Ultra-pessimistic film noir which has many interesting genre features but is ultimately frustrated by Byron Haskin's uninspired direction. The premise is familiar from gangster films of the early '30s; a hapless stooge (Burt Lancaster) takes the rap for his partner (Kirk Douglas) when their racket gets tumbled during prohibition.
So when the fall guy is sprung from the big house 14 years later, he expects a share of his old pal's hot nightspot. But the ex-jailbird is an anachronism. The mobs are over. Now WWII has happened, the concept of the sucker coming home to find others have done very well in his absence and don't want to share the rewards, has a deeper resonance.
Burt was always a good punchbag in his noir days and Kirk is well cast as the vicious, impregnable top dog. Lizabeth Scott shimmers sensuously as the chanteuse who swaps sides. But Wendell Corey is best as the crooked, careworn accountant, slowly worn down by his guilty conscience. The quality cast gets some nice hardboiled dialogue.
When Lancaster assembles a gang to extract his cut by force, instead of exchanging gunfire, he finds he is holding up a cartel and he can't get his whack without a vote by the shareholders! This is based on a New York play (by Theodore Reeves) and this standout scene is all that's left of its negative critique of capitalism! Which is a shame.