These essays are intended for people that have already seen the films being discussed. This entry will DEFINITELY spoil parts of the movie for you if you haven't seen it yet.
Alan Ladd's first film role is as Raven, the Gun of the title. He is hired to kill a scientist who has been stealing secrets from the company he works for. Once the deed is done and the secrets are retrieved, Raven is double-crossed by the company representative (Laird Cregar) who pays him in marked bills. In a convoluted plot, Ladd decides to track down Cregar for revenge, while running from Robert Preston, the LA cop who was on vacation in San Francisco visiting his girlfriend, Veronica Lake, who has also been tapped by the government to keep an eye on Cregar, because she is a combination cabaret singer/magician that has been hired in Cregar's club and ends up sitting next to Ladd on the train to LA.
Raven is easily the most ambivalent character so far in the series. Clearly a contract killer, he is also a victim. In the beginning minutes of the film, he feeds a stray cat that comes to his hotel window, but has no trouble beating the cleaning woman that tries to shoe the cat away. He has done more heinous things than any other character in the film, but Cregar and his boss, "The Old Man" (Tully Marshall), are painted as the true villains for their disloyalty to country.
Finally in the series we have a film from the point of view of a true criminal, and a film structured as a straightforward suspense thriller, with no flashbacks. But even so, this career criminal, this paid assassin, is given a freudian excuse for his deviant ways. You see, his mother was abusive and hit him with an iron when he was young, breaking his arm in such a way that he still carries the deformity, a physical reminder of the past he cannot escape in his mind. And since violence breeds violence, he had no choice but to become a killer.
There has been a steady build-up of fatalism in the series, particularly in the last three films. Not coincidentally, these have all been from the point of view of the people who commit the crimes, in a time still under the Hayes Code that instructed all crimes be paid for by the end of the film, and it comes to its final fruition in this film. The contract killer is struck down by the straight-laced cop, but finds an amount of redemption before he goes, protecting the woman who trusted him.
There is some of the dramatic, expressionistic lighting you would expect to find. But, being straightforward, there is little oneiric or strange about the film. The remorseless killing is the heart of cruelty, as Veronica Lake is the heart of eroticism, and all this puts THIS GUN FOR HIRE at the heart of the film noir movement.
Next time: The Killers
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
The Woman in the Window (1944)
These essays are intended for people that have already seen the films being discussed. This entry will DEFINITELY spoil parts of the movie for you if you haven't seen it yet.
Edward G. Robinson, "third star" of DOUBLE INDEMNITY, this time stars as the stuffy professor of psychology, Richard Wanley. He is a loving and devoted husband and father, but bemoans the onset of middle age, when he seems to have little time or inclination for the type of adventure he used to get into. When his family leaves him behind for Summer vacation, however, he finds himself meeting an attractive woman (Joan Bennett) and going back to her apartment, where a man attacks him. Wanley kills him in self-defense and, though he clearly states in his lecture at the beginning of the film that not all killers are murderers, finds himself covering up the incident so that the impropriety won't be revealed, thus ruining his reputation.
This film is a fine example of a man getting into trouble despite his better sense, and proceeds at an unhurried pace, building in tension to the final solution, although it is undercut by the "Wizard of Oz" ending. I have been building a respect for Edward G. Robinson, who is probably best remembered as Rico in LITTLE CAESAR, but contrarily was quite a restrained, understated actor in most everything else I've seen. He fits perfectly in this role as the sedate professor, and is completely believeable trying to work his way out of the jam, up to and including his recognition that he knows that police can use the most minute detail as a clue, but admitting that he has little idea how they put those clues together.
The film is lit in a straightforward way, instead relying on mirrors and reflections to suggest the duality of the characters. It seems clear to us that Robinson is attracted to Bennett, but nothing untoward happens, undercutting the eroticism. But this is also the most interesting aspect of the picture. Robinson feels compelled to cover up the killing not because of the act itself, and not to conceal something he has done wrong at Bennett's apartment, but to eliminate the appearance of impropriety, which to him is the most damaging consequence. It is possibly the most selfish of motivations in the series so far.
It is not a dream-like film, until the end, and is not strange in any way. There is no extraneous cruelty. Even the poisoning is described in very clinical terms. But the ambivalence of the main character is what puts this film stongly in the category of noir.
Edward G. Robinson, "third star" of DOUBLE INDEMNITY, this time stars as the stuffy professor of psychology, Richard Wanley. He is a loving and devoted husband and father, but bemoans the onset of middle age, when he seems to have little time or inclination for the type of adventure he used to get into. When his family leaves him behind for Summer vacation, however, he finds himself meeting an attractive woman (Joan Bennett) and going back to her apartment, where a man attacks him. Wanley kills him in self-defense and, though he clearly states in his lecture at the beginning of the film that not all killers are murderers, finds himself covering up the incident so that the impropriety won't be revealed, thus ruining his reputation.
This film is a fine example of a man getting into trouble despite his better sense, and proceeds at an unhurried pace, building in tension to the final solution, although it is undercut by the "Wizard of Oz" ending. I have been building a respect for Edward G. Robinson, who is probably best remembered as Rico in LITTLE CAESAR, but contrarily was quite a restrained, understated actor in most everything else I've seen. He fits perfectly in this role as the sedate professor, and is completely believeable trying to work his way out of the jam, up to and including his recognition that he knows that police can use the most minute detail as a clue, but admitting that he has little idea how they put those clues together.
The film is lit in a straightforward way, instead relying on mirrors and reflections to suggest the duality of the characters. It seems clear to us that Robinson is attracted to Bennett, but nothing untoward happens, undercutting the eroticism. But this is also the most interesting aspect of the picture. Robinson feels compelled to cover up the killing not because of the act itself, and not to conceal something he has done wrong at Bennett's apartment, but to eliminate the appearance of impropriety, which to him is the most damaging consequence. It is possibly the most selfish of motivations in the series so far.
It is not a dream-like film, until the end, and is not strange in any way. There is no extraneous cruelty. Even the poisoning is described in very clinical terms. But the ambivalence of the main character is what puts this film stongly in the category of noir.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Double Indemnity (1944)
These essays are intended for people that have already seen the films being discussed. This entry will DEFINITELY spoil parts of the movie for you if you haven't seen it yet.
DOUBLE INDEMNITY is the story of Walter Neff, an insurance salesman who becomes enamored with Phyllis Dietrichson (Barbara Stanwyck) while seeking a policy renewal, and plots her husband's demise. What's nice about this film is the self-determination inherent in Walter's downfall. Yes, Phyllis puts all her sexuality on the line, and maybe she asks leading questions, but she never actually asks Walter to murder her husband. Walter sees the woman, wants her, wants the money, and secretly believes he has devised a way to skirt the insurance system, by working within it, while gaining the maximum benefit. But Walter soon realizes that you can't account for everything, or everyone.
This is the first film in the series that is truly from the criminal's point of view, and thus also the first with a truly fatalistic world view. It is again told in flashback, Walter suffering from a bullet wound while dictating the details to his boss (Edward G. Robinson). It is left for the audence to wonder whether Neff dies or is arrested for murder, but either way, life as he knew it is over. Walter begins the movie as a straight, law-abiding citizen, and it could only be through the events of the film that he ends up as a bloody, beaten criminal. Yet even as there is self-determination in the sexual desire and hubris that makes him a criminal, there is also self-determination in his downfall, as nerves get the better of him, and he decides to end it all, before Phyllis drags him down with her.
The film is shot through with dramatic low-key lighting, especially with light coming through blinds into darkened rooms. Often, portions of a character's face will be highlighted, the eyes or the mouth, or the face will be split, half in light, half in dark. And while the images in the first half of the film are about bringing Walter and Phyllis together, the second half is about keeping them apart, either showing them in separate shots, or by putting something in between them within the frame.
There is again the dream-like quality of memory, and certainly enough eroticism. But the strangeness is lacking, as is the cruelty, aside from the off-screen murder. There is a degree of ambivalence, as the audience wants to root for Walter, to see if he can get away with it, while being reassured that justice will be done in the end.
Next time: The Woman in the Window
DOUBLE INDEMNITY is the story of Walter Neff, an insurance salesman who becomes enamored with Phyllis Dietrichson (Barbara Stanwyck) while seeking a policy renewal, and plots her husband's demise. What's nice about this film is the self-determination inherent in Walter's downfall. Yes, Phyllis puts all her sexuality on the line, and maybe she asks leading questions, but she never actually asks Walter to murder her husband. Walter sees the woman, wants her, wants the money, and secretly believes he has devised a way to skirt the insurance system, by working within it, while gaining the maximum benefit. But Walter soon realizes that you can't account for everything, or everyone.
This is the first film in the series that is truly from the criminal's point of view, and thus also the first with a truly fatalistic world view. It is again told in flashback, Walter suffering from a bullet wound while dictating the details to his boss (Edward G. Robinson). It is left for the audence to wonder whether Neff dies or is arrested for murder, but either way, life as he knew it is over. Walter begins the movie as a straight, law-abiding citizen, and it could only be through the events of the film that he ends up as a bloody, beaten criminal. Yet even as there is self-determination in the sexual desire and hubris that makes him a criminal, there is also self-determination in his downfall, as nerves get the better of him, and he decides to end it all, before Phyllis drags him down with her.
The film is shot through with dramatic low-key lighting, especially with light coming through blinds into darkened rooms. Often, portions of a character's face will be highlighted, the eyes or the mouth, or the face will be split, half in light, half in dark. And while the images in the first half of the film are about bringing Walter and Phyllis together, the second half is about keeping them apart, either showing them in separate shots, or by putting something in between them within the frame.
There is again the dream-like quality of memory, and certainly enough eroticism. But the strangeness is lacking, as is the cruelty, aside from the off-screen murder. There is a degree of ambivalence, as the audience wants to root for Walter, to see if he can get away with it, while being reassured that justice will be done in the end.
Next time: The Woman in the Window
Friday, March 27, 2009
Murder, My Sweet (1944)
Serendipity happens sometimes. Last night I re-watched MURDER, MY SWEET, based on the novel "Farewell, My Lovely" by Raymond Chandler, and DOUBLE INDEMNITY, based on a James M. Cain novel, with a screenplay by Billy Wilder and Raymond Chandler. All on the 50th anniversary of Chandler's death.
MURDER, MY SWEET was not the first time a Philip Marlowe novel was brought to the screen, but it was the first time Philip Marlowe was brought to the screen. In 1942, both "Farewell, My Lovely" and "The High Window" were used as source material for screenplays in existing silver screen mystery series. "Farewell, My Lovely" turned into THE FALCON TAKES OVER, third in the "Falcon" series with George Sanders, and "The High Window" became TIME TO KILL, seventh in the "Michael Shayne" series with Lloyd Nolan. But this was definitely the closest to the spirit of the Chandler novel.
Dick Powell, a musical star, fought for the role and proved himself the equal of this new tough-guy persona. Marlowe, bored and broke, agrees to help "Moose" Malloy (the great Mike Mazurki, but more about him later), recently released from prison, find his old girlfriend. He starts his search, but is waylaid by another job, as security for a jewel-heist payoff. The payoff goes wrong, Marlowe is knocked unconscious, and wakes up next to a dead body. Things go downhill from there.
This film, like LAURA, has a voice-over and is told in flashback, giving it the same dream-like quality of memory. But this film expands on that imagery by drugging Marlowe and showing us his deluded nightmares, of giant hypodermics, doors that lead to more doors, and the relentless pursuit by an emotionless doctor (thanks to double exposure) that makes it both dream-like and strange. The imagery is also boosted by the most extensive use of the german-influenced low-key lighting so far in the series. Its purpose may not always be clear, but is certainly striking and adds to the mood, from shadows lurking behind characters shoulders, to window lettering shadowed onto the chest of a prospective client, to the image of Claire Trevor, prone on a couch in total darkness, puffs of smoke reaching to the light each time she exhales.
There is also the erotic about this film, in the form of Claire Trevor who, according to my count, romances at least five men in the film. She is countered by the virginal Anne Shirley, a scrappy young red-headed girl next door, folded into the mystery for the sake of her father. The violence and cruelty are heightened from LAURA's levels. Malloy physically threatens Marlowe on many occasions, several people are shot, eyes are scorched, and there is a fairly graphic metaphor in lieu of a description of a corpse.
In short, this may be the most classically noir of the series yet. And in so doing, it may be the least accessible to modern audiences. The voice-over and dialogue represent the detached cynicism of the time, but they also provided rich fodder for subsequent parodies and send-ups. Without context, it can sound jokey. I saw this film with an audience in January and I was disappointed to hear them laugh through most of it. But this is not a new phenomenon. Borde and Chaumeton tell of a 1953 screening, just 7 years after it had been released in France, that also produced laughter in the audience. Film noir was already beginning to reflect itself.
Next time: Double Indemnity
MURDER, MY SWEET was not the first time a Philip Marlowe novel was brought to the screen, but it was the first time Philip Marlowe was brought to the screen. In 1942, both "Farewell, My Lovely" and "The High Window" were used as source material for screenplays in existing silver screen mystery series. "Farewell, My Lovely" turned into THE FALCON TAKES OVER, third in the "Falcon" series with George Sanders, and "The High Window" became TIME TO KILL, seventh in the "Michael Shayne" series with Lloyd Nolan. But this was definitely the closest to the spirit of the Chandler novel.
Dick Powell, a musical star, fought for the role and proved himself the equal of this new tough-guy persona. Marlowe, bored and broke, agrees to help "Moose" Malloy (the great Mike Mazurki, but more about him later), recently released from prison, find his old girlfriend. He starts his search, but is waylaid by another job, as security for a jewel-heist payoff. The payoff goes wrong, Marlowe is knocked unconscious, and wakes up next to a dead body. Things go downhill from there.
This film, like LAURA, has a voice-over and is told in flashback, giving it the same dream-like quality of memory. But this film expands on that imagery by drugging Marlowe and showing us his deluded nightmares, of giant hypodermics, doors that lead to more doors, and the relentless pursuit by an emotionless doctor (thanks to double exposure) that makes it both dream-like and strange. The imagery is also boosted by the most extensive use of the german-influenced low-key lighting so far in the series. Its purpose may not always be clear, but is certainly striking and adds to the mood, from shadows lurking behind characters shoulders, to window lettering shadowed onto the chest of a prospective client, to the image of Claire Trevor, prone on a couch in total darkness, puffs of smoke reaching to the light each time she exhales.
There is also the erotic about this film, in the form of Claire Trevor who, according to my count, romances at least five men in the film. She is countered by the virginal Anne Shirley, a scrappy young red-headed girl next door, folded into the mystery for the sake of her father. The violence and cruelty are heightened from LAURA's levels. Malloy physically threatens Marlowe on many occasions, several people are shot, eyes are scorched, and there is a fairly graphic metaphor in lieu of a description of a corpse.
In short, this may be the most classically noir of the series yet. And in so doing, it may be the least accessible to modern audiences. The voice-over and dialogue represent the detached cynicism of the time, but they also provided rich fodder for subsequent parodies and send-ups. Without context, it can sound jokey. I saw this film with an audience in January and I was disappointed to hear them laugh through most of it. But this is not a new phenomenon. Borde and Chaumeton tell of a 1953 screening, just 7 years after it had been released in France, that also produced laughter in the audience. Film noir was already beginning to reflect itself.
Next time: Double Indemnity
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Megan Abbott, Redux
Taking a break from film noir to remind you that Megan Abbott's visit to Rochester is only a week away, and that you should be making your plans accordingly.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Laura (1944)
These essays are intended for people that have already seen the films being discussed. This entry will DEFINITELY spoil parts of the movie for you if you haven't seen it yet.
Oneiric? Check. Anytime you start a film with first-person narration you flirt with the dream-like since dreams and memory tread the same muddy water. The fact that the person doing the narrating is the killer adds the concept of seeing the crime from the criminal's perspective, but he ends up not being the main character. So these can't be his memories, as he isn't present all the time. So might they be the extrapolations of what he knows?
Strange? Maybe not in the Kafka-esque sense. Except for that one instance about halfway through the film.
Erotic? Check. Our hero (Dana Andrews) has a romantic obsession with a dead woman, especially the portrait hung over her mantel, which is in as many shots as director Otto Preminger makes possible in the first half of the film. He fetishises her possessions, getting to know her indirectly, while yearning for the unattainable. Our killer fetishises the woman herself, dressing her up, changing her hair, a Pygmalion of the mid-century.
Ambivalent? Not as much as a film with an anti-hero might make me feel.
Cruel? The dead woman had her face shot off with both barrels of a shotgun. Check.
And so we have something closer to the signpost definition that Borde and Chaumeton offered, but still somewhat removed from other noir. Dana Andrews, though he wonderfully underplays his part as the detective, is certainly the part of the traditional romantic hero, with a bit of psychosis. Laura is the romantic ideal that he must achieve, but she remains unattainable, first through death, then through interference from her self-appointed protector, then through suspicion and finally, again, through death (almost).
Gone is the overt criminal element, replaced by friends of questionable motive. There is the wandering fiance, the back-stabbing aunt, the over-loyal maid, and of course the killer. There is little violence, other than what is referred to, and never would have been shown anyway.
What there is, that was absent in THE MALTESE FALCON, is a distinct, controlled style. There are a few worthy noir-shadowed shots, but most of the visual information is communicated through clever mise-en-scene, an airy, floating camera, and zooms that close the frame when the characters need to be brought together. There is also some use of the deep-focus pioneered in CITIZEN KANE (1941) that FALCON was not able to take advantage of.
So what do these first two films have in common? Crime, certainly. And an ambiguity of character. But this is common is crime fiction, especially when there is a mystery involved, and there are characters that are trying to evade exposure. Perhaps a more cohesive through-line will present itself as we go on.
Next time: Murder, My Sweet
Oneiric? Check. Anytime you start a film with first-person narration you flirt with the dream-like since dreams and memory tread the same muddy water. The fact that the person doing the narrating is the killer adds the concept of seeing the crime from the criminal's perspective, but he ends up not being the main character. So these can't be his memories, as he isn't present all the time. So might they be the extrapolations of what he knows?
Strange? Maybe not in the Kafka-esque sense. Except for that one instance about halfway through the film.
Erotic? Check. Our hero (Dana Andrews) has a romantic obsession with a dead woman, especially the portrait hung over her mantel, which is in as many shots as director Otto Preminger makes possible in the first half of the film. He fetishises her possessions, getting to know her indirectly, while yearning for the unattainable. Our killer fetishises the woman herself, dressing her up, changing her hair, a Pygmalion of the mid-century.
Ambivalent? Not as much as a film with an anti-hero might make me feel.
Cruel? The dead woman had her face shot off with both barrels of a shotgun. Check.
And so we have something closer to the signpost definition that Borde and Chaumeton offered, but still somewhat removed from other noir. Dana Andrews, though he wonderfully underplays his part as the detective, is certainly the part of the traditional romantic hero, with a bit of psychosis. Laura is the romantic ideal that he must achieve, but she remains unattainable, first through death, then through interference from her self-appointed protector, then through suspicion and finally, again, through death (almost).
Gone is the overt criminal element, replaced by friends of questionable motive. There is the wandering fiance, the back-stabbing aunt, the over-loyal maid, and of course the killer. There is little violence, other than what is referred to, and never would have been shown anyway.
What there is, that was absent in THE MALTESE FALCON, is a distinct, controlled style. There are a few worthy noir-shadowed shots, but most of the visual information is communicated through clever mise-en-scene, an airy, floating camera, and zooms that close the frame when the characters need to be brought together. There is also some use of the deep-focus pioneered in CITIZEN KANE (1941) that FALCON was not able to take advantage of.
So what do these first two films have in common? Crime, certainly. And an ambiguity of character. But this is common is crime fiction, especially when there is a mystery involved, and there are characters that are trying to evade exposure. Perhaps a more cohesive through-line will present itself as we go on.
Next time: Murder, My Sweet
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
The Maltese Falcon (1941)
For the two people reading this blog that don't know, THE MALTESE FALCON is the story of Sam Spade, a private detective hired by a woman that is looking for a way out. As a result of taking her on as a client, Sam's partner is shot dead, and he is frequently threatened at gunpoint, followed, drugged, questioned by the police, invited to take part in the central crime, and forced to make a choice between love and justice.
But Spade, as played by Humphrey Bogart, is not the upstanding private dick that movie-going audiences had become accustomed to. He is not the Pinkerton hired to protect the shipment, nor the debonair Nick Charles, also a Dashiell Hammett creation, a bon vivant with a knack for detection and staying alive. No, Spade is the kind of guy that will sleep with his partner's wife, assure her that the only thing standing in their way is her husband, then turn his back on her, even when the partner's out of the picture. He's the kind of dick that will take your case if you give him enough money, even if he knows you're lying. He's the kind of guy that will take your gun away and pause long enough for you to see him smile before he punches your lights out, the kind of guy that will kiss a girl in response to her question, "What else can I buy you with, if not money?"
So here is a noir character from the father of the hard-boiled novel. A man with a shifting morality, or only the most basic morality: staying alive and making money. Everything else is negotiable. And I think this is the basis of the film's noir qualifications. Our protagonist is an anti-hero. Although this film isn't seen from the criminal's point of view, our main character is little better than the criminals he is dealing with.
And what of the criminals? Their characterization was new, as well. No longer were they a cohesive unit of evil, but a federation of sociopaths, playing the situation from different angles, depending on the current climate. They joined together with the same dispassion that they betrayed each other.
Except for Brigid O'Shaughnessy (Mary Astor). She was the villain that showed the most passion. In fact, it was her most powerful weapon. She had long ago learned that she could manipulate a man into doing what she wanted him to do. With a little intimation and a lot of lying, she could maneuver her men like chess pieces against one another, using them up and moving on, staying above the fray, always finding her way out, until she met her match in the cynicism of Sam Spade.
But beyond the characterizations, there is little to qualify this film as noir. There is little of the low-key lighting that would later become a trademark. The film is not oneiric, strange, or erotic; but definitely ambivalent and certainly cruel.
Next time: Laura
But Spade, as played by Humphrey Bogart, is not the upstanding private dick that movie-going audiences had become accustomed to. He is not the Pinkerton hired to protect the shipment, nor the debonair Nick Charles, also a Dashiell Hammett creation, a bon vivant with a knack for detection and staying alive. No, Spade is the kind of guy that will sleep with his partner's wife, assure her that the only thing standing in their way is her husband, then turn his back on her, even when the partner's out of the picture. He's the kind of dick that will take your case if you give him enough money, even if he knows you're lying. He's the kind of guy that will take your gun away and pause long enough for you to see him smile before he punches your lights out, the kind of guy that will kiss a girl in response to her question, "What else can I buy you with, if not money?"
So here is a noir character from the father of the hard-boiled novel. A man with a shifting morality, or only the most basic morality: staying alive and making money. Everything else is negotiable. And I think this is the basis of the film's noir qualifications. Our protagonist is an anti-hero. Although this film isn't seen from the criminal's point of view, our main character is little better than the criminals he is dealing with.
And what of the criminals? Their characterization was new, as well. No longer were they a cohesive unit of evil, but a federation of sociopaths, playing the situation from different angles, depending on the current climate. They joined together with the same dispassion that they betrayed each other.
Except for Brigid O'Shaughnessy (Mary Astor). She was the villain that showed the most passion. In fact, it was her most powerful weapon. She had long ago learned that she could manipulate a man into doing what she wanted him to do. With a little intimation and a lot of lying, she could maneuver her men like chess pieces against one another, using them up and moving on, staying above the fray, always finding her way out, until she met her match in the cynicism of Sam Spade.
But beyond the characterizations, there is little to qualify this film as noir. There is little of the low-key lighting that would later become a trademark. The film is not oneiric, strange, or erotic; but definitely ambivalent and certainly cruel.
Next time: Laura
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