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Streaming Shuffle

Without Honor

The end of Noirvember brings you an unjustly forgotten--and deeply feminist--cocktail party from hell.

Without Honor—an unusual, nightmarish exercise in tension—is one of my favorite Noirvember discoveries. It’s a lean 69 minutes, and though it plays out in or close to real time, it handles its brisk story arcs with so much conviction that it packs in years’ worth of character development. This is a killer work of suburban noir that should be in a double feature with Cause for Alarm.

Laraine Day plays Jane, whose late afternoon tidying-up is interrupted by the arrival of her lover, Franchot Tone’s Dennis Williams. His arrival makes her glow—never mind that it’s a bad idea for him to drop by when her husband’s due any minute, this man, as weaselly as he quickly turns out to be, is her only source of happiness. But while she’s still playfully fretting about feeling dowdy in her housedress, he hits her with a one-two punch: a private eye’s been tailing them, and he’s gathered up enough proof to blow their lives apart. Jane’s shocked but relieved. This isn’t how she wanted her marriage to end, but she’ll be glad to have it over and done with, and then she and Dennis can be together. After all, he’s always told her his marriage was already over in all but name.

Jane, they always say that.

Day does a good job sinking into stunned denial as everything in her life unravels—she won’t have her lover, and soon, she suspects, she won’t even have the consolation of a stable, if distant and unhappy, life with her husband, either—and that’s good. She’ll stay submerged in those emotions for almost the entire film, surfacing only at odd intervals to act, almost frantically, to try to keep her sense of self and her integrity intact.

She goes from revelation to catastrophe to a kind of living hell, because it turns out that her husband didn’t hire that private eye: her brother-in-law, Bill (Dane Clark), did. And he’s so twisted up with sexual obsession and resentment and jealousy that he wants to torment her for a while, bullying and coming onto her before sticking her in an emotional pressure-cooker, with her and her husband and Dennis and his wife all crammed into the living room. It’s a parlor scene, and he’s the detective. He wants to be the one to reveal whodunnit, and where, and how often. He wants to watch her squirm.

I don’t want to give away too many details about the small incidents that make this feel so vivid. Let’s say that director Irving Pichel has an eye for the kinds of vivid, familiar but slightly surreal (or alienating in how they’re deployed here) images and occurrences: a broken heel, a garden hose spraying wildly against a dress, the black netting on a hat casting dark stars across a pale face, a woman stumbling through an orange grove, a careening ice cream truck, a lift home, a new TV. A house is a prison. This all has faint Lynchian vibes of peeling off the superficially normal skin of suburbia to find the strangeness and—worse—writhing rottenness underneath.

The film doesn’t see Jane’s affair as a transgression; it doesn’t think there’s anything unspoiled for her to transgress against. It is, explicitly, a symptom of a wider disease, of the way her whole life has been poisoned by all the active malice and self-serving lies undergirding this normalcy. Maybe some of that is treatable. Maybe it’s not. (Either way, the image the film chooses to end on has a shocking raw power to it.)

Dane Clark gives magnificent wild-eyed sleaze as Bill, who ratchets back and forth between emotional neediness and the drive to humiliate so quickly that it shows Clark’s understanding that it’s all of a piece, all a manic desire to get exactly what he wants from everyone exactly how he wants it, but some bottom recognition that he doesn’t have the guts or the power to get it without twisting someone’s arm. At first, the movie seems to be setting him to play off Jane, but the real time conceits works against that—Jane is too numb and shaken-up to fight back properly. Instead, his true opposite number is Katherine Williams (Agnes Moorehead), Dennis’s wife, who knows why she’s been invited here but has her own reasons for attending.

Moorehead is always good, and here she walks aways with the whole movie. Her Katherine is coolly controlled but not, it emerges, chilly; she has her own compassion, and she distributes it in a clear-eyed way. She’s always seen through the polite fictions Dennis tried to sell her, and she sees everyone else just as easily: her calm recognition of who everyone here is and what they’re doing is speech as character-defining action. Bill wanted all this to be a very one-sided cat-and-mouse game, with him toying with Jane to his heart’s content. Katherine interrupts that both by being another cat and by refusing to play as he expects.

Empathetic, effective, weird, humane, and always invested in its female characters’ full humanity, Without Honor deserves a revival. Once again, Tubi is doing the Lord’s work.

Without Honor is—per that last line—streaming on Tubi (as well as Philo, Plex, and The Roku Channel).

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