“I may be no good, but I do love you.”
Jenny Marsh (Patricia Knight) was born bad. Blessed with killer gams, merciless locks, and teeth so blindingly white she could blot out the sun, she used her charms not to sleep her way into assorted executive suites, but rather to ensure that she spent her best years locked away in a cold cell. Yes, she killed for her man. A petty, shiftless man; the sort who insisted that he made a living at the gaming tables, if only because he had the business card to prove it. She did as she was told, took the rap, and spent five long years in the big house. For love. Or at least, love as she saw it. For 1949, five spins around the sun for Murder One doesn’t seem like much, but for a gal this statuesque, it may as well have been a life sentence. Even tough cookies don’t know how to pick a man. Hell, she’s apt to spend more time scrutinizing a dress than the guy she’s about to shack up with. It’s the essence of a dame, noir style.
Then there’s Griff Marat (Cornel Wilde), arguably the world’s toughest parole officer. Only no one’s arguing. The competition long ago cried uncle. And to hear Griff’s conditions for freedom, you’d think most would happily return to an incarcerated state. You can’t leave the area, have to live in the flophouse of his choosing, take the job he finds you, and to round it out, you aren’t even allowed to buy frozen food on credit. Cash only, or San Quentin has a cot with your name on it. And with Jenny, he’s sadism incarnate, demanding she check in each and every day as if she had nothing better to do. Miss one appointment, you’re out of here. Hauled away. And consorting with nogoodniks? Fuhgeddaboudit. You’re better off robbing a bank. No friends, no visitors, no fun of any kind. Consider yourself owned, with even fewer privileges than death row. And because she’s an ex-con with a homicide on her record, she has to take it, no matter the tears. Naturally, the two fall in love.
It’s the essence of the 20th century’s greatest genre that dumb men fall for horrible women, with both ending up on slabs, but here, director Douglas Sirk isn’t about to concede futility. Yes, Jenny is a user; a phony right down to her slip who isn’t above shooting an ex-lover in the belly because she thinks she’s got a better offer one county over. But as the final act proves, maybe there’s a little feeling tucked away somewhere. Griff certainly believes it. So much, in fact, that he abandons his much-younger brother (still an adolescent) and blind mother (played with saintly perfection by Mama Piletti from Marty) for weeks on end to sneak into Mexico and elude the authorities. How’d they get there? Only in the most convoluted fashion, naturally, as not even family ties can prevent a lunkhead from drowning in his passions. He’s even willing to leave his steady job and take up life in the oil fields to make it happen. It’s pure idiocy, but there’s nothing he can do. If he were smarter, he’d be in another movie.
But back to that ending. Yes, the very last scene. It’s totally at odds with the rest of the picture and smells more like Doris Day than Dashiell Hammett. Lovers on the lam aren’t supposed to get away clean, arm-in-arm, with the blessing of an old boyfriend. They certainly aren’t supposed to get a wink and a smile for their troubles. Dead, dying, or doomed to the very same; that’s about all we’re entitled to expect. But Sirk, with the aid of screenwriter Sam Fuller, lacked the heart to play hangman. Apparently, he thought the sort of guy who condemned his beloved mama to death from loneliness deserved a second chance. Or in her case, a third. These were good kids, well-intentioned, and why can’t they get married and build a life? So he violated every legal and ethical principle in exchange for a broad’s nails down his back. Remember what they said about casting the first stone? And sure, Jenny shot two men – and very well may shoot Griff if money gets tight – but whatever happened to all-American forgiveness?
Hell, maybe it’s as simple as Sirk rooting for the pair because they looked good. Or maybe it’s a way to undermine the American Dream by proving that yes, crime does indeed pay if you spend a good chunk of your time shirtless. He was like that. Still, I didn’t want either Jenny or Griff to leave that hospital room in one piece, and no part of me would have scoffed at a denouement that included the latest shooting victim, just out of surgery, pulling out a gun from under his blanket and ending the whole lousy affair. Never give a sucker an even break, as the saying goes. Noir ends with a funeral, no exceptions.
Nevertheless, despite a much-needed extra day of rewrites to absolve all sins, Shockproof scores as exactly the sort of melodramatic foolishness Hollywood used to churn out like sausage. Now it’s all high-minded seriousness and diversity bean counting. Representation above entertainment. Telling us what we want to hear rather than admitting we’re all fucked by fate. Naturally, a sense of fun has been lost in the translation. Everyone’s happy, but the audience remains miserable. Or maybe it’s the realization that the country took a turn towards oblivion when we stopped referring to women as tomatoes. Still, Sirk would do better, droll wit ever sharper, but for just this moment, he had the best intentions. Even if his heart got a little too much in the way.
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