Edward G. Robinson is a timid bank cashier suffering from low self esteem. He's married to a shrew and takes refuge in his weekend painting, which he deems unfit for display except to friends, of which he seems to have exactly one, and THAT one so distant that he isn't even aware of Robinson's love of painting. Robinson's a decent man, though, and interferes when he sees a man slapping a woman around on a lonely street in Greenwich Village.
He shouldn't have. The woman turns out to be an "actress" (Joan Bennet) being mistreated by the man she loves, her "boy friend" (Dan Duryea). Over coffee, Bennet is mistakenly led to believe that Robinson is a famous painter whose work sells for as much as fifty grand. She and Duryea, two weasels, successfully dupe Robinson into supporting Bennet in her own apartment and Bennet is constantly wheedling money out of him. Robinson's problem is that he's trying to support himself and his nagging wife on a cashier's salary, but, since he's now in love with a woman who loves him, or so he thinks, he steals money for her from the bank.
The story gets complicated after that, with Robinson's paintings being discovered by an art critic and, without Robinson's knowledge, being sold for big bucks under Bennet's signature, and -- well, Robinson finally twigs and murders Bennet with an ice pick. Duryea is convicted of the crime and executed. Robinson's embezzlement is found out and he's fired. Then he contracts a severe case of immanent justice, which is the notion that bad behavior leads to illness and suffering, even in the absence of any causal connection. Robinson winds up wandering the streets, an insane bindle stiff, hearing the voices of Bennet and Duryea ridiculing him.
The year before this was released, Fritz Lang directed a successful noir with the same three leads in similar roles, "The Woman in the Window." There, Robinson was a psychology professor who kills a man in self defense and tries with Bennet's help to cover up the crime, even while scuzzbag Duryea is figuring things out.
"Scarlet Street" suffers by comparison. It's an ugly picture. In the earlier film, Robinson's wife was away, but he gathered with two or three friends regularly to have dinner and some witty and sophisticated conversation at their club. Robinson's professor was a little bored but otherwise generally satisfied with his life. The plot was simple, straightforward, and filled with suspense. In this one, Robinson is stupid and friendless from the beginning. Instead of one whiny voiced snoop, everybody seems to mistreat him, lie to him, exploit him, and ridicule him in his absence. Or, like his wife, they simply insult him constantly and boss him around. And they all live like slobs. Bennet flips her cigarette butt into a sink piled high with dirty dishes.
The problem doesn't lie in Lang's direction. He does a fine job. (The murder scene may make you gasp with surprise, the brutality emerging as it does out of a mild-mannered clerk.) There's a bit of ironic humor in evidence too. Robinson's wife, too stingy to buy her own radio, goes downstairs to listen to "The Happy Family Hour," while Robinson sits at the dinner table and buries his head in his hands. And the dialog is sometimes keen. "He's too dumb to be a phony". And he IS. Robinson's performance isn't bad but it's stereotyped. There's little complexity in it. He's thoroughly undermined by his corrosive lack of self esteem, a naive, self-deprecating fool and he's treated like one. Bennet is more animated than in the earlier film, but Duryea is, if anything, even a riper villain than before.
In real life, of course, Edward G. Robinson was a true aficionado of classical art and, along with Vincent Price, had one of the more esteemed and expensive art collections in Hollywood. In the film -- and I don't know if this was intended as a joke or not -- his much-admired paintings truly stink. Take a good look at that flower in the milk glass. My kid could have done better than that with finger paints in kindergarten. I'll reserve judgment on the big snake with the forked tongue wrapped around the el tracks. That one is either way over my head or way under it.
Overall, it's pretty depressing and paints a bleak Edward-Hopperly picture of modern life, so to speak, without much in the way of redemptive wit. It reaches for tragedy and winds up with only melancholy, baby. Rent "The Woman in the Window" instead. If nothing else, the transfer to DVD is better. This print is so fuzzy and blotched that when an envelope is held up for the audience, the viewer can't read the address.
He shouldn't have. The woman turns out to be an "actress" (Joan Bennet) being mistreated by the man she loves, her "boy friend" (Dan Duryea). Over coffee, Bennet is mistakenly led to believe that Robinson is a famous painter whose work sells for as much as fifty grand. She and Duryea, two weasels, successfully dupe Robinson into supporting Bennet in her own apartment and Bennet is constantly wheedling money out of him. Robinson's problem is that he's trying to support himself and his nagging wife on a cashier's salary, but, since he's now in love with a woman who loves him, or so he thinks, he steals money for her from the bank.
The story gets complicated after that, with Robinson's paintings being discovered by an art critic and, without Robinson's knowledge, being sold for big bucks under Bennet's signature, and -- well, Robinson finally twigs and murders Bennet with an ice pick. Duryea is convicted of the crime and executed. Robinson's embezzlement is found out and he's fired. Then he contracts a severe case of immanent justice, which is the notion that bad behavior leads to illness and suffering, even in the absence of any causal connection. Robinson winds up wandering the streets, an insane bindle stiff, hearing the voices of Bennet and Duryea ridiculing him.
The year before this was released, Fritz Lang directed a successful noir with the same three leads in similar roles, "The Woman in the Window." There, Robinson was a psychology professor who kills a man in self defense and tries with Bennet's help to cover up the crime, even while scuzzbag Duryea is figuring things out.
"Scarlet Street" suffers by comparison. It's an ugly picture. In the earlier film, Robinson's wife was away, but he gathered with two or three friends regularly to have dinner and some witty and sophisticated conversation at their club. Robinson's professor was a little bored but otherwise generally satisfied with his life. The plot was simple, straightforward, and filled with suspense. In this one, Robinson is stupid and friendless from the beginning. Instead of one whiny voiced snoop, everybody seems to mistreat him, lie to him, exploit him, and ridicule him in his absence. Or, like his wife, they simply insult him constantly and boss him around. And they all live like slobs. Bennet flips her cigarette butt into a sink piled high with dirty dishes.
The problem doesn't lie in Lang's direction. He does a fine job. (The murder scene may make you gasp with surprise, the brutality emerging as it does out of a mild-mannered clerk.) There's a bit of ironic humor in evidence too. Robinson's wife, too stingy to buy her own radio, goes downstairs to listen to "The Happy Family Hour," while Robinson sits at the dinner table and buries his head in his hands. And the dialog is sometimes keen. "He's too dumb to be a phony". And he IS. Robinson's performance isn't bad but it's stereotyped. There's little complexity in it. He's thoroughly undermined by his corrosive lack of self esteem, a naive, self-deprecating fool and he's treated like one. Bennet is more animated than in the earlier film, but Duryea is, if anything, even a riper villain than before.
In real life, of course, Edward G. Robinson was a true aficionado of classical art and, along with Vincent Price, had one of the more esteemed and expensive art collections in Hollywood. In the film -- and I don't know if this was intended as a joke or not -- his much-admired paintings truly stink. Take a good look at that flower in the milk glass. My kid could have done better than that with finger paints in kindergarten. I'll reserve judgment on the big snake with the forked tongue wrapped around the el tracks. That one is either way over my head or way under it.
Overall, it's pretty depressing and paints a bleak Edward-Hopperly picture of modern life, so to speak, without much in the way of redemptive wit. It reaches for tragedy and winds up with only melancholy, baby. Rent "The Woman in the Window" instead. If nothing else, the transfer to DVD is better. This print is so fuzzy and blotched that when an envelope is held up for the audience, the viewer can't read the address.