Rent They Made Me a Fugitive (1947)

Great noir - They Made Me a Fugitive review by JA

Surprisingly bleak noir, but really well done giving a real sense of place and time. A forgotten gem.

The Coffin Fits - They Made Me a Fugitive review by CH

A brick viaduct, rain, a wandering cat, noisy pubs, backstage dressing rooms, scant furniture in tiny lodging-house rooms. This is the stuff of noir - and a great English use of these, and more, is Cavalcanti's They Made Me a Fugitive (1947). This Brazilian-born director has become better known in recent years for the films he made here, such as Went the Day Well?, although his French works are harder to find (there was once a National Film Theatre season). And now, such is the circle of death, it coincides with renewed interest in the novels of Jackson Budd, some of which have been reissued in the British Library's crime series.

One of these, yet to appear again, was adapted for the screen by Noel Langley for this film, and perhaps he hit upon the surreal turns which this seemingly gritty work takes. Here are many scenes with notices on doors, and framed sentiments on walls, including Auden's “It's Later than You Think”. All of which pale beside the opening scene which finds some functionaries who sigh and sweat as their overcoated shoulders bear a coffin into the, yes, Valhalla Undertakers; its rooftop surely defies all Planning laws, for upon it there are the huge, vertical letters R I P.

One does not give away much by saying that this coffin will cause many more deaths; it conceals contraband cigarettes; in a variant on those who carry violin cases, the top-hatted men are part of a gang headed by Griffith Jones who announces that the operation needs the added class which will be provided by an RAF veteran down on his luck after escaping from a Prisoner of War camp: Trevor Howard.

As with all gangs (and much of human society), factions emerge, partly fostered by rivalry for the women in their midst. Howard's end is precipitated by his balking at a coffinload of drugs. A stint in a misty West Country gaol only determines him to prove his innocence.

Everything – dialogue, pace, light and shade – coheres, including a scene in a house on the Moors which could be a film in itself. If one had to sum up the theme of this remarkable film in a phrase, it is that in this world and the next it is hard for all concerned to rest in peace.

Spivs, Shadows, and a Short Fuse - They Made Me a Fugitive review by griggs

Noir in every sense, They Made Me a Fugitive trades Hollywood gloss for something grittier, nastier, and defiantly British. Trevor Howard’s ex-RAF pilot slides into black-market thuggery before his criminal associates frame him for murder—a setup that transforms post-war London’s bomb-scarred streets into genuinely menacing territory where moral compasses spin uselessly.

Cavalcanti’s direction proves sharp and unflinching, painting moody, shadow-cloaked scenes while staging violence with a bluntness that must have rattled 1940s audiences. The pacing starts measured but tightens like a noose, building momentum as the walls close in and Howard’s situation grows increasingly desperate.

It plays like The 39 Steps crossed with Brighton Rock—borrowing the wrong-man premise from Hitchcock and the seedy underworld atmosphere from Greene, though lacking the former’s relentless energy and the latter’s psychological weight. Still, Howard delivers committed work, and the film’s blend of shadowy menace, desperate characters, and cynical wit makes it a cut above most British crime fare of the era.

If American noir is a whiskey sour, this is a warm pint with broken glass in it—harsher going down, but worth the swallow.