Genre-Matters: A Taste of Noir Part 4–The Big Sleep (1946)

There are two cuts of The Big Sleep.  The original reveals the identity of the murderer.  The other does not.  I’ve seen both, but couldn’t tell you who did it.  It’s just too complicated.  Even during the making of the film, one of the actors asked director Howard Hawks and even he didn’t know.  So they called the original novelist Raymond Chandler (co-screenwriter for Double Indemnity).  He didn’t remember either–he had to recheck his own book.

There are only a handful a movie mysteries in which the most paramount element is not the resolution.  (Another prime example will be mentioned in a future Noir segment).  With The Big Sleep, ace private-eye Phillip Marlowe (Humphrey Bogart) navigates through a labyrinth that you hope he never escapes.  Marlowe parries off one threat only to fall smack dab into another.  By the third act, a bevy of new faces enter the fray.  Rather than becoming coherent, the enigma only deepens.  During the prelude to the exciting conclusion, Marlowe recounts the events, but it’s like drawing lines from point A to point G without touching any of the other connected points.  If you manage to draw five straight connections without overlapping, you’ve done well.   Just don’t expect to ever connect them all.  

The Big Sleep stands as one of the greatest of film noirs.  Any hindrance to its critical and fan accolades is all due to its complicated plot.  It requires a large attention span and grander memory to recount the twists and turns.   The beauty of The Big Sleep is that each viewing rewards us; we understand a little more with each pass, even if the holes never fill properly.  But it never frustrates.  I never walk away believing that the gaps are due to the scripts’ imperfections, but rather the limitations of my own sleuthing abilities.   As we plug away at the tidbits of each plot element, we eventually get lost somewhere near the end, but enjoy the journey–the moments.

There’s good ol’ Bogie.  Following him has never been so fun.  His Marlowe is the kind of guy who can share a drink with a stranger and squeeze a confession out of him before gulping the final sip.  He can charm a beautiful women in even less time.

The film is one large investigation.  Marlowe is hired by a rich, elderly man, Mr. Rutledge, for a blackmail racket.  At one point Marlowe pretends to be a snooty book collector to obtain pertinent information from a uptight store clerk.  His disguise: he pulls down the brim of his fedora and dons sunglasses; pretending to be a high-society collector.  Without any luck, he exits, returns to his commonplace self-assured manner, walks across the street, and charms the clerk from a competing store.  Naturally, she’s a knockout and there’s flirtations as Marlowe spies on the shop across the street.

Marlowe is the kind of guy who loves the tease of his womanizing, but always remains fixated on the job first.  Unlike Bond, he’s more interested in the case than knocking boots with a complete stranger.  You get the sense that he’s happy with ideas of sexual innuendo.  He’s sure of himself, straight-as-an-arrow, and invokes the kind of masculinity and persona most men would envy.  He even earns the attention of his female cab driver (also a beauty, naturally) during a brief moment as he tails a lead.   Before departing, she tells him “If you can use me again sometime, call this number”.  Marlowe asks “Day and night?”  Her response, “Uh, night’s better. I work during the day.”

Speaking of Bond, there’s a lot to Marlowe that connects him to the famous British spy, who wouldn’t be introduced for another 20 years.  For example, when Marlowe is captured and tied down, he observes the efficiency of his imprisonment and cynically mutters “Your boys are taking any chances.”  He understands the dangers, but seems more amused than nervous.  Marlowe seems to already have an escape plan underway.  In the blink of an eye, he charms the pretty ladies, but unlike 007, he’s content with a quick flirt rather chauffeuring them off to a hotel room. 

During the film’s opening, Marlowe makes his way through Rutledge’s mansion where he meets his floozy, flirty daughter Carmen (Martha Vickers).  She literally throws herself into his arms, but she’s just a kid.  Marlowe does become bedazzled by Carmen’s elder, divorcee sister, Vivian (Lauren Bacall).  She’s tough, strong and smart enough to keep up.  The two ignite a chemistry that the studio hoped to capitalize after their first film, To Have and Have Not (1944, also directed by Hawks and Bacall’s film debut) sizzled on movie screens, mainly due to their dynamic chemistry. 

As the case unravels, Carmes meets Marlowe in his office to offer information.  Suspicious, Marlowe asks her why she didn’t go straight to the police.  Calling his bluff, Vivian picks up his phone and immediately calls the cops.  Marlowe’s convinced.  He steals the phone away and has fun with the confused receiver on the other end.  The two pretend to be elder folks with misdialed.  Their chemistry is playful, infectious, and, with a film like this, dangerous.  She might make a suitable mate–assuming she’s not one of the bad guys.

During the filming of The Big Sleep, Bogart’s marriage was on the rocks and he and Bacall were already romantically involved.  The two married just three months after shooting The Big Sleep.  The marketing of the Big Sleep focused on the insatiable sparks between Bogie and Bacall.  The film was originally released in 1945 and shown to troops in Europe.  However, the studio was not happy with some of the scenes and had them reshot to add more sizzle between the two leads, who were then married at the time.

Although I always favored scenes with Bogart’s as he autonomously prevues the scenes of crime and unleashes his tricks and mouth to unearth the mystery’s layers.  Bogie is a more straight shooter in Big Sleep than Falcon.  He’s likable because he takes risks for his clients; maintaining a noble confidence reserved for lawyers and shrinks.  He risks both reputation and life to protect his clients.  For example, he finds Carmen at the scene of a murder.  Immediately, he brings her home and never tells the cops or her family where she was.  Unlike Sam Spade, Marlowe follows a code of client privilege, rather than aiming to save his own neck. 

At this point, it’s evident that the beauty of the earlier noir has been the majesty of new talkie era: where larger-than-life quips constantly stream from the mouths of larger-than-life movie icons.  The players’ retorts are droll and wickedly clever that even the quickest minds would need generally require long gaps to compose such biting quips.  But that’s the joy of the movies–we get to bypass the broken sentences and disjointed thoughts and ingest in the poetry as if it were a Shakespearean play.  These characters are smart and clever.   There is a one wonderful counterattack of words as Marlowe sizes up a man he suspects is up to something.  Marlowe says to the man, “Convenient, the door being open when you didn’t have a key, eh?  “Yeah, wasn’t it,”  he responds.  “By the way, how’d you happen to have one?” asks Marlowe.  “Is that any of your business” he asks.   “I could make it my business,” Marlowe threatens.  “I could make your business mine”, he counters. “Oh, you wouldn’t like it. The pay’s too small.”

Director Howard Hawks infuses Sleep with all of the moods of established by Wilder in Double Indemnity along with his own platter.  Max Steiner’s brooding score subsides while Marlowe excavates the mystery, allow the night to crackle with the eerie sounds of crickets and the nightlife, installing an ominous mood.  There’s also the rain, the cracking of the thunder that adds to the sense of danger creeping around each corner.

Like Maltese Falcon, The Big Sleep keeps the audience watchful shadow over our hero, Marlowe.  We know only what he knows.  We are given the same opportunity to pick up the pieces and try hard to put them together.  By the film’s end, Marlowe seems to grasp more of the plot than we do–or at least seems content with the conclusion when the villain is thwarted and Marlowe is locking eyes with the damsel in distress.  I wouldn’t dare reveal more, only to say that the ending purely meshes the tried-and-true love conquers all sentiment without the sappy long-winded kiss–just a knowing exchange of glances that fades out.  Romantics can piece together a happy ending while the cynics will question if Bacall was completely innocent in the charade.  Either way, this a convoluted journey that is some of the finest film-making Hollywood has bestowed.  And Bogie and Bacall still sizzle. 

Genre-Matters: A Taste of Noir Part 3–Double Indemnity (1944)

“Yes, I killed him.  I killed him for money–and a woman–and I didn’t get the money and I didn’t get the woman.  Pretty, isn’t it?”  

Oh, the delicious irony. When I think of film noirs, images of Double Indemnity dance in my head.  It was the film that truly defined the noir as I know it today.  If The Maltese Falcon was the sketching, then Double Indemnity was the paint, leaving brush strokes of black, white, and a wonderful mix of gray.  In just three years since Bogie cynically smirked through the whirlpool of lies, deception, inner-demons (and one phony bird statue) of the reformed Hollywood, Double Indemnity poured in characters even more vile, self-serving and murderous–and as engrossing as any characters in films that have been produced before or since.

Take, for example, femme fatale Phyllis Dietrichson (Barbara Stanwychk) as she drives her car with her husband in the passenger seat and her lover, Walter Neff (Fred MacMurray), hiding in the back. Suddenly, she pulls over and honks the horn.  Instantly, Walt strangles her husband to death.  We only hear the sounds of a struggle–the camera stays on Phyllis’s face.  Her lips curl into a slight smile–as if she relishes the danger almost as much as the freedom and monetary gain from her husband’s demise.  Or maybe more so.

The allure of suspense and danger is perfectly expressed through the moments of dark shadows; the stark contrasts within its black-and-white canvas and the moments of suspense injected by director Billy Wilder, who devilishly teases our sensibilities of right-and-wrong.  Following the murder, the duo arranges a charade that ends with them dumping the body on railroad tracks in order to give the appearance of an accident.  As they are about to peel away, the car refuses to start.  Walt tries again and again until, finally, the car springs back to life.  The two leads breathe a sigh of relief.  At that moment, so do we. 

Originally, Wilder filmed the scene of two simply driving away without any hiccups in the plan.  Afterwards, Wilder got in his car and couldn’t start the ignition.  Then the epiphany hit him.  He ran back into the studio and reshot the scene as it plays in the finished film–with the car stalling.  MacMurray thought the idea was ludicrous.  Why would the car not start immediately?  But the gimmick worked so well that it has been duplicated hundreds of times in many films that followed (to the point where it’s become a cliché of horror movies).  Yet, even after numerous viewings, my heart always skips a beat.  As Walt desperately cranks the engine, I always pray that the damn engine will start. 

Amongst Indemnity’s many trendsetters is the set-up: it starts at the end. The film opens with Walt lethargically entering his insurance building; his face is draped in shadow or turned away from the camera as he makes his way into the office of his co-worker, Claims Analyst Barton Keyes (Edward G. Robinson).  His face is drenched in sweat, his breath is heavy.  We see a blood spot on his left shoulder as Walt begins to dictate his story into an audio recording.  We flashback and learn how things went so wrong.   

As indicated, Walter Neff, a 35-year-old insurance salesman, was looking to score a big sale with a rich business man, Mr. Dietrichson.  When Walt makes a house call to renew the man’s current policies, he’s greeted instead by his luminous wife, Phyllis, whose subtle seduction brings Neff down to the darkest corners of his soul.  During their first encounter, Phyllis greets him from the top of her staircase balcony, wearing nothing a towel.  She’s formal and cordial, with a hint of obvious sultriness.  Neff is instantly taken by her spell.  As he waits, his voiceover tell us, “I was thinking about that dame upstairs, and the way she had looked at me, and I wanted to see her again, close, without that silly staircase between us.”

Phyllis returns, fully-clothed, and greets Neff in the den, recognizes his immense attraction and sets her trap.  Neff begins telling her about the additional policies he provides.  When Neff mentions accident insurance, director Billy Wilder once again focuses the camera strictly on Stanwyck.  She prances back and forth, listening attentively, thinking hard, never wavering or hinting that he just planted an idea in her head.  Neff won’t know what hit him.

The two begin a love affair.  Walt toys with the idea of killing Phyllis’s husband so the two can be together and possibility collect a huge sum from his insurance.  Later, Neff meets with Phyllis’s husband and tricks him into signing an accident insurance policy that will pay the beneficiary, Phyllis, $50,000 (in 1944 dollars) in the event of his death.  Also, if he suffers an accident in an unlikely case scenario–such as on a moving train–the payment is doubled.  Neff, a tenured insurance man, knows all of the ins-and-outs, all of the loose-ends needed to patch up in order for the scheme to work.  As expected, the murder goes off without a hitch, as does the manipulation to make the death appear like an accident.  Of course, everything goes wrong.

For a film that is lean, taut and has a wonderfully constructed narrative, there is one scene that baffles me.  As Walt prepares the final phase for his murder, Barton visits his office and offers him a job as his personal assistant (for a few dollars less).  Why does he select Walt?  Because he likes Walt and trusts him.  Walt, not wishing to be pinned to a desk, politely turns it down–even though the job is perfect for him.  What is the purpose of the scene?  I can only surmise two possible motives: It suggests the mutual respect and friendship between the insurance co-workers.  It also indicates how Barton represents Walt’s saving grace from his downward spiral.  Barton casually mentions the one woman he almost married long ago—until he had her researched.  Too bad Walt didn’t listen. 

The two represent a bond that’s missing between Walt and Phyllis: one of mutual respect and affection.  Phyllis and Walt even appear more excited by temptation of their murder plot than each other.

Like its precursor, M, Double Indemnity tells the story of bad people who do a terrible thing and spend most of the film trying to cover their tracks and elude capture or something much worse.  Yet, somewhere during the course, we get bamboozled–we can’t help but get involved in their plot–tensing up whenever it looks like Walt and Phyllis will be caught.  Wilder manipulates the audience akin to his peer, Hitchcock, but Wilder is more reserved with his direction of suspense, relying more heavily on the performers’ body language and faces.

There’s the scene Walt gets a phone call in his apartment from Phyllis, who is five minutes away and wants to come see him.  The moment Walt hangs up, he receives a knock on his door.  It’s Barton! At this point, Barton is researching Phyllis’s claim for her husband’s death, but knows nothing of Walt’s connections or scheme.

Walt entertains his unexpected visitor, knowing that Phyllis’s mere appearance will incriminate him instantly.  He plays cool, even as Barton voices his theory that he thinks Dietrichson’s death was neither an accident nor suicide.  What else could it be?!

While Walt labors over this development, his mind races, his eyes constantly wander back to the doorway.  He projects his voice loudly so Phyllis might hopefully overhear his conversation before she enters.  But McMurray plays it just right, maintaining a casual and calm exterior as his mind struggles to tame the escalating nervousness from the dual threat of Barton’s curiosities and Phyllis’s eminent arrival.  McMurray exerts the perfect level of stiffness and quick glances to suggest his worry.  Wilder wisely doesn’t cut back to Phyllis–we don’t know when she’ll turn up–until she’s right outside his door and hears the voices of two men.

Soon, Barton takes his leave.  Walt sees him out, suspecting Phyllis will pop out of the elevator.  Instead, he feels like a slight nudge on the door–Phyllis is hiding behind it.  Of course, doorways to apartment (or homes) do not open outwards, but this is one rule that’s compromised for the sake of the suspense.  Of course, Barton teases us further by creeping close to the door. And like in Fritz Lang’s M, we catch ourselves holding our breath for the bad guys. 

Between Maltese and Indemnity, we have two of the most famous femme fatales of the silver screen.  After rewatching both, I pondered if men, in general, have more of an affinity towards these films than women.  Are these female portrayals liberating or simply demeaning?  One could presume that the noir suggests that women’s freedoms spell doom for the male species.  Or do they actually imbue sympathy for women?  Are the femme fatales committing these actions to escape the confinement of the male-dominated world?

I always lean towards the last option.  The noir seems to present strong-willed females who defeat, or at the very least, attempt to defy the restrictions of the establishment.  They fend off and, in many cases, destroy the domineering men through the limited tools they possess: usually including their power to seduce.  In most noirs, the chief male protagonist is either a lone cynical detective whose keen senses are averted by their sexual desires. Or their thieving, murderous schemes are undermined by a woman, who weaves a thicker layer of manipulation. The women of these films are most dangerous.  They have an agenda they’ve orchestrated on their own, which usually leads to some form of monetary gain or liberation.  They frankly don’t care much for starting a romance, but use the conventional wisdom–the idea that every woman longs for a man, for a love–in order to deceive and undo males who buy into the idea.

In this case, Barbara Stanwyck’s Phyllis Dietrichson demonstrates her power and authority through her charm and subtle sexuality.  The fault is on Neff for being the sap taken in by the flirtations of a lonely, self-serving woman, but what is Phyllis’s overall scheme?  She clearly doesn’t love Walter, but what does she plan to do after the dust settles?

 

The ultimate fates of Barton, Walt and Phyllis end with an exchange of gunshots–each bullet ringing equally loud and brutal.  Like The Maltese Falcon, most of its influences are commonplace in Hollywood.  But few have duplicated the icy, biting dialog, the dimensions of three leads, the ominous shadows that haunt them, and, of course, Wilder’s taut direction that asks us to question our very natures.  And like Walt, first time viewers may fall prey to the seduction of Phyllis.  Edward G. Robinson was a leading man until Wilder convinced him to take a supporting part.  He chews every ounce of his role.  His final moments with Neff are touching.  They exchange one last cigarette and a tender moment of affection that would lead to another avenue of interpretation that I’ll spare for another time.  Instead, we have two men who inhabit the true love story of the film.  No matter how you interpret the portrayals of women in these movies, there’s always an element of lost love buried within the cracks.  Pretty, isn’t it?

Genre-Matters: A Taste of Noir Part 2–The Maltese Falcon (1941)

“The stuff that dreams are made of.”

Those immortal words struck a cord with film audiences in 1941 as the harsh failings of Sam Spade and the supporting players echoed the legitimate, grim realities of the war-torn world that waited outside the cinema doors–a reality that continues to ring true seventy years later, during both peacetime and war.  The Maltese Falcon’s influence speckled a fresh shade of gray over the once glamorized and idealistic Hollywood.   The film changed many of the rules.  It also jettisoned the legendary careers of two men: director John Huston and Hollywood icon and star, Humphrey Bogart, whose sleuthing detective, Sam Spade, was instantly cemented as the poster child for all of noir; using a fast tongue, a quicker wit, and a master stroke of deception to unravel the mystery of The Maltese Falcon, the film in which most critics consider as the father of the film noir.

For all the hype surrounding Hollywood’s most famous “McGuffin”–which Hitchcock once coined as the desired object that everyone in the film is after–there’s a startling revelation by the film’s end: the Maltese Falcon, a small bird statue of considerably infinite worth, is a fake.  To those who haven’t seen the 1941 version of The Maltese Falcon, I assure you that I haven’t spoiled anything.  The film has become instilled into our cultural conscious that you’ll most likely know the story even if you haven’t seen a frame.  It’s like knowing the truth of Rosebud or the secret behind Darth Vader’s identity.  If you’re in-tune with pop culture–or watched more than five episodes of the “The Simpsons”–you know the story.

The film’s final bit of irony is more than just one final gotcha moment.  (Like all of those meaningless last-second surprises found in the “Saw” series or any of the post-“Six Sense” Shyamalan films).  The film’s last surprise reveals the underlying truth to infinite greed that predicates the many people who pursued the black bird.  Their desperation leads to a web of lies, thievary, and even a few murders.

When the falcon turns out to be fraud, the four leads briefly sink into shock and dismay.   They soon compose themselves; some decide continue the hunt, even if takes another year.  Their greed has no boundaries.  Even as they unwrap the packaging over the falcon forgery, you can see their salivating mouths and their heavy breathing in anticipation.  They can practically taste their riches.  Among them is our hero, Spade.   Before Falcon, a character like Spade would reject his any personal agenda and aim for the noble cause. But Falcon introduced new standard that defined our movie hero.  What would have Spade done if the falcon was real?

Despite being noted as the father of film noir, I’m always surprised by how many of genre’s ingredients are missing from The Maltese Falcon.  It lacks most of the genre’s recognizable trademarks–the scenes of dark shadows are overridden by the sunny San Francisco daylight skies, the claustrophobia and dread are offset by Spade’s confident self-assured resilience, Adoph Deutsch’s musical score is chipper and light, only bearing down the grimness when necessary.   The film’s hero is deep in a web of deception and manipulation.  But Spade seems to be the one dealing the cards, even if he’s not exactly sure who else is playing.  For instance, when Spade first meets the falcon’s most dangerous pursuer, “fatman” Kaspar Gutman (Syndney Greenstreet), the conversation ends with Spade storming out in a tantrum.  Once the door closes, Spade composes himself and smiles as he exits–the outburst was all a deliberate plan to sway his enemies.  He’s almost always ahead of the game.   In many ways, the film doesn’t even feel like a noir, until we look more closely.   

The most obvious influence is the film’s seedy characters and their illnobilities–a noir trademark if there ever was one.  Hence the anti-hero, Sam Space.  Bogart was a supporting player for Warner Brothers, usually cast as the villain who was killed off in the last reel (usually by James Cagney).  Having just hit his 40s, Bogie was already weathered, his speech impeded by a lisp.  Space is rough around the edges, doesn’t subscribe to a noble agenda–save for an unwritten code of honor and a inkling for self preservation.  He doesn’t even carry a gun.  “I never liked them”, he says.

Only film historians will note all of the elements of noir that began with The Maltese Falcon.  Yet, Falcon endures as one of the best, even to less astute film aficionados or if many of the imitators imbued more eye-catching visual elements of  shadows, allure, sexuality and corruption.  Falcon remains supreme because of Bogart.  His Sam Spade is one of the great film icons.  His dialog, supplied and directed by Houston, in his first film, bristles with arsenic and cynicism.  His biting tongue makes for some of the great movie quotes,  including my favorite “When you’re slapped you’ll take it and like it.”

The story of The Maltese Falcon begins without wasting a moment.  Space greets a potential client in his private detective office: a beautiful damsel in distress, Miss Wanderly.  She suspects her sister is held up against her will with a Floyd Thursby somewhere in San Francisco.  She asks Space and his partner, Mile Archer to find her and pushes two hundred dollars on the table.  The two men exchange a knowing glance.  Wanderly’s overly generous suggests that there’s more to the story than she is sharing, but they gladly turn an ignorant eye and take her money anyway.  “We didn’t exactly believe your story, Miss. We believed your 200 dollars,” he later tells her. 

That evening, Archer is shot dead while shadowing Thursby, who, in turn, is also murdered later that same night.  John Huston originally planned to shoot all of Falcon through Sam’s point-of-view.  Archer’s murder was going to be revealed when Sam hears the news over the phone.  But the studio insisted that Huston insert a brief sequence of Archer being shot by a mysterious foe.  Huston would have been right.   Instead, we get the one hokey shot in the film, with Archer keeling over in the good-old-fashion deaths of the period, in which blood and gruesomeness was restricted.  Getting the news of Archer’s death along with Sam would have added an ominous feeling that’s missing.

Houston did manage to pin the rest of the story with Spade, who soon becomes the prime suspect for Thursby’s murder when the police suspect that his death was vengeance for Archer.  The real twist is: Spade never liked Archer.  News of his death doesn’t phase Spade for a second.  The next morning, he even exchanges a passionate kiss with Archer’s mourning widow behind closed doors.  The moment she leaves, Spade commands his secretary to keep her away.  He has no interest in engaging in a serious romance. The man is very cold. 

Our feet are firmly planted along side Spade as he plots his game to unearth the truth to his partner’s murder. Spade’s motives are unclear until the final act as he jettisons from scene to scene wearing different hats and facades.  

As Sam tries to uncover his partner’s murder, he meets with Ms. Wanderly, who is actually named Brigid O’Shaughnessy.  Spade knows there still some truth she hasn’t shared.  He fails to extract the truth out her, but, as are the rules for any femme fatale, she deflects his questioning with her sexuality.  Interestingly, Brigid doesn’t blatantly exude any hint of sensuality.  Spade just falls prey to her with a mere glance.  Does she know this?  Does she actually love him?  Does he actually love her?  By the film’s end, the only truth we do learn is composed to a single moment on Spade’s face that shows regret as the truth finally surfaces.  It’s the one moment of humanity that could, ironically, undo Spade’s own capabiliities as a detective.

The Maltese Falcon is all about the characters, their greed, their lusts and the extent to which they will destroy each other to reach their greedy intentions first.  The protagonists of the films to follow would trail down darker paths, but Falcon was the first to blur the line that separates hero from foe. 

Spade is an adulterer, callous and cold, but still lives by a code of honor.  The more diabolical and evil sins are attached to the supporting cast, including the star-making performances of Peter Lorre (the star of M),  who retreated from Germany during Hitler’s occupation.  There’s also Sydney Greenstreet as the eloquent “fatman” Kasper Gutman, in his first film role.

The last half hour of Falcon acts as a small play, where all the major players are assembled and work out some devious truce in order to procure the falcon.  This single scene is pure joy from end-to-end as each lead gets an opportunity to play their hand.  The levels of distrust nearly boil over as the final moments count down to the falcon’s inevitable arrival.  At one moment, Gutman hints to Spade that Brigid stole $100 out of his share.  Irate, Spade scolds Brigid.  He doesn’t trust her.  But she doesn’t have the money.  It was Gutman who palmed it himself–all for some cheap ploy to exploit the distrust between Sam and Brigid.  Any hope of love between Sam and Brigid is severed by their lies and deception.  It cements the ground rule of the noirs that follow: Never Trust Anyone!  It’s no wonder the falcon was a fake.  The stuff that dreams are made of…

Genre-Matters: A Taste of Noir Part 1–M (1931)

M is the kind of the film that preys on the fears, dangers and nightmares that continue to haunt today’s climate as strongly as it did in 1931 (although I’d wager it’s even greater)—the fear for our children and the unseen horrors that can easily claim them.   Watching the film recently, I ran through a checklist of modern modifications needed to mold M for modern tastes, and I’ll be damned if I could identify any.  

M is one of the great film noirs—perhaps the first of the sound era.  Even in today’s cinema, it remains a unique entity, full of ideas, suspense and haunting imagery and sounds.  The story: a child murder runs ramped through a German town, killing many prepubescent girls, turning the town into an uproar.  The police are desperate and exhaust all methods to catch the killer, including putting the squeeze on the organized crime syndicate. Soon the suffering crime bosses give up on the notion that the legal system can catch the killer and decide to try to catch him on their own.  Both the cops and criminals strategize in meeting rooms and devise their individual sets of plans to track him down.  There’s something very telling as to which side catches the killer first.   

The child killer, Hans Beckert, is portrayed by Peter Lorre, whose bulging eyes, eerie voice and obsessive whistling branded him both fame and infamy even before he retreated from Nazi Germany to become a famous character actor in America, where he co-starred in the iconic noir The Maltese Falcon and many Hollywood classics including Casablanca and 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. 

M’s director is Fritz Lang, who also fled to America and made success in Hollywood where he continued to craft many brilliant noirs for decades.  However, it’s Lang’s early German films that are his most noteworthy.  He directed the first great science fiction epic, Metropolisduring the waning years of the silent era.  M was his first sound film, which Lang embraced, even establishing a few rules to talkie films that continue to this very day.

Although embracing the new recording technologies for M, Lang uses his sound sparingly.  Due to the cumbersome recording equipment, many of the exterior shots remain silent—an effect that gives the film an eerie undercurrent.  Occasionally the silence is broken by sounds of our shadowy villain whistling “In the Hall of the Mountain King”, which the killer repeats to try to suppress his obsession to murder (and commit other unspecified atrocities).  The music gets louder and the killer comes approaches closer—an effect which Spielberg would use in Jaws. 

M’s opening moments show children playing and dancing in the street.  One of the mothers scolds them for making too much noise as she tends to chores.  Her child, Elsie, is returning home from school when the murderer approaches her.  Lang introduces the killer off-screen, the shadow of his profile displays over his own wanted poster.   Without one word, Lang has already indicated who he is. 

He compliments the girl’s toy ball and buys her a balloon.  Within moments, the only sound heard is the mother crying out her tardy child’s name.  Lang shows the little girl’s toy ball rolling to a stop, her balloon tangled in telephone wires.  She is dead. 

When Lang first shows the face of Lorre’s killer, there is no dramatic introductory camera move or music cue, only Lorre staring at his cold, dullard reflection in the mirror as his hands fidget and stretch his cheeks and lips, searching for signs of the monster within. 

Faces play an intricate role in M such as the haunting finale in which the faces of the criminals stare down Lorre’s killer in judgment and contempt.  Their thirst for vengeance mimics Beckert’s own bloody obsession.  

 

The hunt for the killer is dazzling in its attention to detail.  The police and criminals ponder all methods within their power to stop the homicides and Lang blatantly cuts between the two factions to show the striking similarities.  Both factions learn the identity of their target with different tactics, and interestingly, the criminals are one step ahead.  They pursue Beckert, corner him in an office building that’s closed for the evening and literally tear it apart, level after level. 

Lang instills tremendous suspense as the criminals trap their man.  There’s also some surprising manipulation involved.  We’re obviously hoping that the criminals will catch Beckert, but there is the sequence always manages to invoke tension as Beckert becomes cornered and out of options.  Beckert picks at a lock when suddenly the handle turns, the criminals are on the other side, and our hearts race.    

When Beckert’s finally captured, Lang teases with our emotions further.  The criminal organization arranges its own trial, with an assigned defense attorney who is none too thrilled.  Beckert pleads for mercy, exploding in panic and dwindling into a morose, sad confession.  He raises a valid point.  Is the man a monster, or just sick?  Does he deserve to be killed or is he entitled to a fair trial—with the risk that he may survive capital punishment or even be free to kill again one day. 

M’s questions of the legal process remains universal and timely.   But the film works primarily because of its construction, which has only one wasted moment—when the cops interrogate one of the criminals who helped capture Beckert.  The police use manipulation and deception to learn about Beckert, although we already have all the information.  

The film gets under your skin.  Lorre’s Beckert makes for one of the most iconic and horrifying villains in cinema and without displaying any of the grisly and horrible crimes he commits.  The cries of the mothers, the paranoia of the townsfolk and dead, Lorre’s piercing stares invoke the imaginations to spell out nightmares.  The closing shot ends without a final verdict over Beckert’s fate, just two mourning mothers warning us of the perils and the need to watch over our children with better eyes.   She’s as right today as she was 80 years ago. 

Genre-Matters: A Taste of Noir–Introduction

Shadowy figures looming in the dark underbelly of America–a loner hero is stalked by femme fatales, weaselly figureheads, murderous thugs and crooked cops.  Welcome to the world of film noir–otherwise known as “black film”.  It’s a genre without a clear-cut definition, but you always know it when you see it.  It’s more or less a sense of mood that invokes some of the most emotionally arousing moments in cinema history.  There’s mystery, suspense, murder, creepiness, and a pinch of cynicism here and there.  The influence of yesterday’s film noirs continuously creep into the frames of today’s cinema, sometimes when we least expect it.

Also, the film noir is one of the few “genres” (again, if you may call it that) that America can claim.  The earlier European films may have spawned some of its ingredients, but the final concoction was shaped under the very noses of the Hollywood studio system.  Hell, even the French concede that–they’re the ones who coined the term.  There is constant debate over its exact origins, when it was officially “invented”, and even if today’s movies fall under its description. 

Over the next few weeks, I will trace through the history and review many of the films that epitomize the film noir–and some that aren’t as apparent.  For those self-appointed film scholars, you may question my blatant decision to overlook some of the most “important” noirs and raise eyebrows over some of these choices I’ve made.

Among the few films I name, I hope to raise arguments for the genre’s vitality and introduce novice viewers to some of cinema’s true treasures.  I could spend the next three months critiquing many more films at the risk of boring people to tears or beating a dead horse until all that remains are bones.  Therefore, I have disciplined myself to 20 titles based on their relevance to film history, their relationship to other films within the list, or my personal connection and nostalgic love (which really beckoned me to write these in the first place).

Inevitably, my point was to re-watch many films I love dearly.  Many of these films can be found online and my hope is this will arouse interest and give others a chance to relish in some of Hollywood’s finest films ever crafted.  Thanks for reading and good screening to you!

First up…The Noir begins with the letter…”M”