Let's be film noir

I'm the warm light and diffuse filter that is used for every shot in which the femme fatale appears, so as to highlight the fact that she is some sort of dreamy, almost supernatural creature. I won't prevent the femme fatale from turning into a very prosaic, submissive housewife by the end of the film, or else ending up in prison / dead as a punishment for her crimes (which are invariably greed, enjoying sex and being unhappy with her boring and unremarkable husband).

I'm the black-and-white film stock.

I'm the rain and fog. So much rain and fog.

I'm the middle-aged actress who plays the wise-cracking waitress. I have five lines in the film. Way back in 1923, when I arrived in Hollywood fresh from Lake City, Iowa, I thought I had a real future in film. I even got a few decent roles, and once played opposite Adolphe Menjou. But what little of a career I had didn't survive talkies. Now I've been relegated to these bit parts in Poverty Row films. I live alone in a little apartment on Beverly Glen; I've been here since 1934, when my third marriage ended. I rarely attend the screenings of my films these days. Why bother? It's a paycheck, and it's a lonely life.

I've the over-orchestration.

I'm the pearl-handled pistol in the gloved hand of a woman.

I'm the French director. Actually, I just have a name that sounds French, and that's enough.

I'm the disappearing small art cinema where these films were once shown.

I'm Fate. No one, but no one, escapes me.

I’m a bag of money, thrown out of a moving vehicle.

I'm Crestview 20535

I'm the wise-cracking black best friend, inserted into every other scene for comic relief. My character is safe and approachable for white people.

Wait, tell me again what film noir means?

I'm the fedora(s).

I'm the lung and throat cancer caused from so many onscreen cigarettes.

I’m the end.

R15 for the win!

I'm the Ennis Mansion, 500,000 tons of Mayan-inspired concrete-interlocking block architecture.

The femme fatale lives here with her sinister, silver-haired, cultured-but-clearly-straight husband.

I'm a vertical neon sign, blinking an ironic word over and over and over...

PARADISE

PARADISE

PARADISE...

I'm spike-heeled mules with powder-puff pom-poms on them.

I'm Elisha Cook Jr, as the sidekick or villain!

I'm Barbara Stanwick, Lauren Bacall, Rita Heyworth and Veronica Lake.

Or some exquisite starlet made up to look like one of me.

The jury is eternally out on whether or not I can actually act, but I look phenomenal.

I'm the glow-in-the-dark complexions.

I’m the cigarette smoke. I swirl.

I'm the word "Hollywood." I am muttered contemptuously, despite the fact that I am intrinsically linked to the history of precisely that community.

I am murder, my sweet.

Oh yeah? Well I am drop dead, my lovely!

I am a 1941 De Soto. I used to be big.

I still am big.

It's the parking spaces that got small.

I’m watching the detectives.

I'm a straight whiskey to go with the gay subtext.

I'm unspoken lipstick lesbianism.

I’m the blobfish. I snuck right up on him, leaving nothing but slime.

I'm a slinky single-story nightclub with a suggestive name.

I'm a fabulous 40's diner with a half-dozen flivers parked outside. The cake is fresh monthly, but the coffee is always hot.

I am.....The City.

I'm a once-luxurious and now-decayed courtyard apartment house with an untended garden and Spanish styling. I am the home of the private dick or one of the suspects. The landlady is sullen and the super is suspicious.

(I'm spending Christmas alone this year. Thanks for the laughs, bitches!)

I'm the black hat set at an angle with a half-face veil.

I'm the stuff dreams are made of.

I'm the shadow of the approaching killer.

I'm satin peep-toe pumps.

I'm the mentally challenged strongman the mastermind uses for the wet work. One day I'll turn on the mastermind.

I'm the fact that I wouldn't normally be seeking out your services, Mr. Cleftchin Studlybutt, but I simply don't know whom else to turn to.

I'm the fluttering application of an expensive handkerchief to a pair of clearly dry eyes.

I'm the sheer stockings with seams up the back.

I’m the tough-as-nails bartender in the smoke filled hole-in-the-wall joint. You were led here by the name on the matchbook that was found on the ground, just feet from the murder victim. I will claim to know nothing when you ask questions, but a shady looking character in the bar will get up and walk past you, uttering a strange clue under his breath. When you turn, he will be gone.

I'm the phone in the hallway of the rooming house where the suspect lives. All the boarders use me. I've heard it all.

I'm the real Will in the hidden drawer of the antique secretary.

I'm the heavy scent of perfume the Bad Girl wears.

I'm Gerard Colcord. You know those huge, patrician, elegant but somehow slightly sinister houses in the Hollywood Hills that the voice-over describes as "not a bad little shack"? I designed nearly 2,000 of them.

Tech bros are ripping them down and replacing them with even larger and much uglier houses like it's their job.

I'm classic LA glamour.

Musicals have me. Romances have me. Even screwball comedies have me.

But Noir?

Noir is where I LIVE.

I'm the tinkling piano in the next apartment.

I'm Velma.

I'm the heavy glass ashtray that the drunken femme fatale throws at the protagonist halfway through the film. I just narrowly miss his head and hit the grungy wall of his rented room (located in the rooming house of r46). I foreshadow the film's climax, in which the femme fatale takes aim at him with his own .38 -- and doesn't miss.

I'm the less attractive, plucky & faithful best friend.

I’m the ceiling fan in the dimly lit room. The turning of my blades, combined with the bad lighting, creates a surreal black-and-white flickering effect that just screams “atmosphere”.

I'm a woman with a past.

R56- Oh, nice one!

R57 was meant for R55, lol. Sorry.

I'm the phone that rings just as . . .

The sound of the bell is . . . piercing

I’m the double-cross, and there are going to be at least three of me before the film is over.

We're the Parliament brand cigarette butts in the ashtray on the end table. We signal to the man of the house that someone else has been smoking with his wife: they have a strictly Chesterfield marriage.

I'm the boredom and ennui and taste for violence in the femme fatale.

I am the fat man with the Maltese Falcon.

I'm the switchboard operator in Sorry, Wrong Number, and that rotary black Bakelite phone.

I'm batshit crazy Lawrence Tierney!

I'm the cab driver who will be asked at least once to follow that car.

I'm the life insurance policy. Nothing good can come from me.

I'm the pencil used by the femme fatale to dial the rotary phone.

I'm Lizabeth as the gal who is crazy for the hero yet still seems vaguely dykey

R66- Does it contain a double indemnity benefit?

Oops, that should be Lizabeth Scott

I'm Richard Widmark as Tommy Udo, pushing a lyin' old hag down a flight of stairs in her wheelchair!

I'm the profession of most femme fatales -- "hostess." We all know it really meant "hooker."

I'm Robert Mitchum, the darkly handsome hero/villain, lover/killer. I'm dangerous.

I'm Robert Mitchum, the darkly handsome hero/villain, lover/killer. I'm dangerous.

Sorry for the double post. DL is glitchy tonight.

I'm the elevated train rumbling outside the window of the cheap hotel room.

I'm the heroine. I'm a nightclub singer, the profession of 70% of noir heroines

I'm "The Boulevard of Broken Dreams," r77's signature song.

I'm Alan Ladd, projecting world-weary ennui and standing on a box to hide my lack of height

I'm 1940s Los Angeles.

The term " film noir" is racist and needs to be cancelled.

Don't bring your mess into this thread R81

I'm that first kiss between the private dick and the femme fatale. It usually happens after the dick says something she doesn't want to hear, so she slaps him in the face, then he grabs her and forcefully kisses her. But no tongue - remember the Hays Code!

I'm the single room furnished with the phone down the hall and the cranky landlady.

I'm your waitress, Flossie- what'll ya have, mack?

I'm the shadows caused by venetian blinds. You'll usually find me in the office of our private dick.

You can't have a proper film noir without me!

I'm the wife beater t-shirt

I'm the swirling steps.

I'm the crash of ocean.

I'm the thoughts which rise up.

I'm the immigrant neighbors with the couple fighting and a baby crying.

I'm the black shadows which disappeared when Technicolor became available.

I’m M, the movie from 1931.

I talk like this, see?

I’m the right hook landed in the femme fatale’s kisser. The dame had it coming to her.

I am the bridges, the river banks, and the tunnels.

I'm the racket you're about to unwittingly get yourself into.

I'm the term Gunsel.

The Hayes Commission clearly didn't know what I really meant and apparently nobody ever told them as other gunsels were introduced into films over the years.

We got that over on them good.

I'm the shirt collar with lipstick stains.

I'm the cop jeeringly called "Flatfoot" at least once in the script.

I'm the big neon sign blinking on and off across the street from the sleazy bed-sit where the perp is holed up.

Or, alternatively, the sleazy bed-sit where the wrongly accused man is holed up whilst on the lam.

I'm the smart-arse younger sister who knows something she shouldn't and is in mortal danger but doesn't know it.

R74 - And I'm Jane Greer and Mitchum of all men should have known better than to play the sap for me.

I'm Jose, the Soda Jerk. I didn't see nothing and I didn't hear nothing.

I'm the voice over narration.

I'm Poverty Row

I'm the subservient Black character with only cringingly racist lines. I'm also played by a white actor.

R106–how come you didn’t capitalize white?

I'm a bright sunny day. Why don't I get casted in these films?

I'm the gutter-mouthed broad.

I'm dialogue a la "Look, Baby, no dame ever lied to me and got away with it!"

I am all the passionate kissing then fadeout scenes meant to imply sex.

I'm the sneer on the face of Barb Stanwyck.

I'm the LA Private Eye with the suspiciously east coast accent.

I'm the softcore porn scenes and convoluted plot twists.

R113, I've been saying this for years. So many films that take place in LA and San Fran are riddled with characters with NY accents. New Yorkers truly run the world.

I'm boxer shorts, which is like wearing nothing at all. My only purpose is to keep piss stains and skidmarks off your pants.

I'm the absence of noir and shadows on a 1915 California film set.

I'm the fishnet stockings.

I'm the car at the bottom of a body of water.

I'm the [gay-coded] lecher.

I'm the silhouettes.

I'm the moody unaccompanied saxophone playing as the hard boiled detective looks over the fog shrouded streets

I’m the sister AND the daughter *slap!*

I'm the MacGuffin.

I'm men's bellybuttons. I'm completely covered by their pants, even when they're shirtless, in swimwear, in a boxing ring, etc.

I'm the trenchcoat.

Without me, there is no film noir.

R126 Fuck you. What about ME?

R127 We wouldn't be seen dead in one.

I'm the over-stewed cup of black coffee in that highway diner called -> Eats (25 cents).

I'm a two bit floozy. I'm probably played by Gloria Grahame, Jan Sterling, or Audrey Totter

R128 Hmm...

I'm the mistaken identity.

I'm lipstick. I look black, but I'm dark red.

I'm the one waiting for the end to this cheap masturbation.

And I'm the one waiting for the joys of Technicolor!

I'm Earl Holliman as a "coded" gay character in The Big Combo

R131 - All right, ya big mug, you won this one. But just wait . . .

R128

I'm the three male leads in "Crossfire" . . .

Robert, Robert, and Robert.

I'm John Garfield, and I had the most erotic role in the most erotic noir ever.

Me and Lana blew Mitchum and Greer out of the park.

We're Raymond Borde and Étienne Chaumeton.

I'm Ava Gardner - and let me tell you how Burt Lancaster's character really died in "The Killers" . . .

[quote] I'm John Garfield, and I had the most erotic role…

And I'm the one looking for your navel. R116

Hey, R141, we're talkin' class here.

That scene where Lana drops her lipstick and it rolls toward me and I pick it up and won't hand it to her . . . fuck that shit about what sorta shorts I'm wearin' . . .

You could fry eggs on the hot line between us.

I'm the cab driver who knows a little too much.

I'm the speed limit in this town, Mister.

I am a gun. I am always inexplicably held at waist level.

I'm the down-on-his-luck gambler.

I am the twisted bisexual love triangle between Gilda, Johnny and George Macready that was 1000000x hotter than anything fuddy duddies Lana and John churned out.

I'm the partner who was just dumb enough to follow Bridget O'Shaughnessy down an alley . . .

#135, I'll have to check that film out.

R147 - sure, sure, sure

Trying this again - ah, there it is.

I'm DL fave Vivian Vance!

I'm the undershirt, and I do for the men what the black seamed stockings do for the women . . .

I'm the sap who won't play the sap for you.

I'm "Laura" - the most recognized film noir theme in history.

I was composed in in one weekend.

I'm the sneer on Robert Ryan to match the sneer on Barbara Stanwick.

I'm the 1948 Packard.

I'm sexier than Gardner, Greer, Stanwyck, Russel, Grahame, Hayworth, Bacall, and Scott rolled up together.

I'm the good cop gone bad.

I'm the DA's kid brother.

I'm the glowing box of radioactive isotopes.

I'm the neurotic post-war American male.

I'm the minor chord with a major seventh.

I'm Raymond Burr and I always play the heavy.

R162 I'm Annette Sutherland, Raymond Burr's fake dead wife.

I'm the best damn video game inspired by this genre.

I'm the penny scale shown in every city street scene.

I'm the sound of approaching footsteps.

I'm the telegram STOP

I'm Wally Westmore. I'm the man that made that no-neck, low-tits trash from Brooklyn look good enough to kill for to Fred Macmurray, and in black and white!

I'm the jade necklace.

God knows what I'd be worth today!

I'm the creep who turned canary to the Feds. Spats Columbo took me out in that garage on Valentine's Day in Chicago.

I'm Joey. I turned canary, too, for the Feds against the waterfront bosses. They threw me off a roof in Hoboken.

I'm what a man's supposed to do when his partner is killed.

I´m the "The" in the title

Maltese Falcon;Public Enemy;Lost Weekend;Naked City;Postman Always Rings Twice;Big Sleep,Asphalt Jungle,etc

R173 - I'm the exception:

Crossfire

Angel Face

Kiss Me Deadly

Shadow of a Doubt

Murder My Sweet

Laura

Detour

Nightmare Alley

and, the standout:'

DOUBLE INDEMNITY

I'm the actor that even Raymond Chandler thought was close to ideal for his hard boiled dick - and to think I used to sing ballads alongside Ruby Keeler . . .

Recognise me yet?

Yes a hard boiled dick doesn't get tougher than Clarence Nordstrom

I'm Jay C Flippen as a crypto gay character who is in love with Sterling Hayden in The Killing

I’m the dressing table with a frilly skirt and perfume atomizers where the femme fatale applies lipstick and stares herself in the face, guilty as sin.

I'm all that clunky Retro jewellery. Only Crawford could really carry me off with class. The others would drown if they fell overboard in some of those huge citrine brooches.

I am the relatively new discipline of psychology that spellbinds noir writers all the way back to German child killers. SVU has a long parentage.

I am Cool. I am neither good nor evil; I'm just a style, a philosophy. I shrug and look good even though I know life is meaningless. The French envy me, but can never be me.

Wet streets, because they just photograph better at night (and it's always night).

I’m the dark, seedy underbelly of Hollywood.

I’m the dark, seedy underbelly of Sydney Greenstreet

I’m the scrubby California undergrowth that lies beyond the fence of the Pacific Coast Highway. You’ll find one of the dead victims there at night, headlights flashing behind you.

I'm the luxurious Art Deco flats that you would kill to live in that the hardened mistresses of the wealthy industrialists are given.

Boudoirs, dressing rooms, huge bathtubs . . . eat your heart out.

I'm the sleek high heels all the women wear, from the PI's secretary to the wealthy widow. Every one is a size 4-1/2.

I'm the flat rectangular clutch purses all the women carry. I bet you wonder what's inside.

I'm the traffic free routes in Los Angeles County. I don't exist in real life.

I'm the femme fatale's shopping spree.

R189, I'll be the surprisingly huge number of available parking spots

I'm the vicious face-slapping!

I'm the cynic who thought 'The Big Combo' was no more than a cheap gangster show I'd see on TV.

We saw one of the supposed-gays shirtless and later one of them briefly touched the other.

I'm the pre-Caryl Chessman world of American capital punishment, in which the guilty was tried, convicted, and executed all within the calendar year.

R194, you're assuming everyone who was tried and found guilty was ACTUALLY guilty

Actually, r195, I'm very anti-capital punishment. However, I was simply making an apt contribution to the thread ...

I'm the person who assumes that judges and juries can know the truth of innocence and guilt.

I'm r195/r197. I don't understand subtly or the art of "Let's Be" threads.

I'm the double feature.

The the eyeglasses without which Miss Smithers is beautiful.

I'm also the three glasses of bourbon she slams down to make the man paying her that compliment seem marginally fuckable.

I'm the private sanatorium.

I’m the screeching violins at the pivotal action sequence when our hero gets shot by the femme fatale.

I’m the kerchief the next female victim wears when she’s in the PI’s office and begs for assistance. At the end of the movie she’s on her own, but the gal’s got moxie and succeeds in running away on dark wet streets from the culprit, and into the arms of the PI.

I'm the gold powder compact with the initials engraved inside that proves the client isn't who she says she is.

Every woman used to carry one of me in her purse in those days.

^*I am the male equivalent of same: the engraved gold cigarette lighter the lonely widow gave the cynical (and probably gay) gigolo.

I'm mad about the boy.

I'm a good cuppa Joe. At some point in the film every character will light a cigarette and reach for me but curiously nobody ever finishes me.

I'm the old timey pronunciations of Los Angeles with a hard G and homicide that sounds like homocide.

R208 I'm Bennett Cerf!

I'm the subliminal spider web shadow.

I'm chiaroscuro.

I'm the milkman. I know the score.

I'm the director who put a lightbulb in the glass of milk.

I'm the rope waiting for Angel's pretty little neck.

^*misquote, perhaps? "That sweet neck of yours, Angel" ?

I'm dead .... on arrival.

I'm the deathbed confession.

I’m the tough as nails waitress who knows the score, how ya like your eggs hon?

I'm the burning car at the bottom of the ravine.

I'm the trousers that are nowhere to be seen on any female in a decent film noir unless she's running a farm.

I'm Adam and Eve on a raft. Wreck 'em!

I'm the French adjective 'noir' adopted by appropriating Americans to make their stuff seem glamorous.

r222, you do realize Les Films Noirs were categorized by French critics in 1946.

I'm kept by Ann Treadwell.

But I want to BE Laura

I'm the dame who got a Fox fur off of Lt. Mark McPherson.

I'm the pedant who insists that 'Laura' is Noir but 'Leave Her to Heaven' isn't.

One is monochrome; the other isn't.

I’m Joan Crawford, wide eyed and hiding in the closet in terror.

I'm "Tequila Sunrise", trying like hell to be an updated Technicolor noir and totally failing.

I'm also "Chinatown", which totally succeeded where "Tequila Sunrise" failed.

Get in line, r225

I'm R222, also known as "That dumb cunt".

I'm DL fave Deanna Durbin!

I'm the loosened plank on the back stairs to try to get rid of the relative who's figured it out.

I'm the real shocker: the cup of joe and generous slice of apple pie you got for a quarter at the counter.

I'm the cute little corner Eyetalian restaurant where the private dick and the plucky but sweet heroine meet so she can tell him what she found out. Checked tablecloths, fat melting candles, wide wooden captain chairs, sawdust on the floor, and a bell over the door to announce arriving customers.

And, of course, a large picture window with cafe curtains fronting the street so the perp can spot them.

I'm a jumping little juke joint.

I'm Bunker Hill.

Right now I'm watching Too Late for Tears. Lizbeth Scot's character in this movie is the best.

I'm Jessica Rabbit, the least likely femme fatale in film history.

I just watched Christmas Holiday.

Even film noir cannot make Deanna Durbin interesting to me.

I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way.

I'm the Madonna-whore complex.

I’m the car with the tampered with breaks. I’m speeding down a hill in San Francisco now with no way of stopping.

I'm the gunshot wound to the arm of the detective or alternately the club to the head leaving him unconscious, The gun shot wound ever destroys critical bone leaving lifetime disability and the crack on the head merely results in a light restful nap. No need for Emergency hospitalization with blood transfusion and no need for cranial X rays to confirm the skull is not shattered and no MRI to inspect brain tissue still within the skull.

And next case her goes through it all again though maybe the different arm this time

It's called the Mannix Effect

I'm the dirty double-crossing dame.

I'm Lindsay Crouse, stealing a lighter.

Great film, r246!

Great film yes but not Noir since Lindsey wins in the end. I' don't think the rules of Noir permit a woman to win.

R248, no one is truly allowed to win in the noir world.

I'm the pot of hot coffee Lee Marvin throws in Gloria Graham's face.

I am the allure of the canyons.

[quote] Gloria Graham

I'm Gloria Grahame, the LA broad who took my Frenchified-Noir and murky sex-lusts to Shepperton Studios in foggy London.

I always get he confused with Sheila Grahame.

I'm SheilaH Graham and a conniving, chronic liar.

R254, you confused me even further.

I meant VIRGINIA Graham.

Now THERE was a Datalounger in the making!

I'm the montage of newspaper headlines used to advance the narrative.

I'm the cigarette girl in the divey nightclub owned by the mob boss. You know, in the fishnet stockings and short pre-Playboy bunny outfit? Talk to me. I overhear things.

I'm an online inflation calculator, essential when watching any film noir.

I'm Edward G. Robinson, falling for Joan Bennet across multiple films.

I'm Joan Bennet, my character is as hard as my jawline.

Really, R237? I'm Beverly Hills.

Stealing from a previous “Let’s be a Film Noir” post, I’m the theremin.

I'm The Hays Office, working overtime to tone down the source material. Those pulp novels are too racy!

I'm the inevitable proposition. It's too good to pass up- I need the dough-re-mi.

I'm the waves of the Pacific crashing onto the shore in the moonlight close to the beach house at where it will all end tragically before the dick and the cops get there.

I'm the beachside cliffs along the Pacific Coast Highway. Every twenty or thirty feet there is a hole in the guardrail where you can look over and see the smoldering remains of a Studabaker that crashed through. Sometimes the car blew up in mid air for no obvious reason and sometimes it just tumbles down to the beach.. Mysteriously the driver was often a large human shaped stuffed doll.

I killed Owen Taylor.

I'm the pool of light from a streetlamp on an otherwise dark street illuminating a man smoking and leaning against the lamp, who's been shadowing the wrongly suspected hero everywhere.

I’ll be the sad tomato. I got into a jam at my last joint but Johnny gave me a job to sing at his club. I’m alluring and sexy and you’ll want to get close to me. But I’m bad news.

Also you won’t believe the voice that comes out of my mouth when I sing. It’s like another person completely.

I'm telling you mister, R269 is a sob, sob sister.

Directors believe in realism so I'm the professional marksman firing the the live ammunition at the talent. We hardly ever wounded any extras and certainly never killed a featured player.

It's not until you let actors play cowboy with the guns you begin to get dead actors and crew. Dumbasses like Alec Baldwin would never finish one day of work for Erich von Stroheim before being kikced off the set.

I'm the dangling phone receiver after the heroine dropped me when they grabbed her. You can still hear the dick yelling. "Hello? Hello?!" before he rushes out to save her.

I’m the heavy Bakelite phone receiver that the femme fatale drops as she’s grabbed. I’m heavy enough to dent the floor.

I'm the telephone switchboard.

I'm the window in the door to the private eye's office, getting repainted now that his partner bit the dust. This happens every year or so.

I'm the chiffon negligee and mule slippers with the fluffy pom poms in which the social climbing bitch answers the door.

I'm Diane Redfern. I answered the door in an outfit like that ^* that I borrowed from Laura's closet because she let me stay in the flat overnight, and now I'm dead.

I'm tv's Phyllis, emerging suddenly in the headlights as I run down a lonely highway, out of breath and obviously terrified. I won't last more than another scene or two.

I'm the homicide detective on the edge of retirement. I really want to solve this case so I can go out on a high note.

I’m the subversive and suggestive dialogue designed to sneak innuendo past those idiotic censors.

I'm the ceiling fan twirling in the detective's office. It's a very hot day, and he's sweating in spite of me trying my hardest.

I'm the water color in the private dick's office. After the femme fatale hits him over the head, knocking him out, and flees, his homely secretary will splash cold water from me in his face in an attempt to revive him.

^^^ cooler

I'm the fadeout where it becomes clear that as attracted as they are to each other, the dick has to go back to being a hardboiled loner in a wrinkled trenchcoat, and the plucky heroine has to go find a nice solid guy to marry and settle down with.

We're the crooked stocking seams, rumpled dress, and disheveled hair of the femme fatale after a night of heavy drinking.

I'm the good girl gone bad. I know there's no way back for me - but in the last fusillade of gunshots I throw myself in front of the dick, thus redeeming my fall from grace and sticking it to the mob boss who ruined me when I was sixteen.

You notice they never call those po-faced virgins "a good egg".

I'm the key detail the murderer overlooked.

I'm the tracks. Most of the characters in the movie grew up on the wrong side of me.

I'm guys named Frank, Joe, Charlie and Mack.

I'm the blinds duster.

I dust the widow blinds.

I'm the dark side of postwar materialism.

I'm a big, easy score! What could go wrong?

I'm a jazz club. The femme fatale is often found singing in one.

I'm a tomato, a dame, a broad...

I'm a copper.