Jeopardy (1953)

In an era when the Biblical brotherhood all but established itself as Hollywood’s most ubiquitous and noxious pox, director John Sturges had something more revolutionary in mind. Telling VistaVision, Technicolor, and staggering run times to go straight to hell, Sturges informed the suits that if he was ever given the privilege of slipping into a pair of jodhpurs with a riding crop under his arm, he would tell his story – three robust acts, mind you – in little over an hour. Sixty-nine of the leanest minutes ever committed to celluloid. Fine, he wouldn’t always hold to that, often submitting final cuts that took the better part of a weekend to screen, but here, in 1953, he kept his word. Theater managers loved the idea, as they could run the picture a dozen times a day, maximizing profits, as well as popcorn and soda sales. Producers were even warmer to the idea, as they knew the shoots themselves weren’t ever going to drag on into their second or third years. Fine, this way of doing things may not keep television at bay, but the studio coffers would be nice and healthy just the same.

That said, if all you have is just a hair under seventy minutes (including credits), you know damn well you have to have a star. A face. A slab of talent just bold enough to keep the box office running hot. You need Barbara Stanwyck (as Helen). Sure, old Babs is closer to Social Security than she used to be, but she still commands attention at 46, even if the honeysuckle has been exchanged for some cheap scent from the five-and-dime. No matter, it’s enough for her onscreen husband (Barry Sullivan, as Doug) to comment not once but twice on how much it drives him wild. He even loses control in front of the lad. Credit Jeopardy for this, at least at the outset: this is no ordinary married couple, no limp and lifeless mom and dad ready for the rocking chairs. They tease, flirt, and even lock lips while telling sonny boy to go play somewhere else. Sure, we’re next to a raging ocean, but scram, see, if you know what’s good for you.

As Helen’s opening narration tells us, this will be the story of a vacation. All-American in the conception, soon to be a disaster that tests the very bonds of matrimony. Their first mistake is thinking that two weeks with a trailer full of camping gear is anything approaching fun-filled, but that bad idea soon becomes catastrophic when they set their sights on Mexico. Fine, the Mexico of 1953 was a far cry from the blood-soaked narco-state it is now, but it’s still wild and untamed, and I know damn well at least one of these folks saw The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Stupidly, thanks to dad, they’ll take the back roads all the way down Baja California, where half the time they’re channeling some roller coaster at Disneyland. No gas stations, restaurants, or anything even approaching civilization. If anything, the whole damn thing acts as a cautionary tale. America might get nuked, but at least you’ll die honestly. Car trouble two hours from La Paz? Bleached bones and left to the vultures.

Still, old dad wants to see a beach from long ago, where his capacity to romanticize has clearly overwhelmed his common sense. When the family arrives at the godforsaken spot, it’s isolated, yes, but also not even remotely relaxing. The surf is intense, a harbinger of the doom to come, and the jetty so dilapidated we just know it’s going to kill one of them outright. Before they’ve even settled down for sandwiches, the boy runs off to explore that very jetty while mom and dad get familiar in the sand. Four decades before Friday the 13^th, sex leads to violence. As it should in any nation claiming to be civilized. The boy gets his foot stuck, dad has to come to the rescue, and then, as expected, dad crashes through the rotten wood and gets his own leg trapped underneath a log that weighs as much as a Buick. They should have listened to mom and stayed north of the border.

Numerous methods are tried to free dad from his self-imposed trap, but all fail miserably. Under normal circumstances, dad could ride out the entire vacation in this precarious position, but normal circumstances don’t feature cascading waves that, within two hours, will drown dad like a bloated fish. It’s time for Helen to spring into action. She’s the world’s worst driver, but she’s going to have to take the car and find some help. At the very least, some thick rope to help lift this goddamn log. Off she goes. Because we know that the final act of the movie will not simply be Stanwyck driving like a maniac (as delightful as that is), we anticipate some sort of deus ex machina. Being Mexico, we think crooked cop, simple peasant (one appears, but the language barrier settles that), or perhaps the sun-baked land itself. Instead, it comes in the form of a murdering bastard who has escaped from a Mexican jail. He’s white, but only because he has to be. Yes, there’s going to be some extra-marital action following a tire change.

While Helen is breaking into what passes for the region’s only gas station to steal some rope, Lawson (Ralph Meeker) appears. He feigns interest in her plight and soon has control of the car with one hand, and her sweater with the other. Slaps are exchanged, threats are made, and within seconds, they’re flying along the dirt road evading the police. Thankfully, Lawson finds Doug’s gun, so now he’s firmly in charge; that is, until he blows a tire. After making a feeble attempt to slam Lawson’s head with a tire iron, the movie turns dark – real dark – and becomes much more than a B-grade thriller. Helen informs Lawson that she’ll do anything to save her husband. And yes, the “anything” of 1953 is exactly what it would be in 2026. Sure, we fade out, but we know the score. As did they. Sated, Lawson turns oddly heroic. It’s a last act transformation that might be seen as contrived, but remember, sex has always turned lions into lambs. Studies have proven this beyond the reach of science: if all men were to have guaranteed, regularly scheduled sex, murder rates would plummet to near zero. The prison industrial complex could become fairgrounds at long last.

In these final minutes, Lawson is a goddamn jack-of-all-trades. Nimble and wise. He tries this and tries that, from facing the punishing surf his own damn self to scaling the rickety jetty like a monkey in heat. Though moments before a subliterate madman, he’s newly flush with orgasmic success. Nothing can stop him now. Even better, since this was allegedly the age of rigidly enforced codes of conduct, Lawson tips his cap, says his goodbyes, and flees into the desert. Yessir, he gets away with it all. Clean as a whistle. Not shot down like a dog, nor hauled away in handcuffs. He scored himself a fine married woman, saved a family from ruin, and left to parts unknown. Sure, he murdered some poor sap at the gas station, but he wasn’t white and part of Ike’s flag-waving defense of hearth and home, so it’ll remain an afterthought. It’s a radical notion, seemingly Communist-inspired, that a married broad can and should have sex with a violent criminal to save her own husband, but these were no ordinary times. Blame it on the radiation. Or again, credit Stanwyck. We believe she’d do it, after all, refusing to flinch at the implications. And while the other guy is still sweating through The Ten Commandments, you can put Jeopardy on for a second spin. Perhaps a third.