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Director: Norman Foster
By Marilyn Ferdinand
Despite the bone-chilling weather, February 26 marked a joyful (if probably temporary) return of the Northwest Chicago Film Society to the Patio Theater. The theater’s 87-year-old boiler was returned to life, and though it wasn’t up to keeping us toasty warm in sub-zero weather, nobody seemed to mind—it was just great to gather with old friends and other classic film fans to see another of the rare films on film NCFS specializes in showing at an appropriately vintage movie theater.
After paying tribute to Harold Ramis, who died this week, by showing the trailers for Ghostbusters (1984) and Groundhog Day (1993), NCFS fired up a short film about motorcycle racing in the British Isles to coordinate with the main attraction, a romance/noir hybrid set in London—the luridly, but not inappropriately, named Kiss the Blood Off My Hands. This film was the first Burt Lancaster made under the aegis of Harold Hecht-Norma Productions, the independent production company he started only two years after his star-making debut in Robert Siodmak’s The Killers (1946) to capitalize on his own popularity. Lancaster’s company in a couple of different incarnations would produce some excellent movies, including Best Picture Oscar winner Marty (1955), Sweet Smell of Success (1957), and Birdman of Alcatraz (1962). One only has to look back to the company’s first film to see that Lancaster had more than acting ability and charisma—he knew how to make great pictures.
In true noir fashion, Kiss the Blood Off My Hands zeroes in on a damaged World War II veteran whose precarious postwar existence almost inevitably collides with crime and violence. The film opens in a pub that is closing for the night. The patrons dutifully file out, save for petty criminal Harry Carter (Robert Newton) and a nervous, drunk Bill Saunders (Lancaster). When the publican (Campbell Copelin) tries to rouse Saunders from his place at the bar, Saunders reacts violently. He punches the publican, who fall, hits his head, and dies. A scream from the barmaid (Marilyn Williams) sends Saunders running. He eludes a policeman who gives chase by climbing into a flat occupied by hospital worker Jane Wharton (Joan Fontaine). A former inmate in a Nazi POW camp, he’d rather die than be locked up again, and when Jane does not turn him in the next day, he feels safe for the first time in a long time. She feels drawn to him, too, but naturally, Saunders’ crime, however accidental, will cast a shadow over their relationship and lead to violent consequences.
In many ways, Kiss the Blood Off My Hands has a predictable set-up, but it is shot through with surprises. Of course Carter comes looking to blackmail Bill. Of course Jane rejects Bill when his impulsive violence pops out, and of course she takes him back. But I was genuinely shocked by some of the scenes. For example, Bill is much more vicious and immoral than I expected. He mugs a man for his wallet and uses the stolen ration coupons to get some new clothes so he can call on Jane, a shocking touch of plot and character that doesn’t feel forced. His assault on a passenger on a train he and Jane are taking and subsequent attack on a police officer are sudden and vicious, but his punishment—six months hard labor and 18 lashes with a cat o’ nine tails—drew a literal gasp out of me. The lashing was a very difficult scene to watch and reminded me that postwar England was not so far ahead of the medieval tortures for which the country has long been infamous. I was also surprised that after Bill “goes straight” as a driver of a medical supply truck, he agrees to let Carter set up a robbery of the supplies in exchange for keeping Bill’s secret. In a previous scene, Bill saw how the supplies stopped an epidemic, but his personal survival always comes first.
While obviously shot mainly on a soundstage, the evocation of the physical atmosphere and mood of postwar London is pretty realistic. It is a world of ration books and black market trading, broken buildings and ongoing relief efforts, grieving widows and shell-shocked veterans. Seasoned DP Russell Metty, who would help create the look of Douglas Sirk’s famous Technicolor melodramas of the 1950s, paints a classic noir landscape of dark corners, narrow alleys, and menacing close-ups. When Bill and Jane go to the zoo on their improbable first date, Metty switches from an open, happy collection of boys mimicking a chimpanzee in a cage to a keeper feeding a ravenous lion. The camera moves swiftly from one caged predator to another, while Bill grows more anxious by the minute. The pacing, abetted by film editor Milton Carruth, is like a sudden eclipse of the sun, providing a hard-to-evoke state of mind for the troubled man that lasts throughout the film. This sequence is echoed later in the film when Jane joins Bill in psychic pain, wandering the streets in a daze, each corner harboring a menacing face that mirrors the face of the man she stabbed in self-defense.
Those who are looking for a hot romance between Bill and Jane will be disappointed. Although Lancaster can easily play the seducer, his Bill is a wounded boy. The first sign we and Jane get of this is at the zoo. Bill joins the boys in imitating the voice and face of the chimpanzee, a clear case of arrested development. Although the extended chase scene at the beginning of the film shows off Lancaster’s extreme athleticism and strength, he always seems small and pleading when he is with Jane. He barely reacts when he climbs in her window and sees her in her nightie, and doesn’t display a manly jealousy when the man on the train seems to be trying to make time with his girl. Even when he bemoans how his influence has screwed up Jane’s life, he knew what he was doing in pursuing her; she is a born helpmate.
Fontaine always seems to be the girl who wears glasses. In so many of her roles, she’s fragile and slightly aristocratic, as though her pure lineage has made her weak. As Jane, she falls in love with Bill’s need for her, his boyish vulnerability. When she leaves her room to get milk the morning after Bill has broken in, I half-expected her to put some in her tea and pour a full glass for him. She is always clearly in charge, finally overriding his survival instinct by making him accompany her as they both turn themselves in, thus kissing the blood off each other’s hands.
Robert Newton is always a pleasure, and his ingratiating crook is penny ante and not at all a match for Bill in the violence department, though Lancaster never lays a glove on him. It was a real relief not to see a fiendishly clever or super-powered villain, so dully common today. Screenwriter Leonardo Bercovici and adapter Ben Maddow were both to become victims of the Hollywood blacklist, and I have to think that their sympathy for common people brought out the vulnerability and sheer ordinariness of these characters. A large cast of bit players adds wonderful atmosphere and puts some real flesh on the bones of this scenario. Sadly, this film is not available for home viewing, but perhaps you can urge a programmer in your area to book this pristine 35mm print of a nearly forgotten gem.
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Director: Ridley Scott
By Roderick Heath
Ridley Scott’s latest film has stirred extremely divided responses in the critical and general audiences, with reviews quite literally ranging from those hailing it as the worst movie ever made to masterpiece. This makes it almost by default one of the most interesting releases of this year, a time of general indifference and enforced consensus, offering the hopes of surprise that someone, even someone lodged at the safe end of the Hollywood spectrum like Scott, can have stirred such intense responses. But Scott, coming off two uneven, big-budget spectacles, Robin Hood (2010) and Prometheus (2012), is actually a past master at shifting directorial gears, and like Hitchcock and Huston before him, prone to making some movies as working holidays. Indeed, some of his lower-wattage projects have been his best. But The Counselor, although shifting from the large scale to the small, represents no dip in ambition. Scott here tackles an original screenplay penned by acclaimed, but famously unforthcoming author Cormac McCarthy, his first venture in the field, and harks back to the famous collaborations of Carol Reed and Graham Greene. McCarthy and Scott share an evident interest in the crime genre, but neither approaches it in a familiar fashion. Much as McCarthy’s novels blur the mode’s boundaries with the Western, whilst veering its deeper concerns into the punitive teachings of folk tales and biblical parable, Scott’s affinity for neo-noir has usually been explored with a twist. Blade Runner (1982) was, of course, a scifi movie as well as a detective thriller, whilst Black Rain (1989) and Thelma and Louise (1991) anatomised cultural problems via genre plots, and Matchstick Men (2004) provided self-satire.
The Counselor sets out to both honour and critique the classic noir tale. Many of the genre’s most essential notions are present: double-crosses, innocents falling into infernal realms, terrifying revelations of the permeable wall between over and underworlds, well-laid plans going haywire, fetishistic delight mixed with straitlaced repugnance in regarding forbidden pleasures, the all-conquering femme fatale, and agents of evil doubling as angels of fate. But The Counselor is not mere homage. Critic Scott Foundas notably recognised its kinship with John Boorman’s seminal Point Blank (1967) in its simultaneously futurist and primitive atmosphere. Although squarely set in the here and now, The Counselor stretches in thematic reference from the destruction of Sodom to some future apocalypse, and the visual lexicon feels close to science fiction in some aspects and primeval in others. It also hews close to the visceral version of neo-noir popularised in the 1980s, like Lawrence Kasdan’s Body Heat (1983), John Dahl’s The Last Seduction (1992), Peter Medak’s Romeo Is Bleeding (1993), and even Robert Harmon’s genre-blurring, subliminal The Hitcher (1987). Scott’s interest in systematology is also apparent, as follow-up to American Gangster’s (2007) efforts to encompass the drug trade on a near-sociological level. One of the The Counselor’s three criss-crossing narrative lines follows one special drug shipment inside a septic tanker. The tanker, grimy and shabby, moves according to the whims of several vying owners, but always keeps rolling like inexorable fate to its intended destination. Perhaps the most important intersecting line of Scott and McCarthy’s sensibilities is their cynical attitude to money as toxic agent in human endeavours, a device that exposes weakness and sparks will to power.
One of McCarthy’s now-familiar methods is to build narratives around characters who could be described as the also-rans in most crime fiction, not great heroes or villains, but variably competent shmucks who find themselves outmatched on an almost cosmic level and fall by the wayside. They’re the kind of loser who turns up as a corpse on page 76 of a Phil Marlowe novel, the look of shock still marked on their face from the moment of death reflecting their sudden lesson in not being the cleverest men in the universe. Scott, for his part, usually has affection for idealistic, but similarly outmatched figures, a condition even his titanic heroes like Christopher Columbus suffer.
The titular and otherwise nameless Counselor (Michael Fassbender) is a successful lawyer with a large roster of seamy clients and the trappings of success. He and his girlfriend Laura (Penélope Cruz) are introduced in bed, at first entirely swathed under white sheets that cling to their outlined forms that evoke both baptismal robes and shrouds. The rawness of their couple’s sexuality doesn’t belie the evident truth that this is their Eden moment, and Laura’s first words, asking her lover if he’s awake, start the ball rolling on the film’s enquiry about states of awareness and pitches the work in that moment of wakefulness where the substance of reality isn’t quite discernible from a dream. The Counselor plans to pop the question, and does so after buying an expensive loose diamond from an Amsterdam dealer (Bruno Ganz) who walks the Counselor through technical matters of evaluating diamonds. The dealer introduces him to a “cautionary” diamond, an object that has outlived many merely mortal owners: the history of human greed, hope, and frailty has left no mark on its pristine surface.
One major aspect of The Counselor that quickly asserts itself is its emphasis on interpersonal dialogue: much of the film’s first half offers fairly simple scenes of the characters talking. McCarthy’s stylised dialogue is reminiscent of old-school noir and its roots in Marcel Carne’s poetic realist films and Val Lewton’s oneiric horror movies, even traditions of modernist and vernacular poetry, whilst also creating kinship with recent filmmakers like Quentin Tarantino, David Mamet, and Neil Jordan in filtering that harsh romanticism through modern gab.
The Counselor has a series of encounters with garrulous characters who are all, in their way, trying to warn him about something. The jeweller does so, in an abstract way, whilst his business confreres Reiner (Javier Bardem) and Westray (Brad Pitt) do so more urgently and with specific illustrations and examples, because they’re involved in the drug trade and know the kinds of people they deal with, and insist on making the Counselor absolutely knowledgeable about the risks he’s now taking. Reiner is one of the Counselor’s clients but also a friend and business partner in a nightclub they’re financing jointly, but because the Counselor’s finances have gone awry, and he decides to join forces with Reiner and Westray. Reiner is enjoying the highlife with his girlfriend Malkina (Cameron Diaz), whilst Westray tells the Counselor that he’s arranged his affairs so that he can disappear at the drop of a hat, and that he’d be happy living in a monastery if it wasn’t for his taste for women, a taste he has in fatefully common with Reiner.
Whereas Bardem bedazzled many playing a McCarthy fiend in No Country for Old Men (2007), here he plays a very different character, a chatty, fatuous, misogynistic playboy with a punkish hairdo, one who’s become accustomed to his luxurious, ill-gotten lifestyle, but who has no actual killer instinct. He and Malkina are first glimpsed watching with indulgent pleasure, complete with cocktails, as their two pet cheetahs chase down rabbits out in the hinterland. Reiner confidently believes that women have no moral compass and that the only thing they don’t like in a man is being bored, attitudes that might stem from his discomforting proximity to Malkina, whose affectations of predatory intent stretch to having cheetah spots tattooed on her back. In the film’s funniest and strangest scene, Reiner recounts to the Counselor with lingering unease and distaste when Malkina quite literally insisted on having sex with his car: she sat herself split-legged on the windscreen and rubbed her groin against the glass, a vision Reiner queasily compares to a catfish or other bottom feeder working its way up the aquarium tank glass. This marvellously weird moment crystallises the vagina dentata anxiety that underpins the femme fatale figure, whilst allowing Scott a chance to acknowledge the crackle of the erotic that’s always underlain his fascination with sleekly tactile surfaces. Indeed, one of the more amusing but expressive aspects of the film is its misè-en-scene, which pits Scott’s familiar modes of film décor in dialectic opposition. The Counselor and Reiner live in houses of ultra-modernist minimalism, as if to declare themselves ahistorical beings without fear of the tides of history, whilst the dirty work is done in degraded zones of industry and lunar outskirts, and godlike kingpins lounge in rococo elegance.
Aspects of The Counselor are hardly original in this branch of genre cinema, not even some of McCarthy’s vaunted metaphors. What is original about the film is the way it works through the film noir story template in a fashion more akin to Greek tragedy and horror films, setting up ominous suggestions of things that will come to pass with hints of oracular and morally significant purpose, and then following through on them unrelentingly. McCarthy’s plot is a kind of anti-thriller, depicting the Counselor as a man who’s constantly warned he’s getting in over his head, and then finds to his shock that he’s powerless to prevent awful things happening. Reiner asks the Counselor if he knows what a bolito is, and explains the nasty device’s function, a slow decapitation with a motorised, unbreakable wire slipped around a quarry’s neck. Westray asks if the Counselor has ever seen a snuff film, and then recounts one he saw in which a young woman was beheaded for an underworld overlord’s amusement. Both of these examples of brutality are so extreme and random that the Counselor processes them as far-out campfire tales. But soon we become aware that these are Chekhovian guns, presented via anecdote and soon to be made use of in the imminent, bloodcurdling unspooling of predestined ends.
The sense of being caught within systems one doesn’t entirely comprehend or see major parts of is key to The Counselor, a feeling exacerbated by Scott and McCarthy’s resistance to spelling everything out. There are insinuations about dealings that link Malkina, Reiner, and Westray, and the precision with which Malkina works to destroy both men is telling, but ambiguous. They present a triangulation of criminal intent that the Counselor is foolish enough to get involved in, even as it seems, surrounded by the trappings of their great success, like a good idea. Malkina’s background is chillingly hinted at when she mentions her parents died after being thrown out of a helicopter over the ocean. The overlords are never seen, only the cogs of the great machine, a motif that gives confirmation to the Kafkaesque overtone of the protagonist’s designation.
Scott opens the film with the truck being loaded in Mexico for its journey to Chicago, and charts the mechanisms designed to ensure its smooth movement. One human cog is the motorbike-riding son (Richard Cabral) of one of the Counselor’s clients, Ruth (Rosie Perez). Nicknamed The Green Hornet, he takes cash at high speed across the border, and is also charged with handing over the part of the truck’s engine, once it’s been deposited on the American side of the border, to its next drivers. Ruth, a hard-bitten gangster, asks the Counselor to bail out her son when he’s arrested for speeding. The Green Hornet, however, proves the target of Malkina’s project to throw a spanner in the works with a hired assassin, “the Wireman” (Sam Spruell), lying in wait for him to take possession of the engine part.
Scott stages this malicious sequence on a vast plain at sunset, blazing blood-red fires and silhouetted stony rises as backdrop to the killer’s methodical construction of a brutal trap for the rider, stringing a wire across the road he knows no one but his prey will be using, at a height exactly calculated to decapitate him. There’s a fiendish variety of patience and deadpan attentiveness to this scene, as what’s going to happen is made deadly clear and played through exactly as intended, boiling the film’s atavistic, deterministic sensibility down to an essence. The motif of decapitation recurs throughout the film, an extraordinarily gruesome and medieval kind of killing exacted through various means.
The Counselor has kinship with the TV series “Breaking Bad” (2008-13) and Oliver Stone’s Savages (2012), two successful, recent derivations of the neo-noir tradition. All three evoke the horrors of drug cartel violence as a stygian realm where all moral standards dissolve, and hapless gringos who regard the trade as a mere cash cow soon learn monsters are after them. The Counselor features a “Breaking Bad” cast member, Dean Norris, who plays a dumbstruck cartel associate who’s privileged with a glimpse of the sickest of sick jokes by another factotum (John Leguizamo): a corpse that’s been sealed inside a tank with the rest of the shipment and is bound to be shipped back and forth across the continent in lieu of actually disposing of the body. Where Stone’s film was absurdist and pulled genre givens apart with meta-narrative and self-reflexive satire, Scott and McCarthy offer a film that burns like liquid nitrogen, with flickers of a sense of humour so black as to be an event horizon. An older ancestor is Anthony Mann’s Border Incident (1949), with similar motifs of border crossing as passage between civilisations, even epochs, and of journeys through an alternative world, as the truck crawls up through North America’s alimentary canal. Early in the film, the two Mexican drivers who take the truck into the U.S. note a train of illegal immigrants heading across the border. Sam Peckinpah’s Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia (1974) likewise had a desolated fascination for the borderlands as zone of cultural nullity. Like Mann and Peckinpah, Scott and McCarthy here have a fascination for the terrible beauty of violence; indeed, the film’s narrative as a whole has a tone like the memorable tractor sequence of Mann’s work, a sensation of being paralysed in the path of a grim death.
Malkina’s plot to have the truck with its load stolen proves an elaborate misdirection, albeit one with a deadly consequence. With the presumption that the Counselor, Reiner, and Westray have connived in crossing the greater powers, calamity immediately threatens them: Westray makes good on his capacity to disappear quickly and advises the Counselor to do the same, but the latter, encumbered by worldly cares and the belief that reason and explanation might prevail, is far too slow in getting going. Perhaps laden with a sense of fatalism, so is Reiner; he tries to run when the killers come to call, and is chased and gunned down. In the course of shooting Reiner, the assassins accidentally free his pet cheetahs, who scare off the armed men and proceed to wander the landscape like unleashed spirits of animalism. The Counselor arranges for Laura to leave New Mexico, flee the nebulous zone between countries, and take refuge in the presumed safety of the American heartland, but Laura doesn’t make it. She is taken prisoner at the airport, and the Counselor travels to Mexico to try to get in touch with the kingpins and plead for his and Laura’s lives.
Whilst McCarthy’s artistic imprint on the film is vital, Scott takes to it like one of those cheetahs to a hare. A beautifully styled exploration of the abyss, this could be Scott’s darkest film to date, and his most shapely in a long time. Scott’s usual type of hero tends to strive against forms of social exclusion and culturally ingrained limitations of vision, whereas his antiheroes, plentiful in his oeuvre, have similar motives but have become cynical about them. A sense of protagonists spiralling down the ethical plughole is common in his films, as are battles with grotesque others that stand in for mutating moral distress, like the astonishing fight Christopher Columbus has with the berserkers from the forest that encapsulates the horror following first contact in 1492: The Conquest of Paradise (1992), and to Rick Deckard’s confrontation of his own weakness and sanctioned cruelty in Blade Runner, whilst the accord between hero and villain in American Gangster was built around precisely their divergent reactions to the same formative forces. Whereas Michael Mann, perhaps Scott’s major rival in Hollywood as premiere stylist and neo-noir specialist, tends to abstract his heroes and dissociate them from social paradigms to focus on their private ethics, Scott always firmly contextualises his. Even in a film as seemingly lightweight as A Good Year (2007), a constant stress is placed on his crass hero as avatar for a newer, ever more ravenous world of European capitalism, one that’s accessible to outsiders like him, but with the codicil that he has to be more unscrupulous, more insensate, than anyone else. Similarly, the note of a fight for survival against an opposing force that is inimical to rational appeal echoes back not just to Alien (1979), but also to his very first film, The Duellists (1977), where two men war for decades for reasons neither exactly understands: there is only a standard of behaviour that has been found wanting and must be punished, and indeed, this is exactly the situation here.
Not for nothing, then, does Scott have his last act partly play out back “home” in London’s glitzier districts, climaxing in an elaborate, almost giallo film scene of elaborate stalking and execution that leaves tourists and yuppies splattered with blood and severed fingers lying on the cobbles. It’s Scott’s gleefully nasty metaphor for the crack-up of the British financial sector, a notion reinforced by the narrative’s portrait of ruthless capitalism’s fallout spreading from the U.S. to Europe. Malkina’s plot turns out not to be aimed at the drug deal at all: this was only a mechanism to get Westray moving, his escape plan turned into perfect money delivery for Malkina, who hires a blonde escort (Natalie Dormer) to honey-trap him. It’s amusing to consider Bardem’s presence in this film whilst his earlier work this year in Terrence Malick’s To the Wonder, a film with an almost exactly opposite spiritual and philosophical position to this one, is fresh in the memory. In one sequence, Malkina, intrigued by Laura’s Catholic background and its confused impact on her sexual sensibility, visits a priest (Édgar Ramírez) to taunt him with erotic reminiscences under the guise of confession. This could almost be a direct send-up of that film, whilst digging into the same, ever-present rupture in a modern world of exhausted paradigms and insufficient replacements that cannot heal the rift separating the elusively redemptive from the corporeal. Such a schismatic, anguished sense of existence that some of Scott’s most memorably tortured characters, like Roy Batty in Blade Runner and Commodus in Gladiator (2000), feel with emotional urgency, drive them to homicidal acts against their creators. Malick’s and Scott’s films also share deeper connecting strands in spite of their thematic opposition, particularly in their sense of the American interior as unfinished space where wilderness and suburban stability cohabit in disorientating closeness, and the concurrent possibilities for rapture and damnation seem similarly extreme and wide open.
McCarthy often invokes biblical imagery, borrowing the voice of a wilderness preacher in his invocations of hellfire and Old Testament justice, but does so ironically with his existential conviction that the void rather than heaven or hell await, whilst his stories often skirt the edges of a virtually nihilistic sensibility. But The Counselor confirms he’s more a harsh moralizer who justifies his stance by constantly looking at worst-case scenarios, giving real force to ethical questions by studying them with a method close to Shakespearean tragedy, watching fatal choices create whirlwinds of carnage to prod a greater awareness of the mesh of niceties that keeps the world inhabitable. The film’s narrative is predicated around two choices: the Counselor’s decision to get involved in crime, and the blonde escort’s rejection of Malkina’s payment after realising that it’s more than a robbery she’s planning, all but throwing down her 30 pieces of silver and repenting. This last piece is almost a throwaway, one of the many vignette-like asides that dot the film, but it feels crucial in retrospect, as it sharply contrasts the Counselor’s choices, a deliberate turning of the blind eye; whilst the blonde’s choice actively repudiates Reiner’s contention that women are immoral, it still comes with a host of sarcastic meaning, as it doesn’t hurt Malkina’s programme one bit, and won’t stop Westray’s assassination, a note Malkina happily acknowledges as she kisses the blonde off with a quip. Otherwise the film maintains a portrait of moral rot on an epidemic level, with corrosive free radicals on the loose.
Meanwhile, the truck with its forbidden load keeps moving, stolen by Malkina’s men and stolen back by the cartel’s men in a roadside gunfight that turns a lonely stretch of road into a war zone. The one remaining cartel gunman simply drives the truck onto a friendly wrecker’s yard and gets himself and the vehicle patched up, and on the load rolls to its original destination. The safe return of the vehicle doesn’t change the situation for the collaterally damaged. The Counselor gets in touch with a cartel boss, Jefe (Rubén Blades), in an effort to make a deal for Laura, but he finds that not only can’t Jefe help, but Jefe insists on giving a positively poetic explanation that, essentially, consequences are already truths, and that he can’t talk or buy his way back into the land of the living. The cruelty of the narrative here moves beyond mere circumstance into the very method. The viewer is forced to share the Counselor’s frustrated disbelief and the mismatch between the awful urgency of the moment and the calm, oracular wisdom of Jefe, his earlier glib patience on listening to long-winded warnings now curdling into sweaty, despairing frustration that he can’t change the situation. Scott and McCarthy viciously undercut the usual expectation that some kind of brilliant scheme can be formulated, a la The Firm (1992), or even a noble act of self-sacrifice.
The Counselor, a bystander in his own film, is left wandering in shellshock and infinite apprehension on the streets of a Mexican city. In another of the film’s seemingly off-the-cuff but actually revealing vignettes, filmed with a flavour of punch-drunk dissociation that recalls Val Lewton’s films, the Counselor wanders into the midst of a rally being held to memorialise victims of the drug war. This communal act of mourning and protest is entirely indifferent to the Counselor’s presence, but also one implicitly, both in sympathy with and accusing him. The narrative’s bleak terminus has an allusive concision that again recalls Lewton, as the Counselor receives a package that, with the information given earlier, sees the apparently banal suddenly, plainly becoming a ticket to the ninth circle of hell. More promethean than Scott’s Prometheus, this saga conjures the spectacle of a man being chained up by the gods to have his liver eaten daily by guilt, fear, and horror. Like Oedipus, another ancient Greek fool of fortune, the Counselor sees but does not comprehend his sins until revealed, by which time it’s much, much too late. A coda hands the attention back to Malkina, but having devoured everything in her path, she proves less a triumphant villain than prophetess for a new, unspeakable age where the best predator will survive.
The Counselor is obviously not a conventional crowd-pleaser. In fact, it could be as much the opposite of a crowd-pleaser as any studio film of recent years, though the pungent gallows humour and gaudy, giddy style leavens the experience somewhat. Even a concession many neo-noir films make to the wry pleasure in seeing an evil but charismatic bitch-goddess win in works like Body Heat is twisted here into a perverted caricature of itself. Doubtless this aspect, in addition to its apparently cold and merciless attitude, accounts for the polarity of its reception. But it’s also the quality that makes The Counselor feel special, the sense of lawlessness underlying its pristine and peerlessly professional form, McCarthy’s blissful disconnection from the set rhythms of contemporary Hollywood screenwriting even as he reveals affection for genre work past, and Scott’s capacity to keep me watching. That same disconnection does account for the film’s weaker aspects, the slightly adolescent tone to Malkina’s calculated blasphemies and the clichéd Madonna/whore diptych of her and Laura that is only inverted from traditional imagery by swapping hair colours. Also, Diaz’s performance feels too archly calculated to entirely persuade. The curious thing about The Counselor is that it’s a film defined as much by absences as presences, narrative dealt out in clipped parcels whilst its essential thesis explored not through the usual redemption narrative but the pointed lack of one, a humanistic despair reflected through its worst nightmares. But whilst the film references classical tragedy, the solemnity of tragedy is even scorned, as the film concludes with the same mockingly upbeat Latin rhythms it began with. Still, The Counselor actually does film noir a great service in apparently subverting it, returning actual gravitas and unnerving impudence to the genre, and along with it some of the quaking existential fear it once transmitted.
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Director: Henry Hathaway
By Marilyn Ferdinand
In the fifth installment of Noir City Chicago, the programmers decided to take a risk: they devoted an entire day to Technicolor noir. For most people, it’s not noir without the black shadows and knives of white light that pierce the dark doings of society’s underbelly in a black-and-white film. Eddie Muller, president of the Film Noir Foundation and opening-weekend host of Noir City Chicago, says that he considers noir to be a state of mind, a place of psychological pathology, and therefore, the candy-colored films of the day’s line-up earn their place on a film noir program. While I can’t agree that all of the films, even Leave Her to Heaven (1943) and its deranged central character played by Gene Tierney, were anything but an approximate fit, one was noir in spades: Niagara.
For many people, Niagara is the Hitchcock film Hitchcock never made, employing as it does some of his typical devices—a blonde, the threat of nature, a famous location, murder most foul. But the resemblance stops there. Niagara’s blonde is a nasty bit of work, not an essentially good-natured damsel in need of rescue, and Niagara Falls is no mere trick to goose up the film’s climax, but rather an integral part of the entire film. Oh, and the bell tower employed in Niagara and Hitchcock’s Vertigo (1958) are both borrowed from other films that reach at least as far back as the first iteration of The Hunchback of Notre Dame in 1911.
Noir is also associated with cities, where it is thought that crime and vice find their natural home. Thus, the incongruousness of the setting—not only the falls, but also having the action take place in the parklike town of Niagara City in Canada—offers a more egalitarian notion of where corruption lives. Instead of a dark nightclub or seedy motel, our cast of characters meet and play out their furtive drama in a clean, well-run motel with individual cabins overlooking the falls. It is through the ingenuity of director Henry Hathaway that such wide-open spaces provide so many claustrophobic hiding places for the treacherous and tormented souls with lust and murder on their minds.
A voiceover that is dropped after the opening scene comes from George Loomis (Joseph Cotten), a down-on-his-luck Korean War veteran and failed sheep rancher who is recuperating from a nervous breakdown at the motel with Rose (Marilyn Monroe), his bored bombshell of a wife. He tells us he was drawn to the falls one very early morning, and we watch him slip, fall, get soaked, before returning to his darkened cabin, where only moments before, Rose quickly put out her cigarette and feigned sleep so as not to have to deal with him.
Another couple, Polly Cutler (Jean Peters) and her salesman husband Ray (Max Showalter), are questioned about their visit to Canada by a border guard. The Cutlers won a trip to the city where Ray’s company, which manufactures shredded wheat, is headquartered, and are using the prize as the honeymoon they never had. They are booked into the cabin where the Loomises are staying, but Rose begs the motel manager to let her exhausted husband rest, and the Cutlers agree to take another cabin. The reason for Rose’s plea to let George sleep becomes clear to Polly when she and Ray visit the falls that morning, and she spots Rose kissing another man (Richard Allen) in a secluded area next to the cascading water. She and Ray will soon be up to their necks in trouble as the adulterers’ plot to kill George takes some unexpected twists.
It would easy to dismiss the film as part travelogue, as the attractions of Niagara Falls—the Maid of the Mist, the Cave in the Winds, Prospect Point, Rainbow Bridge—are explicitly named or photographed. But the operations of these attractions provide markers to the unfolding plot, while offering chills of their own. For example, people who go on the Maid of the Mist, or indeed, any attraction near the falls, suit up with hooded raincoats and boots, leaving their shoes behind. This becomes important when George is lured to the falls by Rose’s lover, with his unclaimed shoes as evidence that he went into the dark caverns beneath the falls but never emerged. When Polly is pursued by George at the Cave in the Winds, the flimsy-looking, slippery wooden walkways and railings, which are as they appear in real life, look like the recipe for disaster they almost prove to be. The falls themselves are a metaphor for rampaging, reckless passion, a current not usually commented upon even though Niagara Falls is one of the most popular honeymoon destinations in the world. It may look ridiculous for Monroe and Allen to kiss while wrapped head to toe in rain gear (shades of the full-body condoms in The Naked Gun !), but the aptness of the wet and wild image in a remote corner of a very public place is perfection.
In spite of a beautifully haunted performance by Cotten as a good man driven to the dark side by his bad luck and cheating wife, this film is all about its women. Monroe is at her best in this film, conveying her feelings with a look of 100-proof emotion. She lies convincingly about being worried about her missing husband, yet gives herself the chance to display a self-satisfied look when nobody’s watching. An impromptu party in the motor court has her request the kids with the record player put on “Kiss” (an original song written for the movie by Lionel Newman and Haven Gillespie). Monroe sings along with the record, but not every word, the thought of her lover Patrick occasionally silencing her to revel in her erotic memories. A more nakedly carnal look has never passed over a face than when she observes Patrick in a souvenir shop where they pass a quick glance to set the wheels of their plot in motion. For every leer Monroe gets from the men in the film, this one look exposes the potent inferno of a woman’s lust, a repudiation of everything ’50s morality tried to preach. And when the jealous, neurotic, morose George suddenly shows a happiness and vitality the morning he is supposed to be murdered, there’s no doubt how Rose lulled him into a compliant frame of mind. She’s a quintessential femme fatale, and little about her sexual manipulation is hidden from view.
Peters, a beautiful woman, nonetheless is knowing about her appeal when compared with Monroe. When Ray asks Polly why she doesn’t wear the type of midriff-baring, form-fitting dress Monroe has on, she says ruefully, “ For a dress like that, you’ve got to start laying plans when you’re about 13,” knowing full well that puberty separates such forces of nature as Rose from other women. (As a side note, sexy Anne Baxter turned down the role of Polly because she didn’t want to compete with Monroe.) Polly is no patsy, however. She feels sorry for George, but she understands that he’s not as much of a victim as he pretends to be and may have a violent relationship with Rose when she sees him break the recording of “Kiss” into pieces with his bare hands.
The film takes perhaps an unintentional dig at company men—Showalter looks and acts like he stepped out of a used-car commercial, as does his boss, played by Jack Benny’s jovial announcer Don Wilson. However, the police in this film aren’t the standard-issue bumblers and blusterers. I would feel pretty safe being protected by Denis O’Dea’s Inspector Starkey, and a rescue at the falls is well coordinated and suspenseful.
A realistic, well-wrought script by Billy Wilder’s regular collaborators Charles Brackett (who also produced Niagara), Walter Reisch, and Richard Breen fills the film with details that ensure the entire enterprise isn’t overwhelmed by either Monroe or the falls. Hathaway realizes those details to make this film come alive, from the daily routine of the security guard at the carillon where song requests turn into killers’ codes to provisioning a boat for a day of fishing. I particularly liked a small moment when George picks a lipstick tube off the floor, its case glittering with multicolored rhinestones, as beautiful and false as his wife. Indeed, in this moment alone, Hathaway shows that Technicolor in the right hands fits noir like a blood-stained glove.
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Director: Alfred Hitchcock
By Marilyn Ferdinand
This week, Rod and I learned that someone we knew from our past affiliations with the New York Times Film Form and Third Eye Film Society, Wade Ehle, died at the age of 48. Wade was a vocal and volatile film buff, a New Yorker by choice, an out and proud homosexual in a long-term relationship, a graphic designer, and despite his evil temper, a gentle soul. I had not been in touch with Wade for some years, as in one of his foul moods, he made me a target, a situation I could no longer abide. But I still remember fondly a lovely New Year’s Eve spent with Wade and his partner Scott drinking champagne in my living room as they stopped in on their way back from their yearly car trip to Minnesota to visit Scott’s family for the holidays. In his way, Wade was an important piece in the puzzle of my life, and I feel the need to honor and remember him in the way that brought us together—talking about film.
Wade’s favorite actor was Montgomery Clift. Clift was a handsome avatar whom Wade’s partner resembles, but there are other qualities he had that I think must have spoken to Wade. Clift’s emotional vulnerability and homosexuality formed a mirror for Wade, and his anger and tenderness integral parts of Wade’s personality. Clift also had a certain type of passive determination, a holding back, that Wade might have wished for himself. I don’t know which of Clift’s films Wade held most dear, but I have to imagine that I Confess, in which director Alfred Hitchcock fetishizes Monty’s beautiful face almost as much as he did any of his blonde muses, must have been on the list.
Apart from its wrong man theme, I Confess is as atypical a Hitchcock film as I can think of. Based on a 1902 French play, Nos Deux Consciences, I Confess retains a French flavor with its setting in Quebec City in Canada and the casual use of French character names and dialog. The screenplay cowritten by George Tabori capitalizes on the writer’s own familial experiences as the son of a Jewish journalist who perished at Auschwitz and turns Clift’s character, Father Michael Logan, into a World War II veteran who throws over his prewar sweetheart, Ruth (Anne Baxter), for the priesthood. The themes of many 1950s films are in evidence here—the plight of refugees, the effects of the war on the nonprofessional soldiers who fought in it, a certain dread and distrust of authority, and justice served up through the courts. I would go so far as to suggest that I Confess is the most fully realized noir film Alfred Hitchcock ever made, with much credit for that going to his regular cinematographer Robert Burks, whose inspired shooting on location in Quebec City is both less showy and more emotionally nuanced than one usually associates with Hitchcock films, pushing I Confess out of genre suspense and into something that more closely resembles Carol Reed’s The Third Man (1949).
Father Logan is in a similar predicament to Holly Martins—a man he likes and wants to help has done a terrible thing. Otto Keller (O. E. Hasse), a German refugee who with his wife Alma (Dolly Haas) Logan and the other clerics at St. Marie’s have taken in as servants, has killed Monsieur Villette (Ovila Légaré), whose garden Keller tends, in the course of a burglary. Logan takes Keller’s late-night confession right after the murder during which Otto claims it was an accident and that he only wanted money to free his played-out wife from a life of serving others. Bound by the sanctity of the confessional, Logan can reveal nothing of what he has heard to others, and like Holly Martins, risks becoming a victim of his friend. Keller finds a way to raise suspicions against the priest and justifies his desperation to remain free by the suffering he and Alma underwent during the war—as Jew or Nazi sympathizer is never made clear, further complicating our emotional response to his despicable actions.
During the course of the investigation led by Inspector Larrue (Karl Malden), Ruth’s past love affair with and still burning love for Logan comes out, giving him a motive for killing Villette, who was blackmailing the married woman with his knowledge of a night they spent together at his country cottage. Although Larrue compelled her confession of the relationship, yet another of Logan’s intimates has tightened the knot around his neck. Logan’s murder trial comprises the final act of the film.
Burks and Hitchcock make good use of the Quebec locale to disorient the audience. French signs for “One Way” are labeled “Direction” and point the way through the streets to an open window and the body of Villette laying on the floor with a lead pipe lying near his cracked skull. Dimitri Tiomkin’s slightly off-kilter opening music crescendos at the reveal. The camera pans to some hanging beads swinging in the doorway to the study and then cuts through the wall to the street, where a man in a long garment—a cassock, it turns out—hurries out the door. The camera shifts to a side view of the street as the man descends down a steep hill, with two girls following casually behind. The darkness, the skewed angles provided by the locale itself, the juxtaposition of the guilty man with the innocence of the two girls, and the deep shadows of Keller on the street provide cause and psychological effect. This taut opening economically sets the stage and provides visual markers for the rest of the film, one in which Keller will always be going down or viewed from above by people of more moral fiber than he has, particularly Logan.
Being who she is, Anne Baxter smolders in every frame, her hair colored Hitchcock blonde. Yet, the script offers her a certain demureness, particularly in protesting the need to reveal the details of her romance with Logan, that also sets this film outside the usual Hollywood framework. Putting her in a dirndl during the flashback sequence was a misguided and unnecessary choice, however, as Baxter’s straightforward honesty with her husband, Logan, and the investigators signals all we need to know about her innocence at all stages of her relationship with Logan. She really did a fine job.
Of course, it is Clift who occupies our concern and the majority of the screen time. We wonder why he ends every question that could point to Keller’s guilt with “I can’t say.” Not even a word that he took a confession that night escapes his lips. With his life at risk, his dedication to his duty and his faith communicates volumes about why he chose priesthood over matrimony and helps put his relationship with Ruth into a believable, much less tawdry context than would be the norm. While Clift is smoking hot in I Confess, he does not play the flirtatious games that, for example, Jean-Paul Belmondo does in Leon Morin, Priest. His fear of death expresses itself in prayer, but his trust in God also drives him to turn himself into Larrue. His contained performance is a bit frustrating to the audience, who know he’s innocent, but absolutely true to his character. His ardor in his prewar scenes with Ruth also communicates his innate passion: “He was always so serious about everything, even love,” she says ruefully.
The trial is a fascinating piece of filmmaking, with proceedings quite decorous and, therefore, alien to the sensational standards for such scenes set by Hollywood films. I was so enamored of the judiciousness of the proceedings and the editorial comments of the jury regarding their verdict—no simple “guilty” or “not guilty” here—I would have been content to watch the trial for the entire film. The film devolves in its last few minutes due to studio interference, and Hitchcock punts to his more theatrical genre instincts to pull it off, but the sense of the community’s betrayal lingered with me and put me in mind not only of recent scandals in the Catholic Church, but also of the Cy Endfield noir Try and Get Me. Interestingly, Hitchcock meant for this film to be an indictment of capital punishment, but it serves as a portrait of the dangers of mob mentality almost as urgent as Endfield filmed. In straying from pure genre filmmaking, Hitchcock made a film less susceptible to his personal stamp, but more rich and engaging than anyone might have expected.
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Director: Cy Endfield
By Marilyn Ferdinand
“I didn’t know he was going to kill him!”
Really, Howard? You’re in film noir! Of course your partner was going to kill your hostage!
On Saturday, January 26, I had the unique thrill of being at the Castro Theatre in San Francisco for the premiere of the restored 35mm print of Try and Get Me! at Noir City 11. Try and Get Me!, whose original title The Sound of Fury was scrapped, changed to something more lurid, and remarketed for national distribution when the film flopped in California, is the powerful film that blogathoners turned out in force to support during 2011’s For the Love of Film (Noir): The Film Preservation Blogathon. Eddie Muller, president of the Film Noir Foundation, thanked a large coalition of organizations and people whose efforts were responsible for bringing this film back to pristine condition for future generations; yes, blogathoners, you received your due and the grateful applause of a sold-out audience.
From working with the Film Noir Foundation on the blogathon, I knew this film pushed the warning needle far into nasty. However, I was not adequately prepared for its visual and narrative power, or the nakedly emotional performances of Frank Lovejoy, Lloyd Bridges, and Kathleen Ryan. Based on a real incident that took place in San Jose, California in the 1930s, Try and Get Me! is one of the darkest—and best—noir films I have ever seen.
When we first meet out-of-work ex-GI Howard Tyler (Lovejoy), he is in Seattle convincing a truck driver to give him a ride back to his California home. His young son Tommy (Donald Smelnick) is sassing his mother Judy (Ryan) when Howard comes through the door and gives his son half-a-dollar so that he can go to a baseball game with his friends. Judy is overjoyed that this extravagance indicates that Howard has found work—but he hasn’t.
One afternoon, after trying and failing to get day work, Howard heads for a bowling alley to get a beer. He ends up talking to Jerry Slocum (Bridges), fetching the conceited bowler’s shoes and following him home when Jerry hints that he knows about a job for Howard. He throws Howard an advance on his pay, and the elated man runs home to treat his family to gifts, groceries, and a good time. He has second thoughts when his job turns out to be getaway driver for stick-up man Jerry.
After the duo commits a series of robberies, Howard’s discomfort grows unmanageable. Jerry says they will commit the inevitable “one last job” that will set them on Easy Street for good: the kidnap for ransom of a rich man’s son. Snatching Donald Miller (Carl Kent) goes smoothly, but when the three men go to a quarry where Jerry says they will hold Donald, Jerry orders Howard to tie the victim’s legs with a belt and push him down a gravel pile. The kidnappers follow, and Jerry bashes Miller’s head in with a rock. He and Howard dump the body in the water at the bottom of the pit and leave town with Jerry’s girl Velma (Adele Jergens) and Velma’s friend Hazel (Katherine Locke) to provide themselves with an alibi. Eventually, Miller’s body is found, and Hazel, who thinks Howard is single and interested in her, soon learns from the conscience-stricken man that he and Jerry killed Miller and turns them in. Newspaper columnist Gil Stanton (Richard Carlson) and his profit-minded publisher Hal Clendenning (Art Smith) try the case in the press, and public sentiment turns ugly. Stanton realizes too late that his appeal to emotion has set irrepressible forces into motion that will mean a horrible end for Howard and Jerry.
Lovejoy fills Howard with a genuine pathos, portraying a man too desperate to understand what kind of person he has gotten himself mixed up with. Jerry treats him like a lackey from the start, having him fetch his shoes and fasten his cufflinks, bullying him into increasingly reckless crimes. Any confidence and command Howard might have had drained out of him long ago; his son loves him, but runs wild, and his wife’s quiet acceptance of their situation is almost worse for Howard. He feels he is not good enough for them, and his rapid slide into crime seems almost a fatalistic attempt to get out of the way of a better future for his family, a wish he eventually voices explicitly in the last act of the film. Howard has our sympathy, a decent man with a loving but stressed family life, whose own lack of guile brought him a form of mob justice we feel he doesn’t deserve.
Lloyd Bridges is insanely good as Jerry. A supreme narcissist without the brains to pull off anything as sophisticated as a kidnapping for ransom, his Jerry seems entirely without conscience. Obviously a sociopath, he knows a patsy when he sees one and closes one door after another behind Howard until there is no hope for escape. His partying with Velma, a blonde B-girl whose instinct when at the courthouse where Jerry and Howard are being arraigned is to pose seductively for the photographers, shows that he hasn’t given Donald Miller or Howard, for that matter, a second thought. When the angry mob forms outside the jail where the two men are being held, Jerry moves like a caged animal, pacing rapidly in his small cell, rattling the bars, bashing his head against the cell wall, and whining in a pained panic. His fear gives way to defiance: “Try and get me!” he challenges. Howard’s worried face is almost too painful to watch.
Ryan, playing a version of her loyal Kathleen Sullivan from the British noir Odd Man Out (1947), Irish accent and all, is quite affecting in pleading with Stanton not to characterize her husband as a monster. Her understated fear runs as a steady undercurrent throughout the film and economically characterizes the financial hardships and privations so many families felt in postwar America, the unease that defines much of what we call film noir. Katherine Locke has a truly kooky role—the plain friend of the sexpot Velma who lives in a fantasy of finding true love, believing Howard is actually her boyfriend whom she has a right to scold for his drinking. We’d laugh at her in another film, but she has just enough edge of crazy to her to make us hold back. Cliff Clark brings a no-nonsense authority to his supporting part as the town sheriff trying to uphold the law and keep his prisoners safe.
What makes Try and Get Me! truly extraordinary is Cy Endfield’s direction, his last major American film before the Communist witch hunt of the 1950s gobbled him up and forced him into exile in England, where he continued to make powerful films such as Hell Drivers (1957) and Zulu (1964). His camera is always on top of the action, as we can practically feel Miller rolling down the hard gravel to his doom and imagine his murder from indistinct movements Howard only hears and interprets with a wretched, horrified face. I have always wondered how a well-guarded jail could be breached by a mob. Now I know. Endfield’s climactic scene builds in intensity as the mob masses and works together like a colony of army ants to overpower the tear-gas-wielding cops with fire hoses and pull open the doors of the jail with gangs of men pulling on ropes in unison to the cries of “heave, heave, heave.” The audience in the Castro Theatre was breathless with horror, watching with compulsive fascination the extraordinary staging of one of the most compelling scenes ever committed to film.
Endfield was radicalized by the Depression of the 1930s, an era that produced Fury (1936), Fritz Lang’s version of this true story that accorded more with the zeitgeist of its time. Try and Get Me! appeared just as audiences and critics alike were turning against dissent and discord to achieve the artificial peace of the 1950s. Endfield’s nihilistic vision of group think and the court of public opinion was not destined to find favor in its own time. Looking at the film now, it seems timeless in the brutality of its psychology, making the haves of society as represented by Stanton and his circle seem decadent and profit-driven, and showing how desperation and lack of opportunity can prove a breeding ground for criminality of every type. Blogathoners, you should be very proud to have contributed to bringing this important, brilliantly realized film back to life for future generations to view and ponder.
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By Marilyn Ferdinand
Through the years, Hollywood has given audiences a fair number of great acting teams. Bogey and Bacall, Tracy and Hepburn, Laurel and Hardy, Martin and Lewis are among the duos cinephiles follow, relishing each collaboration and seeking to be completists by watching all of a team’s work. This past weekend, I had the opportunity to watch three of the four films that comprise the oeuvre of a pair of actors who were not really a team, but who left their indelible mark on movie history.
Versatile actress Barbara Stanwyck, an elite among elites who won the universal admiration of costars, directors, film critics, and moviegoers alike, and lesser light Fred MacMurray, a Paramount contract actor who would go on to become one of America’s most beloved TV dads in “My Three Sons” and a Disney family film regular, put together quite a hat trick. The first film, Remember the Night (1940), directed by Mitchell Leisen, is a screwball comedy crossed with a women’s film in which Stanwyck plays a habitual thief whose vulnerability is unearthed by MacMurray’s honest and true prosecutor who aims to put her in prison. In a strange twist of . . . something, their next pairing saw Stanwyck and MacMurray create two of cinema’s most memorably rotten characters in arguably the most iconic film noir of all time, Billy Wilder’s Double Indemnity (1944). Finally, Douglas Sirk’s There’s Always Tomorrow (1956) has the pair fight their longing to be together for the sake of preserving MacMurray’s marriage and family life. The progression of this pairing is a classic study in how social attitudes and directorial points of view can take the same two actors and create three very distinct films—the opposite of the predictable product audiences demand from Hollywood teams—that still remain true to the lead personalities involved.
Remember the Night is an unconventional romance whose superficial position—that people are basically good at heart and will behave decently if they are treated with kindness—is undermined by the unsettling undercurrent of economic want and the unnatural hatred of a mother for her daughter. Stanwyck’s character, Lee Leander, is about to be acquitted for a crime she committed when ace prosecutor John Sargent (MacMurray) finds a way to get the case continued until after the Christmas and New Year’s holidays. We are saved from a miscarriage of justice with this trick, but John can’t help being decent to his quarry and bails Lee out of jail. This isn’t exactly a kindness, however, as she is homeless. Her crime was an attempt to keep a roof over her head, something the prosecutor with enough money to have a live-in manservant couldn’t imagine when he made his grand gesture, despite his line of work. Finding out that Lee is from his home state of Indiana and hasn’t seen her mother in years, John offers to take her there for a visit as he drives home to see his family for the holidays.
The script, written by Preston Sturges, packs a lot of irresistible comedy into the film, including MacMurray trying to squeeze some milk from a cow into a thermos bottle. But then Leisen, whose homosexuality had given him more than a grazing acquaintance with psychoanalysis and the stigma of being a social outcast, brings Lee’s mother into the picture. A more cold-blooded portrayal of a rejecting mother is hard to imagine. The cure for Lee’s emotional pain is a big dose of rural warmth and nostalgia. It’s clear that John just wants an old-fashioned girl, and when Lee is corseted and costumed in a turn-of-the-century pinafore and enormous hair bow for a barn dance, she completes the process of revirgination and becomes a fit woman for John to love. After a talking-to from John’s mother (Beulah Bondi doing Ma Bailey again) about how John has worked too hard to get where he is to throw it away for love of Lee, Lee accepts her fate. She walks willingly to prison at the end of their Indiana idyll to keep his prosecutorial rectitude intact and return to him cleansed of her sin by accepting her punishment. Under Leisen’s direction, the sacrifices of love are given a shocking dignity, confounding a Sturges-style happy ending that resolves the plot without reforming the characters. Importantly, the women who surround John save him from himself, an interesting thread of male passivity running through the Stanwyck-MacMurray films.
Billy Wilder’s noir classic couldn’t be more different from Leisen’s in tone, nor Stanwyck and MacMurray’s characters more despicable. Wilder and his coscreenwriter Raymond Chandler created types with no past and no future—now is the only thing that matters to them. Stanwyck’s Phyllis Dietrichson isn’t in need of money or driven compulsively to crime by some hurt in her past. She’s mean, greedy, and murderous just because. But, of course, there is a strong psychological schema to the film, just as there was with Remember the Night. MacMurray’s patsy, Walter Neff, the stereotypically unctuous insurance salesman who only wanted to renew an auto policy and ended up dead, was caught in the spider’s web of his malevolent anima. Wilder ensures from our first look at Stanwyck that there’s no doubt about her intentions—wearing nothing but a towel and a knowing smile, she slips on some clothes and clicks down the long staircase to Walter, an ID anklet hugging her leg like a link in Jacob Marley’s chains.
Walter Neff isn’t just in thrall to his negative anima. Caught in a strangely close relationship with insurance investigator Barton Keyes, played by Edward G. Robinson, he is driven by an Oedipal urge to outsmart his “father” by plotting the murder of Phyllis’ husband in a way that will pay double on an accident policy he sells to Phyllis. The audience can plainly see, however, that he hasn’t a prayer of getting away with it. Neff has no real agency of his own. He’s brash enough to lay his cards on the table with Phyllis in a scene with the clipped, crackling dialogue for which this film is justly famous, and he’s got no problem killing a man even the audience can’t like. But his essential immaturity makes it impossible for him to stand for anything. Faced with a choice to go “straight down the line” with Phyllis or follow in his “father’s” footsteps, he balks at both and ends up destroying himself.
Wilder’s view of humanity is essentially jaundiced. A fugitive from Hitler’s Germany, he had seen the irrational rise up in Europe and spent the better part of his career exposing the world to its own grotesqueness. His transformation of an actor known for his nice-guy roles into a fatuous thug is as perverse as his glorification of pro-Nazi aviator Charles Lindberg in The Spirit of St. Louis (1957). Wilder, the ultimate manipulator, takes the same psychological approach to his material as Leisen did, but sends his characters over the cliff.
Stanwyck and MacMurray’s final collaboration, There’s Always Tomorrow, is a film in which women take the strongest hand against the hapless male lead, toy manufacturer Clifford Groves. Groves has been left by the side of the road, as his wife of 20 years, played by Joan Bennett, dedicates herself completely to her home and children. It seems to Cliff that he was just a means to this end, and when a former employee—childless, divorced, fashion designer Norma Vale—comes back to town and looks him up, he’s ripe for a change.
Of course, Norma loved him in vain way back when, and like many people in midlife who aren’t where they thought they would be, she looks to the past to see if she can make the road fork in a different direction. After some hesitation, she’s reconciled to being a home wrecker, that is, until Cliff’s two older children beg her to give him up—which she does in a “mother knows best” kind of way. Cliff returns to his corner, telling his wife that she knows him better than he knows himself, an unconscious victim of the Babbitty kind of conformism the 50s demanded.
Sirk delivers another one of his meaty melodramas with an underlying heart and purpose. As is the norm with women’s films, Stanwyck is front and center, and we are meant to identify with her torment over not realizing the “right” of every woman to a home and children. Indeed, Bennett voices this sentiment as she tells Cliff that she feels sorry for Norma. When Norma is shown jetting back to her independent life, her profound sorrow is difficult to watch, and yet, isn’t this film just more 50s propaganda about a woman’s place? Women, the audience for which this film was made, were being sold the party line, and the relative powerlessness of the men in these films gave women some sense of control and authority when they were being kicked back into the kitchen following their necessary duty in the wartime workforce.
Yet Sirk doesn’t let the triumphantly traditional woman off the hook that easily. Bennett’s character is so smug that she doesn’t see, can’t even imagine, that the attractive woman her husband invites into their home for dinner could possibly be a rival. Ann (Pat Crowley), the girlfriend of Cliff’s oldest son Vinnie (William Reynolds), breaks with him because he suspects his father of having an affair. It is she who is utterly naive, buying the party line of the happy family with its upstanding patriarch who can do no wrong; and again, Vinnie starts fluffing the pillows in his move-in-ready corner by giving in to Ann’s fantasy of love, and receives her condescending compliment, “long pants at last.”
In each of these films, Stanwyck is the architect of MacMurray’s plan of action. Would it be fair to say that another actress might not have brought the authority to stand at center stage and compel her leading man in so many directions, or that MacMurray’s good-guy type lacked the authority to match her blow for blow, the way Tracy could with Hepburn? Despite the very different points of view of all three of the talented directors involved, something immutably human in the art of acting puts each of their efforts in a more realistic perspective.
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Director: Nicolas Winding Refn
By Roderick Heath
The Driver, like many of the western and noir characters he counts amongst his cinematic ancestry, seems a product of evolution customised for surviving in a hostile milieu. But whether he’s anything more than that is difficult to discern. Cruising the nocturnal labyrinth of L.A.’s streets, he handles his car as an extension of his body, not caring to what use he puts it as long as something, anything, is testing his skill and reflexes and giving him a reason to move. Starting out as solitary as the hero of Jean-Pierre Melville’s Le Samourai (1967) in a similarly nondescript, low-rent room, the Driver speeds two armed robbers away from a crime scene, eluding police cars and helicopters with preternatural cool and matchless ability, gliding through the inhuman geometries and eternally provisional architecture of L.A.’s backstreets and the sulphurous-hued lanes of freeways. He gives his clients a few minutes of his life, making their risks his, their lives his own, and then walks away as if it is nothing to do with him. An incidental conversation buried in the movie explicates the nature of the Driver’s existence: he’s a shark, moving to live, relying not on private motives or emotional impulses to guide him through any given day, for he has none that can be seen, but on any command, job, or cause he’s handed. Playing the Driver, Ryan Gosling, normally one of contemporary movie acting’s most confident portrayers of emotional expression, reduces himself for most of the first half of the film to a bare slate of a man whom many take for decent and personable chiefly because he maintains an equitably blank façade.
The Driver’s illegal escapades come as interludes in his career as a motor mechanic and part-time stunt driver for movie productions. All of these jobs are arranged by Shannon (Bryan Cranston), who confesses cheerfully to having been “exploiting” his quiet, pliable employee since he first walked in asking for a job five years earlier. Driver seems to regard Shannon as a fatherly figure. But Shannon has links to criminal entrepreneurs Bernie (Albert Brooks) and Nino (Ron Perlman), and he borrows money from the pair to buy a stock car that Driver will race. At the same time, Driver is drawn into the lives of Irene (Carey Mulligan) and her son Benicio (Kaden Leos) when they move into an apartment down the hall from his. As his path repeatedly crosses with theirs, Driver steps into the role of paternal pal for the boy and beneficent helpmate for Irene, even as he learns she’s still married to Benicio’s father Standard (Oscar Isaac), who’s serving a prison term. When Standard gets unexpectedly released, the Driver continues to stick close to the family in uneasy amity until, not surprisingly, Standard proves to have trailed a threat with him from prison, owing money to heavies who helped protect him in prison: Standard is beaten up by thugs, and Benicio is presented with a bullet. Driver confronts the battered father and finds he’s being pressured into taking part in a pawn shop robbery, so Driver decides to volunteer his services as the getaway driver for the job. He meets with Cook (James Biberi), the nominal planner of the heist, and Blanche (Christina Hendricks), who will accompany Standard on the actual robbery. But when the job goes down, Standard is shot dead, Blanche comes out with a sack of a million dollars, and Driver has to do what he does best in eluding a pursuing black car.
Nicolas Winding Refn’s first Hollywood film comes hard on the heels of his near-brilliant, semi-abstract portrait of harsh violence, existential panic, and spiritual yearning, Valhalla Rising (2009). The Driver could be a distant descendent of Mads Mikkelsen’s One-Eye from that previous film as an equally taciturn, self-sufficient package of potent violence and existential alienation, barely kept tethered to the earth by the finite threads of emotional gratitude. Drive is nominally a more functional kind of thriller. Not at all surprisingly, many commentaries on Drive have discussed its internalisation of the aesthetic rules and themes of a distinctive strand of American cinema from the ’70s and early ‘80s—early Michael Mann, Sam Peckinpah, Walter Hill, John Frankenheimer, William Friedkin, and, importantly though less obviously, John Boorman and Monte Hellman. But such comparisons come at the cost of obscuring the degree to which Drive is an aesthetic and thematic unit with Refn’s other works in its denser webs of references and underpinnings, and the way Refn steadily but subtly subverts aspects of such models. The way Refn uses songs over scenes occasionally takes on the flavour of satire of such models in a fashion faintly reminiscent of the more overt ridicule of song-storytelling in so many ’80s films in Team America: World Police (2004); lyrics about being “a real human being” and “a real hero” are heard throughout, even as nothing so clear-cut emerges from the actual movie, because by the end, the notion that Driver is a “real hero” is rendered moot.
Most neo-noir antiheroes were assailed loners and misfits who often tended to be decent even if forced to live outside of society, angry, or resentful, or cheated by the world about them. Whilst the Driver retains aspects of such figures, he’s more like Hellman’s antiheroes in Two-Lane Blacktop, practically a philosophical distillation, a floating islet of consciousness detached from humanity, even, perhaps, a merciless avenging spirit, like Walker in Boorman’s Point Blank (1967). There are hints as to Driver’s background—his very specific rage at people who leave a young boy without a father—but Refn refuses to psychologise Driver, rendering him stoic and enigmatic, reduced to a purified, elemental study in the duality of man. Hints of Driver’s depth of emotional longing and attachment to the few things that matter to him are dropped in his real affection for Shannon and for the family for which he appoints himself guardian angel, and yet his past and internal life remain basic mysteries.
In spite of the pop songs used like a Greek chorus, the aptly Tangerine Dream-esque music score by Cliff Martinez, and squiggly hot pink Miami Vice-esque titles, Drive is, on closer examination, no mere retro-cool tribute. Drive isn’t really an action movie, avoiding a big climax or major action scene, almost to the point of feeling anticlimactic and too self-conscious about its elevated ambitions. Vicious and thrilling moments certainly arrive, yet Refn, whilst certainly fascinated by and talented at describing carnage, is always trying to capture its awfulness, the jarring horror of lives ending in the blink of an eye. He deliberately upsets the usual moral impetus of such films by making the Driver’s acts of retaliation as ugly and repulsive as those of the villains. At one point, Driver deliberately depersonalises himself, donning a latex mask he wears on movie shoots for a very real piece of deadly stunt driving. Drive is closer in spirit to serious noir and the adult Westerns of the ’50s, with their emphasis on moral meanings and social contexts for such violence rather than the gratification of lesser genre films. Refn also evokes the Euro-American mythologising of Sergio Leone: a painting reminiscent of the one that was Morton’s icon of aspiration in Once Upon A Time in the West (1968) hangs in the hallway outside Irene’s and Driver’s rooms. Gosling’s pared-back, impassive performance of an almost supernatural cool concealing brilliance and ferocity evokes Charles Bronson’s in the Leone film too (and, of course, Refn had made Bronson  based on the life of a famous criminal whose personality became blurred with that of the star).
Whilst Refn certainly seems to have his mind on deeper things than the usual car chase and gunfight movie, he composes Drive with a classical control that’s as daunting as it is clean and direct, avoiding the CGI augmentation and trickery so often apparent in the Fast and the Furious films, rather evoking The French Connection’s chase in the rhythmic dialogue of bumper-cam rushing motion and the speeding driver’s face. Driver tunes in on the police band so he knows what the cops are saying to each other, but when on the home stretch, he changes over to a commentary on a football game, the play calls seeming to blend aptly with the Driver’s peregrinations, end of game and end of chase dovetailing purposefully as he takes the car into the car-park of the stadium to be immediately lost amongst the outpouring spectators. Drive is a director’s movie in almost the purist sense, for it’s the way Refn renders his scenes, full of elastic time, fluxes of mood and meaning, that renders the relatively familiar material compelling, strange, and enriched. Reminiscent of the unique scene in Valhalla Rising depicting men going mad in the face of an alien newness, drowned in droning music, Refn here presents a similarly striking moment in which Driver peers through the window of Nino’s pizzeria, masked and transformed into a murderous homunculus, whilst his unsuspecting target laughs and cajoles inside with friends and flunkies, all with an operatic level of music and distorted reality.
Refn tries to dispense with dialogue as much as possible as he depicts the Driver in the course of events, flowing through the placid homeyness of domesticity with Irene and Benecio to bloodcurdling eruptions of violence and chaos in his hitherto controlled, withdrawn life. The similarity to Michael Mann’s early films is clearest here, as Refn uses music and scenes filled with silent meditations on behaviour to communicate a sense of things occurring on subliminal levels for characters who are reticent by nature and necessity. Like Mann and some of his American and European brethren, Refn seems to be trying to rebuild pulp melodrama into something like preverbal myth. Many shots aim for and achieve something of the desolate urban solitude of Edward Hopper’s paintings. The angelic aura that hovers around Irene, which Refn pushes in the light that shines about her in many shots, is disturbed when Standard returns. A dark, slightly cowered, certainly guilty inflection to his attempts to reclaim a place in his family blends with a quality of devilish charm and pulverised pathos, reminiscing happily about his and Irene’s first meeting whilst feeling the tug of responsibilities and ugly truths he can never erase.
The opening scene of Driver ferrying the two burglars from the scene of their heist to their drop-off point, where he leaves them cold without any further interest or concern even as they’ll probably be picked up by the cops who have pursued them, strikes notes that resonate as the story unfolds. Driver’s sense of professional involvement has specific parameters, promising and delivering dedication and protection only within those parameters. When one of his former clients comes up to him in a diner and starts yapping away about his subsequent life, Driver interrupts him and threatens physical violence if he doesn’t go away. On the job, however, he tries to shepherd the burglars away from cop cars and helicopters with diligence and intelligence, even though the unexplained lag of one of them delays them and nearly wrecks the getaway. Similarly, he takes on the responsibility of protecting Irene and her family, but this time, without limits: he sticks with the job until the end, remorseless and uncaring about the lives he has to take or even his own in the process. When the pawnshop heist goes kaput, with Standard dead, Driver flees, taking Blanche and the sack of mysterious cash with him and eluding the black car in a blur of stunning motion that exemplifies his pure survival instinct. In the subsequent motel room confrontation between him and Blanche, he extracts the truth of the situation from her with a powerful threat before Cook and goons arrive not to aid but to shut down the anomalous duo.
Refn reveals a ruthlessly black sense of humour in casting iconic Mad Men sexpot Hendricks as the trashy femme fatale forced on Driver, only to have her head blown off by a shotgun blast after a few minutes, drawing attention more to the way her life ends in an astounding moment than to whatever good and bad things she’s done in her life; only Driver’s instinctual speed, not mediated by any moral or sporting considerations, saves his life. Driver’s survival capacity proves to be, in fact, the undoing of him and those close to him: the final point of the heist was to see all the operatives involved in it killed and the money circled back to Nino, the mastermind looking to chop off a potential Mafia rival at the ankles by seizing his capital and then burying the links. By surviving and, worse, finding his way to Nino via Cook, whom he wallops with a hammer in the midst of an almost blasé collective of topless dancers, Driver brings down heat not only on himself but on Shannon and Irene. The most frightening member of the Nino-Barney duo is, in fact, the more avuncular-seeming Bernie, who takes on cleaning up Nino’s problems with brutal directness, releasing his frustration on Cook by jamming a fork in his eye and beating him to death, and coolly, unexpectedly slicing a gigantic gash in Shannon’s arm during a similarly reassuring conversation. His glum solitude in his fancy apartment, with his collection of knives kept in a pristine collection, suggests the kind of man Driver himself could be if he gave in to the same impulses.
Driver certainly seems to trail the old “man with a violent past” aspect of many a reformed gunslinger given up to almost zenlike self-abnegation in his current life. His subsequent campaign of preemptive rampaging reminds me of how an acquaintance once described himself as the sort of pacifist who goes apeshit when his family are threatened. Here’s the real keynote of Drive, as Refn studies the strange nexus of violence and love, and how whilst the ability to wield the former has always been seen as a necessity to ensure the security of the latter, it can so easily turn corrosive and self-propagating. This comes to a head in the film’s most aesthetically and technically bravura core, as Nino and Bernie send a hood to the apartment building. Driver, recognising the man as a danger, turns around, kisses Irene in moment of lingering, slow-motion beatification, then turns back and smashes the hitman into a bloodied pulp, stamping on his skull with the lunatic fury of a caveman. Irene backs out of the elevator with an utterly horrified gaze, and Driver’s look back at her is charged with fury and necessity, yet also chagrined like a young boy caught doing something shameful. Refn’s ambivalence, then, is more than skin deep, and the dynamic he creates here in the dizzying swing between romantic tenderness and primal, gut-churning violence demands soul-searching on the audience’s part as to how one should finally view the Driver and his place in the scheme of things.
The funny thing is that after all is said and done, Drive is, like Valhalla Rising, a curiously spiritual, almost otherworldly film, replete with moments of woozy magic-realist beauty, as when Driver, tracking down Cook, stalks down a long, dark corridor lined with tinsel and a white-garbed stripper idly poking away at her mobile phone, or, in counterpoint, a moment as patently eerie and stygian as Driver’s revenge killing of Nino, stalking down onto a beach wearing that latex mask and drowning him in the surf. Whilst Driver’s final confrontation with Bernie is a little flat and strangely weightless, the very end, when Driver leaves behind everything and heads off into the night, bleeding and possibly dying, inevitably invokes Shane (1953): Driver, like his earlier brethren, has to leave behind both domesticity and ill-gotten power, and yet, perhaps, Driver has finally found his own sense of direction.
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Director/Screenwriter: Mitch Glazer
By Roderick Heath
Good and bad movies are supposed to be easy things to tell apart, but I’ll never pretend to know why some movies are taken seriously in the critical and popular zeitgeist, and why some others are cast into oblivion. Passion Play, a labour of love for Mitch Glazer and sporting an interesting array of technical and acting talent, is a variation on a distinctive American strand of magic-realism: it seems a little like a Bob Dylan or Tom Waits song translated into images, which are in themselves reminiscent of movies over the years by the likes of David Lynch, Francis Coppola, Wim Wenders, and Alan Rudolph, but without feeling excessively imitative. This film was brutally dismissed earlier this year, whilst stuff like, oh, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button or Black Swan, two other recent films in a similar mould, get a pass mark for of technical swagger and You Tube-ready pandering. The problem with a lot of such films is that their weight tends to dispel the delicate frosting of strangeness and pathos which makes such tall tales work at their best, and so they tend to blunder through realms that require a sense of personal sentiment, and a deeper sense of the canonical traditions they draw their cultural pastiche from. The pleasures of Passion Play are, especially in comparison with such heavy-footed fare, a little like its angelic yet fragile heroine: you’re constantly afraid they’ll flit away in the breeze or be brutalised beyond repair. And yet Glazer, whilst clearly a beginner filmmaker, reveals a substantial knack for creating and sustaining an atmosphere of dusky regret and threadbare emotional fibre, as Passion Play captures an elegiac, somnolently humane atmosphere that retains a happy patina long after the film is finished. He also successfully steers three of Hollywood’s most infamously big-mouthed actors, Mickey Rourke, Megan Fox, and Bill Murray, and gives them some of their best roles.
Rourke plays Nate Poole, a frazzled dinosaur of a jazz trumpeter with real glory days long behind him. In the dreamy prologue, he’s glimpsed playing on stage as accompanist of a strip act, never a good sign. He’s soon taken prisoner by lurking thugs, and driven by out into the desert, where it’s immediately plain he’s going to be shot and left to feed the buzzards. Just as Nate’s about to be plugged in the back of the head, though, his assassin is himself gunned down by a band of white-clad Native American warriors, who dash off as soon as they’ve done Nate this service. Nate stumbles through the desert until he comes across a seamy circus run by emperor of sleaze Sam Adamo (Rhys Ifans). It’s a place where little wonders must be found to justify their existence, and Nate catches a glimpse of one when he goes into a peepshow booth: a young woman, Lily Luster (Fox), who displays bird’s wings on her back for the paying clientele. Sam claims to have found her in a garbage pail when she was a baby and has brought her up. Nate, fascinated, tentatively introduces himself to Lily in her trailer after the circus shuts down, and she says her wings are just a prop she can’t be bothered taking off, in a role that was all she could do: “I’m not an angel, I’m a bird woman…I couldn’t get fat enough, I can’t grow a beard, and I hate snakes.” She also claims not to know who Nate is, yet once he leaves she unfurls her very real appendages and finds a copy of one of his records in her collection of old LPs. Sam, worried for the secrecy and security of his most peculiar possession, has his carny goons catch Nate and makes to kill with a rattlesnake’s bite, but Lily, having commandeered a pick-up truck, drives it into Sam’s tent and rescues Nate, fleeing back to the city.
On the way, when they pause at a gas station, Nate sees Lily, who claims to be unable to fly, managing to glide a little on a gusting breeze. Completely entranced, Nate nonetheless sees a chance to extricate himself from the lethal situation he’s in: his near-murder was because he slept with the wife of a powerful gangster, Happy Shannon (Murray, tweaking his trademark deadpan into something bleakly foreboding and pathetically nasty). Nate formulates a plan whereby he can cut Happy a percentage for showing off Lily to the world, whilst contriving to keep her out of the gangster’s hands. The glaze of hazy daylight and midnight somnolence, leavened by the evanescence of Lily’s aura of goodness, permeates Glazer’s film with surprising grace, and grace, after a fashion, is the subject. Passion Play plays, interestingly, as a mirror to Jesus Franco’s Venus in Furs (1969) with its similar tropes – otherworldly femme, rich possessive creeps, trumpet-playing anti-hero, and circular finale. Except that Lily is not an object of vengeance but aspiration, which the glumly vicious Happy recognises with more immediacy than Nate. Nate, a former drug addict, is branded as a perpetual loser not only because he makes mistakes but because he keeps making the same mistakes, and his plan to make peace with Happy and exploit Lily at the same time without exposing her to danger is sublime self-delusion. In a languorous yet quietly entrancing section of the film, Passion Play is essentially a two-person show portraying Lily and Nate’s growing bond. Lily tries to overcome her feeling of being a gruesome misfit who needs to be corrected: when she sneaks off to visit a plastic surgeon to get her wings cut off, Nate tracks her down and retrieves her, his defence of her right to be a beautiful freak sullied ever so subtly by an undertone of proprietary worry.
Lily and Nate fall into a nervous pas-de-deux as he, to please her, takes her to an empty theatre where a painted stage background suffices as her first glimpse of the sea, and after a little coaxing plays a tune on his trumpet, in a scene lightly gilded with a sense of drowsy romanticism and effervescent celebration of the way artists remake the world around them in tolerable terms. Rourke and Fox could well be the oddest romantic coupling of the year, and in some ways they’re by far the most soulful, each a garish oddity who nonetheless weaves beauties around them. Rourke, with his face these days looking like a pummelled side of corned beef, nonetheless still radiates the low-burning charisma he possessed in the ‘80s, and Fox, who’s only played arch bitch-queens and teenage lust-objects before this, is remarkably tantalising in playing the soft-spoken Lily, who has internalised years of being gawked at as a freak in an inability to look anyone in the eye, and who shrinks before the world’s gaze as if it’s an iron maiden bristling with spikes. Rourke proves that for all the predations of time he’s still one of the most innately charismatic actors in Hollywood, and Passion Play makes a fine bookend for The Wrestler as a portrait of a man heavy loaded with regret over what he’s done to others and to himself; indeed it wouldn’t work one-tenth as well if a less burdened and time-trammelled actor was in the role. Yet he’s still got his awesome physique from the Aronofsky film, which makes him cut it sufficiently in spite of his head as guy who can bed Megan Fox. When Happy finally catches up with Nate, he’s not to be easily fobbed off: Nate arranges a fashion of letting Happy see her with wings unfurled through binoculars. Happy instantly recognises Lily as a miracle, and being the man he is, he wants it for himself. He catches Nate and Lily in bed, and, planning to kill Nate, is dissuaded when Lily promises to go with him if he lets Nate live.
Happy instead has his goons beat the hell out of him and has him blackballed by all the nightspots in town, and after an attempt to extract Lily from Happy’s mansion ends up with her telling him to stop trying, Nate spirals deep into despair, hocking his saxophone and contemplating returning to his drug habit. He gets a break, however, when a fellow musician takes him on for a gig playing at local museum – at a charity soiree being bankrolled by Happy on a theme of angels, and Happy shows up with Lily on his arm: Nate stalks her through the museum, but she retreats from him in hopelessness. Nate’s limbo spirals into the genuinely stygian when he picks up a serpentine tattooed punk chick, who shoots him full of junk, except that she proves to be an agent of Sam, lurking and looking for a chance to avenge himself on Nate and take Lily back, and the woman has pumped with a hot dose. Nate is only saved when his friend Harriet (Kelly Lynch) finds him and revives him. When Sam tries to extract Lily from Happy’s house, the gangster shoots him and, suddenly fed up with all of the men vying for his beautiful captive, loses interest in her and turns her again into an exhibit for leering at, albeit this time an up-market crowd.
Passion Play‘s title is a bit of a double-entendre, as the film is both about multiple forms of passion, but there is finally a peculiar kind of fable being offered here, where Nate does battle with devils and serpents, and tries to rescue his angel and his own wayward soul with her. Glazer manages to offer his wilfully fantastical figurations less as overtly religious overtones than as permeating mythopoeic imagery, a jazz-like solo riff on a Jungian fever dream where private desperation and yearning are externalised through visions of cherubs and demons. Glazer also has to avoid tipping off the viewer too clearly about the nature of the story, taking place as it is in a zone between life and death. Promises of infernal fire and redemption swirl implicitly in the textures of Christopher Doyle’s cinematography, in the uterine warmth of velvety, theatrical reds and speckles of gilt infusing the otherwise bleary blues and noir-y shadows in the denuded city- and desert-scapes of New Mexico. Passion Play is reminiscent, in its melding of fantasy with noir, of Ben Hecht’s oddball classic Angels Over Broadway (1940), whilst a fragment of Brute Force (1947) is glimpsed on a movie screen – Happy screens old movies for Lily to please her, as she grew up watching such films on television – with its similar figuration of a disgraced and scruffy Burt Lancaster with the crippled, beatific Ann Blyth to offset the defeated Nate before Happy and Lily. Indeed, Passion Play was the second of two films I watched in quick succession – the other was Monte Hellman’s Road to Nowhere, a film with a not dissimilar mood and references, if also with much deeper layers of narrative complexity – where the tropes of classic noir are seized upon and inverted, rendered instead of punchy and hardboiled, as dreamy, melancholy, and with their sense of reality indefinably porous. Passion Play also has qualities in common with two more films maudit, Larry Charles’ under-rated, if lumpy, attempt to film Dylan with Masked and Anonymous (2003) and Johnny Depp’s nigh-unseen, yet weirdly, naggingly memorable The Brave (1997), in trying to articulate that American branch of fantasy where civilisation peters out at the fringes of the desertscape, and the islets of humanity glimpsed there are stricken through with cruelty, wonder, and alien beauty, as if the cultural centrifuges toss out all the colourful and perverse refuse there, amidst heavily metaphoric contemplations of the state of the personal and national psyche.
Sam’s remote, lively yet subtly strange circus is then reminiscent of something out of Ray Bradbury or Jack Finney, cross-bred with the word-pictures of the aforementioned songwriters, whilst the moment of Nate’s first glimpse of Lily calls to mind the finale of Wenders’ Paris, Texas (1984) where a similarly ruined remnant of a man confronted his great love in a peepshow booth, whilst both films share an atmosphere of crushed romanticism. When Nate peeks in on Lily in her trailer and sees her with unfolded wings, the film takes on the quality of folk-myth, as he sees something extraordinary in the remote female figure in violating the taboo of her sanctuary, but here with a grim masochistic overtone, as he watches Lily ripping out her feathers in anguish, giving substance to the sense that permeates the film of the worthy beautiful strange things ripping themselves to pieces or subjecting themselves to degradations for the sake of small redeeming beauties. Yet Glazer, who wrote Murray’s ill-famed Scrooged (1988) as well as the interesting if finally problematic Three of Hearts (1993) and Great Expectations (1997), seems to be reflecting as much on the nature of his own trade as any metaphysical concerns here: it’s impossible to ignore how Passion Play is really about show business, and the motifs of the film, constantly circling back to performing stages and acts, and life-art rhymes, emphasises this.
The artist protagonist has wasted his potential in drugs and betraying his talent, a crime he repeats in selling out Lily, and pissing off the wrong people through licentious missteps. Happy and Sam, satanic forces of temptation, are also readily identifiable as exclusive and exploitative exhibitors, with a capacity to turn any rare and rich talent and trait into another commodity. For Fox, famously booted off her signature franchise for telling the truth about the director who served her up with toxic contempt in Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen (2009), Passion Play’s dismissive reception would hardly seem like vindication, but her role might have still felt like that, in it seems to conflate much truth about the way Hollywood treats its beauties. Lily wants to tear and distort her flesh to render it more perfect; Nate wants to show it off; Happy when he realises that he’ll never entirely possess her instead settles for sticking her in a glass booth virtually naked so that people can pay for an eyeful. This curious yet lucid fable’s finale sees Nate crashing one of Happy’s private peep shows for his rich friends to come and gawk at Lily in a glass box, resembling a fantasia out of a renaissance painting and weeping like a martyr. Here Glazer brings the motif of the power to look as a form of dominance to a head as well as achieving a real emotional kick in evoking the way the world’s beauties are so often corralled and controlled by men like Happy. Maybe in the very climax Glazer pushes finally too far towards the obvious, but his work still retains a charge as Nate rescues Lily and spurs her to finally spread her wings as a last act of faith. Such an act proves crucial for Nate as he makes a discovery that puts everything he’s been doing into perspective: saving his soul.
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Director: André de Toth
By Marilyn Ferdinand
A torrent of windswept rain is now smashing against our windows and outside the water is filling the streets, and the wind is intensifying, swaying power wires and trees. Miraculously we still have power, but I fear for a cessation as the eye of the storm is predicted in about four or five hours. Few if any cars are on the streets, with only police sirens heard in the distance. It’s a real sight to behold. So far the sewers are holding up. We have three leaks in the house, and have strategically placed plastic containers to gather the water. I just applied plastic packing tape on the front windows in the kitchen and living room to guard against glass splattering. Weather forecasters are saying, however, that the storm has lost a bit of its severity by staying on land, but warn against anyone letting their guard down.
Film blogger from Wonders in the Dark, frequent FonF commenter, and good friend Sam Juliano sent this dispatch from the front as Hurricane Irene has New Yorkers and New Jerseyites hunkering down for an unaccustomed bit of weather. Facebook is all abuzz with hurricane talk and FB friend Lesley Gaspar asked for suggestions of hurricane movies to watch while waiting out the storm. Slattery’s Hurricane came immediately to mind.
Slattery’s Hurricane is a noirish kind of film in plotting and casting. It establishes a self-reproachful voiceover narration by Will Slattery (Richard Widmark) as he reviews the selfish, stupid moves he made in the previous few weeks as he flies an airplane into a Category 1 hurricane. A naval airman during WWII who was busted out of the Navy for disobeying orders so that he could sink an enemy vessel, Slattery has lived for money and the moment as a private pilot for Miami “candy” (drug) distributor A.J. Milne (Walter Kingsford). Like many a great noir antihero, Slattery’s past comes back to haunt him in the form of former flame Aggie (hot-as-hell Linda Darnell), married to Will’s buddy “Hobbie” Hobson (hunky John Russell), when the old Navy pals run into each other on a Miami street and later have dinner.
Hobbie is still with the Navy, attached to their meteorology division, and he takes Will up on a mission and right into the eye of a hurricane to show Will what he does. Will returns the favor by taking Hobbie and a reluctant Aggie up in the plane he flies for Milne; his stunts, meant to impress Aggie, frighten her instead, and they head back to the Milne estate where Will is reprimanded by Milne’s nervous partner Gregory (Joe De Santis). Dolores Grieves (Veronica Lake), Milne’s secretary and Will’s girl of the moment, senses that Will and Aggie seem to know each other, but lets it go. Will doesn’t. Will and Aggie arrange to keep bumping into each other until the initially resistant Aggie responds to Will’s declaration of undying love with passion. The affair is back on.
Fortunately, De Toth’s strategy to skirt the Hays Office keeps this adulterous affair off the screen, and we are left with a very exciting “man against the elements” feature. The film is a wonder in the way it depicts what storm trackers did in the days before satellite radar could paint an accurate location for a hurricane and make landfall predictions to aid evacuation efforts—fly planes into the eye of the storm and have them send back coordinates. The sequence in which Hobbie and his crew take Will through each step of their work is fascinating, and the airplane interior shudders and creaks believably in the heavy weather; a process shot of the cloud wall of the eye is breathtaking to contemplate. Just as with Day of the Outlaw, De Toth makes great use of real locations to lend atmosphere. The tropical exteriors in Florida and the Caribbean, with their cloud-filled skies and strong breezes, lend the elemental force the film needs, and the drug-running sequences resonate with what we know about the illicit drug trade in that part of the world.
The opening sequence jumps us right into the action, as we see Will, already fighting the building wind, walk onto Milne’s estate, punch out another one of Milne’s employees when he tries to stop Will from taking the plane, and take off. Hobbie and his commander (Gary Merrill) threaten Will by radio with a courtmartial (Will has been cleared and reinstated as a reservist by the Navy and given a medal for his bravery), but the stubborn Will insists they use him for storm tracking as long as he’s up there—he wants to die doing something good. This sequence is almost a mirror of the climax of Howard Hawks’ Ceiling Zero, but audiences in 1949 were not in the mood for any downer endings after a world war, and the film suffers as a consequence.
More problematic is Will’s shift from Aggie back to Dolores at the close. Will has treated Dolores like a convenience—it’s clear that even if Aggie hadn’t come back into the picture, Dolores was little more than a placeholder. Bold for 1949, Dolores is a drug addict (“Please Mr. Milne, I’m sick, I’m very sick,” she says in a moment of upset); later, she shoots up (off camera) and ODs at the naval base when she sees Will and Aggie together after Will’s award ceremony. Will’s guilt is how the script has him discover his deeper feelings for Dolores, but I just didn’t buy it. When he says repeatedly that he never got Aggie out of his system—and when you compare the two women—there’s no question that he’s telling the truth. Aggie is gorgeous and alive, whereas Dolores is mousey and a walking shadow. De Toth and his wife Lake, who was actually addicted to drugs and alcohol, wanted to break her out of her femme fatale roles. While she is heartbreaking and shows how brave an actress she is in this film, the script doesn’t offer the kind of support needed to really change her image; she needed a complete break from noir for that. Slattery’s Hurricane was her last picture for a major studio. After one more film, an independently made Western called Stronghold, her big-screen career was over.
Widmark gives a tour de force performance with energy to burn. We don’t need the voiceover to tell us that Will is scared, that his impulsiveness has him close to the edge. In a scene where Gregory demands what he took from Milne when the drug boss died of a heart attack on the plane, you can practically see Widmark calculate his odds if he lies to them about having the drugs. In a film shot today, we’d see a gunfight; in Slattery’s Hurricane, we see a man who knows he’s not quite smart or strong enough to rob a drug smuggler and get away with it. It’s a shame that crime has gotten so stupid in the movies today. If you look at it objectively, his guilt-driven daredevil routine is 90 percent suicide attempt, as his odds of having a successful mission are close to nil and his exposure of the drug smuggling ring might never have come had his failing radio truly gone dead. In honor of his success, the naval mission is called “Slattery’s Hurricane,” but this “hero” really never stopped being a heel.
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Director: Monte Hellman
By Marilyn Ferdinand
“Jesus, I love to shoot film.”
“Look out, Haskell, it’s real!”
Although Monte Hellman did not cite it has an influence, Haskell Wexler’s Medium Cool (1969) was the film that came to mind as I watched Hellman’s first feature film in more than 20 years. Road to Nowhere is a film about filmmaking, and the love Hellman has for the form permeates this film. So, too, does Hellman employ a documentary style to expose the bones of the filmmaking process for his film within a film. However, neither the film Hellman stand-in Mitchell Haven (Tygh Runyan) makes, nor the fact-based story on which it is based is at all real. The fun for audiences is not just in trying to make sense of the reflexive storytelling, but also in recognizing how we, like the directors, love to lose ourselves in making the unreal real.
In this particular film, the “real” story collides with the film Haven is making (also called Road to Nowhere) in the form of Laurel Graham (Shannyn Sossamon), an unknown actress he casts to play Velma Duran, a woman mixed up with corrupt politician Rafe Taschen, to be played by A-list actor Cary Stewart (Cliff de Young). Political blogger and scriptwriter Nathalie Post (Dominique Swain) says the pair faked their own deaths to perpetrate an insurance fraud, and flashbacks of Laurel confirm that she was hired to play Velma in “real” life in the North Carolina town where the suicides were staged to preserve the lives of Nestor Duran’s (Fabio Testi, also in Hellman’s Iguana) family in Cuba, though why they would be in danger, and from whom, is never made clear. It appears that North Carolina insurance investigator Bruno Brotherton (Waylon Payne) posed as a construction worker at Haven’s home with the express purpose of slipping a DVD of Laurel, whom he thinks is Velma, to Haven during the casting process and ingratiating himself as a location adviser to keep an eye on her; he doesn’t have to talk Laurel up to Haven, who is bewitched by her and turns down an offer by Scarlett Johansson to play Velma for scale to pursue his obsession.
Hellman has crafted two intriguing and very different films. Haven’s Road to Nowhere is slow and contemplative, making stunning use of the Smoky Mountains location and Sossamon’s enigmatic face to create a mournful atmosphere that is as enveloping as the low-hung clouds that roll off the mountains and across the water where Taschen’s plane goes down. A scene whose portent we won’t discover until nearly the end of the film shows Sossamon drive to a tunnel, walk in, and double over in an agonizing gut-wrench of emotion; carefully shot so we don’t see the other opening of the tunnel, this is indeed the titular road to nowhere.
Hellman’s outer shell of Road to Nowhere is caught up almost completely in the mechanics of filmmaking. We witness Haven’s arguments with his screenwriter Steve Gates (Robert Kolar) over casting, the endless ad libbing on set, the build-up of Laurel’s role, and the accompanying requests by increasingly marginalized cast members for more lines. Such is Haven’s obsession that Gates and the rest of the company are reduced to being his yes men and women. Cary Stewart is shown on the phone with his agent complaining about how the movie has shifted him into a supporting role; when asked if anything can be done contractually, he responds to what he hears on the phone with “Yes, we should have asked for more money.” Haven does a preproduction interview with real Variety reporter Peter Bart, implying that he doesn’t get romantically involved with the people on his shoots, and then sharing a room with Laurel on location.
What really put me in the same place as Haven was his evening occupation with Laurel—watching DVDs in their barebones hotel room using equipment he brought for that purpose. His film choices—The Lady Eve, Spirit of the Beehive, and The Seventh Seal—are as different from each other as Hellman’s two Road to Nowhere films, yet Haven proclaims each of them masterpieces. When Laurel asks how many films he has seen, Haven scolds her for the question: “Never ask a director how much time he spends watching other directors’ dreams.” “Then, am I your dream?” asks Laurel. Indeed she is, and other writers have suggested that Hellman’s one-time paramour Laurie Bird, his star in Two-Lane Blacktop, has uncomfortable parallels to Laurel.
Certainly, Hellman’s film is chockablock with references to his life and movies in general. Writing in an insurance investigator (and possibly cuing our memories with a Barbara Stanwyck vehicle) certainly calls to mind Double Indemnity. Several of his characters and the production team for the Haven film share the same first initials as he and other members of the production team. In fact, his fondness for cutesy names, like the matinee idol mash-up Cary Stewart and the destined-to-blog Nathalie Post, is a quirk meant to suggest types more than people, I imagine, but one I find more cheesy than effective. The extremely literal lyrics of the songs contributed to the film by alt-country singer-songwriter Tom Russell also seem to slam us over the head with the film’s theme. Perhaps this is Hellman’s sly trick on the Hollywood dumb-down most films must get before they can be marketed to the widest possible audience internationally. However, Hollywood isn’t the only target to get blown a raspberry—the lingering cheesecake shot of Swain’s curvaceous butt and one of Laurel taking a phone call while sitting on the toilet seemed like they escaped from a recipe book for audacious indie filmmaking.
A friend I spoke with after the screening couldn’t believe how appallingly bad Sussamon was, but Laurel insisted to Haven that she wasn’t really an actress. Her performance in the scenes we see in Haven’s film certainly are quite wonderful, and if she was trying to play an actress who couldn’t act, as I believe she was, she did a very fine job. In fact, I would say that generally speaking, the other performances don’t quite measure up to hers.
The climax of the film is the part that evoked Medium Cool most strongly for me. “Look out, Haskell, it’s real,” is a famous line from Wexler’s film, a reference to tear gas police shot into the crowd of protesters of the 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago. In fact, there was no tear gas where Wexler was shooting, and the line was dubbed into the film. In the same way, Haven shoots Bruno in a rage with the line, “You brought a gun into the scene,” a suggestion that the murder was an unplanned part of Hellman’s film. Wexler’s film ends with a camera pointing at the audience, whereas we get to see the murder scene and the police stand-off through Haven’s HD camera viewer—and a shot of Hellman’s crew filming it all.
Road to Nowhere is an intriguing film that will appeal most strongly to the serious cinephile who has wrestled with the implications of cinema as a voyeuristic and reflexive art form. In the final analysis, however, Hellman’s film has a valedictory feel to me, a summation of a life in the movies by one of its most staunchly independent elder statesmen.
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Director: Rowan Joffe
By Roderick Heath
Perhaps Graham Greene’s best-known novel, 1938’s Brighton Rock, was filmed first in 1947 by John Boulting and proved a foundation stone for the British strand of film noir. Greene’s survival and ascension to become one of the most recognised and admired writers from his era says something about the durability of Greene’s blend of no-nonsense prose and capacity to blend serious thematic and psychological investigation with solid storytelling. Perhaps Greene’s durability depends in part on the fact that he knew the cinema well and adjudged its likely impact on audiences for literature as well, sensing intuitively how the two arts would eventually help define each other. Boulting’s film hinged on the capacity of young star Richard Attenborough to project baby-faced menace and oily charm in equal measure. The new version of Brighton Rock seems much more a work laden with a self-conscious sense of legacies—of Greene, of British and classic film noir history, and of director Rowan Joffe, the son of ill-fated faux-auteur Roland Joffe. Joffe fils makes his feature directing debut with the film after two telemovies and some strong screenwriting work, like his admirably curt script for Anton Corbijn’s The American (2010). Joffe’s script retains the storyline and moral permeations of Greene’s novel, but his cinematic tone is rather different to the sort of dry, unadorned compactness Greene specialised in.
Sam Riley, the young star of Corbijn’s overrated, but sturdy Control (2009), takes over Attenborough’s role as Pinkie Brown, young psychopath and emblem of troubled youth and Catholic angst. Joffe’s adaptation is reset in 1964, the year of the infamous Mod-Rocker riot previously depicted in Franc Roddam’s Quadrophenia (1979). Pinkie is the sort of youth who keeps a drawer full of weapons of pain and carries a vial of acid in his pocket. Initially, he’s an minor stand-over man for a bookie, Bell (Danny Banks), who is semi-accidentally stabbed to death in the opening scene by rival hoods led by Colleoni (Andy Serkis). That opening is shot in boldly expressionistic style by Joffe, with rain, abstracted architecture, silhouettes, and pooled source lighting, and punctuated with blasts of menacing Inception-style horns that suggest things of great and terrible import are about to occur. Here Joffe announces his seeming intent to return a bit of old-school cinematic vigour to the contemporary screen.
Bell’s small crew, including the aging, vexed Spicer (Phil Davis) and hulking Dallow (Nonso Anozie), plan moderated revenge upon Bell’s killer, Hale (Sean Harris). Pinkie finds Hale in a public toilet, but his hesitation allows Hale to fake him out and then disarm him. Pinkie and the rest of the crew track him to Brighton Pier, where he is chasing girls and trying to pick up mousy Rose Wilson (Andrea Riseborough). When Spicer finds him, he, Hale, and Rose are snapped by a pier photographer, who gives Rose a ticket to claim the picture later. When Pinkie chases down Hale and gets a cut on the face from his knife, Pinkie tackles him and beats his head in with a rock. Shocked, Spicer orders Pinkie to get close to Rose so he can steal the ticket to claim the photograph.
Rose works as a waitress in the tea shop of Ida (Helen Mirren), a hardened, independent woman. A friend of Hale’s and of independent bookie Phil Corkery (John Hurt), Ida catches wind of Pinkie’s killing of Hale and sets out to nail him, especially when she learns of Rose’s swiftly forming infatuation for him. Rose is immediately compelled by Pinkie’s air of intensity and because he appeals to a budding masochistic streak in her: “You can keep doing that…if you like it,” she whispers as he fiercely twists the skin on her hand in a moment of pique. Rose quickly enough realises Pinkie’s outlaw status, but digs it: chafing against the dowdy parsimony of working-class life, she interestingly contrasts Ida, a woman with a wholehearted, yet unwholesome romanticism. The change in milieu then interestingly reconfigures the asocial impulses of Greene’s young characters from the ’30s, where they were violently out of place, into one in which they fit, if darkly—the ’60s youth movement. Pinkie and Rose contrast their older doubles, Spicer and Ida, whose dreams and expectations are small-scale self-realisation: Spicer wants to own a pub in the north, and Ida enjoys her no-strings coterie of “gentleman friends” that excludes the sort of transcendent ardour and emotional outlet the younger folk seek at all costs.
It’s peculiarly telling then that Joffe’s version of Brighton Rock sees Rose rather than Pinkie become its most affecting character. That’s not entirely deliberate: both Joffe’s awkward script and Riley’s surprisingly one-note characterisation conspire to limit what ought to be Pinkie’s impact, considering that he was the prototypical version of Alex DeLarge, the main figure of Anthony Burgess’ A Clockwork Orange, as lightning rod for everything sexy and amoral about dangerous youth. Whilst he’s effective enough in early scenes as Pinkie begins to grow swiftly in sensing his power—legally endangered and religiously damned and yet psychically liberated by his killing of Hale—Riley spurns the vulnerable, quicksilver sensitivity he showed in his performance as Ian Curtis in Control, which might have effectively permeated this role. It becomes hard to see just why Rose falls so heavily for him: he’s just too much the knit-browed young psycho. The result eventually seems cartoonish in portraying pathetic neediness and masochistic impulse meeting a perfect illusion-spinning antihero.
This lack of finesse is apparent on several levels in Brighton Rock as it quickly proves that Joffe has less an inherent sense of the classic film styles he tries to evoke, and more a serious case of that tragic malady known as The Director Thinks They’re Hitchcock Syndrome, a disease that strikes one out of ten young directors. Pointlessly florid crane and tracking shots, and hammy Herrmann-esque orchestral sounds threaten to drown the felicities of his better ideas. Joffe’s film school cinema embroiders but hardly suits the carbolic hiss of Greene’s writing, which was far better put across on screen by cold-blooded bastards like Carol Reed and Otto Preminger.
Rather inevitably, but in a well-staged fashion, a riot features in a set-piece sequence. This comes when Pinkie decides to have Spicer killed after he rats him out to the police (the excellent actor Maurice Roëves appears for about 30 seconds as Pinkie’s grilling police detective). Having received and accepted an offer of partnership from Colleoni, a smoothed-over overlord ensconced in the Brighton Grand Hotel, Pinkie arranges to have Colleoni’s men kill Spicer under the pier. But the mods are streaming into town, and in Joffe’s best moment, Pinkie gives Spicer a lift to what he thinks will be a business meeting on his scooter and finds himself surrounded by a flotilla of such vehicles, menacing music droning as the oncoming tide of dark energy enfolds and briefly includes Pinkie’s life arc. But he swiftly finds himself outside it again as Colleoni’s boys try to kill him as well, and he finishes up fleeing stiletto-wielding thugs amidst a landscape of convulsive violence as the youth armies begin to battle. Such a moment nods to both Roddam and also the equally helter-skelter depiction of the collapse of Cambodia in papa Roland’s The Killing Fields (1984).
The film introduces early on Pinkie’s strange version of Catholicism where Hell is much more vivid and literal to him than any notion of paradise, willing on perdition and the resulting sensation of gloriously evil he gains from this notion and which Rose is attracted to. “I don’t want to be good!” she shouts at Pinkie, to his retort, “No, I’m bad, and you’re good. We’re made for each other.” Sadly, Joffe underscores the point in a sequence in which they get married, with Pinkie cast in shadows and Rose aglow in a shaft of sun. An equally snigger-worthy interlude comes when Rose visits church and Joffe indulges the inevitable Catholic fetishism with massed candles. It’s like an early Madonna video.
The incapacity of Joffe to get a solid grip on the deeper dimensions of the story, which are pretty old-hat at the best of times, and the way both Pinkie and Rose get off on their calculated blasphemies, mean that his film never successfully elevates itself above relatively factotum bad-boy melodrama. Brighton Rock offers the standard refrains of the British gangster flick in which the scary-sexy monster compels and alarms those around him but located in a quaint period setting. Those refrains were probably largely instituted by Greene’s work and its influence on Burgess’s, but with strands going back to Oliver Twist’s Bill Sykes and Nancy, and reproduced in quite a lot of British gangster films in recent years, including Sexy Beast, Essex Boys, and Gangster No. 1, all from 2000. Still, Joffe and Riseborough conspire to pull off one excellent moment late in the film, in which Rose succumbs to temptation and steals ₤10 to buy herself a hip dress, twirling with oblivious, pitiable pleasure before Pinkie, who’s furious at a visit from Ida and who is becoming convinced Rose will sell him out. Joffe also at least does right in his recreations of period squalor and depression, particularly in a scene in which Rose takes Pinkie to meet her father (Steve Evets), from whom he basically buys Rose for ₤150. This is the shitty world hidden behind the glitz of the Brighton waterfront and the castlelike Grand Hotel which keeps its toffy clients well protected from the grim grittiness of the street and which gives ambient context to the rage and frustration of the kids who aren’t alright.
The usually reliable Serkis unfortunately delivers a sorry piece of archness in his appearances as Colleoni, seated upon a chaise lounge and petting its fabric with erotic menace. Mirren’s role and performance are both rather clichéd, indicating Joffe fell prey to the problems of celebrity casting. Joffe utilises a vicious couplet of sequences added by Greene to the script of the 1947 film, and recreates them almost exactly the way Boulting shot them. Rose, beaming with hopeful ignorance through the glass of a recording booth in which Pinkie, cajoled by her to put his voice on vinyl, records a gruesomely abusive message for her; she can’t listen to the message because neither of them has a record player. When Rose finally gets hold of a player at the end, after she’s been cast into a borstal for her complicity in Pinkie’s crimes, the disc skips and keeps repeating a part of the message, “I love you,” over and over. In the 1947 film, this was clearly linked to a rather cute but affecting piece of transcendental reassurance on the behalf of a nun; here the ramification is much less clear, suggesting that Rose is more a hopeless self-deluder and emotional junkie, and the very last shot seems weirdly inexact and hammy. The problem of Joffe’s constantly indebted style is finally sharpened to a point; his film comes across like a system of borrowed affectations and meanings without ever quite developing a personality of its own. By the time its rather overwrought finale rolls around, in which Pinkie expires rather fittingly with a face full of his own acid before plunging over a white cliff of Dover, Brighton Rock is already too clearly a failure in ambition, substance, and style. The better scenes, Riseborough’s and Hurt’s excellent performances, and John Mathieson’s lively photography, do suggest what a more mature cinematic talent might have managed.
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Director: Carol Reed
By Marilyn Ferdinand
In life and art, the blackest of humor has always been a part of the Irish sensibility. Although the lace-curtain Irish have fought for respectability against the more anarchic elements that surface regularly from the Irish collective unconscious, their own rioting at the premiere of John M. Synge’s patricidal and immodest Playboy of the Western World shows a nature that simply won’t be denied. Odd Man Out provides another unflattering portrait of the Irish, mixed with the noble image they tend to have of themselves and their struggles. In the end, only love proves honest, if not entirely honorable.
Johnny McQueen (James Mason) is the head of an unnamed organization no one could fail to recognize as the Irish Republican Army (IRA). He has barely paused to take a breath following his release after a long stretch in prison before getting back to business, meeting with his compatriots at the Belfast home of Kathleen Sullivan (Kathleen Ryan) to plan a payroll robbery to help fund the organization. Guns are issued, and as Pat (Cyril Cusack) brandishes his buoyantly, Johnny scolds him not to be quick to use it. Johnny’s second in command, Dennis (Robert Beatty), urges him to sit out the robbery, observing that he seems shaky. Kathleen, who is in love with Johnny, agrees with Dennis, but Johnny feels that he needs to assert his command and that his rightful place is alongside those taking the risks.
Johnny and his three co-conspirators walk into the mill they plan to rob and empty the contents of the office safe into their valises. As they make their way down a hall, the alarm sounds. As the others exit and hop into the getaway car, Johnny is momentarily dazzled by the sunlight. A guard catches up with them and wrestles with Johnny, shooting him in the shoulder. Johnny draws his weapon, kills the guard, and is dragged alongside the car by two of his men as Pat speeds away. Pat takes a sharp turn, and Johnny is flung free of the car. As Pat argues with his comrades about his fears of capture if he backs the car up to rescue their fallen leader—making his argument legitimate by wasting oodles of time—Johnny staggers to his feet and disappears around a corner.
Johnny’s gang exemplifies the opposite of the discipline and loyalty that would have characterized the IRA when Johnny and Dennis were coming up. Dennis is aghast that the gang left Johnny behind, but it’s clear that Pat was only thinking of himself. Pat’s lies to Dennis about why Johnny didn’t make it back with them forces Dennis into the streets to find his comrade.
Johnny evades capture when Dennis, having located him, lures the cops away by pretending to be the injured Johnny and rather carelessly sacrificing his own freedom by punching a couple of cops on a crowded bus. Johnny gets past a roadblock in a hansom cab that the police searched earlier. The cabbie (Joseph Tomelty), astonished to see Johnny in his cab, settles him into a washtub discarded in a dump on the edge of town. There Johnny sits, ridiculous, with snow falling around him, until a ratty little man named Shell (F. J. McCormick) finds him and contemplates whether to turn him in to the police to collect the sizeable reward on his head or negotiate with Father Tom (W. G. Fay), the priest the Catholic community turns to when looking out for their own best interests.
At this point, the story veers sharply from the IRA story and transforms into a strange burlesque in which Johnny becomes almost incidental, serving merely as the catalyst by which we view the Irish character as it is constellated by a talented and varied cast. Shell favors amusing, elliptical blarney to communicate his insider information, for example, bringing one of his pet birds to Father Tom and using it to allude to his discovery of Johnny in the washtub. He goes from planning to claim the £50,000 reward to agreeing to come to terms with the priest, though it’s pretty clear that he’ll probably get nothing but a florid thank-you. Is he inept? A fool? A patriot? McCormick dances with the highly literate dialogue provided by F. L. Green, screenwriter and author of the novel on which the film is based, and transforms Shell into a Beckett character, waiting for his ship to come in, yet seeming to conspire to ensure that it won’t.
The other half of this Godot pair is the iconic mad artist, here named Lukey and played broadly by Robert Newton. Lukey lives in the same tenement as Shell and waylays him whenever possible to pose for endless hours as a model for a series of Christ paintings. When he finds out that Shell has a lead on Johnny, Lukey is overcome with the idea of being able to paint the eyes of a dying man. The machinations that get Johnny out of a private booth in the Crown Bar (shot on location in Belfast) and in front of Lukey are too absurd to detail here. The stereotypical Irish thirst for booze and brawling takes the spotlight as Johnny hallucinates the heads of people he’s spoken with during the day in the bubbles of beer spilled on his table.
The outside world is a mixed bag that Reed carefully locates with his set decoration in the various strata of Belfast society. Two women trained in first aid during the war come to Johnny’s aid, and bring him into their thoroughly bourgeois home. Their goodness won’t allow them to turn him in, but they disapprove of him and don’t want to be mixed up in his criminality. War profiteer and vice lord Maudie (Beryl Measor), on the other hand, lives in a resplendently tacky home that has its own phone booth. Maudie is a Mother Courage knock-off—not so far from Reed’s most famous character, Harry Lime—selling Pat and his comrade out to protect her interests with the police. In this sense, what goes around comes around for the selfish and stupid Pat.
You couldn’t ask for a better-looking, more atmospheric film than Odd Man Out. Many noirish elements, including deep shadows, nighttime exteriors, shooting down stairwells, skewed camera angles, cages, and bars mark Johnny as a trapped animal. During Johnny’s fevered meanderings through Belfast, director Carol Reed treats us to frightening and absurd hallucinations, like the aforementioned, surreal “bubble heads,” but more poignantly, Johnny’s hallucination of his jailor as he hides in the air raid shelter and imagines it is his cell. We come to understand Johnny better from his imaginary conversation with this jailor than in many of the real-world interactions he has.
James Mason emphasizes his character’s weakness, not strength, his foolishness, not his resolve. Johnny’s self-defeating pride, his wavering commitment to armed resistance to achieve a united Ireland while failing to take his own advice to Pat, his offhandedness about Kathleen’s love, and his relative passivity as he’s passed around like a hot potato by wary locals make him less a Christlike figure than a pawn, an idea.
But it’s not that he doesn’t have a prayer—in fact, Kathleen intends to escort him to Father Tom while they wait for a boat that will take them to freedom. Of course, the symbolism of the boat signals death (one is reminded of James Mason on another boat—a cursed ship in Pandora and the Flying Dutchman), and Kathleen provides an angel’s love to escort him beyond life to a place where she can protect him for all eternity. Kathleen seems to be the moral center of this film because of the purity of her love that seems very motherly (is she chaste as well?), but the life of the guard Johnny killed means nothing to her in the grand scheme of her devotion.
Most of the characters in this film seem quite childish. In an early scene, a group of children are playing soccer in the street when their ball lands at the feet of a grown man. Instead of passing it back to them, he kicks it as hard as he can in the opposite direction—a nice device that eventually will lead to Dennis’ discovery of Johnny, but also a needlessly mean and infantile reaction from the man. Late in the film, Johnny quotes a famous line he learned from Father Tom: “When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.” Ironically, Johnny’s pangs of adult conscience and an awareness of mature feelings for Kathleen are only awakened when he is at his most helpless and dependent—in the last hours of his life, after he learned he had killed a man. Odd Man Out is an Irish tragedy indeed.
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Director: Anthony Mann
By Marilyn Ferdinand
There are often great pleasures in the programmatic films churned out by Hollywood’s independent film studios. Like Roger Corman’s productions, many of these movies gave future cinematic titans experience and chances to experiment. Such a film is Railroaded!, a fairly routine crime drama made by Poverty Row’s Producers Releasing Corporation that flirts with being a full-blown film noir thanks to the edgy direction of Anthony Mann and his cinematographer Guy Roe and the obsessive performances of John Ireland and Jane Randolph.
We start in noir country—a nightscape of a city street lined with bright theatre marquees. The camera moves down the street and swoops down to a close-up of a shop window advertising “Clara Calhoun: Your House of Beauty.” The door opens to Clara herself (Jane Randolph) ushering a happy patron with a new coif out with hopes that she gets home safely. The remark was meant to flatter the patron, but it has portends of a tragedy soon to befall the shop.
Clara runs an illegal bookie operation in the back room of her shop. After she closes up, she and her assistant Marie (Peggy Converse) start counting the take. Marie goes to the front of the shop to lock up, and Clara opens and closes the back door three times to signal two men in a laundry truck. They enter the shop to steal the gambling money. At the same time, a policeman patrolling the street hears Marie scream and shoots into the shop. He hits one of the robbers, but is killed by the other. The two men flee, with the unharmed man, Duke Martin (John Ireland), abandoning the truck and his badly injured partner, Cowie Kowalski (Keefe Brasselle), in front of a doctor’s office. Clara and Duke, lovers and conspirators, bemoan their bad luck but begin their campaign to frame the owner of the truck, Steve Ryan (Ed Kelly), as the gunman who killed the cop.
The film has a fairly standard plot that moves through Steve’s arrest by Det. Mickey Ferguson (Hugh Beaumont), Ferguson’s growing suspicion that Steve is innocent, and his progress at uncovering and apprehending the real murderer and making time with Steve’s beautiful sister Rosie (Sheila Ryan). Among the complications are Rosie’s independent attempt to find the killer, which causes her to cozy up to Martin; Martin’s growing paranoia about anyone who could tie him to the murder and his greed for the money his employer, Jackland Ainsworth (Roy Gordon), makes off the entire bookmaking operation. The final showdown between Martin and Ferguson, with Rosie as the damsel in distress, plays just as expected, as does the closing clinch between Ferguson and Rosie.
It is the bizarre and atmospheric elements in this film that make it more of a standout than its filmic brethren. The robbery has some lurid, adrenaline-inducing moments that raise it above its unpromising beginning. Martin, wearing a Navy scarf belonging to Steve, pushes Marie into the beauty salon, where he intends to rob the cash register as Cowie bags the money from the book operation. A hand rattling door knobs proves to be the unlucky cop, O’Hara, who we soon see in full approaching the salon. His shadow plays against the window, warning Martin and causing him to raise his shotgun and walk toward Marie, warning her not to scream. Mann directs the camera to look straight up the gun barrel, cutting to close-ups of Marie as she backs away and does exactly—and inevitably—what she is told not to do. The menace of the scene almost had me doing the same.
Another crazy, erotic scene occurs when Rosie goes to Clara’s apartment and confronts her, sure she lied when she identified Steve as the killer. Martin is in the apartment, but hides behind some curtains. Accusations and tempers start to fly, and soon we find ourselves in an extended cat fight, with the two women shaking and hitting each other, falling over couches, knocking over lamps, and eventually landing on the floor for the obligatory hair pulling. Martin, like we, watch this fight with a voyeuristic excitement. Rosie eventually stands up and leaves, having gotten denials from Clara, but also the location where Marie has gotten a new job. Clara’s revelation of this information and Martin’s awakened sexual interest in Rosie will cause him to turn on Clara and have her seeking solace in booze.
Ireland and Randolph easily walk away with this film. Ireland plays a psychotic killer and abuser of women with an ingratiating hardness that is fascinating to watch. We just know he’s going to kill everyone he can! Randolph is just as hard and cynical at the beginning of the film; she projects an insolent toughness, and her set-up of the robbery is carefully calibrated. She can’t be shaken from her identification of Steve as the killer, but Martin’s changed attitude toward her turns her into a desperate neurotic who knows she’s suddenly become expendable. Clara goes to a nearby shop to phone Ferguson and take him up on his offer of protection, but Martin has spotted her and crept up on her on the sly. While she stands in the phone booth, too nervous to notice Martin has cracked it slightly to listen in, the cuts between their faces ramp up the tension. The pathos of Clara looking behind her as she walks home to meet Ferguson is rather touching, since Martin is already waiting for her there and certainly intends to kill her.
By contrast, Sheila Ryan seems like a high school girl trying to act tough, and, well, Hugh Beaumont was born to play Ward Cleaver, not a romantic and rugged cop in a proto-noir. They have no chemistry and nothing interesting to say. Check out this dialogue, symptomatic of most of the script:
Criminologist: You know, there are only two kinds of animals that make war on their own kind – rats and men… and men are supposed to be able to think.
Mickey Ferguson: I think you’ve got something there, Doc.
Zzzzzz. And dig those crazy shoulder pads—they fairly mesmerized me with their outrageous awfulness.
I was quite taken, however, with several actors in small roles. Kelly has a great face, and his character is no pushover. He protests his innocence, but expresses cynicism about the wheels of justice. It was good to see a suspect with some balls. Ainsworth’s girlfriend Wilma, unfortunately uncredited, quite reminded me of Claire Trevor. She sits in smug obedience to her keeper in the first scene in which she appears; in the second, however, she’s full of insolence and insults toward the man. In another scene with an interesting walk-on, Martin has agreed to pay a wino to take the fall for the robbery, getting Steve off the hook. The wino, also uncredited, repeats by rote the story he is supposed to tell the police, as though the thought of having money to buy as much alcohol as he wants brought his mind into focus. Neither of these characters has a real role to play in the plot, but as in most great B-films, and especially noir, these small touches add atmosphere that pays big dividends.
In this film, although the police want to get someone to pay for killing one of their own, they expressly state that they don’t want to convict an innocent man. Despite the noirish lighting and truly bizarre set pieces, the lines of good and evil are far too carefully drawn to make this a true noir. In a few years, noir would blossom fully, and cops would be as rotten as robbers. In the meantime, however, Railroaded! provides a crucial and entertaining link in the development of a future noir master, Anthony Mann.
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You weren’t dames like Annie Laurie Starr who couldn’t go straight. You were good. You were very good, and the results of For the Love of Film (Noir): The Film Preservation Blogathon are proof. We had 132 blogs and more than that number of bloggers offer posts (which I’m still reading). We had Roger Ebert, Lou Lumenick, Dave Kehr, Leonard Maltin, some unknown writer for the Op-Ed page of The New York Times and many other high-profile media contribute tweets and articles to publicize our cause. We had blogs all over the world display Greg Ferrara’s banner ads and commercial before and during the blogathon.
And we had almost twice the number of donors as last year, each of you offering whatever you could to help make the restoration of The Sound of Fury possible. Those small and not so small donations added up to $5,697, a marvelous show of support and generosity at a time of great economic hardship for many people. We thank every last one of you from California to New York and all points in between, and from countries all over the world, including but not limited to the United Arab Emirates, The Philippines, Chile, and Spain, who contributed blog posts and money to our cause.
We promised some incredible prizes to several lucky donors, and here are the results of our random drawing:
A full set of NOIR CITY posters goes to Mike Glancy Auction Co.
The brand-new deluxe DVD edition of The Prowler goes to Sam and Lucille Juliano.
A DVD documentary on Eddie Muller called The Czar of Noir and his short film The Grand Inquisitor, starring Marsha Hunt, goes to Jason Civjan.
A set of NOIR CITY SENTINEL annuals goes to John Fitzpatrick.
Programs from NOIR CITY 8 and 9 go to Leanord Moore.
An autographed copy of Eddie Muller’s first novel The Distance goes to Andrew Horbal.
A signed and framed art photo of some of the old Castro Theater seats by noted photographer R. A. McBride, donated by Donna Hill, author of the recently released Rudolph Valentino the Silent Idol, goes to Mary Beth Roney.
The original watercolor of Lloyd Bridges done exclusively for the blogathon by noted artist Steve Brodner, whose works have appeared in The New Yorker, The New York Times, Mother Jones, and many, many other publications, goes to Stephanie Chadwick.
Congratulations to all the winners. And congratulations to everyone for making this blogathon a success and inspiration to those of us who love film.
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Well, everyone, the blogathon is over. It has been a very, very busy week around the film blogosphere, with more posts that ever, more publicity than ever, and more individual donors than ever. We’ll have all the totals and the winners of our random drawing sometime this week, but I’ll tell you that a rough estimate is that we raised more than $5,000 through our special blogathon link, and that ain’t hay!
Most important to me and Farran, you all showed how much you love film and how willing you are to get involved. Some people say we’ve left the era of togetherness and action behind as we’ve all moved online and can sign a petition with a single click. You have all proven that our online community is engaged, powerful, and generous. I thank you all from the bottom of my heart, with a special thanks to my blog partner Rod Heath for pitching in when my energy waned, Greg Ferrara for turning his talents to help with banners and ads, and the best blogathon partner a dame could have, Farran Smith Nehme, certainly a siren, and not just self-styled.
The president of the Film Noir Foundation, Eddie Muller, wanted to thank you as well:
The Film Noir Foundation is immensely gratified by the remarkable response to this year’s film preservation blogathon. The quality of the contributions was exceptional, and conclusively proved that the best contemporary writing on cinema is happening on the Internet. We will eventually thank, personally, every blogger and every donor, but for right now we’ll bestow all our thanks on the two remarkable women who conceived and executed this extraordinary event: Marilyn Ferdinand and Farran Smith Nehme. No finer friends of film exist. Thank you, ladies!
During much of the blogathon I was in Seattle, presenting another NOIR CITY festival by night and visiting a series of colleges on weekdays, screening clips and discussing film noir, cinema history, and cultural preservation. These face-to-face encounters with the next generation always fill me with hope. At every stop I was greeted by eager youngsters—you’ll recognize them in the mirror—who had light in their eyes and questions on their tongue, crackling with the electricity that comes from plugging into the culture’s cinematic circuitry in a meaningful way.
There was some grousing during the blogathon about the lack of “big” donors this year, leaving this year’s final tally below last year’s, even though there were more individual donors. That doesn’t bother me—I’ve lived long enough to learn many things, and one of the essential truths is that folks who can’t afford to be generous are always the first to share. Every donation, whatever amount, is valuable and appreciated. We raised a portion of the total cost of restoring The Sound of Fury, but in truth, it is the spirit with which people rallied in support of the cause—at a difficult time both economically and politically, worldwide—that is even more crucial to our mission than the dollars taken in.
Money is money. You always find it somewhere, somehow. Passion is sacred. Thanks to everyone for sharing their passion this past week. Let’s keep carrying the torch, not only for our favorite art form, but for all the things we cherish and refuse to relinquish.
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Farran and I are all gassed up and ready to roll as we proudly host our second film preservation fundraising event, For the Love of Film (Noir): The Film Preservation Blogathon. This year, the Film Noir Foundation is our special valentine, and they’ve honored us by earmarking our funds for a very special film: The Sound of Fury, aka Try and Get Me (1950), with blacklisted director Cy Endfield at the helm, and starring Lloyd Bridges and Frank Lovejoy. A nitrate print of the film will be restored by the UCLA Film & Television Archive, using a reference print from Martin Scorsese’s personal collection to guide them and fill in any blanks. Paramount Pictures, which now owns the film, has agreed to help fund the restoration, but FNF is going to have to come up with significant funds to get the job done. That’s where we come in.
I know everyone loves noir, and that noir crosses all borders of time and place. That gives everyone a large choice of topics, and we are looking forward to a some great posts on classic and neo-noir, film preservation, and a great deal more. I heartily recommend you start this blogathon by reading and commenting on the contributions of these wonderful bloggers.
And don’t forget, this is a fundraising blogathon. For the Love of Film, please donate as generously as you can. It’s going to take a lot of scratch to get the job done, and we aren’t going to be eligible for matching funds from the government this year. However, we do encourage you to check with your employer to see if they provide matching contributions for your charitable donations; we got some extra money last year because some of our donors checked. Just click on the Maltese Falcon to go directly to PayPal to make your secure donation online. The url is https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=LAWFPAB4XLHAW. Preserving and restoring films are the stuff our dreams are made of. And can you believe we made the Op-Ed page of The New York Times?! It’s true!
Remember, several lucky donors will be chosen at random to receive some great bonuses, including all nine Noir City posters, the just-released, deluxe DVD of The Prowler, and an illustration of Lloyd Bridges done especially for this blogathon by renowned artist Steve Brodner. Let’s get started!
Ed Howard of Only the Cinema returns for one last review, this time, of the film we’re raising money for, The Sound of Fury. The quintessential post for this blogathon.
My post is finally up here at Ferdy on Films. It’s a look at the compelling neo-noir Black Widow.
Gareth at Gareth’s Movie Diary gives us a look at Kathleen Ryan in Odd Man Out and Try and Get Me, where she’s Not Quite a Femme Fatale.
At Sinamatic Salve-ation, Ariel Schudson gets one last post in: how does she link together noir westerns, film preservation, Lonely Are the Brave and Elvis Costello in Man Out of Time: Film Preservation and the Noir Western? Click and find out.
DeeDee at Wonders in the Dark wraps up her contributions with a big thank-you to Marilyn, The Siren, and Greg Ferrara.
WB Kelso finishes with not one but three classic noir advertising showcases at Scenes From The Morgue: Cry Danger, Double Indemnity, and The Postman Always Rings Twice. And there’s a link to all of the seventeen (!) the posts he’s provided for the blogathon.
Dave Enkosky joins the blogathon on our last day with a look at Sunset Blvd at his blog Dave’s Blog About Movies and Such. Thanks, Dave, for making it to the party.
Another blogathon “newbie,” G.K. Reid, sends us a lovely appreciation of the noir form, with a special emphasis on its women, at Restless Eyebrows.
Film noir means B-movies like The Hot Spot to Bill Wren at Piddleville. Nice to have you with us on our last day, Bill.
The lovely and talented Hedwig Van Driel sends a post to us from Holland on her blog, Cool As a Fruitstand. The topic is Fritz Lang’s “Bluebeard” film The Secret Beyond the Door.
The folks at U.S. Intellectual History have been providing us with thought-provoking posts all week. Ben Alpers finishes up the blogathon with a really interesting post on noir in a post-alienation world.
The incomparable film scholar Catherine Grant has provided her as-usual invaluable links, on noir, including an interview with Cy Endfield and her own video essay of her favorite noir Gilda. It’s all at Film Studies for Free.
Christianne Benedict of Krell Laboratories has been with us all week, and it has been a real pleasure. She closes out the blogathon with a look at a modern horror/noir from Martin Scorsese, Shutter Island.
One last blogathon limerick from Hilary Barta at Limerwrecks: Moonrise. There was a blogger named Barta / Whose poems were terribly smart(a) / He wrote for the fun / But when he was done / He had fans from Nome to Jakarta.
Lee Price returns to finish up the blogathon with us. At Preserving a Family Collection, he offers us the insights of Snowden Becker, an expert on film preservation, who tells just why it’s expensive to save films like The Sound of Fury. And we get one more message from June and Art: the noir films they might have watched during their courtship. Thanks, Lee, for the memories!
And the posts are still coming. Chilean Clara Fercovic at Via Margutta 51 offers a long list of reasons why people should support our fundraising effort. I’m convinced! How about you?
Mr. Peel at Mr. Peel’s Sardine Liqueur has come through with one of the films that has had an ending restored, to much controversy, Kiss Me Deadly. What do you think about the new old ending?
Gautam Valluri pulls Broken Projector out of the closet to talk about Scarlet Street just for our blogathon. Thanks, Gautam.
Paul F. Etcheverry offers a final plug for us on Way Too Damn Lazy to Write a Blog with a recipe for noir. Thanks, Paul.
Jen Myers devoted her Noir Monday feature on Deliberatepixel to our blogathon. An honor, Jen!
Ben Kenigsberg of Time Out Chicago honors us with a post on one of my favorite set (and shot) in Chicago noirs, City That Never Sleeps. Many thanks, Ben.
Caroline Shapiro at Garbo Laughs offers us one for the road – No Way Out, Sidney Poitier’s screen debut.
Dennis Cozzalio of Sergio Leone and the Infield Fly Rule is back with another splendid post on The Stranger on the Third Floor. Thanks for the 9th inning home run! And he adds another one: the 1974 neo-noir The Outfit.
Ryan Kelly offers a post on one of my favorite films, Brian De Palma’s “post-modern noir” Femme Fatale. Good to see you back, Ryan.
Kenji Fujishima at My Life, at 24 Frames Per Second comes in at the last second from a hectic period in his life to contribute a post on why there will always be a place for noir in our collective unconscious, featuring examples and lovely b&w screencaps.
Karie at Film Radar offers a look at Los Angeles as a favorite noir location. Very Los Angeles Plays Itself, Karie. Thanks!
Gloria Porta is Rooting for Laughton, specifically the lost scenes from Hitchcock’s The Paradine Case.
Kevyn Knox wraps us up at The Most Beautiful Fraud in the World with a look at Stranger on the Third Floor. Squeaked in, Kevyn, as promised.
Rod Heath posts here at Ferdy on Films a great review of a Brit-noir directed by Cy Endfield while in exile in England, Hell Drivers. All Endfield’s rage against the people who blacklisted him can be found in this film.
Andreas at Pussy Goes Grrr offers you all proof positive why you should donate to this cause. Yes, because you’ll remember a time when men wore hats! Yes! I can’t thank you enough for this, Andreas!
John Greco from Twenty Four Frames is back with a review of Robert Siodmak’s The Killers. We’ve been enjoying John’s posts all week. Thanks for sticking with us, John.
WB Kelso of Scenes from the Morgue: Retro-Pulp Movie Ads has a triple-dip for us today: two Robert Ryan films, Act of Violence and The Set-up, and The Phenix City Story.
A new blogger enters the fray, Tom from the specialty blog Olivia and Joan: Sisters of the Silver Screen. He’s featuring Joan Fontaine today in Kiss the Blood Off My Hands. Thanks, Tom.
Steve Santos of The Fine Cut offers us our first video essay, on Fritz Lang’s M. Many thanks, Steve!
Paul F. Etcheverry of Way Too Damn Lazy To Write a Blog awakened from his torpor to offer us a favorite around our household: cartoon noir. These cartoons are terrific!
Anuj Malhotra of Floatin’ Zoetropes offers us two very different Jacques Tourneur films: Out of the Past and Nightfall.
Coming to us from Dubai, Hind Mezaina of The Culturist offers a film by the great Egyptian director Youssef Chahine, Cairo Station. If you haven’t experienced Chahine, do yourself a favor and check his work out. Same goes for Hind! Thanks.
John Alton and Anthony Mann made beautiful pictures today. Fredrik Gustafsson shares a few scenes of some of their films on Fredrik on Film.
Cinemaniac‘s David Steece offers an appreciation of underrated cinematographer Leo Tover, whose work influenced the look of Blade Runner. Many wonderful screencaps. Thanks, David!
Christianne Benedict at Krell Laboratories offers up a film she love and that is in sore need of restoration and exposure, Istevan Sekely’s The Scar. I don’t know this film, so I am grateful for the heads-up, Christianne!
Larry Aydlette offers us five newspaper-related noir screencaps at Darkness on the Edge of Town. Oooh, Sheree North.
David Cairns at Shadowplay dedicates his regular Sunday intertitle to us with Queen Kelly, an excerpt of which appears in Sunset Blvd. Beautiful.
I forgot to link Darren Mooney’s second post from yesterday, so you get a three-fer from The M0vie Blog today: Sin City, Infernal Affairs, and Outrage, by the hubby’s favorite director, Beat Takeshi.
As Bill Wren at Piddleville says, “abuse never looked as beautiful” as it does in Gilda. We quite agree.
Rod and I share an big admiration of Fred Zinnemann with the young and talented blogger Adam Zanzie. He’s made our day by showing some Zinnemann love on Icebox Movies in his essay on Act of Violence, a film I still need to catch up with. Thanks so much, Adam!
Beth Ann Gallagher of Spellbound is back with a neat essay on the bookseller in The Big Sleep. I have always loved Dorothy Malone trying to look mousey and studious and her verbal parries with Bogey. This is a post close to my heart, Beth Ann.
Escape from New York, a film with “a little noir flavor,” is the next contribution from Ariel Schudson at Sinamatic Salve-ation.
Lee Price at June and Art offers us June’s Night and the City evening. These letters are so interesting, Lee.
Director Jeffrey Goodman takes up our cause at The Last Lullaby (and) Peril with a brief statement of what noir means to him.
Jesse Ataide joins us again from Memories of the Future with a look at Bogey and Bacall’s third film together, Dark Passage. Here’s looking at you, Jesse.
Ferdy on Films guest blogger Robert Hornak gives us a tasty post on that distastefully delicious noir Touch of Evil.
Novelist Thomas Burchfield at A Curious Man joins the blogathon with a look at Lee Van Cleef’s film noir moments. Thanks, Thomas.
Hilary Barta’s noirish limerick of the day tells, in pithy fashion, the story of Richard Quine’s Pushover.
W.J. enters the ring with a strong showing assaying the character roles in Born to Kill. You’ve gotta love his opening photo of Esther Howard and Elisha Cook, Jr.!
Stu of Undy-a-Hundy.com offers us capsule reviews of Akira Kurosawa’s The Bad Sleep Well and Blade Runner. We like ‘em short and sweet, Stu. Thanks!
Our good friend Neil Sarver at The Bleeding Tree couldn’t decide exactly what to write about. So we’ve been treated to some of his favorite noir films, but with an emphasis on Road House.
Ariel Schudson at Sinamatic Salve-ation comes back with just…one…more on Sin City the way stories travel.
True Classics: The ABCs of Classic Film joins the party with Lucille Ball in a noir-lite, Lured. Noir loves Lucy? True Classics does!
Welcome to Jaime Christley from Unexamined Essentials with a post on Fritz Lang’s Ministry of Fear. Where would noir be without Lang, and we’d be the poorer without Jaime’s insights!
We have another vintage article by Richard T. Jameson over at Parallax View on modern noir (modern in the 1970s, that is, when this piece was written), including Gumshoe, The Long Good-bye, and Chinatown.
I’ve been neglecting the contributions of Kim Morgan all week (sorry, Kim, our wires sometimes get crossed at Blogathon Central). Here are her Barbara Stanwyck posts I missed at MSN Movies The Hitlist: Clash by Night, Jeopardy, The Strange Love of Martha Ivers; and Double Indemnity.
Everyone knows how much I love Peggy Cummins and Gun Crazy. One of the best writers out there, Sheila O’Malley, shows her appreciation of both at The Sheila Variations.
Glenn Kenny at Some Came Running offered another post a couple of days ago that I missed, on 1947′s Born to Kill. Make sure you don’t miss it:
Imogen Smith at The Chiseler offers a FANTASTIC essay on our film The Sound of Fury with sociological and production information that will tell why we need to help save this film! Super job, Imogen!
Ivan J. Shreve, one of our favorite bloggers, offers a really terrific essay on The Dark Mirror at his must-read blog, Thrilling Days of Yesteryear. Thanks, Ivan, so much!
Over at Dereliction Row, The Derelict gives us a haiku to Coleen Gray, the good girl of noir. Hey, Hilary, you’ve got some competition in poetry writing!
Brian Doan at Bubblegum Aesthetics has a post on Stephen Sondheim, who cut his teeth working on the noir parody Beat the Devil. If you remember the noir ballet in The Band Wagon, then you’ll know why this entry belongs in the blogathon.
The Flying Maciste Brothers (aka Howard S. Berger and Kevin Marr) offer a graphic tribute to Phil Karlson and an examination of The Phenix City Story over at Destructible Man. Screencaps and more galore!
William Wellman’s Yellow Sky is a little-known noir Western. Everyone will know it after reading Vanwall Green’s excellent essay on it at Vanwall Land. They’ll get a great write-up on Winchester ’73 and a few other classic Westerns with a noir flavor in the bargain as well. Thanks, Van the Man!
DeeDee and her friends at Wonders in the Dark have offered something I hoped someone would take up – French noir. Take a look at their 10 Best French Noir Films list. Thanks, guys!
Ed Howard at Only the Cinema devotes his Films I Love series today to Detour and a generous helping of screencaps from that compelling ultra-low-budget noir.
Our daily limerick from Hilary Barta at Limerwrecks is for Stranger on the Third Floor, covered in straight form by David Cairns at Shadowplay. Read them both for a fuller appreciation of the film.
And speaking of David Cairns, he takes on The Sweet Smell of Success by way of Burt Lancaster’s size. “Hunsecker is a Brobdingnagian in Lilliput, a mountain among midgets.” Oh, and he’s gotten into the limerick act, too!
From Darren Mooney, the first of two posts today at The M0vie Blog is a look at Gotham After Dark: Batman in his many incarnations.
David Steece is back from Randomaniac with a post on the film the hubby and I went all the way to Indianapolis to see: Robert Siodmak’s Criss Cross. It’s a doozy, folks!
Fredrik Gustafsson joins us all the way from Sweden to talk about the elements of noir on his blog Frederik on Film. Thanks for joining the party, Fredrik.
Another archival essay by Richard T. Jameson at Parallax View, this time on the sleazy, corrupt world brought to life in Touch of Evil.
Kelli Marshall offers up a post on sexual tension in noir, with emphasis on Body Heat and Double Indemnity, to our blogathon at Unmuzzled Thoughts.
Ben Alpers at U.S. Intellectual History has broken the blog’s custom of not posting on weekends to give a wonderful plug for our cause and offer a very interesting post on Frank Borzage’s Moonrise. I hope you’ll take part of your weekend to read and show appreciate for Ben’s effort.
MP at idFilm discusses narrative as used in noir films to shape our reactions to them. A thought-provoking piece, MP!
The final entry in Peter Nellhaus’ terrific look at noir around the world is The Equation of Love and Death from China. Keep reading Coffee, Coffee, and More Coffee after the blogathon for more of the same!
Richard T. Jameson is back at Parallax View with an essay on that delirious, delicious noir The Lady from Shanghai. This is going to be good!
It’s all Ida Lupino in today’s post by Sean Axmaker at MSN Movies Videodrone. Check out his musings on The Man I Love, Road House, and The Hitch-hiker.
Michael C dives into the gritty Phenix City Story at Cinema Ramble. He declares, “But the film is perhaps most appealing as a docu-style traipse through small-city USA in the 1950′s.”
Have you ever heard of a home movie noir? They’re out there! Lee Price takes us to the world of amateur noir – a completely unexplored territory for me! – at Preserving a Family Collection. Meanwhile, June and Art explore their artistic sides, reminding Lee of Scarlet Street.
More great prose and screencaps by Christianne Benedict at Krell Laboratories. This time, she has turned her talents to Andre de Toth’s Crime Wave, “a damn near perfect B-movie.”
Ray Young at Flickhead has turned in a pithy post on a film released in 1981 to “unanimous indifference” – Cutter’s Bone. He’s got a pretty nifty moving banner of Marilyn Monroe to watch, too.
Ariel Schudson has another treat for us today at Sinamatic Salve-ation – The Big Combo by one of our very favorite noir directors Joseph H. Lewis. You KNOW I’ll be reading this over morning coffee!
I’m not a big fan of Billy Wilder, but even I have to admit that Ace in the Hole is a smashing good film. John Greco at Twenty Four Frames gives us a great post explaining why.
Another great post from our great friend Ed Howard at Only the Cinema on Edward Dmytryk’s Crossfire.
Bill Wren examines the “self-aware” noir today at Piddleville with his essay on Roman Polanski’s classic Chinatown.
Beth Ann Gallagher at Spellbound takes up a discussion Rod and I had after I reviewed this film over the summer: the mechanical man in City that Never Sleeps. I can’t wait to read what she has to say!
David Steece at Randomaniac talks to us about one of his desert island movies, Nightmare Alley. Looking for darkness on a tropical island? Why not!
DeeDee is back at Wonders in the Dark with the elements of noir and a lot of fun polls and posters. Dip into the grab bag of goodies!
Venetian Blond over at Edward Copeland on Movies…and more takes a look at a neonoir that’s quickly turning into a classic, Rian Johnson’s Brick (2005).
Tinky Weisblat returns with a post on Key Largo over at In Our Grandmothers’ Kitchens. I always kind of thought Claire Trevor walked off with this picture.
The Projector Has Been Drinking‘s Marc Edward Heuck takes a look at the noir influences in the music videos and films of David Fincher! Very original, Marc.
Time for Hilary Barta’s morning limerick at Limerwrecks. He has the most entertaining and concise summary of The Blue Dahlia I’ve ever seen!
We’ve got a new blogger today of the self-named Lauren Hairston who has dedicated her Friday feature, “Dinner and a Movie” to our blogathon! The movie she’s chosen to go with her recipes is a good one, Witness to Murder.
Another new party heard from is KC of Movie Classics. She’s taken up a favorite director of Farran’s and mine, Frank Borzage, and his 1948 noir Moonrise.
Jacqueline Fitzgerald at Film Noir Blonde has some great anecdotes from Billy Wilder about Double Indemnity, including talk about Barbara Stanwyck’s awful wig.
We are joined today by Tom Block at Tom Blog and his look at the 1949 noir The Window. If you want to see Bobby Driscoll get slugged, this is the film for you!
Rob Byrne features a forgotten star of proto-noir, Louise Platt, at Starting Thursday. Louise, you live again today!
We’ve got two from the fabulous David Cairns over at Shadowplay: the British proto-noir On the Night of the Fire and another women in prison film that’s sure to please, Caged.
Another new blogger for our blogathon, Nicholas Pillai, has given us a look at noir and the animator Will Eisner’s character The Spirit at Squeezegut Alley. Really interesting stuff, Nicholas!
Vince Keenan is back with his last post from Noir City Northwest covering Loophole and Crashout. It has been a really great run, Vince. Thanks for sharing it with us!
WB Kelso has several films covered in his vintage ad posts at his blog Scenes from the Morgue: Retro-Pulp Movie Ads: Criss Cross, The Big Clock, Laura, and Where the Sidewalk Ends.
Darren Mooney has two more for us at The M0vie Blog: the Miami Vice pilot show (and perhaps a tip of the hat to Rod’s review of the movie) and Christopher Nolan’s Insomnia (is it better than the Swedish original?).
Academic Jennifer Garlen talks at Virtual Virago about teaching noir to freshmen. It’s great to know future generations will appreciate noir thanks to educators like Jennifer!
Darren Mooney is back at The M0vie Blog with perhaps the most classic neonoir around, Blade Runner, as well as Dark City (The Director’s Cut). Must-reading!
Over at the great Wonders in the Dark is a visual and literary stunner, a primer, if you will on noir. Great job as usual, DeeDee and company!
C. Jerry Kutner starts our day with the unremitting darkness of Mervyn LeRoy’s Two Seconds over at Bright Lights After Dark.
Angela Pettys at Hollywood Revue says, “This blogathon is too good for me to only write once.” So she’s back with a crack look at the roots of noir in 1929′s Asphalt. You’re an angel!
We love Robert Wise around here and are very pleased to see his film Born to Kill considered by the great Ed Howard at Only the Cinema.
J.D. takes us to Don Siegel land with a fine consideration of The Lineup over at Edward Copeland on Films…and more.
Bill Wren at Piddleville assays a sassy noir, Anatomy of a Murder. The screencap of Lee Remick says everything you want to know about her character.
We have a new blog today, Scarlett Cinema, hosted by Pamela L. Kerpuis. She surveys a couple of noirs with (dare we say?) happy endings! Take a look at her write-ups of The Woman in the Window and Union Station.
Joshua Ranger at Audiovisual Preservation Solutions has an incredible title for a blogathon post: Noirstalgia. Take a look!
David Cairns returns at Shadowplay with a Cy Endfield/Lloyd Bridges collaboration, The Limping Man, that wasn’t as successful as the film we’re funding.
Our international expert Peter Nellhaus returns with another compelling noir from overseas, this time Korea. Take a look at his fascinating review of A Bittersweet Life.
David Robson of The House of Sparrows (check out the great nameplate!) offers us a fine entry on A Detective Story, an animated film from Shinichiro Watanabe. We’re glad to see animated noir getting its due!
Tim Lacy is our author today over at U.S. Intellectual History with an in-depth look at that grimy bit of brilliance, Touch of Evil.
Is June The Seventh Victim today? Take a look at June and Art for today’s installment from Lee Price. Lee also tells us the value of preserving old films at Preserving a Family Collection.
Over at The New York Post, our great supporter Lou Lumenick has a terrific look at Street of Chance, a rarely seen film.
Have an “adventure in the dark” with Trish at I Wake Up Screaming with her review of Tension!
The ever-creative Hilary Barta is back with a poem about The Strange Love of Martha Ivers at Limerwrecks.
Donna Hill of Strictly Vintage Hollywood is back with Bogey and Bacall in Dark Passage. She’s also got some great eye candy for the discerning noir lover.
At Java’s Journey, Javabean Rush is thinking of noir. What comes to your mind when you think of noir?
Peter Gutierrez takes a look at Taxi Driver 35 years after its initial release, and that’s always a good idea. You can see what he said over at Tribecafilm.com.
Richard T. Jameson’s archival essay on my favorite noir, Gun Crazy, is up at Parallax View.
Sean Axmaker reviews the Blu-ray of Kansas City Confidential at MSN Movies Videodrone. He calls it “one of the great lean, mean B crime thrillers.”
I love looking at movie marquees, and Dennis Cozzalio at Sergio Leone and the Infield Fly Rule has a bunch of noir-related ones, as well as some newspaper ads for some of our favorite films. This is one fun post!
Larry Aydlette takes us on a tour of the real Florida locations from that sizzling neonoir Body Heat at his personal blog. Verrrry interesting, Larry.
Vince Keenan is back with a double-dose of Robert Ryan from Noir City Northwest: The Woman on the Beach and Beware My Lovely.
Rob Byrne at Starting Thursday offers art on The Woman in the Window for his entry today. Nice illustration, Rob!
Doug Bonner, our favorite globetrotting blogger, has a typically great post up on Edgar Ulmer’s Club Havana. Thanks for another great read, Doug.
How do we love thee, James Wolcott, let us count the ways! The Vanity Fair columnist comes through with a major plug and information on noir today. Check it out.
Here at Ferdy on Films, Rod Heath takes a look at a modern noir that avoids the usual cliches of neonoir with Michael Mann’s Miami Vice.
Edward Copeland is back at Edward Copeland on Films…and more! with a post on Scarlet Street, the film that inspired one of our great banner ads by Greg Ferrara. He has also just posted a companion piece on Jean Renoir’s La Chienne. This post will inspire you, too!
Over at The Blue Vial, Drew McIntosh has a post on a great noir, The Big Clock. I think it’s time to click through and read it!
Ed Howard of Only the Cinema has a post on the more famous film based on “our” film’s story, Fritz Lang’s Fury. It will be great to compare this great film with the restored version of The Sound of Fury.
One of our favorite bloggers, Michael Guillen at The Evening Class, gives a two-fer in a post that not only links to an index of his coverage of the Noir City Film Festival, which is in its ninth year, but an account of the talk following a showing of the restored Metropolis from the famous San Francisco Silent Film Festival. Eddie Muller and some film experts from Argentina were there to talk about the film and restoration, and that’s what we’re all about.
For our great friend Mike Phillips at Goatdogblog, a “no” is as valuable as a “yes” in history. He’ll tell you why Tomorrow Is Another Day is NOT noir, but why you should see it anyway. Great post, Mike, and we’ll see you tonight as the Northwest Chicago Film Society premieres at the Portage Theatre.
Coming to us from Reading, England, Rob Wickings has a terrific post on the crosspoints between horror and noir, using Val Lewton’s The Seventh Victim as reference. Something for everyone, thanks to Rob!
Electra Glide in Blue isn’t neonoir, says Ariel Schudson at Sinamatic Salve-ation. But “it involves politics, nihilism, sexuality, and violence,” at if that’s not noir, she’ll eat her heels!
Over at Shadowplay, David Cairns gives us a proto-noir from Charles (Gilda) Vidor, Blind Alley (1939). Looking at the luscious screencaps, I’m inclined to agree.
One of noir’s great actors, Charles McGraw, gets his due from John Greco at Twenty Four Frames as he assays Roadblock.
WB Kelso of Scenes from the Morgue: Retro-Pulp Movie Ads is having so much fun with the blogathon that he did another great movie ad post, this time on Raw Deal. Believe me, we’re having as much fun with your posts as you are, WB!
I don’t know how Lee Price at June and Art manages to find letters among his parents’ collection that capture an essence of noir, but he does. Here’s his latest, about a wrong man.
Darren Mooney is back at The M0vie Blog with the original and inventive Brick and the film that has divided audiences everywhere, Black Swan. I’ve been enjoying his posts all week, and there’s more to come today, so check back.
Christianne Benedict at Krell Laboratories has a strong entry on Cornell Woolrich and the film No Man of Her Own. Some great history there, Christianne.
Meredith at Or Maybe Eisenstein Should Just Relax has a great look at femme fatales, text and screencaps and everything!
Hilary Barta has another fun Limerwreck on Phantom Lady. I’m loving these, Hilary.
Kurt Norton at These Amazing Shadows is back with a post on the classic noir Out of the Past.
Bill Ryan says “a plague on both your houses” in his post on Panic in the Streets and City of Fear at the Kind of Face You Hate.
Susan Doll of Facets Features turns her discerning eye on the neonoir Night Moves, and asks us to appreciate how Arthur Penn played with the elements of noir. Great stuff, Susan!
The ambiguities of capitalism never got a more timeless examination that in Force of Evil, and the film gets an equally timeless consideration by Kevin Olson of the estimable Hugo Stiglitz Makes Movies.
The great noir Detour gets the royal treatment by David Coursen in an archival article posted on Parallax View.
Sean Axmaker gives us another strong post, this time on The Black Book and The Tall Target on MSN Movies Videodrone.
Jacqueline Fitzgerald, the Film Noir Blonde, takes us through a favorite neonoir of many a film fan, the Coen Brothers’ Blood Simple. You simply must read what she has to say!
Vince Keenan updates his coverage of Noir City Northwest with a post on The Dark Mirror and Crack-up.
Marc Edward Heuck talks about noir’s influence on the art of music videos at The Projector Has Been Drinking. We love a good music video around here, Marc. Thanks!
Bryce Wilson covers the famous final scene of Kiss Me Deadly at Things that Don’t Suck. Do you like the extended “happy” ending or the old ending? Which is more noir?
Bobby Wise of his self-named Bobby Wise Criticism talks about the semi-documentary noir and two by Anthony Mann. It’s a great scholarly look at this form, and really elevates the discussion of noir. Thanks, Bobby.
Jim Emerson has a completely intriguing post over at Scanners called The Dark Room and using images from Double Indemnity and other noirish films. I can’t really describe it; you’ll have to read it to appreciate it. And you WILL appreciate it. We appreciate your support, Jim.
Jesse Ataide reports on The Woman on the Beach at Memories of the Future. The film screened at Noir City 9, and the post has comments from Eddie Muller, lots of screencaps, and some intriguing production history. Thanks, Jesse, for a fascinating post!
Movie Morlocks’ R. Emmet Sweeney provides a vital post on the film we’re raising money for: The Sound of Fury. Please read this post-haste to see what all this fuss is all about!
Who doesn’t like a good women in prison film? Not David Cairns. He’s looking at Women’s Prison today at Shadowplay, a follow-up from his post yesterday on Brute Force.
Vanwall Green of Vanwall Land joins the party today with a look at pulp stories and their influence on Western (yes, Western) noir. This is really great stuff, folks.
Jaime Grijalba from Exodus 8:2 has provided our first Spanish-language post on The Great Flamarion. Get Babelfish ready, you’re going to want to read this one!
Ariel Schudson has her first post up at Sinephile Salve-ation and it’s a real winner: This Gun for Hire and The Glass Key. Thanks for joining in, Ariel.
Over at Spellbound, Beth Ann Gallagher has an unusual Christmas noir on offer, Christmas Holiday. Definitely for those who like their Christmases naughty!
We’ve got another Aussie in the house: Michael C. at Cinema Ramble. He likes what y’all are doing so return the favor and check out his great post on Blast of Silence.
I was hoping someone would highlight The Blue Dahlia and WB Kelso at Scenes from the Morgue: Retro-Pop Movie Ads obliges with another great set of newspaper ads.
Ed Howard from Only the Cinema is back with another typically fine Ed Howard treatment of the classic noir Nightmare Alley. Absolute must-reading.
Dario Loren at What Are You Doing for the Rest of Your Life? makes the best use of tumblr I’ve seen in a long time. Start with Edward Hopper’s noir art and click the previous arrow to see wonderful screencaps and quotes from noir films. Great stuff, Dario.
Bill Wren is back with another great post, this time on I Wake Up Screaming. Check it out at Piddleville.
Lee Price is back with a little different spin on I Wake Up Screaming over at June and Art. It’s surprising, and delightful!
Darren Mooney is back with day two of his two posts a day for the blogathon at The M0vie Blog. Here’s his take on Se7en and L.A. Confidential.
Peter Nellhaus is keeping us focused with more than Coffee, Coffee, and More Coffee. He continues his international offerings with a little giallo love by reviewing the Italian film Le Orme (Footprints), which has many noir elements.
Hilary Barta is back with today’s limerick “Maltese Falcon Crest” at Limerwrecks. Brighten your day with a look.
Edward Copeland at Edward Copeland on Film…and More! enters the blogathon with a thoughtful post on The Woman in the Window, a modified remake of Scarlet Street. Take a look.
Mat Viola has a wonderful tribute to the people who give us those rich blacks and whites that practically define noir: cinematographers. Take a look at his screencaps at Notes of a Film Fanatic.
Andreas at Pussy Goes Grrr has a winning post on “one of the blackest noirs” Force of Evil.
Sean Axmaker offers a different, more in-depth view of Stranger on the Third Floor at Parallax View.
Donna Hill returns with a post on The Maltese Falcon as only she can do it, with wonderful prose and posters. It’s all there at Strictly Vintage Hollywood.
Marya is back with a really interesting look at how noir has fared in the Oscars race over at Cinema Fanatic. Take a look!
Retro Hound pays tribute the the inspiration for our donation button, The Maltese Falcon.
Sean Axmaker is back, this time with his MSN Movies gig at Videodrone with a wonderful appreciation of the little-heralded Phil Karlson thriller 99 River Street.
Vince Keenan is back with another dispatch from Noir City Northwest, this time discussing A Double Life and Among the Living.
Kurt at These Amazing Shadows picked a pretty amazing noir to write about: Ida Lupino’s chilling The Hitch-hiker.
Joe Thompson gives us the roots of noir by walking through the life and craft of Dashiell Hammett at The Pneumatic Rolling-Sphere Carrier Delusion.
From Becca (Ms. Zebra) at Germans Like Heavy Makeup comes an unabashed valentine to black-and-white films and television, in general, and noir, in particular. She gets it!
Let’s hear from the Czar of Noir himself, Eddie Muller, about why we’re doing the blogathon. Farran interviews him at Self-Styled Siren.
Craig Simpson has a fascinating look at lit noir and its connection with film noir at The Man from Porlock. Fantastic post, Craig!
Vince Keenan at Vince Keenan.com is covering Noir City Northwest, which is going on now in Seattle. We’ve got his as-they-happen posts to tell us about the great work we’re funding. Here are the first and second reports from the festival. Here’s the third report, on Angel Face. Thanks, Vince!
Angela Pettys has a great review of the 1950 noir The Damned Don’t Cry at the Hollywood Revue. What a great post!
WB Kelso has a feast for the eyes at Scenes from the Morgue: Retro-Pop Movie Ads. We’ll be seeing collections of great noir ads as often as he can post them this week, so start enjoying! First up is Scarlet Street.
Mr. K at Mr. K’s Geek Cornucopia has a review of the 1943 noir Hangmen Also Die, a Fritz Lang film that Mr. K says has a number of intentional echoes with M. Fascinating stuff!
Christian Esquivan has a perfect post for our blogathon and Valentine’s Day over at Silver Screen Modiste: images of lovers in noir. I’m just loving it!
Jacqueline T. Lynch at Another Old Movie Blog has a post up on the superb film FNF restored and toured last year: The Prowler. Love the soundtrack, Jacqueline!
Darren Mooney of The M0vie blog offers us a personal look at his relationship to classic film in an ambitious schedule of two posts a day during the blogathon. The second post is on L.A. Confidential. Thanks for all the love, Darren.
Bob Fergusson at Allure offers us some great lines from some classic femme fatales. I could listen to this all day!
Peter Nellhaus at Coffee, Coffee, and More Coffee comes up with a brilliant post: a look at the First Thai film noir, Prae Dum (Black Silk). Great work, Peter, as always.
Bill Wren gives us a great look at This Gun for Hire over at Piddleville. Bill, we’ll hire you any day!
Is film noir a genre? Greg Ferrara discusses it through the lens of Paul Schrader’s musings at Cinema Styles.
At Ehrensteinland, David Ehrenstein looks at a classic of the genre, M. No, not the Fritz Lang film, the remake by Joseph Losey.
Our good friend Ed Howard has submitting his first post, on The Big Heat, at his superb blog Only the Cinema.
Lee Price has a truly unique take on this blogathon. His blog June and Art, dedicated to courtship letters between his parents, muses on what noir films June and Art might have seen. The entry also appears on his other blog, Preserving a Family Collection. Now here’s a blogger who really understands preservation! Thanks, Lee.
Tinky Weisblat has a wonderful tribute to Norma Desmond in her entry on Sunset Boulevard at In Our Grandmothers’ Kitchens. Not to mention a killer recipe for icebox cake!
Ben Alpers has a terrific essay on film noir and intellectual approaches to it by the likes of Paul Schrader, James Naremore, and James Livingston at his blog U.S. Intellectual History.
John McElwee’s Greenbriar Picture Shows starts off a two-part series on Hal Wallis with a look at one of my favorites, The Strange Loves of Martha Ivers.
Dr. Mobius of Krell Laboratories offers us some wonderful words and even more wonderful screencaps from the classic noir Out of the Past.
Tony Dayoub explores Ricardo Montalban before he because a pop culture joke with his wonderful post on Mystery Street at Cinema Viewfinder.
Betty Jo Tucker’s review of Charles Pappas’ It’s a Bitter Little World on Memosaic offers up additional great reading itself. Thanks, Betty Jo.
Limerick writer extraordinaire Hilary Barta offers his unique take on noir all week long at Limewrecks. First up is Double Indemnity. What fun!
Philippine film blogger Noel Vera offers a post at Critic After Dark about star Nora Aunor’s performances in three noirs: ‘Merika, Condemned and Bulaklak City Jail. Noir knows no borders.
Laura at Laura’s Miscellaneous Musings has a great post up on a favorite of mine, D.O.A. Thanks, Laura!
John Weagly got really creative at Captain Spauling on Skull Island. He has furnished us with a short play called Orville and Wilbur Discuss Film Noir!
We’ve got two great posts over at Parallax View written by Richard T. Jameson “Film Noir: An Introduction” and “When Noir Was Noir.” The blog promises more to come. Looking forward to it!
Sean Axmaker has a lovely post on the very first film noir, Stranger on the Third Floor, over at MSN Videodrone. Or perhaps you still think it’s The Maltese Falcon…
Steve-O at the invaluable Noir of the Week has another interview with Eddie Muller. We can never have enough Eddie! Thanks, Steve.
Donna Hill of Strictly Vintage Hollywood and a fellow Rudolph Valentino lover, starts with the great faces of noir. A feast for the eyes!
Bill Ryan talks about Nightfall at The Kind of Face You Hate. This is the kind of film we love, Bill.
Leonard Maltin’s Movie Crazy is touting our blogathon today along with other items. Thanks, Leonard. We love you.
Victor Ozols at Black Book is also touting our efforts. Thanks, Victor.
Marya is showing some love for I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang at Cinema Fanatic. Check out the great poster and prose!
Paula of Paula’s Movie Blog is back again this year with some great screencaps of On Dangerous Ground, and prose to match. Check it out.
DeeDee is up at Wonders in the Dark with a wonderful post on Stranger on the Third Floor. Thank you our very good friends at WiTD.
The Derelict (aka Jenny Baldwin) at Libertas collects her favorite foreign posters for American films noir. Some of them look more like horror than noir, such as the one for Criss Cross.
Kim Morgan has another take on Nightfall at Sunset Gun. I, for one, did not know Maurice Tourneur savaged his son, who turned his sardonic outlook to good advantage in his own films. Morgan, at her other web presence, MSN Movies/The Hit List, is showcasing Barbara Stanwyck all week.
Glenn Kenny gets a little gooey over New York in the very unsweet The Sweet Smell of Success at his blog Some Came Running.
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Director: Bob Rafelson
By Marilyn Ferdinand
This post is part of For the Love of Film (Noir): The Film Preservation Blogathon.
Since Play Misty for Me came on the scene in 1972, numerous contemporary films have explored the horror of the psychotic femme fatale. Fatal Attraction, Basic Instinct, and even the deranged female fan of Misery all want to love their men to death. The one that has stuck with me the longest is Black Widow, in which it appears that Theresa Russell and Debra Winger were more made for each other than for any man, but in which Winger, a federal investigator named Alexandra “Alex” Barnes, tracks Russell, a black widow who marries rich men and kills them.
The film offers no doubt that our black widow, known by many names and in many guises, kills her husbands. Our first real encounter with her is as a Texas-style belle, all blonde and big-haired, with long, red-painted nails, injecting a liquor bottle with something that will make it appear as though her rich husband died of a rare syndrome called Ondine’s Curse. After the funeral, she takes a trip to forget, or rather, a trip from which she never intends to return. She moves to Seattle after carefully investigating the background and habits of another rich man, William McCrory (Nicol Williamson), and adopts another, more studious and refined persona, one that would appeal to McCrory. Once again, she marries, and once again, her husband dies.
Alex insists that these men were murdered. She obtains photos of the dead men and notes that the bride they all have on their arm is the same woman. Unfortunately, her boss (Terry O’Quinn) cannot believe that a woman would be capable of a complex series of seductions and murders. Frustrated, Alex quits her job and follows the black widow’s trail to Hawaii, where she has set her sights on another rich man (Sami Frey) to seduce.
The classic noir structure is in place, one involving murder, a sexy and duplicitous femme fatale, money, and a detective trying to unravel the whole rotten puzzle—indeed, a detective who has to go outside the normal channels to catch the villain. The twist, of course, is that the sparring partners and almost-lovers in this film are both female, and that the femme fatale’s motive for murder doesn’t really seem to be about the money at all. The noirish atmosphere and psychological underpinnings of Black Widow are found more in the characterizations than in an overarching style of expressionistic cinematography and cynical dialogue that typify classic noir. There are some shots that are clearly indebted to noir films’ contrast of beauty and sordidness, for example, a shadow of our femme fatale and her next victim set in a tropical paradise, and one can never go wrong with Conrad Hall behind the camera. Yet, the camerawork doesn’t set the mood—the two lead actors do.
Like classic noir, Black Widow is a critique of its times. Rather than look at the black widow’s money grabs as a hunger after years of wartime deprivation and malaise, or a chance to have power after an era of powerlessness under fascistic oppression, we see instead no easily discernible reason for her actions at all. She seems in thrall to grasping for more money than she could ever waste and afflicted with a restless mobility, both attitudes that infected the 1980s. The bond Russell and Winger form seems post second-wave feminism if it seems like anything. Winger’s boss underestimates women, including Alex, who has been laboring in the trenches for six years with no apparent road being paved to higher responsibility. Russell, calling herself “Linny” when she meets Alex, clearly feels at ease only around women. Alex is the only person we see her drop her guard with; all the men she so calculatingly seduces have no idea who she is or what she’s capable of. Yet, like a classic femme fatale, when cornered, she’ll strike out to survive, even at those she cares about. She nearly drowns Alex when she discovers that Alex is really on her trail—a warning shot across Alex’s bow that, had “Linny” been a little more frightened, would have been fatal.
It’s telling to me that Alex is a career woman with no apparent romantic life and a nickname that could belong to a man. The homoeroticism in her dealings with “Linny” track butch/femme, including sharing a regulator when they both take diving lessons that later finally is realized into a hard, fast kiss at “Linny’s” fourth marriage, with “Linny” still in her wedding dress and flower veil. It’s very easy to see the pair as Sam Spade tangling with Brigid O’Shaughnessy, and in many ways, the film plays like The Maltese Falcon, with a sad parting for the women. Alex is pledged to nail a killer—and just like Bogey, her professional life and values are on the line, so she can’t play the sap for Russell—but there’s an air of regret at losing the one person she might truly have loved.
Alex was allowed by “Linny” to “have” the man she had set her sights on for her next conquest, only to have “Linny” coolly steal him back with a nude swim after weeks of denying him sex. Will Alex pick up where she and the man left off—she saves him in a clever ruse—after “Linny” is carted away? Many modern films punt to the triumph of romance, but Black Widow isn’t buying it. Alex, like Russell’s character, has become a black widow, too.
For an interesting companion film, I suggest Paul Verhoeven’s 1983 psychohorror film The Fourth Man, which opens and closes with a spider killing and eating its prey and offers a black widow character in between, though the protagonist is a gay man after sex, not money.
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Director/Screenwriter: Orson Welles
By Robert Hornak
This post is part of For the Love of Film (Noir): The Film Preservation Blogathon.
Hank Quinlan is a border town cop bloated by secrets swallowed. Mike Vargas is a Mexican drug enforcement officer riding his career on the momentum of his perceived integrity. A jazzily meandering tracking shot brings them together in the firelight of an official’s exploded car, and together they play out the universal allegory of good versus evil.
Welles lowers his story into the pulpy darkness of hypocrisy, murder, sex, drugs, desperation, and revenge, and never brings it back up for air. It is a claustrophobic world, stinking with death, where the liveliest moments come from a pianola played by no one, where a smug, lurid chuckle barely masks the condescension of institutionalized corruption, where “intuition” is as good as justification, and where even the man for whom all the busy police work is set to avenge (the city elder expended in the opening scene) is himself a brazen philanderer estranged from his family. But Welles does it all with incredible style, upgrading what is, as he even called it, a B-movie into that which cannot be ignored for its visual power and its ever-resonating thematic punch.
The melodrama is as corpulent and sweaty as Quinlan, so thoroughly shot through with dread and dirt, it renders even more disturbing the already blunt dialogue: “An hour ago [he] had this town in his pocket… Now you can strain him through a sieve;” “We don’t like it when innocent people are blown to jelly in our town.” And running underneath, seething racism, all of it subtle. Vargas’s newlywed wife, embarking toward an American motel while Vargas diverts back into Mexico to investigate the explosion: “I’m just going to an American motel for comfort… not for safety.” Quinlan to Vargas: “You people are touchy.” And Vargas’s own reverse racism, contained quietly in his observation that the idea of peace, in the form of a 1,400 mile border without a single machine gun in place, is “corny” to his American bride, as if American hubris is uncomfortable with the idea of going warless for so long.
But the film is also stilted up by the themes of duty and idealism. Quinlan, as few scruples as Falstaff, but none of the fun, orders his world of planted evidence upon a simple and good philosophy: “When a murderer’s loose, I’m supposed to catch him.” And this reasoned exchange with his partner:
MENZIES: You’re a killer.
QUINLAN: I’m a cop… I don’t call [my job] dirty, look at the record. All those convictions.
MENZIES: Convictions, sure. How many did you frame?
QUINLAN: Nobody… nobody that wasn’t guilty.
MENZIES: …Faking evidence –
QUINLAN: Aiding justice, partner.
Evil there, but with good in the balance: the borderline self-righteousness of Vargas. The slow show of Quinlan’s dark deeds often stirs Vargas into sanctimonious diatribes. To Quinlan: “In any free country a policeman is supposed to enforce the law, and the law protects the guilty as well as the innocent… A policeman’s job is only easy in a police state. That’s the whole point, Captain. Who’s the boss, the cop or the law?” And to Quinlan’s partner, laying it on thick: “What about all the people [Quinlan] put in the death house. Save your tears for them.” In fact, the greatest fault of the film is that it allows Vargas, the mouthpiece for glib, nickel-plated platitudes, to finally elude the moral griminess of the real world. Though he is touched by evil (or rather, it is his wife who is groped by evil, and he is only threatened by the possibility of being forever associated with evil), he is never fully in its grasp, never made to suffer the crush of evil, the kind of evil that creates the Quinlans of the world. He even makes his exit before Quinlan’s death plunge, falling into his wife’s exonerated arms, speeding away into marital bliss, so that he doesn’t have to personally bear witness to the final, bloody result of his revenge.
Bonus reasons to love the film:
The first image of the movie, fingers twisting a timer on a homemade bomb, feels akin to someone winding up a toy and watching it go.
Quinlan’s pitiful entrance, attempting to pull himself out of his police vehicle with all his tremendous girth holding him back, is a wonderful counter to Harry Lime’s magnetic, stylized hero’s entrance in The Third Man less than a decade before.
Marlene Dietrich’s small role – and enchanting eyes – provide the perhaps unwanted evidence of Quinlan’s former love life… and a great excuse to use chili as a euphemism for sex.
Uncle Joe Grandi, the comic embodiment of inept local power by birth, manifested as a self-important devil on Quinlan’s shoulder, allows for a scene illustrating Quinlan’s heavy, sweating denial of his own capacity for “making deals,” though that is exactly what he’s doing.
The five-and-a-half minute, one-shot scene in the heart of the movie (inside Sanchez’s one-room apartment) that tracks the emotional movement of characters as beautifully as the opening shot tracks physical movement.
The visceral swamp of images in the Grandi death scene.
Despite Pauline Kael’s rebuke, the final Quinlan epitaph, remarked by Dietrich at the close of the film: “What does it matter what you say about people.”
Then, out of nowhere, a political afterthought
There is no escaping the resonance of the film in a post-Bush world. A story of a dirty cop planting evidence in an assumed guilty party’s home and behaving with the cavalier assumption that the act is justified based on intuition of guilt is one that seems tailored to rouse an audience trying to live beyond the Administration that authored the war in Iraq. An interesting, if easily unrecognized, thing happens when viewing Touch of Evil today. The somewhat tacked-on resolution of the Sanchez story (he who blew up the car but maintained his innocence throughout the film) is said to have finally confessed his guilt to Quinlan’s men. This is presumably meant to layer the end with irony, that all of Quinlan’s hunches were correct, and that planting the evidence (and indeed his very death) was unnecessary. But in a media environment saturated with debate on the legality and dependability of “enhanced interrogation techniques,” a modern audience is left with an even murkier ending, one that calls to question if the confession drawn out of Sanchez under duress can be trusted to be true, or if he just said what was needed to be said to abate the fists. It is wonderfully, terribly fascinating to consider that, even as often as art influences society, it is also true that society can forever alter the meaning of art. And in this case, the mystery of meaning can make Touch of Evil, to use Welles’s own words, “just exactly a thousand percent more effective.”
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Director/Coscreenwriter: Cy Endfield (as C. Raker Endfield)
By Roderick Heath
This post is part of For the Love of Film (Noir): The Film Preservation Blogathon.
My second blogathon entry allows me to write all at once about British film noir, a favourite field for me and one that hasn’t had much attention so far, and about Cy Endfield, one of whose films we’re raising money to restore. Hell Drivers, a far too little-known, rip-roaring gem of a melodrama, is one of the best British films of the 1950s, all the more admirable these days for its galvanising mix of action and realism, and lack of pretension.
Pennsylvania-born Endfield was a magician and inventor who got into filmmaking after impressing Orson Welles with his sleight of hand and being allowed then to watch him make films. His directing career was gaining momentum when the McCarthy era intervened, and after making his last American film, Tarzan’s Savage Fury (1952), a final indignity, he took an offer of work in Britain. He made over a half-dozen films and did some TV work in his new homeland, usually under pseudonyms, in the four years after his arrival. Today, Endfield is chiefly remembered for his collaboration with Ray Harryhausen on Mysterious Island (1961) and his one epic, Zulu (1963), one of the few war films ever made that manages to celebrate courage and dedication without also celebrating militarism and nationalism. Endfield’s mixture of admiration and ambivalence for such qualities is a defining trait of his highly uneven career, which even after he’d reestablished his credibility as a director, continued to be buffeted by the problems of movie financing. His career finally petered out in the late ’60s with De Sade (1969).
Hell Drivers kicked off his five collaborations with Welsh actor-producer Stanley Baker, a rare, bonafide movie star in 1950s British cinema who’s unfortunately not well remembered — look at how Zulu is promoted these days on DVD covers and in commentaries using not Baker, but Michael Caine as the hook. But Baker, who had risen as a star playing scene-stealing louts and villains to become one of the first of a new breed of more explicitly rough-trade British movie star, put a lot of effort into fostering a strand of gritty, punchy, often socially relevant cinema. This made Endfield an ideal collaborator.
1957 was something of a watershed year for British cinema after many uncertain years following World War II, with David Lean’s The Bridge on the River Kwai winning notice for prestige cinema, and Hammer Studio’s breakthrough with The Curse of Frankenstein signaling potential for the more disreputable kind. Meanwhile Brit-noir, under the powerful influence of Carol Reed’s Odd Man Out (1947) and The Third Man (1949), had percolated through the late ’40s and ’50s, often in very-low-budget thrillers and sometimes edging into war movies, with distinct imagery and themes that developed simultaneously to the American variety. Endfield followed in the tracks of his predecessor Jules Dassin in cross-breeding the two strands. Whilst, like American noir, the British variety had been powerfully influenced by Expressionism and French poetic realism from before the war, it also borrowed the veracity of Humphrey Jennings and John Grierson, documenting the waning days of imperial trade and industry amongst grimy streets, depleted shipyards, bomb sites, lingering austerity, and crummy jobs. Heroes were often relentlessly hounded.
One thing about Hell Drivers that catches the eye from a contemporary perspective is the number of future stars and cult figures in the cast: the first Doctor Who William Hartnell, the first James Bond Sean Connery, Danger Man and The Prisoner Patrick McGoohan, Man from U.N.C.L.E. costar David McCallum and his future wife Jill Ireland, Carry On alumnus Sid James, and Inspector Clouseau foil Herbert Lom. Hell Drivers also maintains a spiritual link to classic Warner Bros. social realism in the guise of punchy genre stuff, especially the likes of Raoul Walsh’s They Drive by Night (1940) and Manpower (1941). Endfield’s film, adapted by him and John Kruse from Kruse’s short story, commences with defeated and desperate Tom Yately (Baker) looking for a job at Hawletts, a construction company that employs drivers to cart loads of ballast gravel from a nearby quarry. Tom meets the agent who hires and runs the drivers, Cartley (Hartnell), who’s explicitly contemptuous, but seems vaguely impressed by Tom’s grit when he suggests to him, “You’re looking for a sucker, aren’t you?” Cartley is willing to turn a blind eye to Tom’s lack of credentials and self-evident status as a recent jailbird, just as Tom is willing to play the company’s game of driving heavy loads at dangerous speeds along narrow, rough, rural English roads for the sake of unusually high pay. Yately moves into a boarding house run by “Ma” West (Marjorie Rhodes) and is initiated into the circle of Hawlett’s drivers who all live there, too.
The drivers are mostly unruly roughnecks from various walks of the British working class, including Cockney wit Dusty (James), Tinker (Alfie Bass), a Scotsman (Gordon Jackson), Welshman Kates (Connery), and others. This collective is dominated by their pacesetter and foreman, “Red” Redman (McGoohan), a bristling, violent punk who keeps the team moving in the direction he wants with a mixture of physical bullying and showy, aggressively garrulous leadership. The only human amongst the drivers is Emmanuel Rossi (Lom), who, as an Italian, is stuck with the nickname Gino. A former prisoner of war who stuck around in England after the war, his essential decency is the chief reason he’s managed to snare the affections of Lucy (Peggy Cummins), Cartley’s denim-clad secretary who’s inevitably lusted after by all the boys. Once she slaps eyes on Tom, though, her affections transfer irrevocably, and Tom is equally attracted, but he maintains his distance as he becomes good friends with Gino. They form a partnership in an attempt to unseat Red as the pacesetter. There’s a reward in this effort: Red waves a cigarette case worth ₤250 in front of the crew’s noses each night, to be awarded to the man who can make more runs than Red, and Tom’s determined to be the man. With a chip on his shoulder after his prison stay, ostracised by his mother (Beatrice Varley), and hungry for self-respect, Tom wants both the cash and the glory. But he finds the odds against him lengthened when Red and the boys start a brawl at a social dance in the nearby town. Because Tom walks out on them, wishing to avoid trouble with the cops and disdaining that behaviour, Red labels him “Yellow-belly” and he faces relentless sabotage and insults from the team. This builds to a head when Gino convinces Tom to change truck numbers with him so that Gino absorbs the abuse and Tom has a clear field. Tom decides to leave town when Lucy breaks up with Gino and comes on to him, but Gino still goes ahead with the number swap, and is mortally injured when someone rides him off the road.
Hell Drivers is one of those films that feels like the beginning of something that would later gain momentum, with the emphasis on high-speed thrills that would be fulfilled in the car-chase craze of ’60s and ’70s genre films, through to the likes of The Fast and the Furious (2001). And yet it’s also the kind of film that virtually no one seems to be able to make anymore, in that it manages to effortlessly be many kinds of movie at once. It’s a pulp melodrama. It’s a character study. It’s a portrait of group dynamics, social processes, and ethical vices. It’s a neorealist, detail-driven portrait of people who actually work for a living, and those at the very fringes of modern Western society. Endfield’s angry, anti-establishment mood would prove to be the vanguard of a rich, new cultural zeitgeist. Most irresistibly, it’s obviously a vehicle for Endfield to express his outrage and frustration at the conspiracy of ostracism that chased him out of Hollywood. Whilst the story is bound up in a certain required amount of genre cliché, the deep motivations of the film, the emotional force of the underlying anger at being taunted and ridden into the ground by forces that are outrageous enough at first glance but hide an even more malevolent impetus, is palpable. Tom is blacklisted by the drivers for refusing to play along, and indeed by almost everyone else in his life. “For us it’s a life sentence!” his mother spitefully informs him when he returns home to visit her and his brother Jimmy (McCallum), eaten up by the ignominy. Notably, much as Endfield had worked under different names, Tom does, too—he first gives his name is Joe—and so is Gino, who obviously channels Endfield’s exile status.
It’s Endfield’s riposte to Elia Kazan’s squealer apologia On the Waterfront (1956) and his harder-driving, rebellious answer to Henri-Georges Clouzot’s fatalistic The Wages of Fear (1953). That it was personal for Baker, too, is signaled when his character says he comes from a town in Wales named after a mountain above his own real home town. Climbing to the top of British cinema, which was still grooming its young would-be stars to be proper young gentlemen and ladies, must have indeed felt like climbing a mountain or outracing the bastards to Baker, his friend Richard Burton, and their followers, like Michael Caine and Albert Finney. Baker himself was a committed socialist. The film’s plot is explicitly about the exploitation of workers, a point that deepens when Tom finds out through Lucy that the scheme is a scam run by Red and Cartley, who is hiring fewer drivers than he’s budgeted for and pocketing the difference, and the “competition” Red inspires is to make sure the men make up for the lack of numbers. Red’s domination is due to the fact that he takes a short-cut across a dangerous abandoned quarry, and those who have tried to follow him across have often ended up dead, including Tom’s predecessor, whose “dead man’s shoes” Tom all but literally steps into. Tom’s troubles with Red and the gang commence long before he learns about the scam, however. Red’s first gesture in the film when he appears is to kick the chair upon which Tom sits out from under him. He’s committed the cardinal sin, set up as a vicious joke by the others, of sitting in Red’s place.
Red is embodied by McGoohan with bristling, oversized force. Chewing on cigarettes, sporting a sheepskin jacket when driving, and willing to do anything to maintain his bullish supremacy, McGoohan resembles some variety of Vandal or Viking strayed into the modern world, radiating physical power with his slightly hunched, apish shoulders signaling his perpetual readiness to pummel someone who gets in his road. It’s not a subtle performance, but it is a tremendously energetic, entertaining one that pushes both Yately and the plot along, and there is a truth in its vivid conflation of everything unattractive about the macho bully. Balancing it is Baker’s quietly excellent simplicity, apparent particularly in the scene in which he accepts his mother’s spurning with a momentary contemplation, and then, after a few unfussy words, leaves. He’s great playing a man who picks and chooses the battles he fights with great care, whilst refusing to let his mixture of shame and his desire to assert himself lock him into immobility. His and Red’s differing styles of arch masculinity finally, after endless provocation, erupt into fisticuffs. Yately roundly defeats Red, who puts the victory off onto some imaginary unsporting move of Tom’s. Red needs to maintain the image of the unbeatable man of action to keep the others in line. Gino, running interference for Tom during their efforts to unseat him, parks his truck in front of Red’s at one point: Red gets out and marches over in a rage to haul Gino out, only to open his door and see the huge spanner Gino is holding in readiness. Red gets a big laugh out of this challenge, even if it doesn’t disarm him in the slightest.
Around the central drama is an intricately described world, from Tom picking up a discarded spark plug from the Hawlett’s yard and kissing it like a rosary for luck, to Ma West getting Tom to do up the straps on her spine-supporting corset, to the small Catholic shrine Gino keeps in the vacant room Tom moves into in the boarding house, hiding it from the gaze of those who might laugh at him for it. There’s the seedy diner across the street where Jill (Ireland), Ma’s quiet young daughter, works. Jill’s crush on Tom is dashed when she sees the crackle between him and Lucy. Lucy is defined by an unusually determined independence, which fazes Tom, who hardly expects to be getting the hard word from a woman, least of all one his new best friend wants to marry. She vengefully stalks into the dance hall dressed to the nines and sparking the drivers to act like a pack of howler monkeys. Later, when Lucy breaks up with Gino, she comes to visit him whilst he works on his truck. Their flirtation suddenly combusts in a saucy moment as Tom kisses her neck and fumbles to put away the work lamp he’s holding, plunging them into dark. The dark is then broken, in an inspired and moody scene transition, by Gino’s lighting a match in the pitch darkness of his room in the boarding house: you can feel his solitude and humiliation, as well as the solace of the darkness. The triangle between the three is easily the film’s most superfluous element, but it’s worth noting that Lucy’s love is for Gino, much the same as Red’s cigarette case is for Tom, an illusory spur to a goal always out of reach.
Endfield’s feel for the American tradition is given away by the Western references in the storyline, from some of the occasional transatlantic slang that creeps in and character names, like Dusty and Red, that would pass in a Horse Opera, to the High Noon-ish final joust of Red and Tom. But the diner, the boarding house, the dance hall with its tacky swing band, the ramshackle Hawletts yard and the rural landscape dotted with industrial detritus, all fairly reek of the still-lingering depression and exhaustion of post-war, pre-Beatles England, a milieu that recurs again and again in Brit-noir. It’s not hard to sense why Tom, for all the reasons not to, hurls himself into the high-speed duel with Red and the system to try to win an edge, and the terse, get-on-with-the-job milieu has an unfussy honesty that feels a lot like the war is still being waged psychically. That’s especially telling on the only occasion the “officer” class appears, one of the senior managers of Hawletts, who arrives to break up Red and Tom’s fight. Tom, asked by Lucy if the rumours about his incarceration are true, retorts with refreshing honesty and refusal of pathos: “Yes, it’s true. And I wasn’t framed, and nobody talked me into anything. And the judge didn’t give me a raw deal!”
The kinetic force of Hell Drivers, introduced by a first-person camera charging along the roads in the opening credits, is quite remarkable for a film of the period. Although the under-cranking of the footage to boost the impression of the trucks’ speed gets a bit obvious in places, the pace and sharpness of the editing isn’t to be denied, and it’s also admirable that there isn’t a moment of back-projection in the film. There’s one quickly glimpsed bit of model work, but the rest of the movie is utterly three-dimensional. There’s a particularly riveting sequence early in the film in which Tom is shown the ropes by Hawletts’ old-timer mechanic Ed (Wilfred Lawson), who pulls out his stop-watch to time Tom’s run from the gravel pit to the yard. Even after Tom crashes off the road, forced to swerve by two other oncoming trucks, Ed reminds him the clock’s still ticking. If there’s a major fault with the film, it’s that the subplot about Cartley’s malfeasance and collaboration with Red in screwing over the drivers is introduced too late, and Red’s forcing Cartley to join him in his final attempt to kill Tom whilst he traverses the old quarry is a bit too convenient a way of knocking off both baddies. Also, Lom’s Italian accent is-a bit-a hard-a to take-a.
A key aide to Endfield’s rigorous cinema is cinematographer Geoffrey Unsworth. With his grandiose work on the likes of The Lion in Winter and 2001: A Space Odyssey still well ahead of him, his work here with Endfield sees VistaVision frames filled with islands of casually brilliant deep-focus photography, capturing shots bustling with actors and variegated source lighting, and interesting levels of action diffusing throughout those frames. When Red first appears, Endfield situates McGoohan not in the rear of a frame, or emerging into the shot, but front and centre in a deeply composed, almost painterly shot in which he lifts his head from a washtub in the back of the diner, with the dining table loaded with the other drivers and Tom seated in Red’s chair in the background and Jill and the diner owner in the mid-ground. Red turns, observes the drivers, Jill eyes Red, speaks a warning to him; Red patronisingly cups her chin and then walks over to Tom. Red’s physical potency and eye on his target are all immediately conveyed. Later, there’s an equally sharp moment in which Tom, fleeing town, stands in a phone booth, calling his brother and making arrangements to contact his old criminal pals again. In the background, Lucy enters and flurries about barely noticed for several seconds before spotting Tom and racing forth to extract him. The use of the focus here is as good as that of Wyler and Mizoguchi, confirms what Endfield had learnt from Welles, and anticipates the intelligence of the widescreen work of Zulu. Another felicitous moment sees Tom and Lucy, waiting for word of Gino’s condition in the hospital; the shot peers along the centre of the corridor, but Tom and Lucy are crowded by their own guilt and worry to one edge of the frame.
Even in the fairly regulation climax, there’s a great little succession of almost throwaway detail: Red doesn’t realise it, but he’s taken Tom’s sabotaged truck to chase him down, for Tom has gone off with Red’s. Red only just realises this a moment before his brakes fail, pitching him and Cartley off the side of a cliff, one of their bodies hurled out the windscreen as the truck hits the bottom in a lovely punitive flourish. The tension doesn’t let up until literally the final moments, as Tom revives within his own smashed truck, which is hanging on the edge of the cliff, waiting for the gravel in the tray to slowly pour out before he scrambles out of the cab. The chains of cause and effect here are both naturalistic yet intricately plotted. Endfield and Baker reunited a year later with Sea Fury (1958), where they tried and failed to repeat the elements of this film, but still came up with a strong action climax. In any event, Hell Drivers is British noir at its gamey best. It’s worth noting, however, that the British Free Cinema, which would soon rise up and displace this sort of melodrama whilst also taking up some aspects of it, would offer up characters like Albert Finney’s in Saturday Night and Sunday Morning (1960), who act in ways rather closer to Red than to Tom, starting fights in dance halls and getting wasted, and yet were the heroes.
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Director/Screenwriter: Michael Mann
By Roderick Heath
This post is part of For the Love of Film (Noir): The Film Preservation Blogathon.
In looking for a film to write about for the Film Noir blogathon, I initially felt most motivated by what I wanted to avoid. Film noir was a dark, nasty, immediate kind of cinema movement that sprang out of artistic and real-world inspirations that were crucially of their moment, reportage from the front lines of domestic landscape of the Depression and World War II eras. It was really a style more than a genre, though tropes of crime fiction have become inextricably associated with it, blended and mediated through a specific range of clichés and metaphorical niceties that were exhausted with great speed. The intervening half-century of pop culture has often threatened to render that vital and spiky cinema a powerful magnet for nostalgic fetishism and arbitrary appropriation. Thus, I began to think more about what film noir had evolved into. I thought about what could be called the noir revivalism since the ’80s, some of which, like Wim Wenders’ Hammett (1982), Carl Franklin’s Devil in a Blue Dress (1995), or Brian de Palma’s The Black Dahlia (2006), preoccupy themselves in recreating the tangy milieu of noir but also employs a grittier portrayal of things more tangentially explored in the older genre works—sexuality, drugs, race, the whole shebang. And there are other films that, like Lawrence Kasdan’s Body Heat (1981), the Wachowski brothers’ Bound (1996), Rian Johnston’s Brick (2005), and the oeuvre of John Dahl, took the basic precepts of classic noir and played them out in a contemporary context.
Only a few current English-language directors have, however, truly kept the ethos of noir alive without a hint of retro cute. Since his debut with 1981’s Thief, the most high-profile is Michael Mann. Miami Vice, a bristling prestige project that had a troubled production and proved a surprise semi-failure on release, is nonetheless a genuinely evolved noir film. Adapted from the slick ’80s television series created by Anthony Yerkovich, for which Mann was executive producer and unofficial artistic mastermind, this Miami Vice refused to be nostalgic even for the ’80s. Mann signals his take fairly early when a nightclub pulses with Felix da Housecat’s remix of Nina Simone’s “Sinnerman”: the song is old, the beat is new. Mann built upon the stylish minimalism William Friedkin and Peter Yates had brought to crime flicks in the ’60s and ’70s, but his fascination with pared-down, art moderne visual textures was something new: existential haute couture. Mann’s stylistic reinventions have often outpaced audience receptivity throughout his career, and many of his early films, including the now-lionised Manhunter (1986), were bombs.
Miami Vice shows quickly enough how little interest it has in going through the niceties of adapting a TV show. Mann tosses the viewer in medias res with “Sonny” Crockett (Colin Farrell), Ricardo Tubbs (Jamie Foxx), and the members of their undercover squad, including Tubbs’ paramour Trudy Joplin (Naomie Harris), Gina Calabrese (Elizabeth Rodriguez), Stan Switek (Domenick Lombardozzi), and Larry Zito (Justin Theroux), busy trying to sting pimp Neptune (Isaach De Bankolé) in that nightclub. Crockett is drawn away by a frantic phone call from informer Alonzo Stevens (John Hawkes), who’s charging across the city in his sports car, hoping to make it home. His wife has been taken captive by the mob of drug-dealing white supremacists, after Alonzo had arranged a meet-and-greet between the criminals and some FBI agents. Alonzo spilt the beans to the racists, and FBI agents are brutally, summarily gunned down by the white supremacists’ military-level firepower. Crockett and Tubbs manage to intercept him on the freeway and get him to pull over and explain, but when word comes through that Alonzo’s wife has been found murdered, Alonzo steps in front of a semitrailer. The boss of the blown FBI operation, Fujima (Ciarán Hinds), approaches Crockett, Tubbs, and their boss Castillo (Barry Shabaka Henley), because they’re the only people he can now trust with a mole certainly within his own operation.
Crockett and Tubbs swing into action, using their knowledge of who’s shipping what in and out of Miami and their willingness to bend the rules. After Trudy carefully falsifies criminal records for them, they destroy the high-speed boats being used to ferry in the gang’s dope. Then, using another criminal interlocutor, Nicholas (Eddie Marsan), the duo shop themselves out to the supply end of the business, represented by arch narcotics entrepreneur José Yero (John Ortiz) and the shadowy Isabella (Gong Li) from their base in Ciudad de Este in the Brazil-Paraguay-Argentine borderlands. Both are merely senior employees for the glowering kingpin Francisco Montoya (Luis Tosar), an internationally powerful, stateless monarch whose final approval Crockett and Tubbs have to gain to run a drug shipment into Miami. They pull this off, and get a second, larger contract, hoping to learn as much as possible about Montoya’s operations. Crockett enters a swiftly combusting romance with Isabella, who is Montoya’s lover but also a nominal free agent. Yero, ruthless, paranoid, and suspicious of these too-efficient newcomers, uses this affair to convince Montoya they should nullify their deal with the Americans and let their Nazi business partners take care of them.
Unlike most of the neo-noir I mentioned above, Miami Vice maintains the defining aspect of noir: the visual style is an aesthetic unit with the story’s preoccupations and the overt and covert themes. Mann’s film burns like liquid nitrogen, laying out the eponymous city as a sprawl of lights drenched in darkness and populated by swashbuckling law enforcers and monstrous villains. The film’s imagery often resembles modernist painting and varieties of experimental photography. Such affectations retain a quality that was part of the punch of classic expressionist-influenced films, retaining a definite link with the way directors like Lang, Welles, Hitchcock, and many others could twist a cinematic frame so that the elements within it became somehow abstracted. Mann shoots faces, bodies, technology, and architecture in such a way that they hover in a kind of electrified, yet impersonal beauty, sometimes with a crisp distance redolent of Jeffrey Smart or David Hockney, sometimes so close as to lose all sense of proportion and form. I particularly love the glimpse of the colossal white-supremacist thug festooned with tattoos and resembling some kind of humanoid brontosaur ransacking a refrigerator, while Alonzo’s wife’s slain form lays lifeless in the background. Another, very different moment of wonder comes when Sonny and Isabella flirt, their foreground faces blurred, but the background landscape sharp, perfectly communicating the almost drug-like intensity of their attraction.
The result is one the few genuine stylistic masterpieces of modern American film. Refining the aesthetic he’d developed in Thief, Manhunter, Heat (1995), and The Insider (1999), Mann pushed it to a limit here. Miami Vice’s terse, deterministic approach to the usual beats of the action-crime genre, as opposed to the operatic prolixity of Heat, is one of the things I like most about it, but this also perhaps made it bewildering for many. Mann tries to explicate as much of the drama as possible through the behaviour of the characters rather than through what they say to each other, and he pushes the notion that action is character to a rare level. The shot in which Crockett notices that Montoya and Isabella are wearing his-and-her watches turns casual detail into revelation, opening yawning abysses of subsequent uncertainty. That Crockett and Tubbs trust in each other completely is a matter chiefly communicated through how they stand and sit together, and the later concern Tubbs has that Crockett might be falling under the spell of Isabella and the potential imperial wealth he could accrue with her is as much about eye contact as talk. At the heart of this story, obviously, is one of the oldest motifs of the crime genre: the shifting no-man’s-land between cops and criminals. One of Mann’s most distinctive refrains in his crime stories is not just the porousness of the boundaries between good and bad, lawman and criminal, but also what keeps them polarised.
A significant difference between the hazy outsider parables of classic noir, with their losers, lone knights, femme fatales, and fatalistic sense of social hierarchy (and the insidious evil of fascism always sharply remembered as a then-recent phenomenon), and the sorts of TV dramas on which Mann cut his teeth, including Starsky and Hutch and Miami Vice itself, was that such cop shows drew their heroes as guys doing a job and enjoying their lives when not working. This paved the way for how most modern cop shows are more about workplace dynamics than crime and its social dimensions. Mann’s concerns since starting his film career have been more classical, repeatedly pondering how people on both sides of any border, but usually a legal one, can have startling similarities as well as telling differences. “There’s undercover, and then there’s ‘which way is up’,” Tubbs notes at one point, firmly placing the film’s concerns back in classic noir territory. The real impetus there is found in the two concurrent, defiantly now-fashioned stories of Sonny and Isabella and Ricardo and Trudy, and narrative urgency is not sourced in any tension that Sonny and Tubbs might be seduced by the dark side, but in what their dedication might cost them and those they love. The early scenes portraying the grisly fate of Alonzo’s family and the FBI agents lay out the threat as almost gothic in scope and menace, especially the startling moment in which the racists’ high-powered weapons smash apart the agents.
Eventually, of course, they have to face down the same threats, when, double-crossed by Yero, they have to first extract Trudy from the hands of the racists, who have yoked her with plastic explosive (a charged image in more ways than one), and then work out a way of extracting Isabella and taking down the baddies without getting themselves annihilated. The story is necessarily simpler than the sorts of intricately woven political, social, and personality strands in some of Mann’s later-career films, like The Insider (1999) and Ali (2001). Yet his attempts to create a modern kind of noir film encompassing global networks of information, transport, permeable borderlines between national borders and even settled ethnic and sexual identities mediated throughout the flow of imagery both extends and, to a certain extent, subverts some of the given elements in classic noir films like Force of Evil (1948), The Big Heat (1953), Underworld USA (1961), in which crime organisations became metaphors for a sinister side to Western capitalism itself. In the course of the narrative, Mann traces the colossal drug-dealing project from end to end, possibly to make up for the epic he had wanted to made about the drug trade that was forestalled by Steven Soderbergh’s Traffic (2001). This holistic vision of worlds within worlds makes Miami Vice a much darker, denser film than one expects.
Almost all classic noir films are about the subterranean link between mean streets and the mansion on the hill. The original inspiration for Yerkovich’s series was a story he’d read about how the seized assets of drug dealers were being employed in operations against them. Such is the reason why Crockett, Tubbs, and the rest of their team are able to live lifestyles seemingly far above their pay grade. The sheer scale of money and clout the likes of Mendoza can call up, and the lifestyle they can enable, is pretty seductive. Mann is superlative at changing the tone and pace of his films with strange reversals, like the famous sleeping tiger scene in Manhunter and the coffee-drinking scene between Al Pacino and Robert De Niro in Heat. Here it’s in a scene where Isabella, after making a deal with Crockett and Tubbs, succumbs casually to Sonny’s come-ons and gets him to take her out for a spin in a borrowed-for-the occasion speed boat. She convinces him to take her to Havana for a drink, and they speed off across the waves. It’s as if he’s suddenly driving the movie into a hazy fantasy, a high-end commercial or space-age version of an Ernst Lubitsch film where ritzy people casually do ritzy things at the drop of a hat. And yet it cleverly and seductively illuminates the film’s biting perspective on a 21st century in which money, and what it buys, has become its own continent. Where once Friedkin’s hero Popeye Doyle had stood on a corner in the cold and watched his quarries stuff their faces, Mann’s are much more comfortable. But this, in its way, proves more dangerous.
What follows is an extended romantic interlude that deliberately echoes the earlier one between Ricardo and Trudy. Both couples shower together in moments of eroticism, but the disparity between the moments is impossible to ignore. Whereas Tubbs and his girl are clearly, easily in accord on all levels to the point where Ricardo can get away with a cheeky premature ejaculation gag and it’s just part of the fun, the layers of truth and deception in Sonny and Isabella’s relationship (Is his anecdote about his roadie father true? Why is he trying to make the super-profitable deal with her?) are all too telling. Add to this, of course, the obvious, suggestive disparities—Sonny the white trash rendered slicker by experience and ambition, romancing Isabella, a Chinese woman with a Spanish name and a mother who was a translator killed in Angola. Mann’s odd, fascinating games with racial coding expresses itself in Isabella and, in less germane style, with Fujima, played by an Irishman. Such seems to be his way of both subverting the clear-cut boundaries of the original series’ drug war geopolitics and simple fascination with watching the world’s wanderers find each other. Professionalism is another of the few meaningful yardsticks in Mann’s films, and, of course, Crockett, Tubbs, and team are arch experts; but so are Isabella, Yero, Mendoza, and even some of the white supremacists.
That sort of chitinous professionalism that hides a hidden psychic cost is also, of course, another long strand in noir, back to Hammett and Hemingway, the latter being one of noir’s biggest nongenre sources (no wonder Mann’s been kicking about the notion of shooting For Whom the Bell Tolls). Mann’s embattled individualists, searching for their own ways of living and often rejecting those that don’t smell right, certainly belong to that tradition, and his version of The Last of the Mohicans (1992) sifted out their link to an even older tradition (and notice Crockett’s name, “sonny” of another frontiersman legend). And yet some of the most fascinating moments in the film are far smaller and human, like Sonny’s care in doing up Isabella’s seatbelt in the speedboat, or the beat in which Isabella waits for Mendoza to speak after she casually informs him she slept with Crockett, and he only wants to know more about what she’s gleaned of his business plans. The cops-vs.-robbers business here is traditional men’s stuff, of course, but also one, Mann repeatedly emphasises, in which modern women are more often a part. Isabella, Trudy, and Calabrese are fully engaged members of what used to be purely masculine fields of endeavour, in a modern sense, and yet when push comes to shove they’re rendered pawns by the baddies. Isabella is no traditional femme fatale, in that her purpose is not consuming destructiveness of herself and others, in spite of the fact that she’s most definitely a criminal; “She’s one of them,” Tubbs states categorically to Sonny to remind him of the demarcations of their world. But she’s really more a kind of brutally pragmatic yuppie, jetting off to Geneva when business calls. I like Li’s performance in the film in spite of her initially inelegant command of English, and in part because of it, for the way Li relaxes and responds to Farrell’s Crockett with her entire physique and manner.
Crockett and Tubbs are, finally, old-fashioned white knights, going down those mean streets. Tubbs’ first specific gesture in the film comes when, infuriated by seeing Neptune manhandle one of his young hookers, Tubbs chases after him and breaks the fingers of one of his bodyguards. Later, when Trudy is endangered, Tubbs gains a personal motivation. Perhaps the true femme fatale is Calabrese, who has what is actually the film’s greatest bit of tough-guy business. She confronts the white supremacist holding the trigger for the bomb around Trudy’s neck, and informs him how she’ll shoot him in such a way that he can’t reflexively detonate the bomb; “Fuck y-” is all he gets out before her bullet does exactly that. The scene in which Tubbs and Calabrese invade the trailer of the creeps holding Trudy—the most-low-rent end to an international conspiracy imaginable—is borderline brilliant, not only for the bit mentioned above, but also for Tubbs’ own no-bullshit handling of the situation. You know all those films where you groaned when a hero failed to stop a villain by neglecting to put a bullet in his head when he was down? Not this one. But then, the nasty twist: Yero remotely sets off the explosive, seriously injuring Trudy just at the point all seems well.
After that, naturally, comes a walloping showdown between the cops and Yero’s coalition of paramilitary enforcers and the white supremacists Sonny and Isabella are literally caught in the middle, and Ricardo chases down and blows a hole in Yero. The action here anticipates the mix of naturalism and first-person force Mann would again muster in his follow-up, Public Enemies (2009), a film that intriguingly attempted to avoid the usual affectations of the period movies comprising much of the noir revivalist oeuvre. That Crockett and Tubbs’ ethics are at a slight remove from the strictures of their job is not shocking, but it is important, as Crockett, with Tubbs’ silent assent, bundles Isabella away from the battle scene to make her escape. Real heroism in Miami Vice is finally being able to tell the difference between right and wrong, and also to make the compromise between wish and reality. The film ends on much the same unfinished note with which it began, with Trudy merely recovering from her injuries, the standby villains defeated but with Mendoza having escaped.
Miami Vice is such an inherently visual film that it’s damnably hard to write about and demands multiple viewings, but I’ve come to love it as well as admire it. The acting is of a very high calibre, with Farrell and Foxx acquitting themselves exceptionally well; I particularly enjoy the unblinking deadpan fashion with which Tubbs asks of Yero, “Are you with the Man?”, a line that might have defeated many other actors. But it’s often the supporting cast, especially Tosar, Henley, and, above all, Ortiz, who truly galvanise the film. The result is one of my favourite films of the new millennium and one that keeps something of noir’s crumpled romanticism alive amongst the high-tech and unforgivingly modern.
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