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Contamination begins almost immediately
City of Fear (1959) has no frills and no funds and it doesn't need either when it has the cold sweat of its premise whose science fiction had not yet become lead-lined science fact. It's late noir of an orphan source incident. Its ending is not a place of honor.
Unique among atomic noirs of my experience, City of Fear couldn't care less about the international anxieties of nuclear espionage or even apocalypse, at least not in the conventionally pictured sense of flash-boiling annihilation. More akin to a plague noir, it concerns itself with the intimately transmissible deteriorations of acute radiation syndrome as it tracks its inadvertent vector through the bus stops and back alleys and motor courts of the city he can irradiate with nothing more than a nauseated cough, the drag of a dizzied foot, the clutch of a sweat-soaked palm. As Vince Ryker lately of San Quentin, Vince Edwards has all the hardbodied machismo of a muscle magazine and the cocky calculation of an ambitious hood, but he's a dead man since he shoved that stainless steel canister inside his shirt, mistaking its contents for a cool million's worth of uncut heroin. It's a hot sixteen ounces of granulated cobalt-60 and it has considerably more of a half-life than he does. Well ahead of the real-life incidents of Mexico City, Goiânia, Samut Prakan, Lia, this 75-minute B-picture knows the real scare of our fallout age is not the misuse of nuclear capabilities by bad actors, but simply whether our species which had the intelligence to split the atom has the sense to survive the consequences. "I doubt if anyone can explain that calmly to three million people without touching off the worst panic in history."
The plot in this sense is mostly a skin for the philosophy, a procedural on the eighty-four-hour clock of its antihero's endurance as the authorities scramble to trace their rogue source before it can ionize too much of an unprepared Los Angeles. In slat-blinded boxes of offices as blank as concrete coffers, Lyle Talbot and John Archer's Chief Jensen and Lieutenant Richards of the LAPD gravely absorb the crash course in containment delivered by co-writer Steven Ritch as Dr. Wallace, the radiological coordinator of the Los Angeles County Air Pollution Control District who bears the stamp of nuclear authority in his thin intense face and his wire-brush hair, a lecturer's gestures in his black-framed glasses and his quick-tilt brows. Pressed by the cops for a surefire safeguard against loose 60Co, he responds with dry truthfulness, "Line up every man, woman and child and issue them a lead suit and a Geiger counter." The stark-bulbed shelves of a shoe store's stockroom provide a parallel shadow site for the convergence of local connections such as Joseph Mell's Eddie Crown and Sherwood Price's Pete Hallon, whose double act of disingenuous propriety and insinuating jitters finds a rather less receptive audience in an aching-boned, irritable Vince, groaning over his mysterious cold even as he clings territorially to the unjimmied, unshielded canister: "Look, this stays, I stay, and you get rid of it when I say so." Already a telltale crackle has started to build on the film's soundtrack as a fleet of Geiger-equipped prowl cars laces the boulevards of West Hollywood and the drives of Laurel Canyon, snagging their staticky snarl on the hot tip of a stiff just as the jingle of an ice cream truck and the clamor of eager kids double-underline the stakes of endangered innocence. While Washington has been notified, the public is still out of the loop for fear of mass unrest, the possibility of evacuating the children at least. A night panorama of the dot-to-dot canyon of lights that comprises downtown L.A. recurs like a reminder of the density of individuals to be snuffed and blighted if Vince should successfully crack the canister into an accidental dispersal of domestic terrorism: "He's one man, holding the lives of three million people in his hands." At the same time, he skulks through a world that for all its docu-vérité starkness of Texaco stations and all-night Thrifty Drug Stores seems eerily depopulated, a function perhaps of the starvation-rations production, but it suggests nonetheless the post-apocalyptic ghost this neon concentrate of a metropolis could turn into. It might be worse than a bomb, this carcinogenic, hemorrhagic film that Dr. Wallace forecasts settling over the city if the high gamma emitter of the cobalt gets into the smog, the food chain, the wildlife, the populace, Chornobyl on the San Andreas Fault. "Hoarse coughing, heavy sweat, horrible retching. Then the blood begins to break down. Then the cells." With half a dozen deaths on his conscience as the picture crunches remorselessly toward the bottom line of its hot equations, we can't be expected to root for Vince per se, but he isn't so sadistic or so stupid that he deserves this sick and disoriented, agonized unraveling. His relations with Patricia Blair's June Marlowe are believably tender as well as studly, sympathetically admitting in her arms that he just wanted something better for the two of them than an ex-con's "dead meat dishwashing for the rest of your life." A cool redhead, she's a worthy moll, unintimidated by police interrogation or the onset of hacking fever. A sly, dark anti-carceral intimation gets under the atomic cocktail of tech almost in passing—the fatal canister came originally from the infirmary at San Quentin, where it was used in what Lieutenant Richards describes as "controlled volunteer experiments" and Vince more colloquially identifies as "secret junkie tests." Perhaps we are meant to presume that the prison grapevine jumbled the science, allowing him to confuse the expanding field of cobalt therapy for drug trials and thus a lethal radionuclide for a lucrative opioid. The fact of human experimentation regarded fearfully by maximum-security inmates remains. Their radiation safety was evidently nothing to write home about either way.
Even in the waning days of the Production Code, City of Fear would never have been allowed to represent accurately the symptoms of radiation sickness as enumerated by Dr. Wallace, which leaves it to the physical acting of Edwards to convince the audience of his disintegration as the contamination which he is now symbiotically sunk cost into eats invisibly, ineradically into him. Matching his picture's last-minute hectic bloom into ironic style, he throws himself into the sweat-sodden rat-run of the climax where the scornful commentary of sun-faded signage pursues him as relentlessly as the wail of sirens and the itchy death-watch of Geiger–Müller crackle—EXCLUSIVE CLEANERS, TERMITES RATS ROACHES, DORIAN LTD. Hunched over a cup of coffee he can't make himself swallow, Vince almost misses the mayor's broadcast in his own heaves and wheezes that clear the hole-in-the-wall diner even faster than the stentorian blare of phrases like "one of the most dangerous elements in existence . . . a dying man with no hope . . . certain death unless you give it up right now." The silhouettes of police snipers are easier to face than the murderous futility of his dream. He doesn't need shooting; he ends like one of Eliot's hollow men, not with a bang of white-hot immolation, but the whimper of a car blanket dropped indifferently over a slumped shape like a plaster cast of Pompeii, its still-sealed fool's gold still clenched to its chest, its only epitaph the death's-head trefoil of the international radiation symbol. "It's not even worth your life."
Co-written by Ritch and Robert Dillon, this terse little one-way ticket was directed for Columbia by Irving Lerner, a past master of documentaries and microbudgets and an alleged Soviet asset while employed by the Bureau of Motion Pictures, or at least he was accused of unauthorized photography of the cyclotron at UC Berkeley in 1944. Wherever he got his feel for nuclear paranoia, it is intensely on display in City of Fear, its montages a push-pinned, slate-chalked, civil-defense-survey-metered feast of retro-future shock. Lucien Ballard once again shoots a grippingly unglamorous noir of anonymously sun-washed sidewalks and night-fogged intersections. The low-strings score by Jerry Goldsmith pulses and rattles with jazz combo edginess, all off-beat percussion and unease in the woodwinds and jabbing brass, closing out the film on a bleak sting of the uncertainly protected city. I discovered it on Tubi, but it can be watched just as chillingly on YouTube where its existentialism, like a committed dose, spreads from the individual to the national to the planetary. No one in it wears proper PPE, but it names its deadly element outright. For a study in whiplash, double-feature it with A Bomb Was Stolen (S-a furat o bombă, 1962). This contamination brought to you by my controlled backers at Patreon.
Unique among atomic noirs of my experience, City of Fear couldn't care less about the international anxieties of nuclear espionage or even apocalypse, at least not in the conventionally pictured sense of flash-boiling annihilation. More akin to a plague noir, it concerns itself with the intimately transmissible deteriorations of acute radiation syndrome as it tracks its inadvertent vector through the bus stops and back alleys and motor courts of the city he can irradiate with nothing more than a nauseated cough, the drag of a dizzied foot, the clutch of a sweat-soaked palm. As Vince Ryker lately of San Quentin, Vince Edwards has all the hardbodied machismo of a muscle magazine and the cocky calculation of an ambitious hood, but he's a dead man since he shoved that stainless steel canister inside his shirt, mistaking its contents for a cool million's worth of uncut heroin. It's a hot sixteen ounces of granulated cobalt-60 and it has considerably more of a half-life than he does. Well ahead of the real-life incidents of Mexico City, Goiânia, Samut Prakan, Lia, this 75-minute B-picture knows the real scare of our fallout age is not the misuse of nuclear capabilities by bad actors, but simply whether our species which had the intelligence to split the atom has the sense to survive the consequences. "I doubt if anyone can explain that calmly to three million people without touching off the worst panic in history."
The plot in this sense is mostly a skin for the philosophy, a procedural on the eighty-four-hour clock of its antihero's endurance as the authorities scramble to trace their rogue source before it can ionize too much of an unprepared Los Angeles. In slat-blinded boxes of offices as blank as concrete coffers, Lyle Talbot and John Archer's Chief Jensen and Lieutenant Richards of the LAPD gravely absorb the crash course in containment delivered by co-writer Steven Ritch as Dr. Wallace, the radiological coordinator of the Los Angeles County Air Pollution Control District who bears the stamp of nuclear authority in his thin intense face and his wire-brush hair, a lecturer's gestures in his black-framed glasses and his quick-tilt brows. Pressed by the cops for a surefire safeguard against loose 60Co, he responds with dry truthfulness, "Line up every man, woman and child and issue them a lead suit and a Geiger counter." The stark-bulbed shelves of a shoe store's stockroom provide a parallel shadow site for the convergence of local connections such as Joseph Mell's Eddie Crown and Sherwood Price's Pete Hallon, whose double act of disingenuous propriety and insinuating jitters finds a rather less receptive audience in an aching-boned, irritable Vince, groaning over his mysterious cold even as he clings territorially to the unjimmied, unshielded canister: "Look, this stays, I stay, and you get rid of it when I say so." Already a telltale crackle has started to build on the film's soundtrack as a fleet of Geiger-equipped prowl cars laces the boulevards of West Hollywood and the drives of Laurel Canyon, snagging their staticky snarl on the hot tip of a stiff just as the jingle of an ice cream truck and the clamor of eager kids double-underline the stakes of endangered innocence. While Washington has been notified, the public is still out of the loop for fear of mass unrest, the possibility of evacuating the children at least. A night panorama of the dot-to-dot canyon of lights that comprises downtown L.A. recurs like a reminder of the density of individuals to be snuffed and blighted if Vince should successfully crack the canister into an accidental dispersal of domestic terrorism: "He's one man, holding the lives of three million people in his hands." At the same time, he skulks through a world that for all its docu-vérité starkness of Texaco stations and all-night Thrifty Drug Stores seems eerily depopulated, a function perhaps of the starvation-rations production, but it suggests nonetheless the post-apocalyptic ghost this neon concentrate of a metropolis could turn into. It might be worse than a bomb, this carcinogenic, hemorrhagic film that Dr. Wallace forecasts settling over the city if the high gamma emitter of the cobalt gets into the smog, the food chain, the wildlife, the populace, Chornobyl on the San Andreas Fault. "Hoarse coughing, heavy sweat, horrible retching. Then the blood begins to break down. Then the cells." With half a dozen deaths on his conscience as the picture crunches remorselessly toward the bottom line of its hot equations, we can't be expected to root for Vince per se, but he isn't so sadistic or so stupid that he deserves this sick and disoriented, agonized unraveling. His relations with Patricia Blair's June Marlowe are believably tender as well as studly, sympathetically admitting in her arms that he just wanted something better for the two of them than an ex-con's "dead meat dishwashing for the rest of your life." A cool redhead, she's a worthy moll, unintimidated by police interrogation or the onset of hacking fever. A sly, dark anti-carceral intimation gets under the atomic cocktail of tech almost in passing—the fatal canister came originally from the infirmary at San Quentin, where it was used in what Lieutenant Richards describes as "controlled volunteer experiments" and Vince more colloquially identifies as "secret junkie tests." Perhaps we are meant to presume that the prison grapevine jumbled the science, allowing him to confuse the expanding field of cobalt therapy for drug trials and thus a lethal radionuclide for a lucrative opioid. The fact of human experimentation regarded fearfully by maximum-security inmates remains. Their radiation safety was evidently nothing to write home about either way.
Even in the waning days of the Production Code, City of Fear would never have been allowed to represent accurately the symptoms of radiation sickness as enumerated by Dr. Wallace, which leaves it to the physical acting of Edwards to convince the audience of his disintegration as the contamination which he is now symbiotically sunk cost into eats invisibly, ineradically into him. Matching his picture's last-minute hectic bloom into ironic style, he throws himself into the sweat-sodden rat-run of the climax where the scornful commentary of sun-faded signage pursues him as relentlessly as the wail of sirens and the itchy death-watch of Geiger–Müller crackle—EXCLUSIVE CLEANERS, TERMITES RATS ROACHES, DORIAN LTD. Hunched over a cup of coffee he can't make himself swallow, Vince almost misses the mayor's broadcast in his own heaves and wheezes that clear the hole-in-the-wall diner even faster than the stentorian blare of phrases like "one of the most dangerous elements in existence . . . a dying man with no hope . . . certain death unless you give it up right now." The silhouettes of police snipers are easier to face than the murderous futility of his dream. He doesn't need shooting; he ends like one of Eliot's hollow men, not with a bang of white-hot immolation, but the whimper of a car blanket dropped indifferently over a slumped shape like a plaster cast of Pompeii, its still-sealed fool's gold still clenched to its chest, its only epitaph the death's-head trefoil of the international radiation symbol. "It's not even worth your life."
Co-written by Ritch and Robert Dillon, this terse little one-way ticket was directed for Columbia by Irving Lerner, a past master of documentaries and microbudgets and an alleged Soviet asset while employed by the Bureau of Motion Pictures, or at least he was accused of unauthorized photography of the cyclotron at UC Berkeley in 1944. Wherever he got his feel for nuclear paranoia, it is intensely on display in City of Fear, its montages a push-pinned, slate-chalked, civil-defense-survey-metered feast of retro-future shock. Lucien Ballard once again shoots a grippingly unglamorous noir of anonymously sun-washed sidewalks and night-fogged intersections. The low-strings score by Jerry Goldsmith pulses and rattles with jazz combo edginess, all off-beat percussion and unease in the woodwinds and jabbing brass, closing out the film on a bleak sting of the uncertainly protected city. I discovered it on Tubi, but it can be watched just as chillingly on YouTube where its existentialism, like a committed dose, spreads from the individual to the national to the planetary. No one in it wears proper PPE, but it names its deadly element outright. For a study in whiplash, double-feature it with A Bomb Was Stolen (S-a furat o bombă, 1962). This contamination brought to you by my controlled backers at Patreon.
As always, your well-informed
perspectives are more entertaining than watching any movie could be.
/snorts
Re: As always, your well-informed
Thank you so much! I do enjoy watching many of them myself.
/snorts
It was irresistible.
Re: As always, your well-informed
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I watched it out of curiosity since I had noted and missed it on TCM a while back and it honestly was! Also I kind of want one of its posters.
I really liked Lerner's "Murder By Contract", which also has photography by Ballard and stars Vince Edwards (as a sort of existentialist hitman).
That one I have not seen! I have heard pretty much nothing but praise for it, though. And it looks very available on the internet.
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That poster looks amazing!
If you end up watching it, I'd love to know what you think. It has the type of hitman that I feel was so specific to the late 50s/early 60s (you could do a double feature with it and Blast Of Silence, or Short Cut to Hell, or even The Line-up...), and I remember two supporting characters that kind of steal the show! I'm glad it's online, Derecho Noir almost never disappoints! <3
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The eyes!
If you end up watching it, I'd love to know what you think. It has the type of hitman that I feel was so specific to the late 50s/early 60s (you could do a double feature with it and Blast Of Silence, or Short Cut to Hell, or even The Line-up...), and I remember two supporting characters that kind of steal the show! I'm glad it's online, Derecho Noir almost never disappoints! <3
Anything that can double-feature with Blast of Silence is OK by me. How far does this stuff shade into, like, Alain Delon?
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Oh yes, Samourai too! Well, I guess that this is no longer a double bill, it's a whole festival! :D
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Oh, no, whatever shall we do.
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You could even do a double bill of City of Fear and Kiss Me Deadly!
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He was! I noticed him in City of Fear in a way I hadn't when he was being Marie Windsor's meathead boy toy in The Killing. I look forward to him in Murder by Contract.
(I am pretty sure it did play Noir Alley. It was definitely on TCM.)
You could even do a double bill of City of Fear and Kiss Me Deadly!
Absolutely!
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the whimper of a car blanket dropped indifferently over a slumped shape like a plaster cast of Pompeii, its still-sealed fool's gold still clenched to its chest, its only epitaph the death's-head trefoil of the international radiation symbol. --RIP
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If it helps, I decided this film was a good idea to watch after midnight!
--RIP
Even for a genre in which it is not unknown for protagonists to run to their deaths as fast as they can meet them, it's a hard ending, but I like that it is. It isn't too much of a punch line. Radiation poisoning shouldn't be.
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If it helps, I decided this film was a good idea to watch after midnight!
--I started watching immediately! And then Wakanomori came along and said what's this? And I read him YouTube's description and said, You see, Sonya had this review... And he said, Say no more. ... But then he wanted to see it too, but not at that hour, so reluctantly I agreed to stop, and we have a date with it tonight at an earlier hour.
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Aw! Enjoy! Thank you for telling me.
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Grinning at "Its ending is not a place of honor."
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Excellent! Let me know what you think! I was prepared for the cobalt-60 to be a MacGuffin like so many nuclear references in this period, and it was not.
Grinning at "Its ending is not a place of honor."
It occurred to me inescapably.
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I was really interested by it!
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Thank you! You see how I couldn't not write about it.
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Cool! Enjoy!
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Thank you! It leans incredibly into its nuclear premise without ever coming off as an educational film and I didn't expect its directness from its decade. There's no metaphor, just beta decay. It doesn't need to be scarier than that.