ROADBLOCK (1951)

More than 50 years past the end of the noir cycle of films, Charles McGraw has come to represent the quintessential noir tough guy. McGraw’s tough-as-nails screen image and unmistakable voice are indelibly linked to film noir. One might characterize Bogart or Mitchum in this way, but their careers were such that their household name status excludes them from being identified as strictly noir performers. When Bogart’s name comes up in casual conversation, it’s as likely to be connected to films such as The African Queen or Casablanca as it is for The Maltese Falcon or The Big Sleep. The same holds true for Barbara Stanwyck or even Joan Crawford, who although appearing in numerous noir films will never be associated with the genre as definitively as Lizabeth Scott or Gloria Grahame. Certain performers, such as McGraw and Scott, have become benchmarks for establishing a film’s noir provenance — seeing McGraw in a fedora and trench coat is synonymous with that of a black and white prowl car gliding shark-like down a rain-soaked alley. Even in a film where McGraw is miscast, as he was in 1951’s Roadblock, we still get that rush — and although McGraw is out of place in the film, his presence alone makes the film worth discussion.


On the surface, Roadblock is a typical B-grade second feature. The plot involves McGraw, an insurance detective in the tradition of Walter Neff, throwing caution and all good sense to the wind when he is thrown in with an ambitious and materialistic woman. Roadblock has a few good moments, including strong opening and closing sequences, though poorly developed character motivations and an illogical story don’t measure up to the strong visuals. It’s easy to forgive the faults when McGraw is involved, because he is so iconic — and so darn cool — though the film is certainly disappointing. One need look no further than McGraw’s own The Narrow Margin to see that low-budget status is a lame excuse for lackluster film making.



Roadblock starts off with zip and style: a frightened man sees what appears to be a shadowy murder happen on a dark city street right in front of his eyes. When confronted by the killer, he tries desperately to shake his eyewitness status by confiding that he too is on the lam from the cops. If the killer will just come along with him, he’ll happily share the loot in order to save his own life. The two men drive to a dark cemetery and enter a mausoleum, where the cache of loot is hidden. As soon as he unearths the dough, in walks the apparent murder victim, and we learn the whole thing was an elaborate stage play put on for the witness’ benefit by the two insurance men, Joe Peters (Charles McGraw) and his partner Harry Miller (Louis Jean Heydt).


When McGraw boards a plane to get home fate introduces him to Diane (Joan Dixon), who has scammed a half-price fair by claiming to be his wife. Although Joe doesn’t like being a party to Diane’s con, in his world everyone has an angle — so he reluctantly agrees to play out the ruse and flop with her, after fate again takes a hand and diverts their flight away from a fogged in airport. Their motel conversation is hardly romantic — he’s pegged her as a gold digger; to her he’s a squarejohn chump — she quickly begins to refer to him as ‘Honest Joe.’ We are supposed to assume a strong attraction between the two, which would explain the frustration they have with each other’s worldview. Romance wasn’t exactly in McGraw’s wheelhouse as an actor, and Dixon’s skill as an actress was shaky (Roadblock is the bright spot in a very brief film career). To her credit she resembles Lizabeth Scott in looks and speech, just lacking to range and the smolder. Their lust for each other fails to come across, and viewers are obliged to take it on credit that the sexual tension between the two leads is strong enough to lead Honest Joe down the wayward path to his doom.


One of the most deadly recipes in the world of noir is present in Roadblock. The female lead suffers from a brazen materialism that drives her to make immoral and ultimately destructive choices, while her pursuer is so sexually repressed that he’ll do anything to get into her pants. Put simply: she has to have jewels and furs, he has to have her — and crime is the only way for them both to get what they want. That first night in the motel, after flipping a coin for the bed, they consummate their destiny with a portentous good night exchange:

“Some day you are going to want something nice and expensive that you can’t afford on a detective’s salary.”“Like what?”“Like me. Good night.”

The first act of the film ends when the weather clears and the ersatz couple go their separate ways, but not before an impromptu airport kiss. We’re sure Joe is hooked when he sees Diane at a nightclub with racketeer and notorious fur thief Lowell Gilmore (Kendall Webb). She finally has her skins, along with the requisite dirtbag she needed to get them. Seeing Diane with another man is apparently the nudge that Joe needs to finally fall into the chasm. The middle of the film is story laden, and involves McGraw confronting Webb over the girl, and eventually recruiting him and his gang of thugs for a daring train robbery of an insurance company cash shipment. The impact of poor casting and story is never more important than in the center of the picture, as it takes a lot for us to believe McGraw is this gaga over a girl with whom he has no apparent chemistry, and no common ground for affection. All the sudden he is willing to throw away a hard-won career, his self-respect, his freedom, and long-time friendship with partner Heydt over a girl he doesn’t seem to like or be able to get along with. We are left scratching our heads — why would he do this? Why would she even want him? She already appears to have found what she’s looking for. For the film to work, we must feel that the leads can’t live without each other — that they have the animal lust and sexual compulsion of Phyllis Dietrichson and Walter Neff — but it just isn’t there. When we watch Double Indemnity, on the one hand it’s easy to look at Walter Neff and see what a fool he is for throwing his life away, but on the other we understand with great certainty why he does so. Roadblock instead leaves us asking all the wrong questions.


In the days before the train heist is actually brought off, Roadblock becomes inexplicable. Dixon pulls one of the most absurd switcharoos in the history of pictures and confesses to McGraw that she has seen the error of her ways, and no longer craves a life of luxury and material things. She’s ready to be a hausfrau on his insurance dick pay — diamonds and rubies be damned! With this new vision of domesticity in mind, Joe confronts Gilmore about calling off the heist, and learns toot sweet that he’s in too deep to beg off. Gilmore expects Joe to see this through, and figuring the plan is still sound, Joe decides to stick. The lovebirds get hitched and head for a picture-perfect alibi honeymoon. The train boost comes off as planned and all seems well, until Joe’s partner Harry finally gets wise. The heister’s plan begins to unravel and they turn on each other — Joe calls Gilmore and arranges a midnight meet on a lonely stretch of highway. Although Gilmore is a racketeer with a tremendous payroll, he conveniently shows up alone and is promptly murdered by Joe, who fakes an impromptu crash-and-burn. The movie manages to kill three birds with one stone in this scene: Gilmore learns that crime doesn’t pay after all, Joe’s impending doom is now entirely justified, and audiences get to see a fiery car explosion.


With Joe now reduced to a twitching neurotic killer, Harry finally confronts him with the truth over a beer at an after work spot. In another moment of extreme plot contrivance, Harry actually allows Joe to exit the restaurant walking behind him, just so Joe can whack him over the head with a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon and make a quick getaway.


With the nonsense of engineering the final sequence out of the way, Roadblock does much to redeem itself in the last few measures. There’s a crackerjack car chase as Joe and Diane try to leadfoot it south of the border through a warren of L.A. side streets, with the titular roadblocks popping up around each new corner. The camera work and editing are excellent here, as McGraw’s sedan finally speeds onto the iconic concrete prison of the L.A. river basin. The reality of the situation finally hits McGraw, and he shoos bad-girl-turned-good Diane out of the car, telling her to forget him and make for her old Texas home. He speeds away, but fails to get far before destiny brings him face to face with Harry and mob of L.A.P.D. at a claustrophobic basin underpass. Out of his car and looking to make a break up the embankment, Joe is abruptly gunned down by a radio car hack just as Harry reluctantly draws a bead on him. Diane makes the scene on foot and Joe dies in her arms, his last words “haven’t you left for Texas yet?” The film closes with a beautiful wide shot of Diane walking away down the basin, as a train whistle sounds in the distance.


Roadblock is clearly a minor film, and does little to define or even clarify the film noir ethos. Its redemption lies in providing viewers the chance to see Charles McGraw in a starring role; while ironically its greatest failure is the leads’ inability to create a believable sense of sexual obsession. Roadblock still rates as a film noir and an entertaining movie, though its lackluster story and casting ensure its enduring B status.


Roadblock (1951)

Director: Harold Daniels
Cinematographer: Nicholas Musuraca
Screenplay: George Bricker, Steve Fisher
Story: Richard Landau and Daniel Manwaring (credited as Geoffrey Homes)
Starring: Charles McGraw, Joan Dixon, Lowell Gilmore, Louis Jean Heydt, and Milburn Stone.
Released by: RKO Radio Pictures
Running time: 73 minutes