You can scan thru many publications and they will tell you that Robert Siodmark’s adaptation of Ernest Hemingway’s story The Killers is quintessential noir, and whilst I haven’t seen enough of the perceived classics to make a sound judgement, I do understand why this one ranks so high.

Perfectly directed by Siodmark because it is washed with a moody ambiance that befits the script, the main players in the piece are bang on form to realise the mood and sombre tempo that makes the film a winner. The story basically revolves around Burt Lancaster’s Swede Anderson who upon learning that hired killers are out to fulfil a contract on him, promptly stays horizontal on his bed and awaits his fate. We then follow Edmond O’Brien’s insurance investigator Jim Reardon as (thru a series of flashbacks) he reconstructs Swede’s life and what caused his demise.

The story encompasses one of film noir’s most well known femme fatales in Ava Gardner’s foxy Kitty Collins, and it’s certainly the film’s driving force as we observe her part in Swede’s life, for better or worse as it were, but ultimately it’s the classy framing of the film that marks it out as essential viewing. It’s oppressive, it’s almost stifling, and it’s certainly story telling of the highest order, but mainly it just looks so fecking gorgeous you feel privileged to have been part of it