Film Screening: “Double Indemnity”

In this lesson we are going to examine Billy Wilder’s 1944 masterpiece Double Indemnity. This lesson will be followed by a short quiz to test your knowledge of the film and its production. If you have not seen the film we instruct you to view it before proceeding to the lesson. If you have already seen the film, this may be a good time to revisit it. IMDB

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DirectorBilly Wilder
WritersBilly WilderRaymond Chandler
CinematographerJohn F. Seitz
Film Editer
Doane HarrisonLee Hall
Buddy G. DeSylvaJoseph Sistrom
ComposerMiklós Rózsa

Indemnity is a 1944 American film noir, directed by Billy Wilder, co-written by Wilder and Raymond Chandler, and produced by Buddy DeSylva and Joseph Sistrom. The script was based on James M. Cain’s 1943 novella of the same title which originally appeared as an eight-part serial in Liberty magazine.

The film stars Fred MacMurray as an insurance salesman, Barbara Stanwyck as a provocative housewife who wishes her husband were dead, and Edward G. Robinson as a claims adjuster whose job is to find phony claims. The term double indemnity refers to a clause in certain life insurance policies that doubles the payout in cases when death is caused by accidental means.

Praised by many critics when first released, Double Indemnity was nominated for seven Academy Awardsbut did not win any. Widely regarded as a classic, it is often cited as a paradigmatic film noir and as having set the standard for the films that followed in that genre.


Walter Neff (Fred MacMurray), a successful insurance salesman for Pacific All Risk, returns to his office building in downtown Los Angeles late one night. He is clearly in pain as he sits down at his desk and begins dictating a memo into a Dictaphone machine for colleague Barton Keyes (Edward G. Robinson), a claims adjuster. The dictation becomes the story of the film, which is told in flashback:

Neff first meets the alluring Phyllis Dietrichson (Barbara Stanwyck) during a routine house call to renew an automobile insurance policy for her husband. A flirtation develops, at least until Phyllis asks how she could take out a policy on her husband’s life without his knowing it. Neff realizes she is contemplating murder, and he wants no part of it.

Phyllis pursues Neff to his own home, though, and ups the ante — or at least the voltage — of her flirtation; Neff’s gullibility and libido quickly overcome his caution, and he agrees that the two of them, together, will kill her husband. Neff knows all the tricks of his trade, of course, and comes up with a plan in which Phyllis’s husband will die an unlikely death, in this case falling from a moving train. The “accidental” nature of his demise will trigger the “double indemnity” clause of the policy, forcing Pacific All Risk to pay the widow twice the normal amount.

The couple carry out their plan. After Mr. Dietrichson breaks his leg, Phyllis drives him to the train station for his trip to Palo Alto for a college reunion. Neff hides in the car’s backseat and kills Dietrichson when Phyllis diverts the car onto a deserted side street. Then, pretending to be Dietrichson and using Dietrichson’s crutches, Neff boards the train as Phyllis sees him off. He identifies himself as Dietrichson to a passenger from Oregon whom he meets after the train pulls out of the station. Neff jumps off, safely, at a prearranged spot, and he and Phyllis place Dietrichson’s body on the tracks. Phyllis drives Neff home.

Mr. Norton, the company’s chief, believes the death was suicide and is prepared to settle with Phyllis, but the claims adjuster Keyes dissuades him by quoting statistics indicating the improbability of suicide by jumping off a slow-moving train, to Neff’s initial delight.

Keyes does not suspect foul play at first, but the “little man” in his chest keeps nagging that all is not right with this case. He eventually concludes that the Dietrichson woman and some unknown accomplice must be behind the husband’s death. He has no reason to be suspicious of Neff, a colleague he has worked with for quite some time and actually views with considerable paternal affection.

Keyes, however, is not Neff’s only worry. The victim’s daughter, Lola (Jean Heather), comes to him, convinced that stepmother Phyllis is behind her father’s death: it seems Lola’s mother also died under suspicious circumstances — while Phyllis was her nurse. Neff’s concern goes beyond his fear that Lola might blow the whistle on the murder; he is not such a heel that he doesn’t begin to care about what might happen to the girl, whose parents have both been murdered.

Keyes brings the Oregon passenger whom Neff had met on the train into the office and shows him Dietrichson’s photo. The passenger states that the man he met was a younger man, definitely not Dietrichson. Keyes also suspects that Dietrichson might not have even known about his accident insurance since he didn’t file a claim when he broke his leg. Now convinced that Dietrichson was murdered, Keyes is prepared to reject the claim and force Mrs. Dietrichson to sue in order to expose her. Neff warns Phyllis not to sue and admits he has been talking to Lola about her past.

Then he learns Phyllis is seeing Lola’s boyfriend Nino behind her — and his own — back. Phyllis’s brazen unfaithfulness helps wake Neff from his romantic haze and he wants to save himself from his dire involvement with her and with murder. He reasons that the only way out is to make the police think Phyllis and Nino did the murder, which is what the tenacious Keyes now believes anyway.

Neff and Phyllis meet at her house and she tells him she has been seeing Nino only to provoke Nino into killing the suspicious Lola in a jealous rage. Neff is now wholly disgusted and is about to kill Phyllis when she shoots him first. Badly wounded but still standing, he advances on her, taunting her to shoot again. She does not shoot and he takes the gun from her. She says she never loved him “until a minute ago, when I couldn’t fire that second shot.” Neff coldly says he does not believe her; she tries hugging him tightly but then pulls away and looks pleadingly at him when she feels the gun pressed against her side. Neff says “Goodbye, baby,” then shoots twice and kills her.

Outside, Neff hides in the bushes and intercepts Nino as he approaches, presumably to visit his lover, Phyllis. Neff advises him not to enter the house, but to leave and contact “the woman who truly loves you” — Lola. Nino agrees and heads out, avoiding what would have been damning evidence against him if he’d entered the murder house.

Neff, gravely injured, drives to his office, seats himself at the Dictaphone, and starts explaining. Keyes arrives in mid-confession and hears enough to understand everything. Neff tells Keyes he is going to Mexico rather than face a death sentence — but sags to the floor before he can reach the elevator. Keyes comforts him and sadly says, “Walter, you’re all washed up.” Looking up at Keyes, Neff says the reason Keyes couldn’t solve the case was because Neff was “too close” as a fellow employee. Keyes tells Neff he was “closer than that.” Neff responds, “I love you too,” and puts a cigarette in his mouth. Neff is unable to light the match with his thumb, as he has done throughout the film, so Keyes lights it with his.


James M. Cain based his novella on a 1927 murder perpetrated by a married Queens, New York woman and her lover whose trial he attended while working as a journalist in New York. In that crime, Ruth Snyder persuaded her boyfriend, Judd Gray, to kill her husband Albert after having him take out a big insurance policy — with a double-indemnity clause. The murderers were quickly identified, arrested and convicted. The front page photo of Snyder’s execution in the electric chair at Sing Sing has been called the most famous news photo of the 1920s.

Double Indemnity began making the rounds in Hollywood shortly after it was published in Liberty magazine in 1935. Cain had already made a name for himself the year before with The Postman Always Rings Twice, a story of murder and passion between a migrant worker and the unhappy wife of a café owner. Cain’s agent sent copies of the novella to all the major studios and within days, MGM, Warner Bros., Paramount, 20th Century-Fox, and Columbia were all competing to buy the rights for $25,000. Then a letter went out from Joseph Breen at the Hays Office, and the studios withdrew their bids as one. In it Breen warned:

The general low tone and sordid flavor of this story makes it, in our judgment, thoroughly unacceptable for screen presentation before mixed audiences in the theater. I am sure you will agree that it is most important…to avoid what the code calls “the hardening of audiences,” especially those who are young and impressionable, to the thought and fact of crime.

Eight years later Double Indemnity was included in a collection of Cain’s works entitled Three of a Kind. Paramount executive Joseph Sistrom thought the material would be perfect for Wilder and they bought the rights for $15,000. Paramount resubmitted the script to the Hays Office, but the response was nearly identical to the one eight years earlier. Wilder, Paramount executive William Dozier, and Sistrom decided to move forward anyway. They submitted a film treatment crafted by Wilder and his writing partner Charles Brackett and this time the Hays Office approved the project with only a few objections: the portrayal of the disposal of the body, a proposed gas-chamber execution scene, and the skimpiness of the towel worn by the female lead in her first scene.


After Paramount purchased the rights to the novella for Wilder, the next step was a screenplay. The material was widely regarded around Hollywood as unfilmable due to its iniquitous characters and the restrictions imposed by the Code. Although he had worked on the treatment, tweedy Charles Brackett decided it was too sordid for his uppercrust sensibilities and bowed out of the project, leaving Wilder to find another collaborator. His first choice, James M. Cain himself, was already working for another studio and unavailable (although Cain claimed he was never asked). Producer Joseph Sistrom, an avid reader and an admirer of The Big Sleep, then suggested Raymond Chandler.

Wilder would later recall with disappointment his first meeting with Chandler. Envisioning a former private detective who had worked his own experiences into gritty prose, he instead met a man he would later describe as looking like an accountant. Chandler was new to Hollywood, but saw it as a golden opportunity. Not realizing that he would be collaborating with Wilder, he demanded $1000 and said he would need at least a week to complete the screenplay, to which Wilder and Sistrom simply looked at one another in amazement. After the first weekend, Chandler presented eighty pages that Wilder characterized as “useless camera instruction”; Wilder quickly put it aside and informed Chandler that they would be working together, slowly and meticulously. By all accounts, the pair did not get along during their four months together. At one point Chandler even quit, submitting a long list of grievances to Paramount as to why he could no longer work with Wilder. Wilder, however, stuck it out, admiring Chandler’s gift with words and knowing that his dialogue would translate very well to the screen.

Initially, Wilder and Chandler had intended to retain as much of Cain’s original dialogue as possible. It was Chandler, ironically, who first realized that the dialogue from the novella would not translate well to the screen. Wilder disagreed and was annoyed that Chandler was not putting more of it into the script. To settle it, Wilder hired a couple of contract players from the studio to read passages of Cain’s original dialogue aloud. To Wilder’s astonishment, Chandler was right and, in the end, the movie’s cynical and provocative dialogue was more Chandler and Wilder than it was Cain. Chandler also did a lot of fieldwork while working on the script and took large volumes of notes. By visiting various locations that figured into the film, he was able to bring a sense of realism about Los Angeles that seeped into the script. For example, he hung around Jerry’s Market on Melrose Avenue in preparation for the scene where Phyllis and Walter would discreetly meet to plan the murder.

The tumultuous relationship between Wilder and Chandler only enhanced the product of their collaboration. Wilder, in fact, believed that discord, a tug-of-war, was a vital ingredient necessary for a fruitful collaboration: “If two people think alike,” he once said, “it’s like two men pulling at one end of a rope. If you are going to collaborate, you need an opponent to bounce things off of.” His tugging with Chandler did have a softer side, it seems: over 60 years after the film’s initial release, it was discovered that Chandler had agreed to appear in a fleeting cameo at 16:12 into the film, glancing up from a book as Neff walks past in the hallway. This is notable because, other than a snippet from a home movie, there is no other footage of Chandler known anywhere.

When Chandler came to work with Wilder he was already a recovering alcoholic. As Wilder noted, “He was in Alcoholics Anonymous, and I think he had a tough time with me — I drove him back into drinking…”. By the time the picture was released, Chandler was thoroughly disillusioned with the writers’ lot in Hollywood; he published an angry piece titled “Writers in Hollywood” for The Atlantic Monthly in November 1945 in which he complained, “The first picture I worked on was nominated for an Academy Award (if that means anything), but I was not even invited to the press review held right in the studio.” He neglected, however, to mention that the studio had kept him on salary during the eight-week shooting schedule and that no changes to the script were allowed without his approval — a very rare accommodation for screenwriters, particularly newcomers, in those days. Offended, Wilder responded by saying, “We didn’t invite him? How could we? He was under the table drunk at Lucy’s,” a nearby watering hole for Paramount employees. This relationship with Chandler is what drew Wilder to his next project, the Best Picture-winning The Lost Weekend, about an alcoholic writer. Wilder made the film, in part, “to explain Chandler to himself.”

Cain himself was very pleased with the way his book turned out on the screen. After seeing the picture half a dozen times he was quoted as saying, ” … It’s the only picture I ever saw made from my books that had things in it I wish I had thought of. Wilder’s ending was much better than my ending, and his device for letting the guy tell the story by taking out the office dictating machine — I would have done it if I had thought of it.”

Wilder’s and Brackett’s estrangement during Double Indemnity was not a permanent one. Years later Wilder would characterize their time apart as just another kind of adultery: “1944 was ‘The Year of Infidelities,’” he said. “Charlie produced The Uninvited…I wrote Double Indemnity with Raymond Chandler… I don’t think he ever forgave me. He always thought I cheated on him with Raymond Chandler.” Brackett spun the breakup in a decidedly different light, saying, “Billy got so despondent at being without me that we did The Lost Weekend, a depressing film about a writer who has trouble writing.” Lost Weekend was a distinguished offspring for the reconciled couple — they left Oscar night with three Awards: Best Picture for producer Brackett, Best Director for Wilder, and a shared pair of statuettes for both for Best Screenplay. They worked together through Sunset Boulevard in 1950, then split for good.


Having the two protagonists mortally wound each other was one of the key factors in gaining Hays Office approval for the script: the Production Code demanded that criminals pay, on screen, for their transgressions. In addition, Double Indemnity broke new cinematic ground on several fronts, one of those being the first time a Hollywood film explicitly explored the means, motives, and opportunity of committing a murder. It would take skillful performers to bring nuance to these treacherous characters, and casting the roles of Walter Neff and Phyllis Dietrichson would be a challenge for Wilder.

Sistrom and Wilder’s first choice for the role of Phyllis Dietrichson was Barbara Stanwyck. At the time, Stanwyck was not only the highest paid actress in Hollywood, but the highest paid woman in America. (Her eventual co-star MacMurray matched Stanwyck’s prominence at the pay window: in 1943, he was the highest paid actor in Hollywood, and the fourth highest-paid American.) Given the nature of the role, Stanwyck was reluctant to take the part, fearing it would have an adverse effect on her career. According to Stanwyck,

I said, “I love the script and I love you, but I am a little afraid after all these years of playing heroines to go into an out-and-out killer.” And Mr. Wilder – and rightly so – looked at me and he said, “Well, are you a mouse or an actress?” And I said, “Well, I hope I’m an actress.” He said, “Then do the part”. And I did and I’m very grateful to him.

The character of Walter Neff was not only a heel, he was a weak and malleable heel — many Hollywood actors including Alan Ladd, James Cagney, Spencer Tracy,Gregory Peck, and Frederic March passed on it. Wilder even recalls “scraping the bottom of the barrel” and approaching George Raft. Raft was illiterate, so Wilder had to tell him the plot. About halfway through, Raft interrupted him with, “Let’s get to the lapel bit.” “What lapel bit?” a bewildered Wilder replied. “The lapel,” the actor said, annoyed by such stupidity. “You know, when the guy flashes his lapel, you see his badge, you know he’s a detective.” This was his vision of the film, and since it wasn’t part of the story, Raft turned the part down. Wilder finally realized that the part should be played by someone who could not only be a cynic, but a nice guy as well.

Fred MacMurray was accustomed to playing “happy-go-lucky good guys” in light comedies, and when Wilder first approached him about the Neff role, MacMurray said, “You’re making the mistake of your life!” Playing a serious role required acting, he said, “and I can’t do it.” But Wilder pestered him about it every single day — at home, in the studio commissary, in his dressing room, on the sidewalk — until he simply wore the actor down. MacMurray felt safe about his acquiescence since Paramount, who had him under contract and had carefully crafted his good guy image, would never let him play a “wrong” role. His trust, however, was misplaced: his contract was up for renewal at the time, and ever since his friend and co-star, Carole Lombard, had shrewdly and successfully taught him how to play hardball with the studio bosses, he wasn’t the pliable pushover of old. Paramount executives decided to let him play the unsavory role to teach him a lesson. A lesson was indeed taught, but not the one Paramount had in mind. MacMurray made a great heel and his performance demonstrated new breadths of his acting talent. “I never dreamed it would be the best picture I ever made,” he said.

Edward G. Robinson was also reluctant to sign on for the role of Barton Keyes, but not for the same reasons as MacMurray and Stanwyck. Having been a star since Little Caesar in 1930, this role represented a step downward to the third lead. Robinson would later admit, “At my age, it was time to begin thinking of character roles, to slide into middle and old age with the same grace as that marvelous actor Lewis Stone”. It also helped, as he freely admitted, that he would draw the same salary as the two leads, for fewer shooting days.


The original ending to the Cain novella called for the characters to commit double suicide. Suicide, however, was strictly forbidden at the time by the Hays Production Code as a way to resolve a plot, so Wilder wrote and filmed a different ending in which Neff goes to the gas chamber while Keyes watches. This scene was shot before the scenes that eventually became the film’s familiar ending, and once that final intimate exchange between Neff and Keyes revealed its power to Wilder, he began to wonder if the gas chamber ending was needed at all. “You couldn’t have a more meaningful scene between two men”, Wilder said. As he would later recount, “The story was between the two guys. I knew it, even though I had already filmed the gas chamber scene… So we just took out the scene in the gas chamber,” despite its $150,000 cost to the studio. Removal of the scene, over Chandler’s objection, also removed the Hays Office’s single biggest remaining objection to the picture, since they regarded it as “unduly gruesome” and predicted that it would never be approved by local and regional censor boards. The footage and sound elements are lost, but production stills of the scene still exist.

The look of the film was achieved through the work of cinematographer John F. Seitz. At the time, Seitz was the premiere director of photography on the Paramount lot; his work extended all the way back to the silent era. Wilder had worked with Seitz on his previous film, Five Graves to Cairo, in which Seitz was nominated for an Academy Award and Wilder praised Seitz’s willingness to experiment and fail. Here Wilder taps into his 1920s Berlin roots, and he and Seitz give the film a look subtly reminiscent of German expressionism, with dramatic deployment of light and shadows. ”He was ready for anything,” Wilder said. “Sometimes the rushes were so dark that you couldn’t see anything. He went to the limits of what could be done.” They would contrast the bright sunny Southern California exteriors, shot on location, with dark, gloomy, rotten interiors shot on soundstages to give the audience a sense of what lurks just beneath the facade — and just who is capable of murder. The contrast was heightened, in Wilder’s words, by “dirtying up” the sets. Once the set was ready for filming, Wilder would go around and overturn a few ashtrays to give the house an appropriately grubby look. Wilder and Seitz also blew aluminum particles into the air so that, as they floated down, they looked just like dust.

Another technique Seitz used was “venetian blind” lighting which almost gives the illusion of prison bars trapping the characters. Barbara Stanwyck later reflected, “…and for an actress, let me tell you the way those sets were lit, the house, Walter’s apartment, those dark shadows, those slices of harsh light at strange angles — all that helped my performance. The way Billy staged it and John Seitz lit it, it was all one sensational mood.”

For Neff’s office at Pacific All Risk, Wilder and set designer Hal Pereira conspired to create a little in-house joke, typical of Billy Wilder. In the opening scenes, as Walter Neff stumbles off the elevator on his way to his office to record his confession, the vast two-tiered office is empty and dark. With the camera following him, Neff lurches towards the balcony railing overlooking rows and rows of uniform corporate desks. Neff turns left, but the camera continues forward until it reaches the brink and stares down for an anxious moment into a colorless American business purgatory. Here, Pereira is said to have copied an existing office: the corporate headquarters of Paramount Pictures in New York City.

Wilder also decked Stanwyck out in the blonde wig “to complement her anklet…and to make her look as sleazy as possible.” This wig has been cited by some as being the picture’s biggest flaw claiming that it looks too “fake”.According to Wilder, this was exactly what he was going for when he chose the wig wanting to project, “the phoniness of the girl — Bad taste, phony wig,” with cheap perfume to match. Unconvinced, Paramount production head Buddy DeSylva was overheard to say, “We hired Barbara Stanwyck, and here we get George Washington.”

The production was not without its lucky accidents: The company had just finished shooting the final segment of the sequence where Phyllis and Walter make their getaway after dumping their victim’s body on the tracks. The crew was breaking for lunch before striking the set. In the script, the pair get in their car and simply drive away. But as Wilder got into his own car to leave, it wouldn’t start. Inspired, he ran back and ordered the crew back. Wilder reshot the scene, only this time as Phyllis starts the car, the motor stalls and won’t turn over. She tries several more times, but the car won’t start and the two look at each other in growing panic. Walter desperately reaches over, turns the key and guns the motor, finally starting the car. Only then do they speed away from the crime scene. The result was one of the most suspenseful scenes in the film, but was not in the original script. MacMurray was surprised when he first saw it onscreen: “…When I… turned the key I remember I was doing it fast and Billy kept saying, ‘Make it longer, make it longer,’ and finally I yelled, ‘For Chrissake Billy, it’s not going to hold that long,’ and he said, ‘Make it longer,’ and he was right.”

Wilder managed to bring the whole production in under budget at $927,262 despite $370,000 in salaries for just four people ($100,000 each for MacMurray, Stanwyck, and Robinson, and $70,000 — $44,000 for writing and $26,000 for directing — for himself).


The score to Double Indemnity was composed by Miklós Rózsa, whose work on Wilder’s previous film,Five Graves to Cairo, had been his first real Hollywood engagement for a major studio. Wilder had praised that work and promised to use Rózsa on his next film. Wilder had the idea of using a restless string fugue (like the opening to Franz Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony) to reflect the conspiratorial activities of Walter and Phyllis against her husband which Rózsa felt was a good one (and the Symphony is actually used with a very melodramatic effect in the scene with Lola and Walter in the hill above Hollywood Bowl, 1:23-1:26). As work progressed, Wilder’s enthusiasm about Rózsa’s score only grew, but the studio’s Musical Director, Louis Lipstone, was of a different mind; he and Wilder had previously clashed over some post-production cuts he had made to the Five Graves score which created problems with the music’s continuity and logic. Now the two were coming to loggerheads again.

When it came time to record the score for Double Indemnity, Lipstone made no secret that he despised what Rózsa had done, to which Wilder finally turned to him and snapped, “You may be surprised to hear that I love it. Okay?” Lipstone then disappeared and was not seen at the sessions again. He later summoned Rózsa to his office and reprimanded him for writing “Carnegie Hall music” which had no place in a film. Rózsa took this as a compliment, but Lipstone assured him it was not — and suggested he listen to the music from Madame Curie to learn how to write a proper film score. When Rózsa pointed out that Double Indemnity was a love story, Lipstone suggested his music was more appropriate to The Battle of Russia. Lipstone was convinced that as soon as the studio’s Artistic Director,Buddy DeSylva, heard the music he would throw it out. At a screening soon after, DeSylva called him over: expecting heads to roll, Lipstone eagerly huddled with his chief — only to have DeSylva praise the music, saying it was exactly the dissonant, hard-hitting score the film needed. The boss’s only criticism: there was notenough of it. By this time Lipstone had an arm around DeSylva, asking unctuously, “I always find you the right guy for the job, Buddy, don’t I?”

The score would go on to be nominated for an Academy Award, and the success brought Rózsa offers to do as many films as he had time for.

Critical reception

Double Indemnity opened on September 6, 1944 and was an immediate hit with audiences — despite a campaign by singer Kate Smith imploring the public to stay away on moral grounds. As James M. Cain recalled, “…there was a little trouble caused by this fat girl, Kate Smith, who carried on a propaganda asking people to stay away from the picture. Her advertisement probably put a million dollars on its gross.”

Reviews from the critics were largely positive, though the content of the story made some uncomfortable. While some reviewers found the story implausible and disturbing, others praised it as an original thriller. In his mixed review of the film in The New York Times, film critic Bosley Crowther called the picture “…Steadily diverting, despite its monotonous pace and length.” He complained that the two lead characters “…lack the attractiveness to render their fate of emotional consequence,” but also felt the movie possessed a “…realism reminiscent of the bite of past French films.”

Howard Barnes at the New York Herald Tribune was much more enthusiastic, calling Double Indemnity”…one of the most vital and arresting films of the year,” and praising Wilder’s “…magnificent direction and a whale of a script.” The trade paper Variety, meanwhile, said the film “…sets a new standard for screen treatment in its category.”

Influential radio host and Hearst paper columnist Louella Parsons would go even further, saying, “Double Indemnity is the finest picture of its kind ever made, and I make that flat statement without any fear of getting indigestion later from eating my words.”

Philip K. Scheur, the Los Angeles Times movie critic, ranked it with The Human Comedy, The Maltese Falcon, and Citizen Kane as Hollywood trailblazers, while Alfred Hitchcock himself wrote Wilder that “SinceDouble Indemnity, the two most important words in motion pictures are ‘Billy’ and ‘Wilder’”.

The film’s critical reputation has only grown over the years. In 1977, notably terse critic-historian Leslie Halliwell gave it an unusual 4-star (top) rating, and wrote: “Brilliantly filmed and incisively written, perfectly capturing the decayed Los Angeles atmosphere of a Chandler novel, but using a simpler story and more substantial characters.” In his 1998 review, film critic Roger Ebertpraised director Wilder and cinematographer Seitz. He wrote, “The photography by John F. Seitz helped develop the noir style of sharp-edged shadows and shots, strange angles and lonely Edward Hoppersettings.”

Imitators, rivals, reflections

After the success of Double Indemnity, imitators of the film’s plot and style were rampant. In 1945, Producers Releasing Corporation, one of the B movie studios of Hollywood’s Poverty Row, was set to release a blatant rip-off titled Single Indemnity starring Ann Savage and Hugh Beaumont. Paramount quickly slapped an injunction on the cut-rate potboiler that remains in force to this day. PRC eventually edited its film down to 67 minutes, re-titled it Apology for Murder, and sold it to television in the early ’50s as part of a syndicated half-hour mystery show.

So many imitations flooded the market, in fact, that James M. Cain believed he deserved credit and remuneration. Unfortunately for Cain, he could not copyright the market on murder. Instead he led a movement within the Screen Writers Guild to create the American Author’s Authority, a union that would own its members’ works, negotiate better subsidiary deals, and protect against copyright infringement on behalf of its members. This was, however, the depth of the Red Scare in Hollywood and Guild members rejected the socialist notion and ran from the attempt.

It was not uncommon at the time for studios to take out ads in trade journals promoting the virtues of their own films. David O. Selznick, no stranger to self-aggrandizement, frequently sought to put a high-culture patina on his pictures with “trade-book” ads. At just the time Double Indemnity was released, Selznick’s latest tearjerker, Since You Went Away, was enjoying some box office success. In his ads, Selznick quoted various dignitaries claiming it was the finest picture they had ever seen, how it served such a noble purpose, how it elevated humanity to new levels — no high-toned platitude was too lofty to invoke. Indeed, the ad averred, the words Since You Went Away had become “the four most important words uttered in motion picture history since Gone with the Wind.” The petulant Wilder despised such ostentation, so he placed an ad of his own: Double Indemnity, it claimed, were the two most important words uttered in motion picture history since Broken Blossoms, thus comparing D. W. Griffith’s artistic 1919 classic with his own sordid story of iniquitous murder. Selznick was not amused and threatened to stop advertising in any of the trades if they continued to run Wilder’s ads. Alfred Hitchcock (who had his own rocky relationship with Selznick) took out his own ads which read, “The two most important words in movies today are ‘Billy Wilder’!”

Wilder himself considered Double Indemnity his best film in terms of having the fewest scripting and shooting mistakes and always maintained that the two things he was proudest of in his career were the compliments he received from Cain about Double Indemnity and from Agatha Christie for his handling of her Witness for the Prosecution.

Wilder was not only proud of his film, he was plainly fond of it as well: “I never heard that expression, film noir, when I made Double Indemnity… I just made pictures I would have liked to see. When I was lucky, it coincided with the taste of the audience. With Double Indemnity, I was lucky.”


"Double Indemnity" Quiz