Taut and organically gripping, Edward Dmytryk's Crossfire is a distinctive suspense thriller, an unlikely "message" movie using the look and devices of the noir cycle.
Bivouacked in Washington, DC, a company of soldiers cope with their restlessness by hanging out in bars. Three of them end up at a stranger's apartment where Robert Ryan, drunk and belligerent, beats their host (Sam Levene) to death because he happens to be Jewish. Police detective Robert Young investigates with the help of Robert Mitchum, who's assigned to Ryan's outfit. Suspicion falls on the second of the three (George Cooper), who has vanished. Ryan slays the third buddy (Steve Brodie) to insure his silence before Young closes in.
Abetted by a superior script by John Paxton, Dmytryk draws precise performances from his three starring Bobs. Ryan, naturally, does his prototypical Angry White Male (and to the hilt), while Mitchum underplays with his characteristic alert nonchalance (his role, however, is not central); Young may never have been better. Gloria Grahame gives her first fully-fledged rendition of the smart-mouthed, vulnerable tramp, and, as a sad sack who's leeched into her life, Paul Kelly haunts us in a small, peripheral role that he makes memorable.
The politically engaged Dmytryk perhaps inevitably succumbs to sermonizing, but it's pretty much confined to Young's reminiscence of how his Irish grandfather died at the hands of bigots a century earlier (thus, incidentally, stretching chronology to the limit). At least there's no attempt to render an explanation, however glib, of why Ryan hates Jews (and hillbillies and...).
Curiously, Crossfire survives even the major change wrought upon it -- the novel it's based on (Richard Brooks' The Brick Foxhole) dealt with a gay-bashing murder. But homosexuality in 1947 was still Beyond The Pale. News of the Holocaust had, however, begun to emerge from the ashes of Europe, so Hollywood felt emboldened to register its protest against anti-Semitism (the studios always quaked at the prospect of offending any potential ticket buyer).
But while the change from homophobia to anti-Semitism works in general, the specifics don't fit so smoothly. The victim's chatting up a lonesome, drunk young soldier then inviting him back home looks odd, even though (or especially since) there's a girlfriend in tow. It raises the question whether this scenario was retained inadvertently or left in as a discreet tip-off to the original engine generating Ryan's murderous rage.
Bivouacked in Washington, DC, a company of soldiers cope with their restlessness by hanging out in bars. Three of them end up at a stranger's apartment where Robert Ryan, drunk and belligerent, beats their host (Sam Levene) to death because he happens to be Jewish. Police detective Robert Young investigates with the help of Robert Mitchum, who's assigned to Ryan's outfit. Suspicion falls on the second of the three (George Cooper), who has vanished. Ryan slays the third buddy (Steve Brodie) to insure his silence before Young closes in.
Abetted by a superior script by John Paxton, Dmytryk draws precise performances from his three starring Bobs. Ryan, naturally, does his prototypical Angry White Male (and to the hilt), while Mitchum underplays with his characteristic alert nonchalance (his role, however, is not central); Young may never have been better. Gloria Grahame gives her first fully-fledged rendition of the smart-mouthed, vulnerable tramp, and, as a sad sack who's leeched into her life, Paul Kelly haunts us in a small, peripheral role that he makes memorable.
The politically engaged Dmytryk perhaps inevitably succumbs to sermonizing, but it's pretty much confined to Young's reminiscence of how his Irish grandfather died at the hands of bigots a century earlier (thus, incidentally, stretching chronology to the limit). At least there's no attempt to render an explanation, however glib, of why Ryan hates Jews (and hillbillies and...).
Curiously, Crossfire survives even the major change wrought upon it -- the novel it's based on (Richard Brooks' The Brick Foxhole) dealt with a gay-bashing murder. But homosexuality in 1947 was still Beyond The Pale. News of the Holocaust had, however, begun to emerge from the ashes of Europe, so Hollywood felt emboldened to register its protest against anti-Semitism (the studios always quaked at the prospect of offending any potential ticket buyer).
But while the change from homophobia to anti-Semitism works in general, the specifics don't fit so smoothly. The victim's chatting up a lonesome, drunk young soldier then inviting him back home looks odd, even though (or especially since) there's a girlfriend in tow. It raises the question whether this scenario was retained inadvertently or left in as a discreet tip-off to the original engine generating Ryan's murderous rage.