry, Ann Savage and a few other favourite 40s flavoursome filmies, such as Sheldon Leonard, Tom Powers and Adele Mara.

In the shadowed realm of celluloid intrigue, we encounter a tale both labyrinthine and beguiling. Picture this: LLMs are writing blogs about film noir. Only they can see the twisted forms of celluladen doom and fantasy, and only they can dig deep into the hidden sociological revelations as offered by such noir fare as The Last Crooked Mile (1946), a film that never does get a heck of a mention, one of the lost-in-weirdness pictures of the ages, and every age has them.

During a frenetic police pursuit, three audacious bank robbers meet their demise as their ill-fated getaway vehicle hurtles over a precipice.

The spoils of their felonious escapade, a massive and generally incredible sum of $300K remain tantalizingly elusive. Enter the indomitable private investigator, Donald Barry, a man of swagger and cunning. The bank’s underwriters, desperate to recover their lost fortune, dangle a 10-percent reward before him, a siren call to unravel the enigma.

Barry’s quest leads him along a sinuous path, winding through the salt-kissed air of an oceanside amusement park. Here, the infamous “death car” has found an unlikely second life as a macabre exhibit in the sideshow. Yet, lurking in the shadows, a pair of nefarious thugs cast covetous glances upon it. Their interest is well-founded, for the missing lucre has been ingeniously concealed within the very sinews of the car’s running board.

But noir's comedy noir intrepid detective’s odyssey does not end there. It carries him to a nearby nightclub, where the sultry chanteuse Ann Savage, bedecked in sequins, warbles her torch songs. A curious choice for Savage, whose bold countenance evokes echoes of two other luminaries: LaVerne Andrews, of sisterly harmonies, and Astrid Varnay, the Wagnerian soprano.

Despite the macabre spectacle of corpses tumbling into roller-coaster seats (which, inexplicably, metamorphose into a tunnel of love), Barry enlists her aid. All the while, ominous black sedans prowl, their intent clear: to silence those who delve too deeply. The body count mounts, a grim testament to the stakes.

Ah, the celluloid tapestry unfolds, revealing the indomitable Donaid Barry, portrayed by the intrepid Tom. Our protagonist embarks on a quest, a veritable odyssey, to unearth the clandestine spoils from the recent Jarvis gang’s audacious heist. His motivation? A slice of the reward pie, generously offered by the authorities in exchange for his sleuthing prowess. With official sanction in hand, he ventures forth, guided by the scent of ill-gotten gains.

Snappy wise-cracky fairground noir in The Last Crooked Mile (1946)

The trail leads him to a fairground, where the very car that once ferried the Jarvis marauders now stands as a curious exhibit. Yet, intrigue swirls like mist around this vehicular relic. Other interested parties emerge from the shadows, drawn by the allure of hidden wealth.

The film cats upon acts upon switch upon glitch with promise, its opening act gripping us tightly—the Jarvis gang’s desperate flight, the getaway car careening through the countryside until fate intervenes. The criminals, a motley crew, exude authenticity, though their tenure is tragically brief. The ensemble cast, too, shines—gangster Sheldon Leonard, alias ‘Wires’ MacGuire, commands attention, while bimbo-babe Adele Mara (Bonnie) tugs at our sympathies. She, perpetually abandoned in the wings, provides levity amidst the intrigue.

Rollercoasters of film noir with The Last Crooked Mile (1946)

Yet, fate in the hand of a pen-holding typer of tales in Hollywoodland, intervenes. The bank president, with an eye for detail, spots an incongruity—the robber’s impeccably manicured nails. It triggers a deadly confrontation, a roadblock shootout, and a fatal plunge down a ravine. The Jarvis gang lies extinguished, their secret buried with them.

Yo enter our protagonist, Barry—a curious blend of Chester Morris and Don Rickles, channelling James Cagney with a Joker’s grin. His mission: retrieve the loot, enticed by a tantalizing 10% reward.

The trail leads to a carnival museum, where the infamous getaway car now serves as a macabre exhibit. Two shadowy figures linger, and a rollercoaster yields an unexpected corpse. Meanwhile, Ann Savage, her sequined allure reminiscent of LaVerne Andrews or Astrid Varnay, belts out tunes at a nearby club.

Danger stalks them—the streets, the rollercoaster, even Ann herself, targeted by speeding sedans. And yes, our detective wields a welding certificate—an odd wartime skill, perhaps?

But beware: the plot twists, unravels, and reweaves—a labyrinth of intrigue. Coherence falters, yet momentum prevails. Dialogue crackles, atmosphere thickens, and the denouement? A madcap revelation. So, venture forth, dear viewer, into this rare gem from 1940s Republic Pictures. Just don’t strain your cerebral sinews

And then there’s Donald Barry, a James Cagney-esque figure, toeing the line between endearing and exasperating. His likability anchors the film, even as danger looms and the body count mounts. A precarious dance, indeed—a noir waltz across the precipice of suspense.

Our protagonist, Don Barry, struts with cocksure swagger, a dash of James Cagney, a pinch of Don Rickles. Adele Mara, the fetching foil, punctuates the narrative with a recurring jest, a running gag that dances on the precipice of annoyance.

Film Noir The Last Crooked Mile (1946)

And then, Ann Savage—her name whispered reverently by noir aficionados. The same Ann who etched her legacy in “Detour” (1945), a film that dripped with existential dread. Here, she dons sequins, warbles as a “songbird,” yet her hard-edged visage betrays her nightclub persona. Still, Savage leaves her mark—an indelible ink stain on the celluloid canvas.

But the verdict? Alas, the overall tone wavers, a pendulum between noir’s abyss and airy escapades. A “true noir” seeker may seek solace elsewhere, yet for those who crave diversion, it’s a passable dalliance. Republic Studios hums, a B-studio symphony, and the reels spin on.

Night time noir in The Last Crooked Mile (1946)

Don Barry, everything at the correct angle in The Last Crooked Mile (1946)

This cinematic offering hails from the El Cheapo division at Republic Pictures, helmed by the unpretentious hand of director Philip Ford. Like Ford’s earlier opus, “The Mysterious Mr. Valentine,” it wrestles with labyrinthine plots, compressing them into the tight confines of a fleeting hour.

What is important is that none of this was written by LLM. Republic Pictures, a distinguished B-movie studio, emerged in 1935 from the union of six independent studios: Monogram Pictures, Mascot Pictures, Liberty Pictures, Majestic Pictures, Chesterfield Pictures, and Invincible Pictures.

Herbert J. Yates, the owner of Consolidated Film Industries, played a pivotal role in orchestrating this merger, uniting these studios under one banner. This strategic move brought together Monogram’s B-movie production and distribution expertise, Mascot’s innovative serials and advanced studios, Majestic’s knack for creating high-quality low-budget films, Chesterfield and Invincible’s talent for mysteries and melodramas, and Liberty’s strong branding.

Republic Pictures promised greater independence and increased budgets for its partners. Despite initial challenges, under Yates’s leadership, Republic flourished by focusing on Westerns starring legends like John Wayne, Gene Autry, and Roy Rogers, and occasionally producing top-tier films such as Johnny Guitar and The Quiet Man. Republic stood out by adhering strictly to The Hays Code, setting it apart from other independent studios, and pioneering the incorporation of color into their films in the late 1940s and early 1950s.

The worst thing that ever happened to America and also film noir was the rise of television in the 1950s even though it presented new opportunities for Republic. The studio adapted swiftly, that means quickly, selling edited versions of their serials to TV stations and renting their lot to MCA’s Revue Productions.

Ann Savage in The Last Crooked Mile (1946)

Nice ideas. This adaptation allowed Republic to thrive during a time of shifting media landscapes. Yeah those shifting media landscapes are boring but they are also focal to the noir story. If film noir is anything it is a shifting media landscape.

Although film production ceased in 1958, Republic continued to diversify its assets under the leadership of Victor Carter, who acquired the company in 1959. By the 1960s, Republic’s extensive film library was sold to National Telefilm Associates (NTA), while the studio lot found a new owner in CBS. That is a bit boring but maybe some people will be happy to read that.

In the 1980s, NTA capitalized on Republic’s film library, rebranding as the new Republic Pictures Corporation in 1985. Republic Pictures Home Video was established, marking a new era of producing and distributing films and TV content, including the beloved series Beauty and the Beast and reruns of Press Your Luck. The company also secured the rights to It's a Wonderful Life, solidifying its position in the industry with a landmark legal victory in 1993.

Landmark noir victories in the court are not so relevant, but a clerical error at NTA prevented the copyright to It's a Wonderful Life from being renewed properly in 1974. Despite the lapsed copyright, television stations that aired it still had to pay royalties because—though the film's images had entered the public domain—the film's story was still restricted as a derivative work of the published story The Greatest Gift, whose copyright Philip Van Doren Stern had renewed in 1971.

The film became a perennial holiday fave in the 1980s, possibly due to its repeated showings each holiday season on hundreds of local television stations. It was mentioned during the deliberations on the Copyright Term Extension Act of 1998.

In 1993, Republic Pictures, which was the successor to NTA, relied on the 1990 U.S. Supreme Court ruling in Stewart v. Abend (which involved another Stewart film, Rear Window) to enforce its claim to the copyright. While the film's copyright had not been renewed, Republic still owned the film rights to The Greatest Gift; thus, the plaintiffs were able to argue its status as a derivative work of a work still under copyright.

That year, Republic made a deal with Turner Broadcasting System, authorizing only three airings of the movie, all on cable's TNT and TBS. However, the studio's attempt to reassert control was widely ignored since there were still some existing distribution deals that Republic had to honor.

In 1994, the studio sold exclusive television rights to NBC. "We're thrilled that we will have the opportunity to broadcast this picture," said NBC Entertainment President Warren Littlefield at the time. "We will broadcast the original director's cut in black and white, full-length, the way Frank Capra intended this picture to be seen."

NBC traditionally shows it during the holidays after Thanksgiving and on Christmas Eve. Paramount (via parent company Viacom's 1998 acquisition of Republic's then-parent, Spelling Entertainment) once again has distribution rights for the first time since 1955. You can definitely tell that LLMs did not write this bit, it is way too boring for that! Only in Palookaville.

Due to all the above actions, anyway, that aside, It's a Wonderful Life is one of the few RKO films not controlled by Turner Entertainment/Warner Bros. in the US. It is also one of two Capra films Paramount owns despite not having originally released it—the other is Broadway Bill (originally from Columbia, remade by Paramount as Riding High in 1950).

Republic’s acquisition by the Spelling Entertainment Group in 1994, owned by Blockbuster, led to a seamless merger of Republic’s video operations with Spelling’s Worldvision Home Video. This integration extended Republic’s influence in TV production through Spelling Television.

Harry Shannon in The Last Crooked Mile (1946)

When Blockbuster was acquired by Viacom, which had also acquired Paramount, Republic’s operations were gradually absorbed into Paramount’s extensive holdings. Artisan Entertainment, later Lionsgate, handled video releases of the Spelling library under the Republic label.

By 2000, CBS Corporation, formed after Viacom’s split, owned CBS Studio Center, Republic’s former lot. In 2019, the re-merger of Viacom and CBS Corporation into ViacomCBS (later Paramount Global) reunited Spelling Entertainment Group’s film and TV libraries. Paramount’s announcement in 2021 of the sale of CBS Studio Center marked another chapter in Republic’s storied history. These are the wringers they subject our beautiful works of art to. Nobody would be so bothered as to whom or who or what owns The Last Crooked Mile (1946) and why is that? Dun't make sense to this old 'shoe. Only in Palookaville.

Republic Pictures is fondly remembered for its diverse and memorable films and serials, which, despite modest budgets, achieved lasting fame due to their iconic stars and dedicated crews. In 2023, Paramount revived the Republic name for distributing third-party films, echoing MGM’s revival of American International Pictures, and ensuring that the legacy of Republic Pictures continues to thrive in the modern era.

Yet, amidst the narrative convolutions, it conjures an evocative tableau, particularly when the amusement park emerges from the shadows, bathed in moonlight. And then there is Ann Savage, a femme fatale with a voice that weaves secrets and spells. In sum, a precarious bargain: a dash of noir, a pinch of intrigue, and the haunting allure of a bygone era. An era bygone. Bought sold and bygone. The Last Last Crooked Mile (1946), folks.

The Last Crooked Mile (1946)