Let's be a noir film.

And I'm the gay subtext that makes the film so much fun to watch today.

I'm the femme fatale the hero should have just walked away from.

I'm the odd looking but sexy hero.

I'm the MacGuffin.

I am the cigarettes everyone smokes.

I'm the painting a hard-boiled detective will fall in love with.

I'm the waterfront docks cast in a thick fog with nefarious characters lurking about.

I am the window blinds making interesting shadows in the room and across people's faces.

I'm the alley.

I’m Audrey Totter, Queen of Film Noir.

I'm the very same boulevard and parking spot that the star detective, his office Girl Friday, or the co-starring crook always pull into to go into some office building, shop or bank just like Bette Davis did later in the film "Star" and The Mamas & The Papas did in one of their 1960s hit-song short films.

I’m Phyllis Dietrichson’s Woolworth wig.

I'm the word double-cross and "a girl like that" and "what's a girl like you" and "what if I don't want to be that kind of girl. . . " and so on.

I'm Myra Hudson's dictaphone, accidentally left on and catching her husband and his chippie discussing a plot to do her in!

I am Alain Delon in "The Godson or The Samurai"

I am a parody and a classic.

I am a bitch.

Get over it.

I'm Barbara Stanwyck. I'm the sexy babe the guys all go crazy over, even though I seem kinda butch.

I’m the dead body.

i am the torrential rain....

in LA

I am more film noir than film noir.

i am the series of heavies that beat the main character up all over town, before he even knows how he is involved enough to deserve it.

I’m her sister. I’m her daughter. I’m her sister. Her daughter . [sob]

I'm Clifton Webb, camping it up

I’m the villain on the beach in Rio. See ya around, sucker.

I am the pointy bra worn by the dame.

I am a silhouette.

I’m filing my nails while they’re dragging the lake.

I'm film noir in color. I may be good, but am simply not noir enough.

Dredging?

I'm the denouement revealed in the opening scenes. How we got here is told in flashbacks, by the dead guy in the pool.

I’m the Craft food service table Orson Welles visits between every take.

I’m Venetian blinds

I’m the white actor playing an embarrassingly offensive stereotype of a Chinese person.

I'm the streetlight in the fog.

I’m the twirling newspaper, hot off the press....with MAJOR NEWS!

I’m the sexual tension between the grizzled detective and the femme fatale.

I'm the "Hey you!" yelled the wise guy by said detective.

I'm prissy art gallery owner, designer, etc. I'm gay but the movie can't say it out loud

I'm the haughty uncooperative woman connected to the individuals under suspicion. I have a mysterious, scandalous past. I'm afraid the cynical detective will uncover my dirty dirty secret during his investigation into the main crime.

I'm the neon sign just outside the window, flashing on and off the femme fatale's face as she confesses, just before she pulls a pistol out of her purse.

I'm on the level.

I’m the foreign-born manservant.

I'm the paper boy on the street corner yelling "Extra! Extra! Read all about it!" as I hawk those papers hot off the presses.

I’m not who you think I am.

I’m the gunsel and I’m bursting with gay subtext.

I'm cigarettes, coffee and a hamburger. I'm what people considered a meal in the 1940s.

I’m the parody.

When I’m done with love and devotion, I’m sublime.

I'm the light under which some dame or tough guy will be interrogated while looking glamorous.

I'm the chewing gum under every table in a bar, restaurant, and seedy diner.

I am postwar Los Angeles. I am dark and amoral. I am rootless people - fruits, nuts and weirdos. Your landlady used to be a silent film star. The cop on your street moonlights as an extra. The man at the next table at the coffeeshop on Wilshire is a blacklisted screenwriter, now writing live TV dramas under a pseudonym. I am hell. I am paradise.

I'm the heavy black rotary dial phone used to call the cops.

I’m Jane Greer. I do the roles Audrey Totter doesn’t do.

I’m the hero’s girl-next-door pretty secretary. I'm a good girl. I’m as different from the femme fatales he falls for as night and day. I’m desperately in love with him, but I hide it with wisecracks and sassy manners. He’ll never marry me, but I just can’t seem to fall in love with anyone else.

I'm the dame's negligee.

And I'm the negligee's friend, the glamorous cigarette holder.

I'm the smoke in your face.

And I'm Claire Trevor. Don't forget me. I know Lawrence Tierney never will.

[post redacted because independent.co.uk thinks that links to their ridiculous rag are a bad thing. Somebody might want to tell them how the internet works. Or not. We don't really care. They do suck though. Our advice is that you should not click on the link and whatever you do, don't read their truly terrible articles.]

I’m the gin joint in Of all the towns in all the world, she had to walk into.

I'm the "gunsel" who is dialing r52's phone with a pencil

I'm the lips you put together to blow.

I’m the garden apartments in Brentwood where every unit faces a central courtyard.

Odd how no one realized that moll in unit 4B was sneaking out every night around midnight to bury the body parts of her missing boyfriend.

We know he’s missing because he’s been gone for a month and she’s tooling around town in his ‘56 Ford without him. I just hope the clasp on her suitcase holds up so when she sees Shorty coming up the walk she can escape out the back kitchen window into the alley and the money doesn’t spill out of the bag.

She’ll do okay with her pearl-handed revolver. She grew up in Kansas.

I am a bungalow court. As cute and cozy as I look, good things seldom happen in me.

I am the subjective viewpoint (aka protagonist POV). Used sparingly, I am a cool narrative effect. But used throughout the entire film, I am jarring, exhausting and gimmicky. Nobody pays good money to only see the lead actor in reflections.

I’m the undercover cop leaning against a wall under the elevated train tracks. I’m smoking a cigarette as the A train loudly rumbles overhead. A scream! Footsteps running away. And there she is. Lying in the street. Dead at the LA Ripper’s hands.

I'm not too smart, am I? You like that in a man.

I am the scream.

I’m the flask of bourbon our antihero carries in his overcoat.

I am the dame's shoes.

I'm the blank expressions.

I'm the narration.

I'm Alan Ladd, as the anti-hero who is standing on a box to look tall

I'm the "Great Whatsit"

I'm the cocktail glass.

I'm the cigarette lighter - oh, the sordid stories I could tell.

[quote]Nobody pays good money to only see the lead actor in reflections.

Now, a warning?

I'm the waitress at the late night diner that serves you pie and coffee. You're troubled but I don't ask. When you're finished, you bring the paper check to the cash register and I cash you out. We don't speak but we you look at me longingly. I don't respond; I'm just tired.

I'm the material excised by the Hayes Office.

I am one hard suitcase that holds everything someone owns, and a bottle of scotch. I come off the train or from the bus station in the hand of a loner, new in town, looking for a job and room in a boarding house.

R79, as it happens, I also am a single suitcase. I belong to the female lead, who is new in town, too, but arrived by train.

I come from the Hollywood Magic Luggage Store, so am I able to hold: a suit, 2 day dresses, 3 skirts, 3 sweaters, 2 blouses, 4 pairs of shoes, an uncountable number of gloves and pairs of Hollywood Magic stockings that never bag or run, multiple sets of form-fitting lingerie, a light coat, and an evening dress with appropriate accessories. Oh, and 3 hats. No Scotch, though. My owner doesn't buy her own drinks any more than she lights her own cigarettes.

I'm Shanghai, the magic place that turns every white woman into a bitch!

I'm the hash slinging waitress in the downtown diner who quietly pines for the hard-boiled detective who comes in every morning for his cup o' joe.

[quote]the Hayes Office

Oh, dear!

I'm Jean Brooks's bangs.

I'm the crisp black and white cinematography that uses lighting to amazing effects to create menacing atmosphere.

It's an art that has been lost to today's films.

I'm just another sucker

I'm the wholesome blonde ingenue turned into a hard-hearted vamp.

I'm bakelite

I'm a tempting leg

I'm the hat & trench coat.

I'm the darkened room meant to provide a protection from the danger lurking outside

I'm actors looking remarkably well-coiffed, made-up and flawless despite being in long-term desperate and violent situations.

I'm audiences in 1955 quietly imagining what Fante and Mingo from THE BIG COMBO must do in bed.

I'm the respectable town lawyer/chief of police/mayor (and also the father of the Good Girl used as a foil for the Femme Fatale), who turns out to be behind the corruption that led to the murders.

I'm the B-list actor always cast as the police captain and having to take guff and made to look stupid by the A-list actor playing the cynical private dick.

I'm the restless, dissatisfied wife of the rich older man who wants to fuck the private detective badly but without losing her stake in the old man's will.

I'm the will, and when you find me in the hidden drawer in the old-fashioned secretary in the library, everything falls into place.

I'm the narrator, revealed to be the murder victim in the last scene.

I'm a down-and-out alcoholic who might have committed a murder during one of his many blackouts!

I'm Mitchum's trench coat - big enough to serve as the Big Top for Barnum & Bailey.

I'm alcoholic, closeted gay writer Cornell Woolrich. My books and stories were the basis of many noir films!

I'm Elisha Cook Jr. I'm probably playing a sap.

I'm Alan Ladd trying to look tough although I'm only 5'5" and have to stand on a box to make love to the femme fatale with the heart of gold.

I'm the highway patrol car that stops the escaping perp for speeding but lets him go with a warning.

I'm German Expressionism.

And I'm French Poetic Realism. And American film noir wouldn't exist without us -ISMS.

Attention Must Be Paid!!!

I'm the gaslight.

I'm the always perfectly waved hair of the heroine despite the fact that she's been on the run from the Bad Boyfriend for three days.

I'm the nightclub "thrush." I provide a musical interlude, not germane to the confusing plot.

R105 Here! Here!

R109 - I think you meant, Hear! Hear!

I'm the hapless friend of the heroine who answers the door of the heroine's little flat, in the heroine's bathrobe one night when the heroine is out, and gets killed in a case of mistaken identity. I'm nice looking but not nearly as pretty, and therefore expendable.

I'm a stenographer. I'm the good girl. My roommate is a waitress. She's the bad girl and will die at the hands of a lousy mobster.

I am the incomprehensibly empty and dark city streets the first victim chooses as a route home in the beginning of the film, high heels clicking on the sidewalk, where even though it's not yet midnight, not a single auto, bus, or other human soul seems to be - except, of course, for the man following her.

I'm nobody's fool.

I am that lipstick that you can tell even in black and white is a deep dark red, and it never comes off no matter how many drinks, cigarettes, or men's lips that touch me.

Even when the cops come to the apartment, called by my hysterical landlady, and roll my body in its satin nightie over on the rumpled bed - the lipstick is still perfect.

I'm the police photographers around the bed taking flashbulb photos of the corpse - I'm the one that finally says, "Good lookin' dame - too bad, ain't it!"

I'm one of those terrific 1940s belted suits the heroine wears, along with a pair of spectator pumps. The pumps are a size 4 and the waist on the suit is about 18" around and also has a big Retro brooch on the lapel - if this damned film were in colour you'd see the stone is a massive citrine. My preferred hat to finish off my look is one of those Peter Pan looking hats with a peak, placed slightly off to the side. They give my wearer a knowing, sassy look without making her look too hard.

I'm going for a ride in a wheelchair.

I’m the missing puzzle piece that eludes you.

I can afford Shelby

I'm the creepy film score by Bernard Herrmann or Miklos Rosza. I'm actually better than the film itself but most audiences don't realise it.

I'm no good. I never pretended to be. But I love you. I'm a hustler. I've always been one. But I love you. I may be the thief of the world, but with you I've always been on the level.

I'm the scene where the woman client takes a cigarette out of a gold case and the private detective leans forward to light her cigarette. I'm that first moment of obvious sexual attraction and tension.

I'm lesbo Lizabeth Scott

I'm a hybrid - a "woman's picture" with film noir overtones.

I'm the Strange Love of Martha Ives - thanks to Liz Scott and Barbara Stanwyck, I am one of the dykiest movies ever made

I’m the eerie buzz of the theremin.

I'm the Bradbury Building, and I've been in so many noir films I've become a cliche.

I'm the femme fatale's husband; I'll be dead before the picture's over.

I'm the gumshoe's gumshoes. The shoes were made of gum rubber and allowed the dicks to sneak around quietly.

I'm Mexico, the place to run away and hide, no looking back, adios!

I'm the lack of a single "light" moment in the entire movie.

I’m a place like this.

I’m hard boiled.

I’m the room that got tossed while you were out.

I’m the band of light reflected by the rear view mirror across your eyes from the car that’s tailing you.

I'm the car that's tailing R135.

I’m Joan Crawford, laughing with glee at LB Mayer as my second career at Warner’s is proving to be successful as i’ve become a noir queen.

I'm the "hotel dick." I'm creepy, and the hero thinks I'm a loser. But I know more than he does.

I'm the coat check gal at the night club who, when the private dick hands me a picture of the bad guy he's chasing, looks at it and says, "Yeah, I've seen him. Dozens of times. What's it to ya, anyway?

I'm Marilyn Monroe. What remained of my soul died doing what I had to do with Louis Calhern to this part.

I'm the salesgirl at the glove counter in the chic department store who was the last person to see the victim alive.

I'm the old geezer hand-lettering the name of the new private dick on the translucent window of the door that opens into his sleazy looking office. Before I can finish, he'll be whacked and I'll have to start all over again on a new name.

I’m the coffee shop, there will be at least one scene in me. Hard boiled waitress will be with you shortly.

I'm the door bell bank for the dame's apartment building.

I'm the hand drawn directions to the gangsters hideaway written on the back of a napkin in a gin joint.

I'm day for night photography on a beach. A man comes out of the shadows of the pier and chases a woman across the sand while the shining waves crash on the rocky shore.

I am a Spanish style courtyard apartment complex that allows tenants to see into each other's apartments and become entwined in each other's lives. When a lady screams the sound echoes all around.

I'm the waitress in the coffee shop and I am fucking tired of you coming in and ordering "just coffee." I live on tips, you know, and you won't even give me a goddamn nickel on a 25 cent cup of coffee.

I'll have a ham sandwich and cup of coffee. That'll be five cents miss.

I am the ubiquitous light that shines down on Joan Crawford's face, framing it at an angle like divine rays from heaven. I follow her wherever she goes and in every noir picture.

I'm what too much coffee looks like

"No, I didn't get her name - she made me pull out every damn pair of gloves in the case and said she didn't like any of them and I had to put 'em all back. I just remember what she looked like, yeah, that's her - geez, look at that coat, probably cost me a year's salary. When you find her, tell her I said . . . ."

I'm the pencil mustache, usually but not exclusively on the villain. It can be a point of confusion.

I'm Gloria Grahame as the slut with a heart of gold.

I'm Marie Windsor. You know you want me, but you know you shouldn't.

I’m the point at which you stop following the plot twists and just settle in for the mood.

I'm the really cute flat that the heroine lives in and that you know she could never in real life have afforded on her salary as a [secretary, salesgirl, teacher, fill in the blanks], and that even with those ridiculous lamps, heavy drapes, and chintz sofas you would STILL kill to have today.

I'm no better than I should be.

I'm Mary Astor, and nothing in any noir you can make up can match my fadeout at the end of the "Maltese Falcon" as the shadows of the bars of the elevator gate fall across my face.

I'm the mood r156 settles, I make sense of the plot.

I'm that hot pot of coffee the bad guy throws in Gloria's face!

[quote]I’m the point at which you stop following the plot twists and just settle in for the mood.

Thank God!

I'm a bank robber and murderer who will be Beaver Cleaver's father in just a few years.

I'm Joe the bartender. And I already know what you are drinking because I know your name too.

I’m Lishabeth Schott’s lishp.

I'm the very precise way Nan Martin says "Yes, Cyrus" to everything demand she's given in Toys in the Attic

(Yes, it's Frieda Claxton, lover of concrete, from the Golden Girls)

I’m the aging femme fatale who attempted to launch a singing career after film noir fell out of favor....

I’m the ambulance that looks like this:

I'm Laverne Terrace.

I'm a radionuclide!

I'm "Perry Mason," the original "Dragnet," "The Naked City," et. al. which tried to emulate noir for the TV audience.

I'm a "nightclub hostess" or a "party girl"

I'm actually a hooker, but because of the Production Code I can't say it out loud

I'm the freebie R172 tries to throw the private dick.

I’m a fixed boxing Match.

I'm Ethyl Mertz's husband Fred. I used to be mixed up with a bad crowd before I married Ethyl.

Looking for a heel? I’m Dan Duryea.

I'm Lawrence Tierney. I'll be your heel if Dan Duryea is unavailable

I'm Helen. I'm a real creamy dish.

I'm Dana Andrews. I was drunk when I filmed this.

I'm rock bottom. It's a great comfort to a girl to know she could not possibly sink any lower than me.

I'm a cheap floozy. I lean against a wall with a few other "trashy broad" extras but I stand out, thanks to my insolent sneer.

In technicolor I'd probably not be the least bit memorable.

I'm the dame in the mink coat.

I'm the character in the convoluted plot of THE BIG SLEEP whose killer is unknown even to the movie's creators.

I'm the butler, and if you'd asked me in the first place, you wouldn't have had to make the movie.

I'm a ripe tomato with gams that could knock an eye out. I walk into bars.

I'm the room in the boarding house where the bad girl lives. I'm small, yet tastefully decorated, even though the woman who lives here is a thinly veiled hooker.

I'm Louise Finch (Janet Shaw), a cocktail waitress at 'Till Two cocktail lounge. I was in Charlie's class in school. I sure was surprised to see her come in. Lost my job over at Kern's. I've been in half the restaurants in town. I'd just die for a ring like that. Yes sir, for a ring like that, I'd just about die.

I'm the peroxide blonde: you know right away I'm no good because of how much I bleached my hair.

Nice girls don't go that far.

I am the sexy Brian Donlevy!

I'm that line of cigarette burns along the piano top that Lil makes when she puts down her butt to play "One More for the Road" again in the bowling alley lounge. She croaks more than sings but she really brings in the customers!

I'm the Broadway-caliber nightclub act consisting of exactly one number that an obscure night club will mount with a full orchestra every night.

Along with r191, I'm the Broadway caliber singer who is inexplicably singing at a run down dive bar

I’m shocking betrayal.

I’m the frilly boudoir make-up table where the femme fatale does her toilette while she’s being questioned by the hard-boiled gumshoe. She’s resisting up until one specific name is dropped, and she’ll freeze and ponder her reflection for a second then swiftly pivot in her seat and tell the gumshoe to get out!!!!!

I am the ill-gotten gains that pay for the Bad Girl's furs, jewels, and Art Deco decorated flat.

Danger? Why would I be in any dang

I'm the smirk on Dana Andrews' face as he looks at big sissy Clifton Webb's tiny, shriveled dick in LAURA.

I was pretty mixed up myself, R175

We're Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, James M. Cain and Mickey Spillane.

You're welcome.

I'm the black maid, and I swear, I didn't see NUTHIN'.

I’m the prissy, fussy desk clerk at a fancy apartment house. I have no idea who you’re talking about, I’ve never seen the woman in the picture before, and I never violate the privacy of our residents. But Andrew Jackson is an old friend of mine. Maybe if I saw him again, my memory would improve.

I'm the clear Bunn coffee pot that's been sitting on a hot plate for hours. When the private detective walks in, a waitress will grab me off the hot plate and splash some of my contents into the white cup (stoneware) in front of the detective. The detective will never need sugar and never need cream. He will also never complain about the staleness of my contents (hours-old coffee that's been sitting on a burner).

Yeah, I'm the girl who opened the door to Clifton Webb in Laura's bathrobe.

You think Dana Andrews would have given Dispensable Me a second glance?

I am a handsome but troubled carnival barker reduced to lowly geek due to a series of bad choices and a predilection for booze.

I’m Joe’s fedora from this hatbox. I’m not the only thing that measures 7 5/8”.

I'm your SISTER! I'm your DAUGHTER! I'm your sister AND your daughter!

R206, welcome back, R23.

I'm the cliche ceiling fan in a detective's office and he's sweating from the heat.

I'm the neon sign flashing into the dismal cheap hotel room where the guy who's been framed for the murder is holed up.

I’m the nightmare the protagonist awakens from in which he’s about to be nabbed by the cops. I didn’t murder the B-girl after all. I’m just a plot device, hahahahahahahahaha!

^^^ ‘He’ didn’t murder the B-girl...

Sheesh, into the cooking sherry again.

I'm the fkin cunt.

I'm the private dick protagonist yelling "c'mon, TALK!" as I smack the dame repeatedly in the face. I can't do that no more.

I am a fur coat. The gal wearing me clearly isn't the classy kind of dame who belongs in a coat like me. Police see her on the street and tell her she has to prove she bought it. Some man gave it to her, so she can't prove it and they haul her off to jail, implying she's a whore. She's just a lonesome sad sack. No one knows what happened to me when she went to jail and she doesn't get me back when she's sprung. All they give her is a bus ticket back to her home town.

I'm the sap confessing to the murder in order to protect the dame who's been two-timing me with the rich gangster. Luckily, even though it's case closed for the cops, the private dick doesn't believe me and is out there risking his own neck trying to save me from the gallows.

I'm Lehár's Merry Widow waltz playing in the background as the psycho perp descends further into madness as the film progresses and then gets louder as the train wheels pick up steam at the end.

I'm also the now legendary four-note minor theme by Bernard Herrmann you hear when Max Cady first appears on that steaming street in Savannah.

I'm also Hermann's foreboding metre mirroring the windshield wipers of the blonde victim's car in the rain as she escapes with the $40,000 she embezzled.

I'm also said blonde's push-up-and-point brassiere seen early in the film, a garment of truly amazing construction.

I'm the insurance scam which I should've known was doomed to fail from the beginning.

I'm the bag of money thrown into the back seat of a convertible. Free money? I think not!

I’m the Technicolor noir done as a proto-FATAL ATTRACTION:

^ Funny, I just watched that last night. The drowning scene was truly horrific, so well done.

Story of a borderline personality, really.

^ the miscarriage scene is equally gruesome.

I'm a cookie full of arsenic.

I’m the Art Deco decor.

I'm the mentally vacant but lethal second in command the gangster boss sends out to do his wet work and who is totally loyal until I fall for the boss's floozy, and after he kills her, I end up turning on the boss and killing him before the cops get there.

I'm a heist. I always end up disastrously.

I'm the Eagle-Lion logo on a Poverty Row noir.

I'm the old switcheroo before the double cross.

I'm a pickpocket's abandoned bait shop hideout, down on the waterside. There's a hammock and a hole in the floor where he drops down a bucket of beers on a rope into the water to keep 'em cold.

I'm the screaming babies and quarreling couples you can hear coming from the other seedy flats as the private dick heads up the stairs to interview the Bad But Not Guilty Girl.

I'm the ashtray holding the telltale lipstick stained cigarette butt.

I'm the mousey secretary stationed outside of the shady boss' office who protests, "You can't go in there!" as the cops storm the place.

I'm the butler of the wealthy amateur sleuth. and I'm plucky comedy relief.

I'm usually played by EE Clive but it's not such a demanding a part that others can't fill the role. Besides my regular household duties I am called to act as chauffeur, electrician turning off the lights so the master can escape from the clutches of alternately the villains or the police, and babysitter to keep the new floozy client from barging into the meeting between the master and the police or his beautiful rich fiancee.

I'm the crazy dame with a problem and a past. I may or may not kill the PI by the end of the film.

I'm the dish with the gams who just walked out of the nightclub with the heavy.

I am ‘Cahiers du Cinéma’: i made Film Noir hip and respectable as an academic subject.

I'm the "Mary Janes" trembling Miss Eleanor Parker entered prison wearing, AND the "fuck-me pumps" worn by the hardened, embittered Parker when she got released.

^^^”and ya can jus forget about men, honey...after a while, ya jus lose interest...”

I'm the hard-bitten boarding house landlady. I'm about to evict the troublesome tenant because I run a respectable place, see?

R228,I’m the local cops, who know the pickpocket is living illegally in that shack because we’re not blind, but we look the other way because everybody’s gotta live somewhere, right? Easygoing cops like us don’t exist in 2019. We may not have existed in 1953.

I’m also Thelma Ritter. I'm usually a comic, but I was born for film noir. I’m happy to consort with crooks like the pickpocket, but I draw the line at dirty Commies. Now, where’s my recording of “Mam’selle”? I wanna hear it again.

^^^ Er, that is, we didn't exist in 2019 and still don't exist in 2020. Like everybody else, we though 2019 sucked as hard as a year could suck. We was wrong.

I'm a hard-drinking private eye

I'm dead underwater, with my blond hair streaming behind me like a strange river grass. That fake preacher sank me in the car and he's chasing after my kids, looking for loot from a bank heist. LOVE vs. HATE, baby!

I'm the character actor who became the face of a genre.

I'm Johnny.

Johnny? Well like who's Johnny? Answer me, Debbie, who's Johnny?

There's often a young guy named Johnny in these things.

And a scene with a young woman wailing after him, "Johnny? Johnny!"

r246, just for you since you missed the reference....

I'm the huge shadow of a broad-shouldered hatted man in a trenchcoat falling across the end of the lonely street the heroine has been foolish enough to walk alone on at home.

^*on her way home (not at home)

I'm a fur and a rattan valise.

I'm the pile of cheap clothes thrown into the rattan valise, including a slip and a nightgown and a couple of cashmere sweaters and skirts, along with an old fashioned brush and comb set, before the floozy slams the lid shut and rushes out to get into the taxi she's called to go to the train station.

I'm chinoiserie. Ranging from 1 accent piece in a modernist decor, to a total look for an underworld lair.

I'm the huge puffy satin comforter and large white carved headboard of the bed in the nasty rich girl's Art Deco bedroom, which is the size of most people's flats, has a dressing room ,and a vanity whose wood matches the headboard of the bed, with one of those cute round seats in front of it.

I'm a Tiki Lounge. Assignations happen here. And I "sang" in one, just to piss off my stupid mother, who thought she was "classy."

Hi! I'm 10401 Wilshire Boulevard. I'm in Westwood. Mike Hammer lived in me, in a very cool MCM apartment. The biggest mystery in the whole movie is how a sleazy, 2nd-rate gumshoe can afford such a stylish apartment in such a nice neighborhood.

I'm the veiled hat on the women who have engaged the private dick. My purpose is to leave both the private dick and the audience uncertain about whether my story about my missing husband is on the level or not.

I'm plaid. Dead men don't wear me.

Despite being helmed by a first rate director, with an A list screen team, I am a serious film noir misfire watchable only as a curiosity piece...

I'm the Loner persona that clings to any private dick worth his salt. Occasionally, I fall for the savvy client or the innocent Nice Girl caught in the nasty web of lies and deceit the dick is trying to sort, but everyone knows I'll never really settle down. I do the Nice Kid a favour and cut her loose, and as for the savvy client: well, she knew the score right away - no regrets.

I'm the homoerotic undertones and sexual tension between the film's antihero and partner.

R260 - Not between Sam Spade and Miles Archer.

"But he'd have followed you down there, angel, he was just dumb enough for that."

They had me for the homo bit . . .

R1 and r260 please give some examples of such films, please and thank you!

R262 Check out The Big Combo. The thugs played by Earl Holliman and Lee Van Cleef are not so subliminal gay lovers in this one.

Katharine Hepburn and Robert Taylor - was that a Moment by Moment prequel?

Thanks, r263!

R264 it’s a film called UNDERCURRENT...directed by Vicente Minnelli.

I'm Tequila Sunrise, trying like hell to capture the noir thing in Technicolour and failing miserably.

I'm the elevator operator. Even though there are a dozen elevators and fifty floors, I greet everyone by name

I'm Alice Faye. For years I was the biggest star at Fox. I've been reduced to a supporting role in FALLEN ANGEL while that floozy Linda Darnell got all the screen time. After finding out they cut my one musical number 'Slowly', I'll get in my car and leave the lot, where I won't return for 17 years

I'm Dana Andrews - if it hadn't been for my raging alcoholism, I'd have been Bogart and worn all those trenchcoats in those classic films. As it is, I made it into "Laura" and "Fallen Angel".

I'm the witness that absolutely NO ONE except the private dick believes.

I am the fist breaking through the glass window on a door, reaching inside to turn the knob and let the guy running from bad guys into a place where he can hide.

I'm the cut on R272 that the hero got breaking through the window, which his female companion (not yet his girlfriend, although that's clearly predestined) treats by wrapping a torn-off piece of shirt around his hand. I will heal without a trace in a few hours. In the meantime, he will still be able to aim a fire a gun with R272.

I'm the wet pussies feenin' for all the big dick Don Draper types draped in Ralph Lauren suits, and trench coats, drapping around big pussy hound dick.

[quote] I'm the elevator operator.

I'm the WHITE elevator operator in every office building the characters enter, even though excluding the upscale department stores that job was almost exclusively held by blacks until Mr Otis automated his elevators.

It was a high prestige job for "coloreds" even though it had its ups and downs.

I’m the dingus. Men and women have killed for me and lusted after me halfway across the world. I’m the stuff that dreams are made of.

I’m the dingus. Men and women have killed for me and lusted after me halfway across the world. I’m the stuff that dreams are made of.

I'm the Ghost of Pauline Kael.

"Body Heat" failed.

Remember when Madonna tried to be a film noir starlet. Laughing.

R274, that’s TELEVISION, not movies and definitely not film noir.

r280, Are you God? Do you dictate the warrants of this thread. Fuck off.

You fuck off, you hijacking cunt and stick to the format.

R282, No bitch. I will not. Just know, in real life I would fuck yo mary ass up. Keyboard warrior cunt.

I'm a Russian Wolfhound. No, make that TWO Russian Wolfhounds, about to board the Orient Express

R283 you’re such a loser...this is a thread about film noir movies and just because you are a Jon Hamm Stan doesn’t mean that you can hi jack a thread obsessing over him.

Your parents must be blood related.

I'm walking into the prison to give my boyfriend the high sign that the jailbreak is going into action. I don't know what's clicking louder, my heart or my heels.

I'm "love". That's something that goes on between a man and a .45 that won't jam.

I am the Production Code, forcing writers and directors to come up with inventive ideas and ways to get the films message across.

I'm Rudy.

I never ask any questions. I just look at your heels and I know the score

I'm sucker talk.

I'm the wafting cigarette smoke.

I'm 2 dollars. I will cover everything you need today.

I'm the box Alan Ladd is standing on to look tall

I’m the stylish coupe that veers off the road during the chase scene, tumbles into the canyon and bursts into a spectacular fireball fueled by more gas than could have ever fit in my tank. My crash is so good you will see it in at least five different movies made by this studio.

I am the gas station attendant who realizes, as I'm pumping gas, checking oil and cleaning the windshield, that the wanted bad guy I just heard about on the radio, is the same guy whose car I am working on. As soon as he pulls away I will call the police!

R294, I’m the rusty 1932 Ford Model A they pushed down the canyon instead of the stylish ’53 Skylark convertible we saw on the road moments earlier because they figure audience won’t notice or won’t care and why blow up a $5,000 car for a cheap B thriller?

I'm the Plan - I swear I was foolproof. It's not my fault them two witnesses were where no one was supposed to be . . .

I'm the beach house where the schemer and the private dick have their final confrontation. It's dark inside because my drapes are shut even though the sun is shining on the Pacific outside. I know this babe better than anyone else - I'm where she runs when she wants to be herself. So I know how this ends: she's fallen into her own trap.

Two shots . . .

I'm the bad grammar the cops always use.

I'm a mysterious box worth a fortune. Many people are after me, and some will even kill to possess me. Just don't open me or you're in for a big surprise.

I'm the wailing saxophone.

I'm used to underscore everything from a swanky apartment to a seedy dive to a voluptuous blonde.

I'm the Hobson Fur Company. I provide a reason for the villain to pause his flight so he can perversely ogle the model exposing her underwear under the fur coat. Meanwhile the detective is rapidly catching up.

I'm the moral of the story, because in those days they always have to close with me or kids might get the idea that crime pays.

I'm the racetrack. People come here to put down their last few bucks hoping to be a big winner. They always leave broke.

I'm the relentless trumpets on the soundtrack during the chase scenes.

I'm most noir films made in the last 25 years or so. I don't really fit the category and can't compare to the classic ones.

There are some exceptions, though: Nightcrawler and The Man Who Wasn't There.

I'm The Dame, not to be confused with A Broad.

I'm that scream of the police sirens as they surround the house where the mob is holded up, thanks to info from the private dick, who is being held hostage inside.

I have a very distinctive sound that is nothing like the sound police cars use now, which is not nearly as effective as I was onscreen.

Check me out in "Some Like it Hot" as those Chicago cops careen around the corner drugstore where Tony Curtis is calling Poliakoff the agent who's looking for a couple of girl musicians.

Today's sirens just wouldn't cut it in that scene . . .

I'm the nice-looking, well-dressed and well-mannered but slightly effete husband, boyfriend or fiance of the female lead. I can give her everything she's always wanted except the fucking she really needs ... hence her seemingly inexplicable passion for that rough brute of a detective with the cheap clothes, rude manners and perennial 5-o'clock shadow.

I'm the large monstera on a credenza near the coat check room.

I'm "Wicked Woman," this weekend's Noir Alley feature on TCM. Here's a plot summary: "A trashy blonde lures a saloon owner away from his wife."

Wicked Woman is a hoot - noir meets camp

R311 & 312---Want to go to Ac-A-Pul-Co?

If any DLers are up at midnight tonight - watch Wicked Woman!

It's on tomorrow morning as well. Noir Alley always does two airings over the weekend. And for some of us west coast people who get the east coast TCM feed, it's on earlier (9:30PM tonight.)

I'm the private dick's dick. I do 85% of his thinking for him

On Sunday, April 26 at 10 p.m. ET, TCM will show House of Bamboo. This is a good example of an attempt to do film noir in color. I agree that the concept is an oxymoron, but House of Bamboo is a good movie regardless of genre. There are great scenes of postwar Tokyo. Robert Stack is the lead, and he's handsome and masculine, but the film is stolen by Robert Ryan, who is, as usual, hot as a firecracker. He plays the bad guy; if memory serves, there is a homoerotic element to his character. Anyway, it's worth watching.

Here's a picture of Robert Ryan, a B-movie and film noir icon. I wish we had actors with this level of sex appeal now.

Robert Ryan and Robert Stack have some homoerotic chemistry in House of Bamboo

I'm the double-dealing jailbird dame.

R317 - Props for pointing out Ryan's sex appeal. I think he did a bit better than B-list at some point, and one thing I liked about him is that he could play sympathetically and villainously. He did quite a few noirs: "Crossfire" also has Mitchum in it, but in this instance, I think Ryan's bigoted nutjob held the picture together - in fact, he got an Oscar nom for Best Supporting Actor in it. "Crossfire" leads are all named Robert: Robert Ryan, Robert Mithcum, and Robert Young.

And he didn't need much help in fight scenes: he was Dartmouth's heavyweight boxing title for all four years there, and lettered in football and track. He did his own fight scenes in "The Set-Up".

I wonder he wasn't thought of for John Wayne's role in "The Quiet Man", given his boxing experience, and that his height would have made him just as good a match for the statuesque Maureen O'Hara - Ryan was also half-Irish.

Ah, well, casting dreams.

I am an all-white beach ensemble and turban. I will be worn to go swimming with the handyman so he can be lured and convinced to help kill my fat husband.

I'm the camera panning up the legs of the lead actress, to indicate that she's a sexy braod!

I'm guys with names like Nick, Frank, Charlie and Joe.

I'm Farley Granger and I'm cute AF.

I'm probably playing a good young man who tentatively attempts to see if crime will pay, gets in over his head with some real bad guys, and suffers the terrible consequences.

^ And, despite my characters being straight, I ping majorly

I'm a guy who knows the score.

I'm the operator, getting you the police.

I'm a tough tomato!

I'm the kid brother the crime boss is trying to keep from following in his footsteps. He wants me to have the chance he never had growing up in Hell's Kitchen - he wants me to go to law school. My future hangs in the balance as the private dick and the cops close in on him. I'm torn between loyalty and loathing . . .

I'm the classic movie sound of a punch in the face, which sounds nothing like a real life punch in the face.

I'm the drifter who walks into the 24-hour diner in a seedy part of town and tells the waitress, "Give me a cup o' joe and a side o' hash - and it make it good and brown."

I'm Barbara Stanwyck. I just murdered Raymond Burr...

I'm the RKO logo

I'm the old Universal Studios logo, and I produced some classic noir.

I'm Linda Darnell in Fallen Angel. I'm a hash-slingin' floozy who works at a diner very similar to the one r331 described!

I'm a pyramid of canned food.

I'm the protagonists, living on canned food, cigarettes and whiskey. Eggs and maybe a chop now and then.

[quote}I'm the old Universal Studios logo, and I produced some classic noir.—The Lost Weekend, Double Indemnity

Yes you did produce some amazing classic noir, like The Killers, Criss Cross, and The Naked City. But The Lost Weekend and Double Indemnity were produced by Paramount. (They have since been acquired by Universal, maybe that's the confusion.)

^^ Oops, my bad.

I'm the bad guy's sweet Mum, bustling around a kitchen with an oilcloth on the table, making coffee on top of one of those old-fashioned stove, a white bun on top of her head, and sobbing to the private dick who's come to ask her where the perp might be hiding out, "He's not bad, he was a good kid, he turned bad when he started running with that crowd . . . "

I'm the murder scene where the floozy gets strangled in the stairwell that you only see in shadows on the stairwell wall, never straight on.

I'm the dame who realizes too late that crime doesn't pay.

After a horrific car crash that would've horribly maimed and disfigured any other person, I'll end up in the hospital looking as lovely as ever, wrapped in snowy-white, unstained bandages. I'll make a soulful confession and then close my eyes and die.

You'll know I'm dead because my hand will fall off to the side, but in case you missed that, the camera will then pan up to the handsome doctor, who will slowly shake his head from side to side as the prim nurse pulls a sheet over my body.

I'm the speed limit in this town, Mister.

I'm coffee and eggs, coffee and sandwiches, coffee and pork chops.

I'm the unobtrusive surveillance of the suspect.

I'm the judge yelling Order! Order!Order! as pandemonium breaks out in the courtroom as new evidence turns up exonerating the fall guy, and the perp tries to flee out the side door.

I'm Shelley Winters in a leopard coat, in Cry Of The City.

I'm a kid looking at a lobby card for His Kind Of Woman outside a moviehouse in Corona, California on a hot summer night in 1951.

I'm the not quite bad but not quite stand-up good hero that Mitchum used to play in films like Macao and His Kind of Woman. You can spot me by the well-pomatised lock of hair falling over my forehead and my cleft chin.

I will always kill it with the women and leave the real good guys in the dust.

"Stonecutters cut it in stone, woodpeckers peck it on wood: there's nuthin' so bad for a woman as a man who thinks he's Good."

Edward Hopper, whose color paintings inspired the visual style of so many black and white films.

I'm the guy everybody calls "a big stinker."

I'm the hostage the perp holds in front of him as he emerges from the cabin as he comes out, but flings aside as he shoots it out with the ring of cops, knowing his time is up, anyway, and preferring Death by Cop rather than The Chair.

I'm the Dead Man Walking good guy drawn into a sinister situation that cannot end well.

I'm Miklos Rozsa

I'm all the men in all the films that have been called, "Johnny".

I'm the score.

You'd better know me.

I'm the trailer.

I'm Sidney Greenstreet in The Maltese Falcon. When Spade says I "must weigh 300 pounds", he's being extremely kind.

I'm the annoying husband about to be bumped off by my young wife and her young lover.

I'm Claire Trevor.

I'm Claire Trevor.

No, I'M Claire Trevor.

I'm the lipstick Lana Turner drops and that Garfield picks up but doesn't hand to her in their first steamy encounter.

We're black people. We're apparently not 'noir' enough for the universe of noir movies in which we rarely, if ever, seem to exist.

R364 - What's stopping you now from making noir noir films?

We're R360, R361, and R362. On tonight's new episode of "To Tell the Truth."

[quote]We're black people. We're apparently not 'noir' enough for the universe of noir movies in which we rarely, if ever, seem to exist.

This isn't a discussion thread but film noir was probably the genre that gave black actors more opportunities or visibility than any other.. The Breaking Point (pic) (1950) and Young Man With A Horn (1950) both had big parts for Juano Hernandez (and not as a servant). Sidney Poitier had a lead as a doctor in No Way Out (1950) (Richard Widmark, Linda Darnell) featuring Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee. For ex.

I'm Harry Belafonte and I was stunning as one of the leads in Odds Against Tomorrow (1959).

I even got some screen time playing music.

I'm Robert Wise and although I'm more famous for directing two of the most successful musicals ever made, my years of early work with Val Lewton and Orson Welles gave me exactly the preparation I needed to make several classic noirs.

I'm Nick.

Besides playing the bartender in It's a Wonderful Life, I also played heavies on some 1940s noir films.

IR370 And not only that, I produced or directed a lot of famous sitcoms like Make Room For Daddy, and The Dick Van Dyke Show.

I'm Robert Mitchum's narration and I'm Jane Greer coming into a Mexican cafe out of the sun.

I'm Vincent Price in His Kind of Woman. Everyone else is acting as if they were in a drama picture, but me? I'm in a comedy!

I'm the Star Male Noir Club: Dick Powell, Robert Mitchum, Robert Ryan, Richard Widmark, Dana Andrews, Humphrey Bogart, John Garfield, Fred MacMurray, Glenn Ford.

Honourable Mention: Sterling Hayden, Alan Ladd, Richard Conte, and Edmund O'Brien

R374 You're forgetting me, bitch.

R374. Alan Ladd would be first team. And don't forget Edward G. Robinson (Scarlet Street, Woman In The Window, The Red House, Tight Spot, Key Largo, Illegal). Not to mention Zachary Scott, Lawrence Tierney, Victor Mature and Dan Duryea need to be in there somewhere.

R374. Alan Ladd would be first team. And don't forget Edward G. Robinson (Scarlet Street, Woman In The Window, The Red House, Tight Spot, Key Largo, Illegal). Not to mention Zachary Scott, Lawrence Tierney, Victor Mature and Dan Duryea need to be in there somewhere.

One at a time, gents, one at a time . . .

R375 - I'm on the fence about Lancaster, not because he didn't do them - he did some noirs of note: "The Killers" "Sorry Wrong Number" "I Walk Alone", "Brute Force", and "Criss Cross" but he wasn't identified with any iconic noir except maybe "The Killers" - and I haven't ever agreed that "Brute Force" really is a noir, anyway.

But all right, if you insist.

I'll agree Alan Ladd (I did put him in Honourable Mention) and Edward G. Robinson are First Team.

I'd still put Victor Mature in Honourable Mention. I have troubling images of Mature pulling down the temple pillars as Hedy Lamarr watches in that peacock feather dress . . .

It occurs to me that I've left out Richard Egan . . .

But Lawrence Tierney and Dan Duryea weren't leading men - they didn't carry these films themselves.

You all know that Lawrence Tierney played Elaine's father in the famous Suede Jacket episode of "Seinfeld", right?

I'm Chekov's Poodle at the end of "The Killing".

(And I'm director Stanley Kubrick, cruelly holding the shot on the money until every last bill is blown away)

[quote]But Lawrence Tierney and Dan Duryea weren't leading men - they didn't carry these films themselves.

Lawrence Tierney did play some leads. Born To Kill is one of the most well known. There was also The Devil Thumbs A Ride, Bodyguard, Kill Or Be Killed, and a few more. Dillinger might be noir or not. Duryea also sometimes carried a film, such as Underworld Story, but you're right, he was usually a second lead. I didn't think Mature should be first team, I just thought he should be mentioned.

I saw Born to Kill last Sunday night for the first time. Claire Trevor and Lawrence Tierney in the leads, directed by Robert Wise. No surprises but it held my interest.

I'm Robert Ryan and I'm probably playing an asshole.

R378 When you explain it like that, I get your point about Burt Lancaster. He was in a bunch and they were some good ones, but he's not iconic as a noir actor. Fair enough, I think. I don't think he became an "iconic" actor until he was through with noirs, anyway.

I'm Jay C. Flippen's character in The Killing. Stanley Kubrick intended for me to be gay, but the production code wouldn't allow it.

Oh, there were so many ways to get around that r385. Do a google search for "subtext" and "gay suibtext."

I'm the gunsel, Yiddish slang for a young man kept by an older man. Dashiell Hammett knew the Hayes Office wouldn't catch this one. Two generations of cheap hoods didn't catch it either.

“I can always get another son,” the Fat Man says when choosing to give up Wilmer for the Bird.

R384 - "I don't think he became an "iconic" actor until he was through with noirs, anyway."

Exactly, you phrased it better. As opposed to, say, Dick Powell, who only got a start as a dramatic actor in noirs, and starred in some whose very titles were icons of the genre, "Murder, My Sweet" in 1944.

Factoid about "The Killers", one of the first films in which Lancaster got noticed, he admitted that in his first clinches with Ava Gardner, still a young somewhat inexperienced actor, her beauty turned him on so much that everyone around could see that he had become, er, visibly excited.

R383 - Robert Ryan played a good many heavies (as well as non-heavy characters, but one thing he never came across as, was an asshole.

He was too tall, to good-looking, too intelligent, and too good at being baleful.

And he was Dartmouth's heavyweight boxing champ for all four years.

Here's an apt appraisal:

"Born to play beautifully tortured, angry souls... Ryan was a familiar movie face for more than two decades in Hollywood's classical years, his studio ups and downs, independent detours and outlier adventures paralleling the arc of American cinema as it went from a national pastime to near collapse. A little prettier and he might have been one of the golden boys of the golden age. But there could be something a touch menacing about his face (something open and sweet too), which bunched as tight as a fist, and his towering height (he stood 6 foot 4) at times loomed like a threat. The rage boiled up in him so quickly. It made him seem dangerous. He was known for his villains, and it was the complexity of these characters, their emotional and psychological kinks, that elevated even his lesser roles. He never achieved the supernova stardom of a Gable or Bogart, and these days Ryan's glower may be more familiar than his name. Yet he was the type of next-level star and B-movie stalwart that helped make old Hollywood great."

For what it's worth, in my opinion, Ryan was ten times the actor Gable and Bogart were, and was ten times better looking.

Speaking of Robert Ryan, I've always wanted to see Beware, My Lovely (1952), but I've never been able to find a watchable copy of it!!

[quote]gay suibtext

Pics please.

Robert Ryan starred in a huge Broadway musical in the early '60s, Mr. President. He played a President obviously based on Ike and Nanette Fabray played his First Lady obviously based on Jackie. It was the first Irving Berlin first musical in several years and drew the largest Broadway advance sale in history at the time.

Unfortunately, it wasn't very good and the reviews were very mixed to negative. But because of the advance sale, the show did run for months. Overall, though, a very famous flop.

Sorry. this is a little OT but noir actor Robert Ryan was involved and this old musical queen thought she would share.

I am German expressionism, most iconic scenes in American film noir were stolen from my silents.

[quote]Factoid about "The Killers", one of the first films in which Lancaster got noticed, he admitted that in his first clinches with Ava Gardner

Actually it was his film debut. Lancaster's first 9 or 10 films were almost all noirs.

Beware, My Lovely is shown on TCM. What's unusual, iirc, is that it's a costume noir, set in the Meet Me In St. Louis era. Otherwise not very unusual or memorable.

R389, to see Robert Ryan as a world-weary good guy, watch "Back From Eternity" (1956). It's on Amazon Prime, although perhaps not free. I'm sure it's floating around somewhere.

Anyway, BfE is not noir; it's a plane-crash-in-the-jungle epic that co-stars Rod Steiger, Anita Ekberg, Phyllis Kirk, Gene Barry and Keith Andes. I'm sure Andes was supposed to provide the sex appeal, but his generic frat-boy looks fade away in the heat that Ryan generates. And it's a treat and a fun movie besides.

OP don't judge me. Are films like Basic Instinct and Wild Things considered film noir?

R396 I would call them less "noir" and more "homages to noir."

"L.A. Confidential" and "Chinatown" are in that genre as well ... is it the same as "neo-noir?"

"Neo noir" is a good description.

R395 It's a remake of Five Came Back (1939) which was actually a better movie, I think. Chester Morris, Lucille Ball, Wendy Barrie, Joseph Calleia, C. Aubrey Smith etc.

I'm the bitterness and brooding.

I'm gay subtext

Robert Ryan played a good many heavies (as well as non-heavy characters, but one thing he never came across as, was an asshole.

Two films quickly come to mind with Robert Ryan as an asshole. The most obvious is The Dirty Dozen where he is the paratroop colonel with his own vendetta against Lee Martin and the convicts.

The second is the thuggish racist he played in Odds Against Tomorrow. Very good film by Harry Belafonte, shows up now and then on TCM.

This morning, TCM's weekly "Noir Alley" showed "Gilda" (1946) starring Rita Hayworth and Glenn Ford. The show's host, Eddie Muller, explained that a romantic relationship between Ford's character and his male boss had to be implied rather than expressed due to the censorship of the time, then pointed out the various ways the subject affected the story.

One woman's comment on the show's Facebook page: "My husband and I loved the movie and our tradition of watching you after Mass every Sunday but I have to say you ruined it for us by all the back alley details." I'm enjoying the mental image of this judgmental bitch and her (no doubt pussy-whipped) hubby reveling in all the violent immorality of the typical film noir every Sunday after mass, as long as it's not homosexual!

I'm 'Limpy', they call me that on accounta my bad leg.

I sell newspapers for a livin'