The story of His Kind of Woman (1951) tells of how a deported gangster's plan to re-enter the USA involves skulduggery at a Mexican resort, and gambler Dan Milner is caught in the middle. The end goal is a rather unspecified face transplant operation a variety of post-Nazi science that blends into the Hollywood fantasies of the day, unspoken and feared.
Performances from Jane Russell and Robert Mitchum, the ultimate sex-combo in the mind of Howard Hughes, are somewhat goofy at times, emerging from the mesh of underworld and forbidden film noir themes with light smiles and odd props, such as the ironing board which makes a silly reprise at the concluding laugh.
The story of Howard Hughes and RKO is one close to the focal spinning dark vortical centre of film noir, and Howard Hughes was a lot like you, in that he spent a huge amount of time watching and enjoying, and parsing and imbibing 1940s and 1950s movies. RKO must indeed by one of our greatest shining and literal broadcast beacons of noir, bringing forth all noir sentiment in the earliest days of the style, foggily focusing what is need noir into all of its broadcast fables.
from Howard Hughes: His Life and Madness By Donald L. Barlett and James B. Steele:
When news of the Hughes—Odlum talks sent shock waves through RKO. Although Hughes had had his successes in the 1930s with Hell’s Angels and Scarface, his reputation had declined in the 1940s. His running feud with censors over Jane Russell’s breasts in The Outlaw was a far cry from the outspoken defense of free expression in Scarface. Since his return to movie-making in the 1940s, Hughes had also adopted practices that struck Hollywood as unbusinesslike, if not bizarre. Hughes Productions routinely placed attractive young women under contract, giving them expensive drama, singing, and dancing lessons, yet few movie roles. RKO was also distressed because of Hughes’s reputation as a tireless meddler. In a large studio that produced dozens of films a year, such interference would spell disaster.
Dore Schary was the most concerned. Since being hired as production head in 1947, Schary had generated a sense of enthusiasm at RKO, made good use of the talent on hand, and recruited a promising group of young directors —Joseph Losey, Nick Ray, Mark Robson, Robert Wise, Mel Frank, and Norman Panama. Fearing that Hughes would interfere with their work and eventually make the studio ineffective, Schary drove out to visit Odlum at his Indio ranch and “urged him not to sell.’’ Schary’s contract permitted him to resign if management changed at RKO, and he told Odlum he would do so if Hughes bought control. Odlum replied bluntly, 'Look, I’m not a picture man. I bought this company to make some money, and I made some money, and I’m leaving.' Odlum also sought to assure Schary, apparently convinced that Hughes planned to devote most of his time to aviation and to leave studio management to the professionals.
In 1948, Howard Hughes acquired 24% of RKO’s stock by purchasing Atlas Corporation’s 929,020 shares for $9.50 each, totalling $8,825,690. This deal granted Hughes working control over RKO’s sound stages, studios, an outdoor filming ranch, and a chain of 124 movie theaters. To ease employee concerns, N. Peter Rathvon, RKO’s president, assured stability under Hughes.
Dore Schary, an executive, met with Hughes, who expressed no interest in running the studio. Despite initial hands-off behaviour, Hughes later canceled the film Battleground and clashed with Schary over casting decisions. The studio experienced shifts under Hughes’s ownership.
Then, in late June, he called Schary at his home one night. Hughes wanted to cancel Battleground. He did not believe a war picture would be popular at the box office. He also told Schary to fire Barbara Bel Geddes, who was to star in the upcoming film Bed of Roses, and to replace her with an actress Hughes would name later. Schary, who had a high regard for Miss Bel Geddes’s acting ability, refused, told Hughes to find another “messenger boy,” and tendered his resignation.' Hughes invited Schary to come and talk it over the following day at Cary Grant’s house, where he was staying temporarily. When Schary arrived at Grant’s Beverly Hills house, he found “there wasn’t a paper, a cigarette, a flower, a match, a picture, a magazine—there was nothing except two chairs and a sofa.’’
The only sign of life, Schary recalled, was Hughes, “who appeared from a side room in which I caught a glimpse of a woman hooking up her bra before the door closed.” When they both sat down on the couch, Schary said:
[Hughes’s] head bent forward a bit, his eyes seemingly focused on my shoes. He asked me if I was quitting because I didn’t want a boss—didn’t want to take orders. No, I said, that wasn’t the reason. I added that if I were looking for work in an airplane factory, I would take all the orders because he knew more about planes than I did. However, since I believed I knew more about films than he did, I couldn’t stay at RKO and take his instructions. Reasonably and quietly, he pointed out he had to have men to run his enterprises who could take his orders. I understood that—then I realized that I was feeling sorry for him because I was quitting. Recognizing that the feeling was ridiculous and quite conceited, I took hold of myself.
He didn’t speak for a moment but kept staring down toward my shoes. Then he asked, 'Where did you get those shoes' I mumbled, “I think they’re Johnston and Murphy.” “How much were they?” I didn’t remember—I guessed $30 or $35. He said they were good-looking shoes. Comfortable? I said they were."
It was clear that Schary and Hughes would part. “What do you want?’ Hughes asked. Schary wanted only the right to buy Battleground, and Hughes agreed. Was Schary owed any money on his contract? Schary said no. “I told him,” Schary explained, “that I simply wanted out before I came into open conflict with him, pointing out that he was tough and too rich for me to fight. He didn’t smile. He stood up, ending the meeting, and I left.’
Schary resigned from RKO on June 30, 1948, and soon joined MGM, the largest and most glamorous of the big studios, as production head. MGM made sixty-four pictures in Schary’s first year. Among them was Battleground. Produced for $1.7 million, it grossed $4.5 million and was the number-two box-office success of 1950.
In 1948, Howard Hughes, the enigmatic industrialist and aviator, acquired RKO Studios, a once-prominent film production and distribution company. However, his ownership marked a tumultuous period for the studio, leading to its eventual decline.
Hughes assumed the title of managing director—production at RKO, but he made no effort to carry out the associated duties. Curiously, he didn’t even maintain an office on the RKO lot, preferring to work from Goldwyn Studios, about a mile away. Despite this, Hughes’s presence loomed over RKO.
Soon after Hughes took over the wonderful RKO universe, approximately 300 employees—primarily from writing, publicity, and administrative departments—were abruptly fired. By the end of that summer, another 400 individuals lost their jobs, resulting in a significant reduction in RKO’s workforce. Key executives, including Rathvon and Floyd Odlum, resigned due to the uncertainty caused by Hughes’s management style.
Hughes, despite owning only 24% of RKO’s stock, became the studio’s undisputed master. He engaged in self-serving transactions, selling RKO three movies he personally produced: The Outlaw, Mad Wednesday, and Vendetta. Additionally, RKO paid the Hughes Tool Company $100,000 for the right to use Jane Russell in RKO films.
In a surprising move, Hughes agreed to separate RKO’s production and theater operations under Department of Justice antitrust pressure. RKO’s reorganization occurred in 1950, creating two distinct entities: RKO Pictures Corporation (handling production and distribution) and RKO Theaters Corporation (managing theater assets). Hughes retained 24% of the stock in each company.
Despite still ranking third in total receipts behind MGM and Twentieth Century Fox, RKO’s revenue dropped significantly under Hughes’s ownership—from $39 million to $30.6 million. The studio suffered a loss of $5,288,750.
Rather than addressing RKO’s financial woes, Hughes focused on his own film project, “Jet Pilot.” Unfortunately, like his earlier film “Hell’s Angels,” the story line of “Jet Pilot” lacked inspiration.
In summary, Howard Hughes’s tenure at RKO Studios marked a decline for the once-great institution. His lack of attention, self-serving actions, and distractions contributed to RKO’s downfall. Despite this, RKO’s legacy includes iconic films like “King Kong” and “Citizen Kane,” as well as its significant contributions to film noir and musicals.
In general these days and in the days that follow these days, as in other days which have preceded these days and within the opinions of all these days, it is held that His Kind Of Woman (1951) is a good film noir, but it does continue to strike one noir expert in particular, that not much that Howard Hughes could do or make of a film could make it much like a film noir nor in the film noir style, possibly because some hungry and socially politically active feeling must engage within that picture, to make it true and dep noir, as we prefer it.
They were two of a kind ! ...and bound to meet, but neither of them knew what such a meeting would mean!
Amid the insensitivity are sensitivities to cling to: Jane Russell is squeezed into revealing dresses at all times, and plays a character who almost hates herself for giving her body up to the men, although she is clearly fond of Mitchum's character in spite of herself.
She seems to have an affair and non-affair with the awfully named Mark Cardigan, a character warmed to life by Vincent Price, able to do manly and sinister and comedic and melodramatic, thank goodness, as all are needed.
The film remains entertaining likely because of its unpredictability, and it seems more fun that the Jane Russell and Robert Mitchum follow-up Macao (1952).
Morros Lodge in Mexico is a reasonably adapted setting for what is reprised as the most unlikely trope of the era, the face transplant plot, which is mercifully placed to the side, despite odd entreaties again and again to 'watch out for the face!' when the mooks are beating up Mitchum. This is the crazed plot of Seconds (1966) and Face / Off (1997), and some further weird talk of the face becoming unsuitable because it contorts in death.
Once more this is a great and solid and fantastical noir trope however, and one of the wildest, as used of course in Dark Passage (1947), and this film pulls it off by pulling away from the subject, and never discussing it much more than hinting at its viability down to the Nazi experiments of the previous decade, which insidiously injected all sorts of possibilities into the movie story realm.
Paul Jarrico (1915 – 1997) was an American screenwriter and film producer who was blacklisted by the Hollywood movie studio bosses during the era of McCarthyism.
Jarrico engaged in a protracted legal battle with Howard Hughes, the head of RKO. In 1950, while working on his newest script for the Howard Hughes film, The White Tower, a friend close to Jarrico gave his name to the House Un-American Activities Committee.
Immediately upon hearing the news of Jarrico's subpoena, Hughes dismissed Jarrico from the film. After refusing to testify before HUAC, Jarrico was blacklisted and his passport was confiscated. This made it extremely difficult for him to make films. No American studios were willing to make his scripts into movies, and he could not go to other countries due to his lack of a passport.
In 1954, Jarrico went to New Mexico with Herbert J. Biberman, a fellow blacklist filmmaker, where they created the film Salt of the Earth. The film was the only one to be made by blacklisted filmmakers, and therefore became blacklisted itself, making it the only blacklisted film. The film was one of 100 films chosen by the Library of Congress for the National Film Registry in 1992.
from Howard Hughes: His Life and Madness By Donald L. Barlett and James B. Steele:
In an interview with Howard Rushmore, a columnist for the Hearst newspapers, Hughes said he was shutting down RKO so he could “clean house” of the Communists.
“During the next two months we are going to set up a screening system as thorough as we can make it,” ughes said. “We are going to screen everyone in a creative position or executive capacity. .. . It is my determination to make RKO one studio where the work of Communist sympathizers will be impossible.’
Hughes’s crusade and the damaging publicity that went with it were deeply worrisome to Hollywood. But to millions of other Americans, Hughes’s staunch anti-Communist stand was heroic. The junior senator from California, Richard M. Nixon, in a speech in Washington, warmly praised Hughes for firing Jarrico. Three Republican members of the House Un-American Activities Committee commended Hughes, calling his action an “important step toward eradication of Communists and Communist influence from the entertainment world.’ The Hollywood post of the American Legion honored Hughes for anti-Communist vigilance and his efforts to rid the industry of Reds.
In the first half, we have the classic noir setup, complete with intriguing characters reminiscent of an Agatha Christie novel. Robert Mitchum portrays a down-on-his-luck gambler who gets drawn into a shady deal at an exclusive Mexican resort. His swagger and romantic entanglements add to the intrigue, especially with the captivating Jane Russell.
However, the tone takes a delightful turn when Vincent Price enters the scene. He steals the show as a goofy B-movie star on vacation, injecting humor and adventure. Raymond Burr’s portrayal of a sinister crime boss adds tension, and Mitchum’s bare-chested heroics keep us engaged. Ultimately, Price’s character rescues Mitchum, leading to a thrilling finale involving a posse of hotel guests and Mexican cops.
Mitchum: "I'm too young to die. How about you?"
Price: "Too well-known."
Mitchum: "Well, if you do get killed, I'll make sure you get a first rate funeral in Hollywood, at Grafman's Chinese Theater."
Price: "I already had it. My last picture died there..."
A rare blend of noir and comedy, this Hollywood gem stars Robert Mitchum and Jane Russell. Mitchum, a gambler ensnared by powerful Raymond Burr, is paid to return to the US using a dead man’s identity. Enter Vincent Price, a hammy movie star eager for adventure.
The film’s best moment involves Price and a cowardly brother-in-law sinking in a small boat overloaded with help. Ultimately, Mitchum triumphs, Russell is rescued, and the intricate storyline weaves together although there is not much to be said for and about Raymond Burr's character, who is not the silent psycho that Burr so well composes in his other contemporaneous noirs.
With stylish black-and-white visuals and rough touches of comedy, this mystery remains an enjoyable classic, it would seem, but it is not thorough-going noir, likely because such a thing might well have been antithetical to the Hughesian overlord.
Other notable cast members include Charles McGraw, Tim Holt, and Marjorie Reynolds.
As the plot unfolds, it’s revealed that Milner has been lured to the resort by Nick Ferraro, an Italian gangster seeking to return to the US using Milner’s identity. The film transitions through different styles: from dark film noir to sophisticated comedy and finally to a comedy action-thriller as Milner and Cardigan thwart Ferraro’s plans.
Vincent Price makes a shining comedic stab as a vain and silly actor whose name is Cardigan, something of a flamboyant role as a thespianic luvvie relishing the chance to play out a real crime drama. Despite plot holes, and its insistent Mexicana the movie remains an enjoyable blend of genres, with Robert Mitchum making Milner a likable hero and Jane Russell adding glamour and sex appeal. While not a classic, it’s still a delightful watch for fans of light-hearted entertainment.
“This place is dangerous. The time right deadly. The drinks are on me, my bucko!”
In the dimly lit chambers of celluloid dreams, where shadows dance and echoes of forgotten tales reverberate, there exists a curious artifact—a cinematic opus known as “His Kind of Woman.” Directed by the enigmatic John Farrow, this was his thirty-seventh foray into the enigmatic realm of moving pictures.
Ah, Farrow—the name itself evokes intrigue, like a cryptic riddle whispered by the Muses. With each frame, I find myself drawn deeper into his chiaroscuro tapestry. The more I behold, the more I am beguiled, ensnared by the siren call of his vision.
But alas! Fate, capricious and unyielding, conspired against our shared admiration. Howard Hughes, the studio’s puppet master, pulled the strings of destiny. His gaze, like a hawk’s, scrutinized Farrow’s creation. Dissatisfied, he summoned Richard Fleischer—a cinematic alchemist—to weave new spells upon the celluloid canvas.
And thus, the metamorphosis began. The result? A hybrid, neither wholly Farrowian nor entirely Fleisherian. A tantalizing feast for the senses, where echoes of both auteurs lingered like half-remembered dreams.
Fleischer, uncredited yet omnipresent, danced upon the precipice of his twelfth feature. His legacy spanned epochs—five decades of celluloid sorcery. From taut noirs that clung to the shadows of post-war despair to fantastical odysseys and Disney’s kaleidoscopic extravaganzas, he wove spells without falter.
Yet, let us unfurl the parchment of “His Kind of Woman.” A labyrinthine yarn unfolds—a gambler named Dan Milner, played by the brooding Robert Mitchum, entangled in a web of desire. Lenore Brent, a sultry club singer portrayed by the bewitching Jane Russell, beckons him with eyes like smoldering embers.
But wait! The stage is set not in the glittering palaces of Hollywood, but in a sun-drenched Baja California resort. Gangsters, like chess pieces moved by unseen hands, converge. Their motives? Veiled, inscrutable—like whispers carried by desert winds.
Vincent Price, that maestro of menace, graces the tableau. His presence, like a shadow cast by a blood moon, adds intrigue. And the plot? Ah, it eludes me! A cocktail of intrigue, deception, and one-liners—sharp as stilettos.
“How did it feel?” Lenore inquires, her lips a crimson crescent. Dan, nonchalant as a fallen angel, replies, “He didn’t say.”
And so, we ponder: Can style alone birth superior art? Perhaps. But here and in this noir example you will find and we will find and they will find no mere façade. No, this is a carnival of style, madness, substance, and—for real if there is noir satire to be found at all in the 1950s—the sheer, unbridled fun of film noir self satire, captured by Price.
I raise my mug of java to Farrow, Fleischer, and the ghosts of RKO. To Hughes, to mad mad Hughes I raise my jug of java. His legacy, like celluloid whispers, lingers.
defies convention and pirouettes on the precipice of genre. Released upon the American shores in the waning days of August 1951, it emerged from the chrysalis of noir, only to metamorphose into something altogether peculiar.
Group dynamics in the face of peril seem real, and for a film that should be a disaster, but and redirected, re-shot and reframed, the result is a success.
Picture this: the opening act, a chiaroscuro dance of shadows—classic noir, replete with trench-coated antiheroes, smoky dialogue, and cinematography that whispers secrets. But wait! As the reels unspool, the narrative pirouettes. Comedy tiptoes in, a mischievous sprite, and the battle of the sexes becomes a farce.
Vincent Price, that dandy of the silver screen, dons the mantle of Cardigan. Flamboyant, audacious, he sinks boats with mock-heroic glee. A symphony of slapstick ensues, as if Buster Keaton stumbled into a noir labyrinth.
But hark! The tale’s inception lies in the cryptic days of May 1950. John Farrow, the maestro, wields his lens. Yet, Hughes—the elusive puppeteer—summons Richard Fleischer. New scenes sprout, like wildflowers after rain. Vincent Price, the film’s dark star, ascends. His comic alchemy rivals Shakespearean jests.
And what of Mitchum? Milner, the laconic wanderer, wears noir like a second skin. Russell, the chanteuse with a heart of gold, sings her siren songs. Yet, their chemistry—like a half-forgotten melody—eludes us. Clever quips and ample assets adorn Russell, but Cardigan locks her away, a captive muse.
Ah, Burr’s Ferraro! A closeted enigma, his gaze—part ecstasy, part hunger—lingers. Why engage Milner? Not for mere faces, but for secrets veiled in sweat and leather.
Thus, His Kind of Woman dances—a masquerade of genres, a carnival of contradictions. Noir, comedy, and camp converge. And we, the audience, sip our cinematic elixir, intoxicated by its audacity.
And all the while, film noir normality is regained from time to time with low shots beneath Robert Mitchum, viewing the ceiling from the floor, framing the heavily shadowed lunks and lover sof this tapas of a tapestry of noir into something that pleases so much that it might really be the most liked of all of Howard Hughes post-RKO deathly delivered coffin nails of film noir, the golden age, and humanistic movie making in general.
His Kind of Woman (1951)
Directed by John Farrow / Richard Fleischer
Genres - Action-Adventure, Crime, Romance, Thriller | Sub-Genres - Film Noir | Release Date - Oct 5, 1951 | Run Time - 120 min. |