Three major male figures emerged as stars from the Warner Brothers factory of the 1930s -- Bogart, Cagney, and Robinson. Of the three, Edgar G. Robinson is probably the most underrated. He was adept at tough roles ("Little Caesar," "Key Largo"), mousy characters ("Scarlet Street," "The Woman In The Window") and thoughtful men of principle ("The Stranger").
Here he plays both ends of the spectrum of virtue. He's Arthur Ferguson Jones, a frightened and self-effacing clerk at a jewelry firm. He's also the scowling, murdering gangster on the lame named Manion, a more subtle version of Caesar Enrico Bandello.
Since the two look almost identical, when Manion breaks out of the slams, the police are on the lookout for him and arrest Jones instead. It takes a long time to iron out the mistake, which reduces the terrified Jones to a neural shambles. "I tell you, my name isn't Jones, it's Manion. I mean, it isn't Janion, it's Mones!" The police finally give him a "free pass" identifying him as Jones and asking he not be molested by the authorities. But then Manion shows up, threatens to kill Jones, and confiscates the free pass every night to continue his scurrilous activities. After that, it really gets complicated.
Excellent support is provided by the professional cast, including Jean Arthur in the role of the sassy blond who eventually realizes she, who has been scoffing at Jones' tentative advances, is really his princesse lointaine and he is the guy she truly admires and cares for.
It's a little long. And it seems every possible permutation of the mixed identity plot has been explored. The idea itself is hardly fresh. It was the subject of Shakespeare's first play and goes back to the Masques of Ancient Greece.
But Robinson is so good in both roles that it's an enjoyable and often funny story. You wouldn't know it was directed by John Ford if you hadn't already known it. (There is only one comic drunk scene.) Robinson enjoyed working with Ford and, in his memoirs, he writes that his friendly working relationship continued with "Cheyenne Autumn."
Here he plays both ends of the spectrum of virtue. He's Arthur Ferguson Jones, a frightened and self-effacing clerk at a jewelry firm. He's also the scowling, murdering gangster on the lame named Manion, a more subtle version of Caesar Enrico Bandello.
Since the two look almost identical, when Manion breaks out of the slams, the police are on the lookout for him and arrest Jones instead. It takes a long time to iron out the mistake, which reduces the terrified Jones to a neural shambles. "I tell you, my name isn't Jones, it's Manion. I mean, it isn't Janion, it's Mones!" The police finally give him a "free pass" identifying him as Jones and asking he not be molested by the authorities. But then Manion shows up, threatens to kill Jones, and confiscates the free pass every night to continue his scurrilous activities. After that, it really gets complicated.
Excellent support is provided by the professional cast, including Jean Arthur in the role of the sassy blond who eventually realizes she, who has been scoffing at Jones' tentative advances, is really his princesse lointaine and he is the guy she truly admires and cares for.
It's a little long. And it seems every possible permutation of the mixed identity plot has been explored. The idea itself is hardly fresh. It was the subject of Shakespeare's first play and goes back to the Masques of Ancient Greece.
But Robinson is so good in both roles that it's an enjoyable and often funny story. You wouldn't know it was directed by John Ford if you hadn't already known it. (There is only one comic drunk scene.) Robinson enjoyed working with Ford and, in his memoirs, he writes that his friendly working relationship continued with "Cheyenne Autumn."