I have seldom seen a film fall apart so dismally in the home stretch as Larceny (1948), a tale of grifters in search of the deeply naive. There are about a dozen screenplay problems that it would be tedious to enumerate, culminating in a truly embarrassing climactic sequence.

This was John Payne’s first foray into noir, and he’s fine. I enjoyed the way he is made the object of sexual desire for every woman in the movie – a nice reversal of the usual, with the female gaze forefronted. It makes sense, too, because this is postwar America with eligible men in slightly short supply, and Payne is tall (6’2”), well-built, handsome, wears his suits well, and can turn on the charm as required.

The first hour of the movie is promising enough, with a nifty and bigger-than-usual role for Percy Helton, and the exteriors (shot in Pasadena) are a pleasant backdrop.

I suppose that Shelley Winters is competent as the femme fatale, but you know, I found her grating to watch, and couldn’t imagine why the Payne and Dan Duryea characters wouldn’t back away from her fast.