Johnny O’Clock

Labyrinthine plot, moody and inky images, and a director, Robert Rossen, that on the surface all seem like surefire bets for a film noir that’s undervalued actually add up to one misfire that’s as promising as it is frustrating. Where exactly should we place the blame? It’s a bit hard to tell. Rossen also wrote the script, and maybe this was a case of where there was no one to act as intermediary to point out plot points that aren’t clear or as concise as they should’ve been. Or maybe it’s that I’ve only warmed up to star Dick Powell in very specific films and not as a general film presence. This kind of slow-burn anti-heroism seems beyond his range and capabilities as an actor. Murder, My Sweet mined his plucky persona for darkness and ways in which common men can break bad, but that trick isn’t carried over here. Powell is a curious star that doesn’t broadcast the bruised poetry of Robert Mitchum, romantic cynicism of Humphrey Bogart, or intensity of John Garfield. He’s far out-paced by the likes of Evelyn Keyes, Nina Foch, and Ellen Drew, the film’s MVP and most colorful character, as the bevy of femme fatales required in noir, and Lee J. Cobb chewing the scenery as he often does. Johnny O’Clock as all the basic pieces of a solid film noir but never quite figures out how to assemble them together.