9/19: Criss Cross; The Killers (1964)

Criss Cross is a fine noir from director Robert Siodmak, whose career provided the genre with many of its characteristic classics. The film follows Burt Lancaster as Steve Thompson, an armored car security man who's unwittingly pulled into a life of crime by his ex-wife. Yvonne DeCarlo plays a great femme fatale here, and her smoldering presence is one of the film's high points. The story starts with Thompson arriving back in his home town. He'd been away for about a year following his divorce, and he tells himself that he's returning now to help out his family, but it's patently obvious that he's really looking for Anna, his ex-wife. Once he sees her, they immediately reignite their hot/cold romance, but it ends when Anna abruptly runs off and marries Dundee, a local gangster (played with a constant slimy leer by Dan Duryea). The marriage doesn't quite end the affair, though, and when Dundee learns that the two have been seeing each other, Thompson convinces him that all he really wants is to help the gangsters plot an armored car robbery.

The film is a typically bleak example of the noir style, and the betrayals and murders that end the film should hardly be surprising — there's no way out for these people, no matter how much they might dream. Siodmak bathes this grim tale in dense shadows that help set the dark tone. The opening, with a dark car gliding through an even darker night in a parking lot, sets the mood early. Light only enters the picture a few minutes later, as the headlights illuminate the lovers Thompson and Anna locked in an illicit embrace. Light, for them, is anathema, something to be afraid of, and they instinctively flinch away. These characters live their lives in darkness, and the film's happiest moments take place in the dim, smoky bar where the lovers first met and continue to hang out. This story doesn't hold much surprise, and the doomed lovers go towards their inevitable fate with noir's characteristic fatalism. The primary pleasure here is purely visual, in the gorgeous chiaroscuro lighting, and in Duryea's sneering performance.

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Don Siegel's 1964 TV feature The Killers, the first film made for television, came well after the generally accepted noir period had ended in the mid-to-late 50s. Nevertheless, Siegel is another important director of B-noirs, and this film is a remake of Siodmak's 1946 film of the same name, which Siegel was originally slated to direct at that time. Instead, he wound up making the film almost 20 years later, and it's quite a different beast. In Siegel's bright, shadowless daytime compositions here, there is very little of the noir aesthetic on a visual level. The plot is mostly adapted from Siodmak's version, maintaining the extensive back story that the film script grafted onto Ernest Hemingway's brief story of two hitmen making a kill. There are a few changes — the dead man is a washed-up race car driver rather than a washed-up boxer, and the focus is on the two hitmen rather than, as in Siodmak's version, the insurance investigator assigned to the case. But mostly, Siegel is simply retelling the story, and the lack of the classic noir visuals would initially appear to make this a much lesser work.

Nevertheless, Siegel's version of The Killers does have a few things going for it. Most obvious are the performances. Siodmak had Ava Gardner for his femme fatale, and as good as Angie Dickinson is, she just can't live up to Gardner's sultry, smoldering performance, which completely anchored the original film. The rest of the cast, though, definitely falls in Siegel's favor. John Cassavetes plays Johnny North, the doomed race car driver whose love for Dickinson propels him into deep trouble and misery. Cassavetes, with his trademark smirk and casual delivery, is always fun to watch, even if he tended to view his Hollywood career as just a moneymaker for his own independently made films. But the real star here is Lee Marvin as the older of the two hitmen, turning in a brilliant tough guy performance that culminates in his tragic and surprisingly moving final scene, in which Siegel delivers a bleak denouement and a strong condemnation of greedy violence. Siegel's idea to center the story around the two hitmen is a great twist, though it does mean he loses the mysterious and sinister aura that surrounded them in the original. In Siegel's vision, the hitmen become avatars of capitalistic excess, as epitomized by the iconic final shot — predictive of Bresson's L'Argent — of a fatally wounded Lee Marvin pointing his finger at the cops in lieu of a gun, then falling backwards amid a spill of cash. It's a great final image for a solid post-noir thriller.

9/18: La Chinoise; To Catch a Thief

Godard's La Chinoise lies at the heart of his revolutionary period, and provides a powerful look at what was soon to come from this chameleonic director. By 1967, Godard had spent the previous 2 years increasingly moving into political filmmaking, largely eschewing the genre plots of earlier years and reducing characters down to abstractions and mouthpieces for ideas. Godard had never been content to work in any one mode, but his films prior to 1965 or so usually provided a way in for more casual viewers, whether it was the playful musical pastiche of A Woman is a Woman or the lighthearted stabs at noir in Band of Outsiders and Breathless. This was not the case by the time 1967 rolled around, and La Chinoise proves the point. In some ways, it is emblematic of the more difficult films Godard had made prior to that — complex use of on-screen texts, direct interviews to the actors, the exposure of the filmmaking artifice — but it also represents a new break in his work, pointing ahead to the apocalyptic Week-end, made later that year, and to the tract-like political films he'd make with the Dziga Vertov Group.

In La Chinoise, Godard fully embraced the complete political filmmaking style that he'd been hinting towards in earlier works like Masculin Féminin and Made in USA. The plot is minimal — a group of students spend a summer vacation at their parents' vacated apartment, discussing political theory and plotting revolution — and the characters are skeletal. The focus here is clearly not on story or characterization, but on ideas. These ideas are presented in a series of dialogues and monologues in which the students quote from Communist and anarchist tracts, argue about points of theory, and plan for a Maoist revolution in France. In these discussions, Godard employs a dialectical structure that's partly indigenous to socialism — with its emphasis on proletariat vs. bourgeosie, revolutionary vs. reactionary — and partly a product of Godard's own probing mind.

This is especially apparent in the film's best scene, an impassioned discussion between Veronique (Godard's then-wife Anne Wiazemsky) and the real-life French dissident Francis Jeanson, who was once imprisoned for aiding the Algerian independence movement. Veronique advocates violent revolt and terrorism, especially as directed against universities, while Jeanson questions the wisdom or efficacy of such measures in this context. His interesting argument is that in the Algerian context, the whole populace was united in the goal of independence, or at least sympathetic to it, so terrorism in that movement had a certain moral force and a chance to achieve something. He dismisses such violence in the French context, where there would be no such unity of purpose in the population with regards to a socialist revolution. This dialogue also points out the essential emptiness of the students' movement, as Veronique openly avows that she has no idea what to do next; she simply wants action and seems unwilling to examine the consequences or think about the future. Throughout this scene, Godard remains impassive, mostly filming the two from the side as they sit facing each other, so that their contrasting views have a kind of equivalence on the screen. It's up to the viewer to parse the arguments and decide which is correct, without any input from Godard.

It's ultimately this ambiguity that keeps La Chinoise from being just a political tract. Godard is concerned with violence, and change, and especially with the possibilities for action and new thinking among young people. But if he's especially concerned with the young in this phase of his career, he doesn't invest any blind hope in them either. Masculin Féminin ended with a rather harsh outlook on modern youth's moral weakness and lack of engagement. La Chinoise is somewhat more hopeful, stressing learning and education (though decidedly not traditional, university-based education) and the possibility that this nascent and confused movement may grow. Or, then again, maybe not.

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It's always a wise move to follow up such a dense and complex movie with something a little frothier — if I ever try to watch more than one Godard film in a night, it tends to make my head hurt. So, in this spirit, I followed La Chinoise with Hitchcock's romantic farce To Catch a Thief. Somewhat uncharacteristically for Hitch, there isn't much suspense here, or even much humor — it's more amusing than actually funny — but there's plenty of charm to make up for it. This was a vacation picture for Hitch, a chance to film on the French Riviera and to let his favorite actors Cary Grant and Grace Kelly light up the screen. Well, Grant is looking a little worse for wear here, though his charm is intact, but Kelly completely steals the show and makes the film. More than anything, this is a tribute to her great beauty, a cinematic ode to a gorgeous woman. There's not much else there — a light caper, a minimal mystery, a frisson of romance, and some stunning color cinematography. The night scenes, bathed in gentle green light, are especially lovely, culminating in the wonderfully arranged climactic scene, the rooftop chase in which Grant attempts to corner the cat burglar whose crimes he was suspected of. And the film's most famous scene remains its best: the love scene into which Hitchcock cleverly cut images of the fireworks exploding outside. The editing here is a masterpiece of symbolic montage, as Hitch shows a long shot, then fireworks, then a slightly closer shot, then fireworks, then a closeup on the actors just inches apart. The editing reflects the increasing intimacy, and throughout the scene Grant and Kelly engage in witty banter with the kinds of light sexual undertones that Hitch loved so much. This scene alone makes the film worthwhile viewing, and there's lots more to love in the film's general charm and beauty. Not a masterpiece, but fun nonetheless.

9/17: The Velvet Underground & Nico

Andy Warhol was always, in his film work, interested in the tension between celebrity and ordinariness. This constant theme is especially present in his highly unusual The Velvet Underground and Nico, his document of an improvisatory 1966 performance by the Velvets at Warhol's Factory. Unfortunately, most people who have even heard of the film seem to be approaching the film as fans of the band, and in that respect it can't help but be disappointing. The music itself is interesting, in the avant-garde tradition of the group's drone-rock jam sessions like "Melody Laughter" or "European Son" rather than their more pop- or rock-oriented songs. Warhol's decision to record from a single static mic distances the music, making it fade in and out and giving it a reedy, noisy quality that enhances its dissonant rawness. But fans of the band are doubtless coming to a video performance in search of ever-elusive footage of the band itself, and Warhol's film steadfastly refuses to provide any straightforward concert footage.

The film starts with a static master shot of the band, grouped around the tall Nordic chanteuse Nico, with her infant son playing at her feet. From there, the camera almost immediately begins shifting and moving, disrupting the unity of the shot, cutting everything into minuscule pieces with wild pans, zooms, and light flares. Warhol's camera stays in a static position, but it zooms frantically in and out, pans across the stage, lets light flood the frame in whiteness or darkness close in, shakes and vibrates in attunement with the music's primal drone. The camera's constant, sickening movement pixelates the band, reducing them to shards of leather jackets, dark sunglasses, cross-sections of instruments. There are glimpses of the band's iconic cool, and periodic focus on the motions of their playing, but these things arise out of the whole like a mosaic image seen from afar. Up close, the individual details seem random, haphazard, isolated, and it's only in the context of the whole that a kind of composite image of the Velvet Underground appears.

The film concludes when the police arrive on the scene thanks to noise complaints, pulling the plug on the band's amplifier and ending the gig early. Warhol documents the ensuing activity from the same static position, although now his camera settles down somewhat and mostly sits still. The muted conversations and chatter of the Factory regulars as they hang out and mill around forms a drone comparable to the music that just ended, an audio echo of the Velvets' performance in everyday conversation. Warhol's film is perhaps so unusual because it inverts the usual role of film, especially performance film. Where most films show, Warhol prefers to obscure; where most films focus, Warhol atomizes and destroys until all focus is lost in a barrage of unresolved fragments. It's a fascinating formal experiment and worth a look for fans of Warhol and the Velvets alike.

9/16: Saboteur, High Noon

Saboteur is a well-executed wartime thriller from suspense master Alfred Hitchcock, crammed with fascinating set pieces and great action scenes, though overall lacking in plausibility or the deeper insights that often underpinned his later work. Robert Cummings plays Barry Kane, a factory worker during World War II who's falsely accused of sabotage after an explosion at his workplace. He flees the police, knowing they'll never believe him, and uses his scant clues about the real saboteur to try and track down the root of the conspiracy. Along the way, he encounters a blind man who shelters him briefly, then takes off with the man's distrustful daughter (Priscilla Lane) in tow. The plot veers from set piece to set piece and is mostly indifferent in between; the meager threads of the fascist conspiracy that Cummings is tracking are a mere excuse for some stunningly executed suspense.

Best of all is the scene at a society ball where the fascist spies are mixed in with the crowd, slowly trying to close in on Cummings and Lane without alerting the innocent partygoers to the disturbance. Hitchcock perfectly captures the sense of being trapped even in public, of being totally alone in a massive crowd of strangers. There's also the famous ending scene, set atop the Statue of Liberty, with the villainous real saboteur dangling — literally by a thread — off the Statue's lamp. This scene provides the blueprint for the Mount Rushmore sequence from the later North By Northwest, and it's a great scene in its own right.

But the film's most substantial scene is the one in which Cummings and Lane hitch aboard the rear car of a circus caravan, discovering a community of freaks inside who engage in an impassioned argument about what to do, whether or not to shelter these outlaws from the pursuing police. The scene takes on an allegorical dimension with a subtlety and intelligence that's largely missing from the rest of the film, with its by-the-numbers action emphasis. The debate between the freaks is a microcosm of democracy at work, with an incredibly thin man leading the discussion and taking the side of protecting the intruders. He's opposed by a dictatorial midget, a kind of mini-Hitler figure who represents the forces of oppression, the police state, the militaristic outlook that sees no value in basic kindness to others. Even his nickname, "The Major," points to his militaristic, fascist origins. In between these two opposing forces, the other freakshow members — a bearded lady, a fat woman, a bickering pair of Siamese twins — represent the various cacophonous voices of democracy at work. They are indecisive and disinterested, making decisions without facts, and fighting amongst themselves. The scene's underlying idea is the way in which people's disinterest in democratic institutions can make room for the opinions of fascists like the Major to gain hold. Even if no one actively supports his view of the intruders, their laziness, self-interest, and petty quarrels very nearly allow his nasty outlook to win out.

The fascinating freakshow scene aside, Saboteur mostly just offers up thrills and action with little else of interest. Fortunately, that's enough to make this a solid second-tier Hitchcock. The leads are a bit weak, and their relationship is largely unbelievable and poorly developed, and even the villains mostly don't make much of an impression. And the expected wartime preaching built into the film, though not as heavy-handed as the ending of Foreign Correspondent, is definitely a sign of its times. Even with all its problems, though, it's definitely worth seeing for the way that Hitchcock, even saddled with a somewhat lame script and an unassuming cast, could create a tense, suspenseful, exciting film.

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High Noon does exactly one thing throughout its trim length, and it does it exceptionally well. It is a perfect example of how a singleminded dedication to creating a mood can result in a truly rewarding and compelling filmic experience. Every facet of the film, every moment in its economical structure, contributes to the ever-growing tension that will be released only in the crisp, fast-paced showdown of the film's final minutes. Director Fred Zinnemann maintains a tight control over the pacing and rhythm of the film, using quick close-up shots of clocks as markers in the editing, like emphasized beats that drive home the over-arching tension. Gary Cooper plays the small-town sheriff Will Kane, on the verge of retiring, marrying his sweetheart Amy (Grace Kelly, radiating with chaste beauty), and heading off to a peaceful life as a store owner, in deference to his new wife's pacifist Quaker beliefs. But his plans are disrupted on his wedding day by the announcement that his old foe, the violent and vengeful Frank Miller (Ian MacDonald), has been released from prison and is heading back to town on the noon train. Three of the outlaw's cronies await Miller's arrival at the local station, and the countdown to noon occupies nearly the entirety of the film, encompassing an hour that passes almost in real time. It takes an hour of film time for the train to arrive, even as an hour passes in the film itself.

Kane fills this hour by trying to rouse the townspeople to help him fight Miller. He briefly considered leaving town as originally planned, and everyone urges him to do so, but he decides that his honor won't allow him to back down from this battle. He even risks losing his new wife, who promises to leave him rather than see him needlessly killed, but he won't turn away from facing Miller. Gaining support in the town proves difficult though, and Zinnemann relentlessly chronicles the near-complete rejection of Kane by his former friends and neighbors. As the clocks tick down the time until the train's arrival, the townsfolk debate, shy away, and guiltily dodge the responsibility of joining the posse. Kane finally ends up facing the deadly foursome all by himself, in a taut and economical showdown that's exciting without forsaking the film's commitment to stark minimalism. Zinnemann's restraint is impressive; there's not a wasted shot or gesture in the whole film. Everything is channelled towards the final confrontation, every edit contributes to the steady pulsing beat that subtly intensifies and quickens as it grows closer and closer to noon. And when the train arrives, right on time, the editing becomes briefly frantic, the train's whistle piercing on the soundtrack, the cuts fast and abrupt, between Kane in his office writing his will, the empty streets of the town hushed in anticipation, the outlaws forebodingly waiting at the station.

In High Noon, Zinnemann crafted the ultimate study in pacing and editing, using the rhythms of the film to create a steamrolling mood of dread, expectation, and suspense. He's helped tremendously by Cooper's stoic, melancholic performance, which helps anchor the growing dread around a specific, sympathetic figure. This is a classic Western, and well deserving of its reputation.