I like Ike and all, but the mainstream media monsoon of 1950s America, consisting largely of smiley sitcoms and splashy Technicolor musicals and melodramas, can feel a bit too saccharine nowadays. For the more cynical classic film fan, noir is the genre. Fistfights in dark alleys, handsome bad guy heroes, sexually self-possessed women - noir films capture the other side of the 1950s' suburban sprawl. And John Farrow's His Kind of Woman is one, albeit not really typical, example of this genre.
Coming in 1951, when the Hollywood studios already knew they were on their way to extinction, His Kind of Woman straddles both the era of studio dominance and the burgeoning independence of filmmakers in the '50s. Decidedly noir, it's also decidedly a studio picture, with big stars and scads of classical Hollywood conventions.
Jane Russell and Robert Mitchum are the film's stars. Mitchum, the American equivalent of a permanently hungover Cary Grant, plays gambler Dan Milner with sleepy-eyed panache. Russell, the actress who inspired my grandpa to always call large chicken breasts "Jane Russells," brings spunk, sass, and decolletage to the role of mystery girl Lenore Brent. By the early 1950s, both had been around about a decade, and were skilled enough stars that their impromptu singing on a beach in evening wear seems perfectly normal. (Though let it be noted, Mitchum whistles accompaniment. I'm not sure he could stop mumbling long enough to sing.)
The supporting cast, meanwhile, includes Raymond Burr as a deported Sicilian mobster, Jim Backus (Rebel Without a Cause, as well as the voice of Mr. Magoo) as a lecherous traveler, and Vincent Price as the superbly deluded Mark Cardigan. Cardigan is an Errol Flynn-type actor with a Charlton Heston-level love of hunting with guns, and Price is excellent in the role.
Along with the star power, His Kind of Woman further toes the Hollywood line with a lavish set. The majority of the action takes place, surprisingly, out of a shadowy city and in a bright Mexican resort. The set is designed within an inch of its life. Each room seems to have a wall of louvered doors, simply because they can. As if Mitchum is such a man, he has to open a whole wall of doors, not just one.
Stylistically, noir and classical conventions merge for the greater enhancement of the film. With classic Hollywood movies, cameras don't tend to move a lot, shots frequently stay from the knees up, and the lighting makes everyone look fab - style often falls subservient to story. The story takes precedent again in His Kind of Woman, but with a far more interesting style. Several characters are introduced offscreen, and the inevitable chiaroscuro is used to great effect. It's nothing completely out there, but the style of His Kind of Woman elevates the story, grabbing the viewer far more efficiently.
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