Unbelievable: The Tom Conway Story - Part Two

In part one of this two-parter we looked into Tom Conway’s colourful early life, from pulling a sidearm at school to his days mining and ranching in Africa, through to his early years as an actor, taking him from am-dram in Manchester to his big break in Hollywood. Having starred in RKO’s fourth Falcon movie with his brother, the studio was amazed by his popularity and he was given the responsibility of taking the series forward. Tom Conway was finally making his mark on the silver screen, but more astonishing times lay ahead…

In a sense, The Falcon’s Brother came about through trickery, in the way George Sanders had been persuaded to star in one last movie as Gay Lawrence, something the film’s producer, Maurice Geraghty, later reflected on. ‘They [the RKO execs] gave a George a glowing picture of how it would make a star of his brother, but actually, they had no such plans or hopes, but just wanted one more picture from George…’

Nevertheless the movie’s triumph, and in particular, the instant success of ‘George’s brother’, ensured the public gained a new fictional hero, Conway won success and a profile, and the studio was thrilled because a series they’d accepted had run its course was suddenly born again. Booming again! They wasted no time continuing the adventures of the ‘new Falcon’.

Marketing material for The Falcon in Hollywood.

In The Falcon Strikes Back (1943) the narrative opens with Tom Lawrence fully accepted and accepting of the title ‘the Falcon’. It was the first of nine movies where Conway played the eponymous lead and every one proved a hit for RKO. Financially, their success was further boosted by the fact that Conway remained a ‘stock player’. For context, Sanders had taken home $14,000 for his Gay swansong; Conway was paid on a weekly basis and banked considerably less. Even after a re-negotiated deal for The Falcon in San Francisco (1945) he was still only pulling in slightly under $7,500 per movie – a handsome amount, but much less than his brother had earned for films which hadn’t performed as strongly at the box office.

The superior entries during Conway’s stewardship have worn well as dated but cracking little thrillers. The Falcon in Hollywood (1944) is one of the must-sees, thanks largely to the force of nature that was Veda Ann Borg, playing the sharp-witted cabbie, Billie Atkins. ‘Relax, brother!’ she says to the Falcon as she puts her foot down and zooms through the city traffic like a daredevil, ‘When I’m not driving this cement mixer [her taxi] I work in pictures – first class, ‘A’ number one stunt driver!’

Tom Conway and Veda Ann Borg being fabulous in The Falcon In Hollywood.

She’s given plenty of the best one-liners and Conway does a fine job reacting with lightly worn trepidation and even pride whenever she becomes a loose cannon. She’s protective of him, and Tom clearly becomes fond of her. Their chemistry is such that it’s hard not to wish that RKO had paired their characters for more adventures. But sadly, Borg wasn’t assimilated into any future Falcon movies and in the next entry, Lawrence has ‘girl trouble’ of a different nature as Conway proves he can ‘do’ paternal, when the Falcon looks after a small child with big problems in The Falcon in San Francisco.

That proved to be producer Geraghty’s farewell to the series, and following this departure, budgets dropped along with quality. Conway starred in two more entries and even these less accomplished efforts have elements to recommend them, not least being their leading man’s effervescent star turn. The Falcon’s Alibi (1946) and The Falcon’s Adventure (1946) brought Conway’s days as Tom Lawrence, and RKO’s series to a close. In The Falcon Saga, an in-depth investigation of the films appearing in three successive issues of Film Fan Monthly in 1969, it was reported ‘…at their peak [with Conway as the lead], the Falcon series was playing in fifteen thousand theatres earning RKO better than a million dollars a year.’ And that was back when a million bucks really was something.

Tom Conway and Simone Simon: Cat People.

During this era of his career Conway also delivered strong performances in films which ultimately became regarded as classics – Cat People (1942), I Walked With A Zombie (1943) and The Seventh Victim (1943). Although his presence helps these films, it would be disingenuous for even his most fervent admirers to claim he’s central to their success, in the same way he was fundamental to the Falcon flicks. It’s also worth remembering that at the time, these horror classics received ‘mixed reviews’. The New York Times dismissed Cat People as ‘labored and obvious’, slammed I Walked With A Zombie as being ‘dull [and] disgusting’ and insisted that The Seventh Victim was itself a victim of ‘A particularly poor script’.

Critics soon reappraised these works, however, and they’re now considered to be three of the finest films in Conway’s portfolio. Indeed, by the time he starred in Voodoo Woman (1957) publicity for that horror picture specifically invoked two of his three 40s chillers. ‘Not since he starred in Cat People and I Walked With A Zombie,’ the marketing proudly proclaimed, ‘has Tom had a role like his current one!’

A publicity shot for Cat People showing (l to r) Tom Conway, Simone Simon and Kent Smith.

Skimming most film historians’ account of Conway’s post-Falcon career could make readers believe he’d gone from being one of the highest paid men in Hollywood to a complete failure. But neither extreme is true. He’d achieved success and financial stability in the early-late 40s, but although a charming and skilled actor, he never achieved the planetary pull of say, Bob Hope or Betty Grable whose presence in any film guaranteed queues around the block. Then again, very, very few actors did.

Towards the end of the 40s, work in big movies grew scarcer for Conway as it did for many performers. But he took the lead in the long-running TV series, Mark Saber Mystery Theater (aka Mark Saber and Inspector Mark Saber – Homicide Squad), playing a detective in 64 half-hour (as broadcast) episodes that ran from 1951-54. Interestingly, with Saber, Conway creates a much more precise, professional detective than Tom Lawrence, a differentiation that the script acknowledges (giving plenty of Falcon-esque jokes to Saber’s colleagues, as opposed to the man himself). But the difference is also in Conway’s body language and more formal projection. Turn the volume down on an episode of Mark Saber and it’s still abundantly obvious we’re watching a character who’s wholly divorced from Conway’s iteration of the Falcon. It’s another example of his acting chops seldom receiving the plaudits they deserved.

Conway famously brought a shotgun to the pre-wedding celebrations of his brother and Zsa Zsa Gabor. ‘Just in case the old boy gets cold feet,’ he explained…

Aside from successful movies and hit TV shows, Conway also starred in high-profile and (as it turned out) enduring radio shows. These days such programmes might be dismissed as minor points of interest on an actor’s CV. Would anyone discuss Bill Nighy’s career and focus on his fabulous series of Charles Paris comedy-mysteries for BBC Radio 4, for example? Or would any investigation of Cate Blanchett’s output spend much time examining her radio drama, The Fever?

But back in the 40s radio was huge and A-listers like Bogart, Marlene Dietrich, Abbot and Costello, Lauren Bacall and Rita Hayworth were happy to feature in programmes such as Lux Radio Theatre, aware that the ‘wireless’ was an excellent way of maintaining a profile between pictures. The fees were another incentive (producers would pay the big stars thousands of dollars for a single performance) and until television usurped the medium in the 50s, it wasn’t unusual for radio shows to achieve audiences in the millions.

And so it would be remiss to completely ignore Conway’s radio output. For context, a Daily Telegraph feature on him, dated 18^th September, 1965, references his role in ‘in the radio serial, Sherlock Holmes’, but completely ignores his Falcon films and movies like Cat People. Similarly, his obituary in Variety summed up his body of work as, ‘…“The Falcon” series of feature films… and other screen melodramas, also in radio series, notably one revival of “Sherlock Holmes” and “The Saint”.’

Put succinctly, his radio work mattered.

His turns as Templar (comprising 22 weekly episodes) are fun but slightly predictable. However, his stint as ‘the Great Detective’ offers a highly creditable take on Baker Street’s most famous resident. Taking over from the mighty Basil Rathbone, so ingrained in the public consciousness as Holmes, must have been daunting, especially as the sleuth’s partner in crime, Doctor Watson, was played by Nigel Bruce who’d featured opposite Rathbone in many popular films produced by 20^th Century Fox and latterly Universal.

Conway’s early performances feel as though he’s vaguely hampered by the actor that came before him, but as he settles into the part it becomes his own. If anything, he’s more waspish and impatient than Rathbone’s Holmes, but his smooth tones give the character a unique elegance. He’s aloof and detached and if he doesn’t have the chemistry with Bruce that Rathbone enjoyed, it’s no bad thing, emphasising the detective’s disconnect, as suggested by Doyle’s source material.

Conway’s co-star on Baker Street, Nigel Bruce (centre) and former radio Holmes, Basil Rathbone, seen here with Eve Amber in a moment from The Woman in Green (1945).

Certain episodes, including The Dying Detective, prove revelatory. When Holmes is suffering from what might be termed a mental breakdown in Murder Beyond the Mountains, Rathbone allows his Holmes to retain his dignity and poise. But in The Dying Detective, when Holmes is ostensibly losing his grip on reality, Conway’s extraordinary delivery is banshee-like. Tremulous and high-pitched, he sounds as if madness has already claimed him. Discordant, snappy, and by turns fiercely aggressive and lost and languorous, it’s a memorable performance. Like his death scene in Tarzan’s Secret Treasure, it’s an indication that Conway was an actor who’d happily forfeit ‘cool’ to serve the story he was telling.

Critic Michael R Pitts suggested many of his later projects were ‘…imitations of the Falcon series’ but that feels unfair, particularly in terms of the characters and the way Conway played them.

They may have been crimefighters, but his takes on Mark Saber and Sherlock Holmes, for example, were light years away from his Tom Lawrence persona. The only detective he plays in Confidence Woman (1952) is a fake one – a besotted partner of the titular fraudster, sensitively played by Hilary Brooke. The plot of Park Plaza 605 (1953) sounds like a Falcon movie, with its secret messages, gun-toting heavies, jewel robberies and a femme fatale described by Sid James’s character as a ‘foreign piece – full of sex appeal.’

Ahem.

Hillary Brooke, Conway’s co-star in Confidence Woman, seen here with Paul Cavanagh (who later starred opposite Conway in 1951’s Bride of the Gorilla) in a scene from The Woman in Green.

And to an extent, Conway’s hero, the improbably named Norman Conquest, resembles the Falcon in this enjoyable yarn produced by B & A Productions. He rushes headlong into danger for absolutely no discernible reason and seems to enjoy adventure for adventure’s sake. But he’s clumsier that the Falcon and certainly nowhere near as sharp.

Yet if Conquest is a version of an older Tom Lawrence, it’s an idealised model in an idealised world. When we first meet him he’s in a long-term relationship, settled and ostensibly content. And throughout the jams he gets into he remains relatively sanguine. He may not like what’s going on, but the understands the driving factors – villains being villainous, because Park Plaza 605 is full of characters who feel like throw backs to 40s crimers, without the noirish elements or cynicism so common in 50s cinema.

For instance, when the previously deadly Nadina (Eva Bartok on gloweringly good form) is captured towards the end of proceedings, we find she’s genuinely contrite and reformed, and even sacrifices herself to save Conquest’s life. As she lies dying, she asks him, ‘Then… we’re friends again?’ as if that’s the really important thing. Minutes later Conquest is goofing around with diamonds for his girlfriend, a hasty reminder this is a comedy first and a thriller second – a point constantly underlined by Philip Green’s relentlessly whimsical score.

Eva Bartok, Conway’s co-star in Park Plaza 605, seen here in a publicity shot for Hammer’s Spaceways (1953).

James, Bartok and Conway are the best things about Park Plaza 605, with the latter bringing a deftness to the humorous scenes and a much-needed gravitas to the rare, emotionally charged moments. In a way, this is a continuation of The Falcon’s Adventure, set several years later, if everything had gone right with the world.

By contrast, Blood Orange - Conway’s following film - isn’t necessarily a glimpse into that same timeline if things had all gone wrong, but the space it inhabits possesses a cold, authentic edge. It’s what would have happened if the eternally youthful Falcon had finally grown up and found himself in the real world.

One of the striking things about the film is how little people care about each other or the crimes that turn Pascal’s into the fashion house that dripped blood. When Helen Pascal is asked about the background to the theft and attack, she gives two lines of dialogue and less than 25 seconds later declares, ‘Now I really must get back to the studio!’ The quest for justice is nothing more than an imposition and she’s unwilling to pretend otherwise. The company’s models remained largely unmoved by the grim turn of events and Mercedes, ostensibly the owner of the stolen property, doesn’t hide his apparent boredom with the investigation.

As indicated by this poster, Blood Orange was released as 3 Stops to Murder in the US.

Conway, (Tom Conway confusingly playing a detective called Tom Conway) is pretty much alone in harbouring a genuine concern for the dead. Only Detective Inspector MacLeod (Richard Wattis) shares his interest and the scenes they share speak of an alliance born of joint motivation. The Falcon movies were all about the romance of crime. This is the bromance of crime as two exasperated detectives find kinship in a case that no-one else cares about.

Hammer hired Conway for the picture because of his star pull in the States, but it was an all-round shrewd piece of casting. He wisely brings several Falcon-ish elements to the role. He’s smooth, debonair and unflappable. At one point he saves a man’s life as a high rail gives way, and nonchalantly reacts to his own heroism as if preventing someone’s death is a daily occurrence. Conway dusts off many of the mannerisms that made Tom Lawrence so attractive to audiences, but these familiar traits are left to feel outmoded in an environment where evil isn’t merely allowed to thrive, it’s expected to flourish. It has become the new norm.

And so, crucially, Conway plays the detective as a man adrift in a world he no longer understands. Even something as simple as talking to the staff of Pascal’s proves problematic as initially at least, they all prioritise their jobs and the clients’ demands over a conversation to help further his investigation. It would have been unthinkable for the Falcon, but by and large, they’re as ambivalent towards him as they are to the crimes that surround them. We see Conway worn down by their indifference and at times mystified by it. Certainly, he’s perplexed that the bland Captain Simpson can hold the model’s attention whilst he himself struggles to even chat to a Pascal employee. ‘What’s he got that I haven’t?’ he asks wearily. ‘Nice manners and a job in a fashion house,’ one of the models replies.

A job in a fashion house. It’s Simpson’s position, his ability to help the women in their careers that makes him attractive, as opposed to any sense of character and charm, which their apathy towards Conway indicates they’re immune to. Time and time again, Conway encounters problems that the Falcon could have solved in an instant, but here, in this harsher, more quietly dangerous world, they provide more of a challenge.

Michael Ripper, who plays Eddy in Blood Orange, seen here in Hammer’s The Reptile (1966).

By about halfway through the film this becomes increasingly apparent. Take a look at the scene where Michael Ripper’s Eddy warns Conway off the case. The detective tries to find common ground and humour to win him over, but Eddy remains impervious and aggressive. When he drives away, Conway literally staggers for a moment and is clearly perturbed by the encounter. Nothing is going his way and worse quickly follows. As he walks from the scene, two heavies pick him up in the street and march him to their car at gunpoint. Once they reach the vehicle, Conway tries to fight his way out of the situation. Tom Lawrence could have battered the two goons whilst lighting a cigarette and ordering a cocktail. All ‘Tom Conway’ gets for his efforts is a punch to his guts and more warnings. Even his eventual escape is an inelegant getaway, indicating that practicalities come above style in this world.

Compare (with major spoilers ahead!) the end of the movie to the close of the much lighter Park Plaza 605. Conway is again face-to-face with the central female villain, but here she seeks neither friendship nor forgiveness. There’s no redemption in this story, because contrition is in short supply and besides, the sins of the many have washed away any sense of shame or conscious guilt.

The one entirely good man is Tom Conway. Even DI MacLeod was only there as part of his job, whereas Conway had clear opportunities and incentives to get out of Dodge. It’s his refusal to leave and his dedication to see justice done that marks him down as a hero. Not as assured or polished or infallible as those Conway played in the past, but more realistic and, in a way, more admirable. He carries a battered nobility. An unspoken integrity that’s about as much use as a gat loaded with blanks.

A detail of marketing material for Blood Orange.

Conway’s brilliant portrayal is enough to evoke Raymond Chandler’s famous summation of what constitutes his type of detective. ‘But down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. The detective in this story must be such a man. He is the hero; he is everything… He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honour - by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world… [he talks] with rude wit, a lively sense of the grotesque, a disgust for sham, and a contempt for pettiness… If there were enough like him, the world would be a very safe place to live in, without becoming too dull to be worth living in.’

Conway’s only other work for Hammer was providing the narration for Copenhagen (1956), a short documentary directed by Michael Carreras. More films featuring Conway as Conway would have been a treat, but of course, everything changed for Hammer after The Quatermass Xperiment (1955) and Blood Orange proved to be his only outing. Back in the States, Conway made Paris Model (1953) for Columbia Pictures and ended up working on about 20 movies during the 50s – not bad for an actor whose post-Falcon career is often written off as virtually non-existent.

He reunited with the director of Blood Orange, Terence Fisher, when he took the lead in The Last Man to Hang (1956), a courtroom drama co-starring Elizabeth Sellars, Eunice Gayson and future Miss Marple, Joan Hickson. His late 50s films include the cult classic Voodoo Women in which against type, he played a cruel, marvellously crazed scientist who says things like, ‘We’ll shatter the very foundations of science!’ without laughing. Discussing the movie, Moria - The Science Fiction, Horror and Fantasy Film Review pointed out, ‘Its cheapness aside, Voodoo Woman has an undeniable vigour that makes it highly entertaining… Tom Conway plays opposite [co-star Marla English] with a wonderful arrogance and madness. It is these performances and the often amusing dialogue that gives Voodoo Woman an undeniable pulp energy that makes it hard to dislike.’

The brothers reunited for another RKO movie, the 50s noir, Death of a Scoundrel.

He starred opposite his brother, George Sanders, in Death of a Scoundrel (1956) and found time for TV work, including many appearances as the boyfriend in The Betty Hutton Show and three episodes of Alfred Hitchcock Presents. The most celebrated of these remains the award-winning The Glass Eye, directed by Robert Stevens. It’s an eerie and unsettling story and although you can see the twist coming fairly early on, the way it’s executed means the climax remains a memorable, shocking piece of horror that fans of the anthology series often cite as a favourite. It’s also the only role Conway played where the director would have thanked him for delivering a wooden performance…

Conway endured health problems in the late 50s and 60s and his second marriage floundered. It was a tough time for him, made worse when swindlers conned him out of thousands of dollars. ‘I was a victim of the old shell game,’ he reflected with characteristic insouciance.

In September, 1965, it emerged he was living in a $2-a-day room in a beachfront hotel in Venice, LA. His landlady assured reporters, ‘Tom’s not bitter…’ and reports at the time indicated he was in reasonable spirits. ‘I find myself this way after many years of making considerable amounts of money’, he told one journalist, who wrote, ‘Mr. Conway still appears well-groomed, with a moustache and neat appearance. He is 60 years old. He said Mr. Sanders knew little or nothing about his plight because they had not been close in recent years.’

Tom Conway (l) in Bride of the Gorilla, alongside co-stars (l-r) Barbara Payton, Gisela Werbisek, Paul Cavanagh and Raymond Burr.

The Times’s obituary of Conway suggested he was still living in his Venice digs at the time of his death, and a report in the Guardian, covering his passing, was headlined, ‘A star dies penniless’, but actually his circumstances had improved towards the end. With assistance from friends he’d moved into better accommodation on LA’s upmarket Wilshire Boulevard and he shunned the offer of staying permanently at the Motion Picture Country Home and Hospital (a kind of home for former actors), explaining, ‘There you’re retired completely and have to give everything up. You’re simply through. It’s only a question of time until I’ll be well. Then I want to operate a retreat in Baja, California. I think I can get backers interested.’

But ill-health continued to dog him and he died of liver damage at Washington Hospital in Culver City, California on 22 April, 1967. He was only 62 and had recently indicated he was contemplating a return to screen, stating, ‘… acting-wise I think I’m at my peak.’

Tom Conway… forever soaring as the Falcon.

Looking back on his career, Blood Orange emerges as one of Conway’s very best performances playing a detective, if not any role. Portraying his namesake with grace and charisma, he’s authentic without being commonplace, and easily wins our sympathy and affection. In his only feature for Hammer he’s Sam Spade and Philip Marlow without the easy answers or voguish cynicism. He may be trapped in a world where punches leave bruises and despite claims to contrary, crime usually pays, but he’s still Tom Conway and he’s Tom Lawrence, the beautiful Falcon.

Maybe he always was, and maybe he always will be.

You can read more about Hammer’s restoration and release of Blood Orange and it’s available to order now.