Jumping on the bandwagon of an escalating post-WWII nuclear paranoia, Robert Aldrich’s hard-hitting Film-Noir KISS ME DEADLY (his fifth feature film) sets its cock-and-bull backbone in Mickey Spillane’s titular pulp novel, but substitutes its McGuffin with a cockamamie Pandora’s box allegory that is only appended for its sheer shocking value.
A hardboiled L.A. shamus Mike Hammer (Meeker), reluctantly falls in with a hitchhiker Christina Bailey (a radiant Leachman in her screen debut, and we do miss her illuminated presence after her character’s fate is appallingly sealed), who only wears a trench coat after fleeing from a mental institution in the dead of night, before being caught up with her pursuers, she tells Mike to “remember me” if she doesn’t make it alive, and this is exactly what happens. After Mike miraculously survives the man-made accident which ostensibly kills Christina (the villains have an unconscious Mike at their mercies, yet, they inexplicably spare him for no other reason but what the story requires), he knuckles down to bird-dog the mystery behind, routinely sieving through a concatenation of names, often from the mouth of his devout and world-savvy assistant-cum-lover Velda (Cooper), tritely hazarding the lives of those who are passively enmeshed in his investigation, it is mildly surprising that his buddy, the Greek immigrant Nick (vexingly played by Nick Dennis in hamming up his va-va-voom catchphrase) doesn’t blow himself up earlier but only succumbs to a facile budging of a jack. But the major breakthrough hinges on deciphering Christina’s cryptic last words (which might just as well be rephrased as “examine me” by screenwriter A.I. Bezzerides, if she doesn’t really intend to muddy the waters when her life is hanging by a thread), and “vestige” is the operative word.
For one thing, the story-line barely makes any sense, and Bezzerides has no volition to paper over its porous loose ends and preposterous turn of events, for instance, we have no inkling of the antagonists’ agenda with the box (saving an urbanely intimidating Paul Stewart from going sinister all the way), what is the involvement of Lt. Pat Murphy (Addy), and why on earth the only person who knows its whereabout is so impetuously dispatched? While Mike’s myth-divulging takes an improbably simplified route name after name, what he faces mostly is a cesspool of human scums that truly merits his slapping-happy second-nature (in turn echoes his own short-fused cruelty), not to mention the film’s sweeping derogative treatment of its female characters, everyone mechanically falls under the spell of Mr. Meeker’s irresistibly laconic and impassive macho posturing, trying to seal a kiss with him at short notice, Aldrich really overreaches himself in beating the drum for this fusty and pernicious masculinity.
That said, as a grubby noir tall-tale, its superficial production value speaks for itself by allowing Mike perambulating L.A.’s nocturnal streets and treacherous corners where lies and danger fester under DP Ernest Laszlo’s immaculate lens, and Aldrich unflinchingly ratchets up its cynicism until the final radioactive perdition, remotely elicits a sense of Sci-Fi proportion that chimes with its vertically rolling opening credits, which would be normalized by the STAR WARS juggernauts two decades later.
referential entries: Aldrich’s WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO BABY JANE? (1962, 8.2/10), HUSH….HUSH, SWEET CHARLOTTE (1964, 7.8/10).
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