Mercedes McCambridge was asked by a fan magazine, in the days before her stardom faded, which of her post-"All the King's Men" roles she enjoyed most. Her answer: Connie Carter in "The Scarf." It's not hard to see why, considering the rogues' gallery of villains and madwomen, or villainous madwomen, she played, including of course the infamous Emma in "Johnny Guitar," all of whom came variously but invariably to a bad end: shot down in a gunfight; killed in a car crash while fleeing the police; kicked to death by a horse, etc. Connie not only lives at the end, she smiles at the camera. That smile is the point. "The Scarf" is considered, when it is considered at all, a minor noir. It is, in its way, a noir. It is not, in my view, minor. Rather, it is unique, a noir whose message is redemption. On the surface, the plot is trite: an amnesiac, gaslighted, locked away in an asylum for a crime he didn't commit, escapes to try to clear his mind and find the truth. A little zigzag murder mystery solved after the fact. "The Scarf" is more than that. It is indeed a story of redemption. All three major characters, John Ireland's escapee John Barrington, James Barton's recluse Ezra, and Mercedes McCambridge's world-weary and world-wary waitress Connie, are damaged goods. Three mismatched people come together to find an unlikely salvation. They are trapped, they have trapped themselves, in isolation and fear. They have run away from the world or steeled themselves against the world. They have cut themselves off. All three, and possibly a fourth, David Wolfe's cynical saloon-keeper Level Louie, find release. A nondescript noir becomes an uplifting film. It deserves much more consideration and appreciation than it has received.
The acting is top-notch. In the supporting cast we have Emlyn Williams. Who better for the part than he who starred on the stage carrying a mysterious hat-box containing something other than a hat? We have Lloyd Gough, who was soon to disappear from the screen. He and David Wolfe sat on the edge of blacklisting. Lloyd Gough along with his wife Karen Morley defied HUAC. David Wolfe along with Will Geer defied Hollywood, being among the only professional actors to assist in the only blacklisted film, Herbert Biberman's "The Salt of the Earth." E.A. Dupont's direction is solid, Herschel Gilbert's music evocative, a recurrent insanity motif punctuated by flutes in the low or piano in the high register. John Ireland is quite good. James Barton, as always, is terrific (see him in "The Shepherd of the Hills"). Mercedes McCambridge steals the movie, as she stole many others. (Joan Crawford's jealousy was justified.) Her character, Connie, does not enter until well into the story. Once she does, she dominates the rest. She defines herself in her opening monologue - or so it seems - a hoary Hollywood type: bad-girl-with-a-heart-of-gold, a stock character as old as the commedia dell'arte. But it is not what it seems. The cold-hearted woman, however gilded her heart, is vulnerable. She denies it: "I'm no lily. Underneath this hard-boiled surface of mine (you think) there must be something softer than a powder-puff. There isn't." It's a fake, a façade. The hard woman is terrified of the hard world she claims to embrace. Barrington the escaped inmate is presumably the one who needs counsel. Slowly we see it is Connie who needs help. The tough girl reveals a crumbly interior. In the barroom fight scene she all but loses control. Then, as soon as the police arrive, the flippant woman-of-the-world veneer returns. We see her at Level Louie's café. She never smiles. At each upset she reaches for a drink, scotch, straight. She warbles her song distractedly - Claire Trevor singing for the mobsters in "Key Largo." A bedraggled barfly (Iris Adrian) comments significantly: "What's she got that I don't? Nothing." She's right. There's nothing, only a shell shielding a small timid creature within. The climax is Connie's catharsis. She sings again. She's no Maria Callas, but no longer Claire Trevor. She smiles.
All three characters are redeemed. Curmudgeonly Ezra rediscovers faith in humanity. Barrington recovers his sanity. There is no love story cliché. Hero and heroine do not embrace (as far as I can tell Mercedes McCambridge never got to do that in the movies, though she probably did vocally in her radio career). Barrington rejoins Ezra in the desert. Connie finds life not love. "The Scarf" is not a great film noir. But it is a unique one. The denouement, admittedly, is abrupt. It's implausible. Don't let that diminish the rest. When's the last time you left a Noir feeling good about people?
The acting is top-notch. In the supporting cast we have Emlyn Williams. Who better for the part than he who starred on the stage carrying a mysterious hat-box containing something other than a hat? We have Lloyd Gough, who was soon to disappear from the screen. He and David Wolfe sat on the edge of blacklisting. Lloyd Gough along with his wife Karen Morley defied HUAC. David Wolfe along with Will Geer defied Hollywood, being among the only professional actors to assist in the only blacklisted film, Herbert Biberman's "The Salt of the Earth." E.A. Dupont's direction is solid, Herschel Gilbert's music evocative, a recurrent insanity motif punctuated by flutes in the low or piano in the high register. John Ireland is quite good. James Barton, as always, is terrific (see him in "The Shepherd of the Hills"). Mercedes McCambridge steals the movie, as she stole many others. (Joan Crawford's jealousy was justified.) Her character, Connie, does not enter until well into the story. Once she does, she dominates the rest. She defines herself in her opening monologue - or so it seems - a hoary Hollywood type: bad-girl-with-a-heart-of-gold, a stock character as old as the commedia dell'arte. But it is not what it seems. The cold-hearted woman, however gilded her heart, is vulnerable. She denies it: "I'm no lily. Underneath this hard-boiled surface of mine (you think) there must be something softer than a powder-puff. There isn't." It's a fake, a façade. The hard woman is terrified of the hard world she claims to embrace. Barrington the escaped inmate is presumably the one who needs counsel. Slowly we see it is Connie who needs help. The tough girl reveals a crumbly interior. In the barroom fight scene she all but loses control. Then, as soon as the police arrive, the flippant woman-of-the-world veneer returns. We see her at Level Louie's café. She never smiles. At each upset she reaches for a drink, scotch, straight. She warbles her song distractedly - Claire Trevor singing for the mobsters in "Key Largo." A bedraggled barfly (Iris Adrian) comments significantly: "What's she got that I don't? Nothing." She's right. There's nothing, only a shell shielding a small timid creature within. The climax is Connie's catharsis. She sings again. She's no Maria Callas, but no longer Claire Trevor. She smiles.
All three characters are redeemed. Curmudgeonly Ezra rediscovers faith in humanity. Barrington recovers his sanity. There is no love story cliché. Hero and heroine do not embrace (as far as I can tell Mercedes McCambridge never got to do that in the movies, though she probably did vocally in her radio career). Barrington rejoins Ezra in the desert. Connie finds life not love. "The Scarf" is not a great film noir. But it is a unique one. The denouement, admittedly, is abrupt. It's implausible. Don't let that diminish the rest. When's the last time you left a Noir feeling good about people?