RCA recording artist and ex-Broadway dancer Martha Stewart does a neat job of setting forth the pretty and hopelessly naive murder victim who describes an epic as "a picture that's real long and has a lot of things going on." Adding to the ambience with expert performances are Morris Ankrum as a crass but successful director, and Steve Geray as the proprietor of a Sunset Strip nightclub. The nightspot's real owner, Mike Romanoff, appears in a bit part.
In a key piano bar sequence, the lovely, deep-voiced Hadda Brooks plays and sings "I Hadn't Anyone Till You," a good number written for the occasion by British-born bandleader Ray Noble. Brooks recalled that Ray became angry because of her difficulty in lip-syncing the song, which she had recorded separately. (The problem shows in the close-ups.)
Art Smith is touching as Dix's gentle, protective agent, a role said to be based on film executive and agent Sam Jaffe. It is he alone who really understands his client. An active Communist, Smith later was blacklisted following the infamous HUAC hearings.
A real asset is Robert Warwick's perfect portrayal of an alcoholic ex-star who maintains his dignity even while tottering about in a drunken stupor. The tall, long-neglected actor is superb in the role, which displays his deeply rich Shakespearean voice as well as a marvelous range of body language and facial expression. The mutual respect between Bogart and Warwick is evident in their scenes together, which do much to impart a warm dimension to the character of Steele.
A strange scene is one in which Laurel is being given a massage by a grim, large woman named Martha, who says "Now turn over" as the scene opens. Laurel settles down, face close to the camera, her chin resting on her arms, while Martha hovers above her eerily. The low camera angle keeps Laurel's body out of sight. Martha is as explicit a lesbian as the censors of the time would permit. Trying to pry Laurel away from Steele, the masseuse mentions his former lover, Frances Randolph (played by Alice Talton): "I used to take care of her He beat her up, broke her nose Someday you'll realize who your friend is. I only hope it isn't too late, because this isn't going to be as easy to get out of as it was with Mr. Baker You'll beg me to come back when you're in trouble and you will, angel, because you don't have anybody else."
Nicholas Ray and Gloria Grahame separated in November, about halfway through production, just as the climactic murder scene was scheduled to be filmed (out of continuity). Realizing that Bogart and Lord would be horrified at the effect this could have on their picture, Ray pretended that he needed to sleep in a dressing room for the remainder of production so he could work late on preparation. Grahame cooperated fully in the charade, and no one suspected that their marriage was on the rocks.
Amid this tense atmosphere, the murder sequence was filmed as it was originally written, beginning on November 15. When Dix realizes that Laurel is about to run away, he pushes her into the bedroom and onto the bed. The next morning, Dix is hunched over the typewriter. The cleaning woman, the masseuse and a delivery man all arrive and go past Dix into the bedroom. Somebody screams. Brub Nicolai and some policemen arrive a bit later. Dix says, "Just a second, Brub. I'm finished." Brub finds Laurel's corpse in the bedroom. He takes the paper out of the typewriter and reads the last lines of Dix's script, words Dix had spoken to Laurel earlier:
I was born when she kissed me,
I died when she left me,
I lived a few weeks
when she loved me.
Ray, under the stress of his own situation, was horrified at the scene he had helped to write. When it had been completed, he sent most of the personnel away and reshot the last part of the sequence. In this partly rewritten, partly improvised version, Dix is strangling Laurel when he is stopped by the ringing of the telephone. (Or is he? Actually, he appears to wilt an instant before the phone rings.) It is Brub reporting that Henry Kesler (Jack Reynolds), Mildred's sweetheart, has confessed to her murder and tried to commit suicide. (The killer's name is also that of the associate producer.) Lochner takes the phone and begins to apologize. Dix, emotionally destroyed, hands the telephone to Laurel, saying, "A man wants to apologize to you." She listens and replies, "Yesterday this would have meant so much to us. Now it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter at all." In extreme close-up, as she watches Steele go down the stairs, Laurel murmurs tearfully, "I lived a few weeks while you loved me. Goodbye, Dix." The picture fades on a high angle of Dix walking desolately across the patio.
Lord and Bogart looked at both versions, decided they preferred Ray's revised ending, and retained it in the final cut.
Burnett Guffey's photography is more subtle than his work on previous film noir pictures. There is less heavy shadow-play, as well as fewer hard-lit close-ups and low camera angles. The picture's "normal" scenes are also rendered in a more naturalistic lighting, a look that differs little from the style favored for light romantic movies. The film is made up entirely of carefully designed scenes with little camera movement to alter the compositions, few moves by the actors, no fancy crane or dolly shots, and only an occasional pan to follow action. The compositions have an almost subliminal effect, becoming increasingly claustrophobic as the story develops. These shots mirror Laurel's fears and her sense of being trapped in cars and small rooms, or imprisoned by the alternately loving and menacing hands of Dix and the hovering attentions of Martha and Lochner.
Guffey admirably catches the gray look of dawn in Beverly Hills when Dix leaves the police station (where else is there a police building that looks like the Taj Mahal?) and walks the streets. The scenes have a magical quality reminiscent of the celebrated early morning sequence photographed by John Seitz, ASC in The Lost Weekend (1946). Good use is made of projection process in the automobile scenes.
Anthiel's music adds considerably to the atmosphere of fear that permeates the film. Most of it is based on a smooth, basically neutral motif that sometimes gives way to a beautiful, bittersweet love theme. The latter is introduced meaningfully when Dix and Mildred are talking in the patio between the apartments. As Laurel enters and walks between them, the love theme rises, effectively marking the end of any plans Dix might have had for Mildred. It is a key moment of the film, thanks largely to Antheil. The two themes are sometimes combined and enlarged upon for various dramatic effects, most notably as a terrifying accompaniment for the wild ride over Mulholland Drive.
To appreciate In a Lonely Place, it is necessary to gain some understanding of the enigmatic Steele. Most of us know someone rather like him: a person who is generally disliked or even feared, but is understood and defended by a few real friends. The long-suffering Mel expresses it well when Laurel tells him that "Dix doesn't act like a normal person I'm scared of him, I don't trust him Why can't he be like other people?"
Mel explodes angrily: "Like other people! Would you have liked him if he was like everybody else? You knew he was always dynamite! He's Dixon Steele, and if you want him you've got to take it all, the bad with the good!"
[ Film credits continued on the next page ]