film "noir classic Killers Kill"

A clean print of the lost film noir classic Killers Kill, Dead Men Die was miraculously discovered at a Mulholland Drive lawn sale last month, resolving a mystery that has transfixed noir fans for decades. Little was known about the film for certain, though it has been the subject of wild rumors ever since the screenplay was written, probably in 1942, by Raymond Chandler (based on "The Big Blood," a story by James M. Cain, and later revised, as No Orchids for Oscar, by Dashiell Hammett and William Faulkner). It is believed that Humphrey Bogart and Robert Mitchum were originally cast in the roles of private detectives Oscar Slade and Dan O'Bannion, only to be replaced, several years later, by Sterling Hayden and Glenn Ford, and then—most intriguingly—by Peter Lorre and Sydney Greenstreet. We know that Lauren Bacall loved the original script. But she passed her troubled-heiress role to Barbara Stanwyck when Fritz Lang replaced John Huston as director. (Lang later ceded to Stanley Kubrick, who let Joseph Losey take over when RKO sold the project to Republic Studios.) It is suspected that additional scenes were shot with Joan Crawford, Richard Widmark, Gene Tierney, Lee Marvin, Gloria Grahame, Ida Lupino, and Jimmy Stewart throughout the 1950s, when the picture was known by its two shooting titles, Dame Danger and He Died by Murder. After acquiring the Republic library in the 1980s, Ted Turner reportedly planned a colorized version of the film, which, curiously, is one of the few noirs actually shot in color. In this period certain scenes are also thought to have been reshot with Kathleen Turner, William Hurt, Melanie Griffith, and Michael Paré, under the direction of Brian De Palma. Based on a close examination of the newly discovered film stock (and the movie's credit sequence, opposite), several noir scholars have even gone as far as to suggest that the picture was not completed until this year.

It's too bad, since this delay has deprived us of viewing an undeniable film noir classic. Every element of the genre is here: The Femme Fatale, sultry, scheming, and doped up on tranquilizers; The Private Dick, crawling through the gutter in search of a diamond garter; The Chanteuse and The Champ; The Doll and The Aristocrat; The Spy who knows too little and The Moll who knows too much; mistaken identity and double indemnity; high life and low society; shocking—though possibly nonsensical—plot turns; despair, lust, blood violence, and the cruel fist of fate. Finally, lurking in the shadows behind all this is the menacing figure of The Killer. And what does he do? Why, he does what all killers do: he kills.