His Kind of Woman
There are movies that know exactly what they want to be from the first frame, and then’s His Kind of Woman, a movie that stumbles into greatness by accident. This 1951 noir begins as a moody, low-key thriller in the Raymond Chandler tradition but gradually transforms into a wonderfully absurd adventure that manages to be both ridiculous and irresistible.
Robert Mitchum plays Dan Milner, a down-on-his-luck gambler lured to a Baja resort by mysterious underworld figures. He’s supposed to be cannon fodder for deported gangster Nick Ferraro, who wants to steal his identity and slip back into the States. But Milner doesn’t know this yet. While he waits, he trades wisecracks with lounge singer Lenore Brent, played by Jane Russell, and befriends ham actor Mark Cardigan, played by Vincent Price.
The dialogue crackles. When Mitchum walks into his apartment to find three thugs playing cards, he asks matter-of-factly, “Need a fourth?” Later, meeting Russell as she sips $18 champagne in a Mexican airport café, he wonders if she’s “in the oil business, or just spending your alimony all at once.” Her reply? “I’m what you’d call a spoiled child of the rich.” His comeback: “Well, how do you do? I’m what you’d call a spoiled child of the poor.”
This is Mitchum at his most Chandleresque—tough, quick-witted, unflappable. He’s a dead ringer for Philip Marlowe here, years before he’d actually play the detective. Too bad he had to wait so long.
But the real revelation is Vincent Price. His Mark Cardigan is a magnificently self-absorbed actor of medium talent and maximum ego. Price plays him note-perfect, finding the childlike innocence beneath the vanity. When the third act turns into a rescue mission, Cardigan goes full theatrical hero mode—quoting Shakespeare, commandeering police forces, and generally treating real danger like a stage play. When he locks Russell in a closet and heads off to rescue Mitchum, someone warns he could be killed. His flamboyant response: “If I’m not here by Wednesday, chop that door down!”
The supporting cast delivers too. Tim Holt shows up as a G-Man, Jim Backus is perfectly cast as a lecherous investment banker, and Raymond Burr makes a genuinely menacing Ferraro—but more on that later.
Here’s the thing about His Kind of Woman: it gets more absurd as it goes along. What starts as low-key noir gradually transforms into over-the-top action adventure. By the finale, we’re deep into near-parody territory. Yet Russell and Mitchum keep playing it straight, creating a fascinating tension between sincerity and camp.
The production history explains everything. John Farrow directed the original version, but Hughes sat on it for six months. When he finally watched it, he brought in new writers and director Richard Fleischer to completely rework the climax. What was once a simple scuffle on a yacht became an elaborate chase sequence complete with torture scenes and a sinking rowboat. Hughes even recast Ferraro twice—first replacing Howard Petrie with Robert J. Wilke, then Wilke with Raymond Burr. The whole mess took over a year to complete.1
This should have been a disaster. Instead, it’s a happy accident. Neither the somber noir it starts as nor the absurd adventure it becomes would have been remarkable on their own. Together, they make a truly distinctive film that grows on you with each viewing.
The production values are surprisingly strong. You’d never guess this was shot entirely on soundstages, complete with a man-made beach. The RKO craftsmen knew their business and Hughes splurged to build out an entire yacht and deepen the cement water tank at RKO studios for his new ending.2
My only complaint? At just over two hours, it runs long. The third-act torture sequence feels as self-indulgent as it probably was. Hughes clearly fell in love with his own excess.
But that’s a minor blemish on a film that succeeds precisely because it doesn’t know when to quit. His Kind of Woman is proof that sometimes the best movies are the ones that spiral beautifully out of control.