I, the Jury (1953)

just watch it!

Crappy film

It's easily one of the freshest, sharpest and most enjoyable films of this year.

Excellent and certainly provocative... If nothing else, the film is a real conversation starter.

The first film adaptation of a Mickey Spillane novel, filmed in 3D and starring one of the all-time nobodies, Biff Elliot, as Mike Hammer. He looks like William Bendix's younger brother and acts like Lon Chaney, Jr. in "Of Mice and Men." The selling point of any movie based on a Spillane story, aside from the violence, should be the dialogue. That's true here, with lots of tough noir one-liners. Unfortunately, many of those are bellowed by Elliot, who barges into every scene like he's mad someone made him take this job. Seriously, watch this guy stomp around. Someone hired this moose to act and this is what they got. Even the film's famous final scene is tainted by his inability to deliver a line with emotion.On the plus side, the movie was photographed by John Alton. He makes the most of the cheap production values. Good use of the Bradbury Building, which is recognizable to fans of films like D.O.A. and Blade Runner. Nice score from Franz Waxman. The supporting cast includes many lesser known actors but there are a few old pros like Preston Foster, John Qualen, and Elisha Cook, Jr. How any of them kept a straight face while that sack of meat was barking at them is beyond me. Attractive Peggie Castle makes an unconvincing psychologist and is even less convincing as a woman attracted to Elliot.This movie has a lot that prevents it from being great. But all of the other issues combined don't equal the sheer ineptitude of casting Biff Elliot as Mike Hammer. This was his film debut and he never did anything this big again. He worked fairly steady for decades, mostly in television. I have no idea why he was cast. Worked cheap? Saved the producer's life? Knew where the bodies were buried? I don't know. All I do know is he stinks in this.

This is a Mike Hammer film written by Mickey Spillane—so you know you're in for a very gritty crime film. However, of all the incarnations of Hammer I have seen, this one has the most unknown cast I can recall—no one is an easily recognizable Hollywood actor in this film—though Alan Reed (Fred Flintstone's voice), John Qualen, Elisha Cooke and Joe Besser (the absolute worst of the Three Stooges—and so annoying that he only made a few shorts with them) appear in the movie. Whoever Biff Elliott is, he was cast in the feature role. The film does have some good things going for it—classic film noir lighting, fighting and dialog. Spillane sure knew how to write tough dialog and Hammer's commentary is quite enjoyable—that is, when Hammer isn't beating information out of suspects! "I, The Jury" begins with some poor shmoe getting shot at close range by some assailant—who the killer is, we do not know. It turns out the victim is one of Mike Hammer's friends—and Mike is determined to get them. This is personal…and Hammer is mad. Along the way he meets lots of odd characters as well as some ultra-hot and bothered women! It's all quite enjoyable but also a bit talky and the plot is a bit confusing unless you play close attention. Overall, it's worth seeing but not a great noir film.

I love this film. The noir imagery combined with Spillane's no nonsense character Mike Hammer works marvellously to create a mood and feel seldom found in low budget detective films of the early fifties. It may not be 'The Maltese Falcon' but this film makes it's own solid contribution to the genre. Spillane is often criticised for alleged misogyny etc, but his 'dames' are way above their male counterparts in terms of cunning and intelligence. Poor old Mike Hammer, as effectively played by Biff Elliott, is blinded by the beauty of the mysterious psychiatrist whom he meets when investigating the death of an army buddy. When the penny finally drops his face is a picture. Good to see that 50s censorship did not force the film makers to omit the famous last line. A bona fide low budget classic.

In 1953, I, The Jury became the first of Mickey Spillane's Mike Hammer series to hit the screen, but it takes its cues from movies of 1947, when the book hit the kiosks. The yuletide cards serving as scene dividers, the violence counterpointed to Christmas carols recall The Lady in the Lake, while the duplicitous female psychiatrist reprises Helen Walker's Dr. Lilith Ritter in Nightmare Alley (the final, fatal tryst comes from the even earlier Double Indemnity).These echoes may have been attempts to invest Hammer with some respectability, linking him to the more subtle and textured characters of the 1940s. It's clear something had to be done with him, because Spillane went for raw sensation in a way that caused a sensation of its own. His private eye is uncouth, short-fused and randy but misogynist, bowing to no authority save his own (hence the title). Spillane luckily or shrewdly had as readers of his punch-drunk prose men who had survived overseas combat and were making up for lost time in the footloose, post-war prosperity; he gave them not just sex and violence but sex-and-violence.So in one sense, Biff Elliott makes an ideal Hammer, closer to Spillane's lout than his (relatively) spruced-up successors Ralph Meeker and Robert Bray (plus Armand Assante, in the marginally better 1982 remake of this title). He comes across as a Dead End kid grown up with a license and a gun, slow-witted but fast with his fists and his trigger.When his best friend, an insurance investigator and combat amputee, gets himself coldly killed, Hammer scours New York to avenge him. The urban locales bring out the talents of director of photography John Alton, who here tried his hand at the 3-D process (thus I, The Jury, along with Man in the Dark, The Glass Web and Second Chance, becomes one of the few noirs so filmed).The shoot-from-the-hip action, however, rides roughshod over any intricacies of the plot. Characters Hammer encounters stay generic, with the exception of Peggie Castle as the shrink. The film's last scene is hers, not Elliott's, as she moves into a languorous striptease that comes to a quick finale. For better or worse, it's an emblematic image that showcases Spillane's coarsened sensibility, his fusion of brutality and eroticism, and spells an end to the more freighted ambiguity that was a hallmark of the noir cycle.