You’ve heard of Humphrey Bogart, and you’ve heard of Robert Mitchum, but Charles McGraw? Maybe not.
With a tough face, sturdy stature and voice of pure gravel, he was a natural fit for the hard-bitten world of film noir. Other than his incongruous matinee-idol cleft chin, there wasn’t the whisper of Hollywood about him; he played a host of cops and criminals, and was eminently convincing whichever side of the law he fell. After spending the 1940s in supporting roles, McGraw had an all-too-brief spell as a leading man at the dawn of the following decade.
Beyond the claustrophobia, the stakes are raised again and again by a number of factors. Mrs. Neall hates Brown for forcing her to testify, Brown hates Mrs. Neall for getting his partner killed; that mutual vitriol leaves the commitment of protector and protectee always in question.
Adding to the heady brew of tension is the fact that the bad guys don’t know what Mrs. Neall looks like, only that she’s travelling with Brown, which leaves every woman the detective talks to in mortal danger—a prospect that terrifies Brown and delights his unscrupulous charge. Then, a final act fusillade of genuinely surprising twists turns everything we think we know on its head, several times over.