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The Shamus watched Elvis Presley’s King Creole last night, or as my inner auteurist might put it, Michael Curtiz’ “King Creole.” It’s pretty sad that I’ve seen Clambake and Spinout and Harum Scarum, but never Elvis’s best movie.

Last year, as the annual Aug. 16 Elvis death date approached, I watched Jailhouse Rock. In that film, he essentially did a sexy version of a pelvis-popping, lip-sneering rock star, not much of a stretch, but it seemed to be his best. Not so. In King Creole, set in New Orleans and adapted from a Harold Robbins novel (!), Elvis gives a credible performance in the troubled teen/James Dean mold. At times, Elvis almost reaches into that mythic territory of ’50s Brando. And surrounded by good actors (Walter Matthau, Carolyn Jones, Vic Morrow, Paul Stewart), a real script and atmospheric camerawork, Elvis proves that he might have developed as an actor if the heinous, ex-carny, ex-dogcatcher manager who doesn’t deserve his military honorific hadn’t held him back. Or if Elvis hadn’t been such a timid personality.

Still, we’ve got King Creole, which may stand alone in the Elvis canon as the one film where the songs are weaker than the dramatic moments. You can tell you’re in for something different from the strangely edited opening sequence of peddlers crying out on a deserted French Quarter street. Throughout the film, Curtiz proves to be what blogger Damian Arlyn rightly described as “an aficianado of shadowplay.” Filmed in black and white, the movie is filled with marvelous noir-ish scenes of long, bleak alleyways and sidewalks, waterside docks and one great shot where E ascends a staircase lit by a single lightbulb. “King Creole” should truly be reconsidered as one of the Curtiz masterworks, a step down but not too far down from the classic films that made his reputation in the ’40s.

Elvis plays Danny Fisher, a moody teenager living in the shadow of an ineffectual father (Dean Jagger). This puts a rage in Danny that powers the entire film, and brings to mind a sort of juvey version of “East of Eden.” (The Shamus wonders what Elvis could have done if he had been directed by an Elia Kazan.) Early on, Elvis, his bangs all messed up and that hurt look in his eyes, delivers a long, thoughtful monologue to his high school principal Mr. Evans that is truly impressive in its delivery:

“Listen, Mr. Evans. We moved into this neighborhood 3 years ago. In that 3 years that I’ve been going to school here, I’ve shined shoes and dusted people off in a barbershop. I’ve done towel duty in 4 different men’s rooms. I’ve stacked chairs and bottles and swept the floor up of every joint on Bourbon Street. It’s gotten so I look longer at a dame with clothes on than one without. I’m not a hoodlum. But I am a hustler. I’ve had to be for a very simple reason - my old man. You see, sir, my mother was killed in an accident about 3 years ago. Well, after that, it might as well have gotten the old man too, because he took himself right out of the lineup. He quit cold. He lost the drugstore that he owned, he lost the house, and then finally what few little jobs he’s had since. You know, maybe I could’ve liked school, Mr. Evans. But every time I wanted to play ball, I had to go to work. Somebody had to. Anyway, now I’m through. I’m through.”

One of Danny’s jobs is busing tables at a nightclub owned by mobster Maxie Fisher (Matthau), a venal pig who corrupts everything he touches, including the once promising girl singer Ronnie (Jones), who has now turned into a lush and Maxie’s plaything. What I like about “King Creole” is it isn’t the usual white-bread Elvis movie plot: He robs stores, gets into fights, tries to lure a sweet girl into a hotel room, lusts for Ronnie and even takes part in a robbery that goes awry when his father becomes the victim. He even — gasp! — bleeds! The only thing that saves Danny is his singing talent, which leads him to a job headlining at Maxie’s competition, the wild club King Creole, where he is soon outdrawing a stripper covered in bananas. This draws the increasing ire of Maxie, who threatens Danny unless he comes back to work for him. The film isn’t New Orleans neo-realism like Kazan’s “Panic In The Streets,” but it doesn’t try to hide the darker feel of the city.

Matthau, in one of his early heavy roles, is greasily malevolent as Maxie. And I really liked Jones, pre-Morticia, who makes you feel the pain of her dashed dreams and her desire to protect and possess Danny in a very carnal way. With her boyish, black bangs and his greasy tangle of hair, they are alluring together, a demonic couple. And Jones and Matthau are positively toxic in their pairing: She has a great moment where she snarls at Matthau, “You don’t own me! You paid for me!” Matthau also forces her to pull up her dress and show Danny her legs, just one of many moments where you ask yourself: This is an Elvis movie?

Of course, there are the typical Elvis moments, especially in the subplot of his relationship with a sweet dimestore clerk (Dolores Hart), but even here there are interesting shadings as Elvis struggles with his good side and “the beast in me,” as he put it in “Jailhouse Rock.” The song interludes, except for a semi-lewd version of “Trouble” where Elvis throws out those forward hip thrusts and puts that rough-trade look on his face, are pretty saccharine. Curtiz shoots these scenes at a distance as though he’s waiting impatiently to get to the good stuff.

And there is plenty of good stuff in “King Creole.” It’s a propulsive slice of ’50s wild life, full of flesh-and-blood characters and complex motivations. It’s Elvis noir. And it rocks.

(Cross-posted at Bad For The Glass: badfortheglass.blogspot.com)