I'm the lattice of shadows cast on the floor by an elaborate window frame, signifying a web of deceit.
I'm the high-waisted gown that disguises Barabara Stanwyck's manly figure.
I'm the cream colored convertible that the dame who's nothing but trouble, drives at great speed up the steep rocky shoreline road, just outside of town.
Okay, that made me choke on my sandwich R23.
I'm the mouth speaking into a dial phone and you can't see the rest of the face.
I'm the empty eerie misty station platform beneath the window of the rootless drifter's room in the shabby rooming house and the dramatic location of one of the clumsy shootout scenes later in the movie.
I'm the punchy fighter who was supposed to take a dive in the fifth.
I'm damaged goods.
I'm the pencil, the dame who's nothing but trouble, uses to dial the phone on the wall in the decrepit gas station, on that dusty road just out of town.
I'm Gloria Grahame, whose personal life is even more sordid than my character's!
I'm the younger sister, talking like a drunk Shirley Temple and looking like my lips are sticky from a cherry lollipop. I'm bad, and worse than I look.
I'm the trusty secretary, more Girl Friday and sister than employee, hard-boiled, no fool about the guy, but still half in love with the mug. I'll take the bitch to me place, sure. But my mother's not going to like it.
I'm the hand straightening the seam of the stocking that doesn't need straightening, and moving higher than necessary if anyone is looking.
I'm the world-weary, gin-soaked, and embittered narration.
I'm the gun the did it that isn't where it's supposed to be that belongs to the wrong guy that was taken when no one was looking that also was involved with an earlier shooting and will be used again even though I am assumed to have been thrown into the river or tossed out the window in the middle of nowhere in the middle of that first fateful night. Yeah, my hole stinks. Wouldn't yours?
I'm the tighter-than-tight, blacker-than-night pencil skirt.
I am the smoke. I am everywhere, always, except in church, where my brother incense takes over for me. I pour out of mouths and noses and into faces whether the talk is of love or hate or cold indifference.
I'm the anti-heroine's kicky anklet, which the camera fetishistically focuses on to let you know she's superkinky and will be the fuck of Fred MacMurray's dreams.
I am the food no one ever seems to eat.
I'm the first body. Maybe I am fished from the river or harbor, with the suggestion of bloat and the outrage of small hungry mouths haven fed from me. But I'm not going to be important to the story.
I'm the cup of coffee that washes down every diner meal.
I am the elevator. Even when used merely for conveyance I suggest danger and risk.
I am the telephone, frantically grabbed and dialed by our leading lady in a moment of High Drama.
I'm the plot, that seems to have been overlooked, in favor of detail and atmosphere.
I may show up later, but don't count on it.
I'm the shapely leg that is teasingly exposed off the side of a Chinese room divider, causing the detective to crush a piece of paper in his hand.
I'm not a salon. I'm a beauty parlor.
I'm New York, the city the dame who's nothing but trouble, was headed for, to start a new life and career as a Broadway dancer, before she got shot in the back of her head, as she drove away from the decrepit gas station on the dusty road, just outside of town.
I'm the wise-cracking cabdriver who's on a first-name basis with the detective.
I'm the heavy, overly dramatic soundtrack, that drones on throughout.
Dammit r30 I was just going to do the pencil dialling the phone routine.
I'm the Bradbury Building, where the detective's office is located, just down from the elevator on the second floor.
I'm the cigarettes that seem to magically appear out of thin air.
I'm the sister AND the daughter.
I am the lonely sax wailing from the shabby rooming house by the diner near the railway station ... as the rootless drifter tries to figure out what is going on. He has Linda Darnell and Alice Faye on the go - which to choose, mind you Linda ends up dead before too long as our lonely drifter becomes the main suspect. The other guys at the diner (like Charles Bickford) could also be in the frame ...
I'm Gene Tierney throwing myself down the stairs for a quickly home abortion; then drowning a pesky crippled boy and looking fabulous while doing it all - bitches!
I'm the rootless drifter's sexy buttocks that you'll never see through his incredibly baggy pants.
I'm the not-quite-as-good remake that Hollywood can't resist filming, starring Nicholson and Lange...or Jeff Bridges and Rachel Ward...or perhaps worst of all Dennis Quaid and Meg Ryan.
I'm the shabby movie theater, smoke caught in the glow from the film projector, where the hero hides out from the goons who are on his trail.
I'm the knowing superior look on the cool cat detective's face. I'm the main reason the heterosexual men in the audience admire and look up to him.
I'm shiny wet and black pavement that glistens under streetlights. I am in nearly every other scene, whether it is raining or not.
I'm 'night', one of the words in the evocative title.
I'm the palm trees even though this thing is supposed to be set within easy driving distance of New York City.
I'm the police lieutenant who treats the detective like a suspect. I talk tough, and I make threats, but I can tell he's a right guy and we're on the same team.
Maybe it's because regardless of whether it's his office, his dingy apartment, or a cheap hotel, I can walk right in since he never seems to lock the door.
I'm Ann Blyth, looking at Evan Rachel Wood and thinking, "Bitch, please."
I'm the heartless showgirl whose strangled corpse is discovered 15 minutes into the film.
I'm Jack Carson and for some insane, inexplicable reason when I gaze upon Joan Crawford's hard-as-nails, gargoyle-like visage I want to fuck her.
I'm Claire Trevor, and I'm always guilty as hell.
I'm the stylish digs where the Big Boss tends to his nefarious doings. There's a private bar and the whole joint is done up ironically in white.
I am the noble heart of gold that beats under the anti-hero's cynical, hard-drinking, rumpled exterior. You can tell I've been broken in the past by the a-h's sardonic remarks about dames and love.
I'm the string of Chinese lanterns hanging from the balconies of the main drag in the border town and mysteriously still lit despite the only other remnants of the long over street party being a few beer bottles near the gutter and our hero staggering and tripping over his own shadow.
I'm the fluorescent glow of an all-night coffee shop piercing the relative dark on Second Avenue.
I'm Los Angeles, and this is MY moment goddamn it.
I am the velvet smoking jacket, desk and fat cigar of the criminal mastermind. I watch the goons wrestle the rootless drifter into the room. He shakes them off and is made an offer, eventually, after being questioned.
LOVE this thread!
I'm the gun in the desk drawer. I'll be wrapping-up all those pesky holes in the plot during the last scene.
I'm the telephone operator who pronounces the numeral 9 as "ni-yun."
I'm Fiona Shaw, scrubbing The Black Dahlia off my resumé.
I'm Trudy Stevens, the singing voice of hard-boiled nightclub canary Lizabeth Scott.
I'm the editing. When you hear a screech of tires, expect me to jump quickly to an extreme close-up of a wide-eyed woman.
I'm the devious and icy blonde. I get a conscience near the end of act 2 but I am murdered/taken to jail/or have hot grease thrown in my face in Act 3 because the Code says I have to pay for my crimes.
I'm the hard boiled detective who will go against my better judgement by dramatically taking that nothing but trouble dame and kissing her hard on the mouth.
I'm the newsroom, where the city editor is putting together an extra screaming that the hero is wanted for murder, the phones are jangling and some reporter is yelling at the other end of the line: "Hello sweetheart! Get me rewrite!"
I'm the horizontally striped shadow created by venetian blinds.
I'm the gigantic steering wheel that the docile soon-to-be victim showgirl has to handle as if she were driving a bumper car, while the effects of street lights flash by her face.
In a few seconds (her last) she will let go off the wheel altogether as she screams in horror, biting her index finher knuckle and covering her face.
I'm a full slip and garters.
I'm hair parted on the side and covering one eye peek-a-boo style.
Lauren, Veronica, Jessica
I'm Susan Hayward, and I want to live.
[quote]In a few seconds (her last) she will let go off the wheel altogether as she screams in horror, biting her index finher knuckle and covering her face.
I'm the broken wooden guardrail at the edge of the cliff she finally drives off of. I'm where the crowd will gather to point and shake their heads.
I'm the devious icy blonde's very plain sister. I'm married to a lazy, good for nothin' alcoholic. I have four kids all under seven years old and one more on the way. People feel sorry for me.
My only saving grace is that I'm a little bit wry and I'm nobody's fool.
The detective shows me respect cos he's an all round good guy.
I'm the mother of the bad guy who seems oblivious to his evil.
I’m the halting, crackling footsteps on the shiny wet and black pavement that glistens under streetlights after the rainstorm that just came out of nowhere.
I'm the hothouse full of orchids inhabited by the ancient man in a silk quilted robe who draws the sweating detective into a world of decadence and corruption he little understands.
I'm lurking betrayal.
I am the sultry nightclub singer, a tough yet tender dame with a whiskey voice who chain smokes Lucky Strikes. I have to do my "act", which consists of singing one song.
I’m Jennifer Aniston. I would be out of place in one of these movies. See my new romantic comedy, “Can’t Live With ‘Em”, at the multiplex next door.
I'm the dying stoolie.
I'm the facial bandage.
I'm Joan Bennett. Not blonde, but still icy and devious.
I'm Todd Haynes, taking notes.
I'm the name painted in gold letters on a frosted glass door.
I'm the double scotch on the rocks, Sam.
I'm the rigid moral code of the male protagonist. His failure to observe my existence at a crucial moment in the plot can only lead to tragedy.
I'm a coded homosexual. Call me a gunsel.
Fanty and Mingo
I'm the clouds of cigarette smoke that could choke a horse.
I'm the ending which doesn't account for about three character deaths, a subplot about a rival mob and who actually is the bad guy.
I'm the accident insurance policy.
I'm the wartime economy. It's my fault the lighting budget's so small.
I'm the corner of the desk where the hero gets a good look at her gams
I'm the cup of black coffee on the roadhouse café counter.
I'm the wise-cracking bottle blonde, the lead in B-noir, the best friend of the femme fatale in A-noir, or at least the moll of the gangster/leading man. My hair is usually in a pompadour and I drink a lot.
I am the click click of stiletto heels as the sleazy chorus girl hurries down the dark street nervously glancing over her shoulder in an effort to avoid her inevitrable doom.
[quote]I'm a coded homosexual. Call me a gunsel.
Or Joel Cairo.
If the curtains are blowing in the wind and there is a cigarette burning in the ashtray it means that I'm either making love or killing.
I'm the homosexual who runs the florist in town.
I'm on the cutting room floor.
I'm the war record of the leading man.
I'll spare you the details, but it goes without saying that compared to the shit he dealt with for Uncle Sam, this little jam is a cakewalk.
I am Paco, the Mexican scoundrel to whom our heroine once turned in her desperate hour of need. I am now betraying her and chortling sadistically as I do so. I expose harsh teeth while crazed violin music plays and the wild-eyed heroine cringes in the corner clutching the drapes.
Never, ever trust foreigners.
I am the elegantly decorated apartment of the femme fatale, impossibly expensive on a nightclub floozie's pay. I have ruffled lampshades and criss-cross shears at the windows, with big flowers on the drapes. The hard-boiled detective will look here for evidence.
I'm the beads of sweat building up on the fat stool-pigeon's face just seconds before they get him to crack.
I'm the whirring ceiling fan overhead, fooling the habitués into thinking that I'm providing welcome relief from the hot, muggy, stale, and smoky air when all I'm really doing is recirculating the same damn misery.
I'm the filthy faced orphan puppy dog eyes delivering a note from the mob boss.
I'm Artie Shaw's Nightmare. You've probably heard me somewhere before.
I'm the waitress. I take tips and am glad to get them.
Bengali in Platforms
I'm the newsstand guy who hands the detective the newspaper with the headline about the murder.
I'm the hard-boiled gal who starts every exchange with the dame who is no good with the words "Listen, sister"
I'm the only one who knows who killed the Sternwood chauffeur.
I'm the childhood friend, ex-partner on the police force, or old army buddy.
I'll either die in the first reel or I'll get the girl at the end after the hero dies to satisfy the production code.
I am the lipstick stain on the cigarette left in an ashtray in the villain's living room that tells the hero that the dame thats-nothing-but-trouble has been there ...
And, might still be there!
I am the white suit our heroine is wearing as she walks down the rain drenched streets, with menancing footsteps behind her.
I exist so the audience can see her clearly -- however, the menancing footsteps have a hard time following her.
I'm the pan to the curtains blowing from the open window as the lovers walk into the bedroom.
I'm Charlie Chaplin's Hitler stash in The Great Dictator.
I’m the cigarette holder dangling seductively from the mouth of a dame who doesn’t know she’ll be dead soon.
I am the vibration of the bell inside the phone as the receiver is slammed.
I'm our glamorously frightened heroine's virtually silent maid. I bring the Noir.
I'm a young starlet who has to pretend she's attracted to a man old enough to be her father.
Have you listened to Republican rhetoric lately?
I'm what you think if darkly foreboding symbolism.
But I'm really just the first prop the set dresser saw when he walked in the warehouse.
I'm the steering wheel, which actors spastically turned up, down, up, down to denote they're in a rush. And really driving.
I'm Barbara Stanwyck, wearing a bullet-tit bra and chain-smoking while I plot to do your ass in.
I am Steve Hayes and I wish I had started and posted on this thread.
I'm Ben Hecht, cynically laughing as I portray reporters as above money bribes, laughing all the way to the bank.
I am the black, fishnet veil on the hat of the mysterious woman - there is no need for me - as she's not a widow, I don't block out any of the elements and she's not incognito.
[quote]I have to do my "act", which consists of singing one song.
Why is that always the case?
Im the phone hook that gets mercilessly and repeatedly pounded as our hero or doomed girl screams "Operator. Operator! OPERATOR!!"
I'm the string of pearls splaterring to the floor.
I'm the unwilling hero finally doing the right thing at the end and turning the bad broad I love after all in, and either getting my heart broken or my gut filled with lead in the sad process.
I am the words,
Inevitably displayed as the ambulance pulls away on the dark street, lights flashing, or the police arrive to inspect the bodies on the street (shown from 10 stories up), or the camera lifts from the mortal effects of the denouement and shows the life of the cold city carrying on unaware of what has happened.
I'm Joan Crawford, pulling a loaded revolver out of my shoulder-padded mink coat.
I'm the slashed tire which will impede the escape.
I'm Barbara Stanwyck. I'm doing this whole goddamned movie in bed.
I'm the padded leather-covered door into the bad guy's office.
I'm Butterfly McQueen, because I always pop up in these movies from time to time. Uncredited of course. Bitches.
I'M Barbara Stanwyck, and I know how to stand on my own two feet, buster. I can be sweet, and I can be wicked. Now lay down them cards and show me what you got. And I ain't talkin' about that ace you just pulled out of your sleeve, neither.
Now that we're friends, lets say you and me go push that lousy husband of mine off the top deck. He's been dead for three hours and I don't want him stinkin' up the place.
I'm WONDERING WHEN THE PLOT IS GOING TO START...
I'm the tassled atomizer attached to the pretty cut glass perfume bottle on the dressing table of the femme fatale. I suggest delicate femininity so I actually serve as a contrast to my shady owner, who gives me a few arrogant squeezes while looking in the mirror and denying some horrific crime to the private eye grilling her.
I am the bartender's towel, draped protectively over his forearm.
I'm applauding, as this is the best DL thread in months!
I'm the mandatory pencil mustache.
I'm almost always on one of the bad guys, or strangely enough, the district attorney.
I'm the crippled but witty newspaper seller in the wooden kiosk next to the boulevard.
We're Peter Lorre and Sydney Greenstreet. We're nothing but trouble, and have our hands in all kinds of illegal shenanigans.
I'm Bette Davis, and every time I kissed ya I had to wipe my mouth, ya hear me? WIPE MY MOUTH!
I'm the glass being filled with scotch in the police station, higher and higher, trying to get the alcoholic stoolie (just sprung from the drunk tank) to talk. His forehead is sweaty and he really wants a drink, I think he'll sing!
We're Jane Greer's smirk and withering glare. Don't fuck with this bitch, fellas.
We're Jane Greer's smirk and withering glare. Don't fuck with this bitch, fellas.
I'm the eager immaculate black boy who takes care of the detective's car when he arrives at the grand country club to meet the classy dame (nothing but trouble) who waits inside on a banquette, nurses a cocktail, and makes gracious banter with the elderly waitstaff whom she's known forever.
I'm Meg Ryan and I know I don't belong here. But I'd be more than willing to play the lips that the cigarette hangs off of or a fish that the first bad guy sleeps with. Or whatever. I'll do it for scale. Or maybe we could all come up with a rom com/film noir mashup? It could be all meta, like Being John Malkovich. Like The Maltese Falcon Crest! Well, I guess Falcon Crest was more of a soap than a romcom, but you get the idea. Shit. I'm rambling. Listen, I can find a picture of Dennis Quaids cock and post it! Just put me in the picture. Okay? Thanks gays!
I'm radio station KJX having just delivered the latest flash news in the ongoing crime wave, now returning to the Jasmine Room of the Hotel Lombardi where the soothing strains of Danny Dutton and his Society Strings will be heard briefly until the hero snaps off the set in frustration.
[quote]at the grand country club to meet the classy dame (nothing but trouble) who waits inside on a banquette, nurses a cocktail, and makes gracious banter with the elderly waitstaff whom she's known forever.
Is Karen Walker doing Noirs now?
I'm the detective's studio apartment, complete with Murphy bed, armchair with side table (where the table lamp, ashtray and telephone reside.
There's a small kitchenette too, but it's hardly used except to make coffee.
Oh yea, there are a couple of windows too from which you can see the cityscape that's always shown in the gloom of night.
I'm the cast of characters in the opening credits, all of which neatly fit on one single flash card.
I'm the theremin, eerily warbling on the soundtrack, accompanying the flashback to the scene of the murder which the hero is now being framed for.
I'm the hot motorcycle cop who either stops the hero or walks into the diner and senses something ain't quite right. I give the hero a chance to talk tough.
Other than that, I don't do much except look good in my uniform and needlessly rev the motorcycle engine a couple times while looking perplexed as I try to put the puzzle pieces together.
Oh, and I'll drive up at the end to stare over the edge of the broken guardrail and shake my head.
I am the motorcycle cops mirrored sunglasses the reflect the anxious look of heroine when I stop her for erratic driving.
Although I can tell she drunk, the cop that's wearing me can't figure out.
I am the dark, menancing alley the hero inexplicably runs down trying to avoid menancing footsteps behind me. I inevitably lead to a brick wall forcing the hero to turnaround and realize the footsteps belong to police friend of his.
(Why didn't the footsteps call out before the hero turned into me)
I am the cat that suddenly shows up in the menancing warehouse (or attic, alley, street, garage, whatever) that scurries by right before the hero gets clunked on the head.
I'm the steam from the arriving train.
I'm Gene Tierney and I'm about to let this little retarded kid drown.
I'm the ghost of German Expressionism.
I'm Rita Hayworth. I can't act, sing or dance, but no one seems to care. My husband's in love with another man, but I don't care. The camera loves my face and my hair. But I don't care.
[quote]I'm applauding, as this is the best DL thread in months!
Just us eldergays.
I'm the name Vera.
Say, what say we wrap this kaboodle up, see? Look here, see. I don't have for this, see.
Rita Hayworth couldn't act, sing or dance? Are you fucking kidding?
I'm Linda Darnell's full-lipped smirk.
I'm Gene Tierney's white terrycloth robe.
I'm Lana Turner's white turban.
I'm the book titled "The Gal With The Hoe".
I'm the hatcheck girl. I'm fucking the producer so I get one line of dialogue. That tramp fucking the director only gets a walk-on as a cigarette girl.
I'm the phone the waiter brings to the table.
I'm the foggy dock anyone near me is up to no good.
I'm Burt Lancaster's sexual chemistry with his male co-stars.
[quote]I'm the foggy dock anyone near me is up to no good.
I'm the tramp steamer alongside the foggy dock. Why my foghorn is sounding when I'm tied up at the dock is anyone's guess, just go with it.
I'm an overhead shot from the overhead train tracks with an overhead of about $4.59.
Shot at 3:00 am to stay in budget.
I'm the words you've all been waiting for:-
I'm one of the following words:
I'm the intense inner-monologue that leads into a flashback.
I'm Doris, the nosy telephone operator who heard something.
I'm Dana Andrews, smoldering, looking handsome and wishing there was an excuse to take off more clothes than I ever take off in these films.
I'm the ambiguously gay middle-aged character with a snotty smirk, who will probably stab you with a dainty blade as soon as it suits me. I will make suggestive and somehow not-quite dirty comments and leer at the hero as I speak in very subtle (so as not to upset the Hays code) double-entendre. I will be killed in a hideous and overdone way so that everyone knows that fags always get what's coming to them in the end.
I'm the silver bar tray which holds a bottle of scotch, a bottle of seltzer, two highball glasses, and a bowl of ice cubes which having been sitting here for hours, but are never melted!
I'm the torch song sung by the hero's chanteusy gal pal, who's been pining after him for years, only to end up dead in an alley right after I finish my set.
I'm the little pearl-handled lady pistol that has no kick back and can kill large men
I'm the night filter that tries as hard as I can to make noon look like midnight
we are David Lynch and Quentin Tarentino skimming off the most obvious images and feeling innovative
I am the everywhere, and I never see myself represented in these movies
I am the poker game which the detective crashes and comes face to face with the mastermind and his goons
I am Raymond Burr, who used to play bad guys but became one of the most famous fictional defense attorneys ever.
I am the tinkling bell that means someone has entered the pawn shop, book store or antique shop, and is the last sweet sound you will hear for the rest of the scene
I am the rapidly spinning newspaper that grinds to a sudden halt to scream out some dramatic headline
I'm the cigarette dangling carelessly from Bogart's lips.
I'm.... unh..... you know.... fuck, what's her name?..... oh, come on, you know... we saw her in that movie with Franchot Tone and Ann Sothern.... she used to be married to...
I'm the plain doughnut sitting under a glass dome at the coffee shop. I'm frequently served, but almost never eaten. If I am eaten, it is never by the nothing but trouble girl. She'll just have one demure sip of black coffee.
I'm the old fashioned candlestick telephone still in use in the 40s that lets the audience know this place of business is a somewhat seedy affair.
Click. Click. Click. "Operator! Operator! Get me GLendale 5-9406."
I'm the enormous phone booth in the drugstore. There's room enough for two people to fight, and for all the customers to witness it.
"I am Raymond Burr, who used to play bad guys but became one of the most famous fictional defense attorneys ever."
I'm Ray Burr, playing a man hot for Lizabeth Scott in the movie Pitfall. I wonder if the audience knows that Liz and I are big ol' queers?
I'm a fur coat, with a gun in the pocket.
I'm the click click of stilettos on recently misted pavement
I'm the bursts of laughter, internal or otherwise, whenever the price of anything is noticed, such as stepping out of a cab and paying with coins
I'm the Women's Studies paper on the objectification of the female body in Classical Hollywood Cinema.
Naturally, I lack humor.
I am Barbara Stanwyck's bullet-tittied bra, poking from underneath her cashmere sweater.
I’m a broad who tries to justify going out with a man twice her age that she just met by saying: “a gal’s gotta eat.” Even though I know we’re going to a bar that doesn’t serve food and even though I don’t drink anything when I get there.
I’m the lifts in Bogarts shoes.
I'm the single-hinged rear door on the vintage white Siebert ambulance, being shut by a handsome man in an immaculate white uniform. He's shaking his head at the tragedy of it all, as a title card announces the fadeout to 'The End' .
I'm the same ambulance that will probably truck Frances Farmer in and out of Tacoma State Hospital.
I'm Dickie Loeb. I won't be appearing in this film since I was murdered in the 1930s, but I would have been gratified to hear that every pretty boy sociopath of ambiguous sexuality is modeled after me.
I have just woken up from a nightmare with a gasp that, if it had been only a tiny bit louder, would have qualified as a scream. Here I now sit bolt uprightly, bathed in a cold sweat, taking a few deep breaths in an effort to bring under control my rapidly pounding heart. "I can't go on this way. I... I... I simply can't..." I lay back down in a desperate effort to get some badly needed sleep before daybreak. "Yes," I feverishly think, "daybreak - when I must begin putting my plan into action. It has become all too clear to me that I have no other choice."
I'm Louie B. Mayer and I hate these movies. Go see my new musical starring Lucille Bremer and June Allyson as two talentless broads who somehow end up in a musical.
Louie B. Mayer
I'm the curiously large apartment and expensive clothes of a diner waitress.
I'm Rita Hayworths hair pulled back tightly beneath silk scarf but still threatening fall out seductively and lead the eye down to where the Code doesn't allow to camera to go.
I'm the longshoreman in the park getting a blowjob
I'm Richard Widmark's skidmarks.
Bump to counteract the anti-misogyny troll.
I'm Peter Lorre's oddly youthful pervert face, getting slapped by the masculine alpha.
I'm the hero's landlady. I only own this building because my husband died under mysterious circumstances. The viewer might be led to believe I'll get my own unresolved subplot however after my one scene at the start of the movie I'm never seen again.
I'm John Dall. My slightly protruding teeth are so oddly lovable that you know I'm not truly evil, even when I'm... gun crazy.
I'm the seedy motel room that you just broke into, but there's no one here, you just missed him ...the radio's on, look there's a cigarette butt still smoking in the ashtray on the night table next to the bed upon which rests a single key, a train schedule, and two poker chips from that sleazy casino in the next county.
I'm the open flimsy cardboard suitcase into which the gal about to go on the lam throws drawersful of all her worldly goods.
I'm the Asian objets d'art that are scattered around the set to make sure that the audience knows it is in the presence of pure decadence.
[quote]I'm the plain doughnut sitting under a glass dome at the coffee shop. I'm frequently served, but almost never eaten. If I am eaten, it is never by the nothing but trouble girl. She'll just have one demure sip of black coffee.
This is just such a great observation. I hope R219 hasn't scurried away from DL in terror.
I'm the sultry nightclub singer's drawn-on, arched eyebrows. I tell the viewer that this dame is no good.
I'm everyone's affected 'acting' accent.
I'm the seen-better-days orchid corsage pinned to the seen-better-days fur coat on the seen-better-days supporting actress.....
I'm also the throw pillow from "Coney Island", a few bits of fringe missing, tossed on the old velvet sofa in the supporting actresses apartment...
I'm Waldo Lydecker's glassware collection, touched by the Detective (before rebuke) in an early sign that Waldo merely sees Laura as an aesthetic object to be owned and displayed, while the spontaneous Detective will want her as a real man should.
(Waldo's high-waisted and voluminous though immaculate suit trousers also indicate the unbridgeable barrier between he and Laura, for all his fancy talk and high living.)
I’m the leading man trying to suppress his laughter as he calls Joan Crawford a beautiful, feminine, young woman.
I'm the car headlights that shine directly into the camera, blinding the viewer as something unspeakable happens just off to the left.
I’m the word “strange” (or a diminutive therefore of) in the evocative title.
Terrified, I run through the streets, clad in my designer raincoat, hair perfectly coiffed, make-up perfect with dark red lips, great jewelry.
I look back, scared. The night fog is everywhere. The storefronts are all closed.I run faster. I stumble.
I scream as I am caught by a tall,dark and handsome man with toussled hair and a firm grip. He smells like cigars,cologne and scotch. "Hey, kid, you gotta be careful this time of night" he says. I feel a mixture of relief and caution in his strong arms.
I am the dime tip left for the diner waitress, who is happy to get it. Despite the fact that she "doesn't like to gossip, mister" she will let slip that the girl he's asking about is a tramp. I will be clutched and put in her pocket as she stares wistfully out the window in the direction the p.i. just drove off in.
I am the waitress. I am the actress Rose Marie,or at least resemble her. The diner is empty at this time of night.
They walk in, the man in the frumpled coat,and the gal with the lipstick. She is starting to calm down. They order coffee black, and light up a smoke.
I am the phrase "Now see here!", I will be shouted at the mysterious woman by the p.i. as he shakes her by the shoulders. If my being uttered doesn't work, my cousin, the face slap, will be brought in.
I am the ubiquitous seedy waterfront warehouse
I' m the fedora hat and trenchcoat worn by every male character
I'm the apple crate Alan Ladd is standing on.
I'm the zoot suit worn by the impertinent young man who smarts off to the detective when he comes nosing around the pool hall.
Oh r261, I may know you. I am the Varsity letter jacket worn by the 40-years-old-and-looks-it BMOC. My brother is a similar leather jacket worn by the J.D.'s.
I am the 6 shooter revolver that somehow manages to fire off 10 rounds without being re-loaded.
I am the TV set in the corner bar. I am always tuned in to wrestling on the DuMont Network.
I’m “the type my mother warned me about”.
I am the heavy layer of lipstick that a harsh kiss or a brutal slap never smears.
I'm Ginger Rogers, making sure no communists were involved in the making of this movie.
I am the cigarette that is removed from the packet, placed in the mouth, then lighted, using only one hand.
I'm the dame you know is classy due to her Transatlantic accent, white fur stole and the picture of her father she carries with her.
I'm the matchbook. The hero will casually use me to light a cigarette and then slip me into his pocket.
I'll be back--the phone number written on my inside cover will be the key to solving the murder.
I'm the door to the bad guy's office. I'm covered in padded leather.
I'm supposed to be soundproof, but the bad guy can summon his henchmen waiting outside the door by calling for them in a normal voice.
I'm the high heels that make that noticeable sound when they walk across the pavement.
I'm the focused stare of the PI.
I'm a socially acceptable storyline, which replaces the possible homosexual undertones of the source material.
I'm the dark black line down the opaque stockings.
I'm Veronica Lake, underacting with perfect composure in every scene.