A Self-Education in Film: Jules Dassin's Night and the City

Is there no more fascinating world in cinema than that of the noir? I am loathe to say something as crass as that it intrigues me, but...well, there it is. Despite all of the violence inherent in the mere idea of the film noir, the best of the genre excite and tantalize us. Though we are kept at arm's length, warned of the loose women, angry and quiet men, dark shadows, and all else that lurks there, the film noir is among the most alluring worlds to visit in all of film. I'm not against hanging out in space, going back to the old West, or living the life of the screwball comedy, but the film noir is embracing in its smoky corridors in such a way that can't be rivaled anywhere else.

The best film noirs don't have to follow the same structure; the common stereotype is that the ideal protagonist is the low-voiced gumshoe, a private detective more likely to be attracted to femme fatales and a bottle of whiskey than actually getting the job done. The femme fatale, usually blonde, has to have long hair that manages to wave around without being wavy, and is always ready to light the gumshoe's cigarette. There's always a rich husband, ready and willing to be killed by the femme fatale. There are alleyways, stormy nights, and small, oddly angled offices. Though Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe might be obvious characters to fit this ideal, I'm equally attracted to the less successful lead character, the schlub who's conned all the way to the end of the road by the femme, or by a new friend of his. There's nothing wrong with a film noir being headed by a guy who knows the score before it's presented to him, but sometimes, being ahead of the lead in terms of knowledge is just as enticing.

All of this rambling is just a sly way of me telling you that I was about the perfect person and had the perfect mentality to fall head-over-heels in love with Jules Dassin's 1950 picture Night and the City. The guy we follow around as he traverses the ins and outs of the dark streets of post-WWII London is Harry Fabian, somebody who wants to be somebody. By "somebody", he means somebody with power. All Harry wants is the power he sees his superiors get. His boss is a massive type, Phil Nosseross, in the mold of Sydney Greenstreet. Harry works for Phil at the Silver Fox, a seedy London nightclub that only does well if Harry can pull his usual con, pretending to find a missing wallet all to entice know-nothing American businessmen on a trip. If what they're looking for is good drinks and good women, they might as well try the Silver Fox, right?

As it's made clear early on, thanks to the skillful and charismatic performance from Richard Widmark, Harry is not bad at convincing people to come to the Silver Fox, as long as he stays within his boundaries. The main problem that plagues Harry throughout Night and the City, of course, is that Harry would rather forget that he has boundaries, let alone stay within them. He runs into trouble when watching a wrestling match, as he's just about to be escorted out, as a Mr. Kristo, the man who controls the wrestling in London, knows Harry's game and wants nothing of it. Unfortunately for both of them, Harry runs into Gregorius the Great, an ex-Greco-Roman wrestler who is disgusted with the shape of the sport as run by Mr. Kristo. Kristo is willing to listen to the old man's vitriol, partly because of his fame and partly because Gregorius is Kristo's father. Oh, didn't mention that one, did I?

Harry is, in his inherent ignorance, not stupid, as he decides to present himself as a Greco-Roman wrestling fan to Gregorius, who is instantly charmed by the touter. The conflict of the film, while about Harry's run-ins with Kristo and whether or not he can extricate himself from potentially mortal peril, mostly focuses on Harry's ability, or lack thereof, to know his place. He is warned by just about everyone he runs into, from Phil, who vacillates from warning Harry to seeking revenge upon the hustler for getting involved with his wife, to Kristo to Harry's on-and-off girlfriend, Mary. Mary, as played by Gene Tierney, is an interesting case, a bit of a random blemish on the movie. An early scene presents her dealing with Harry, who's interested in her company solely so he can pilfer some of her cash, and then spending time with a neighbor of hers, a rakish and friendly guy who'd be perfect for Mary, as he's attractive and nice and smart enough to see that Harry is trouble.

So what the hell are Mary and Adam doing in this movie? The first 15 minutes seem to establish them both as major characters, yet when they both vanish for lengthy stretches, you're not so much annoyed to find them returning after so long as vaguely reminded that they did actually appear; you didn't make them up, they're here. Tierney's not bad in the role of Mary; her final scene with Widmark is heartbreaking, mostly on her end. By this point, we've given up any hope for Harry, who's been pretty hopeless from the get-go. But Mary, portrayed as one of those stereotypical women who's just unable to extricate herself from a bum even if she knows what's good for her, crumbles in the last scene, trying so badly to help Harry out, while he's too busy trying one last gambit at saving his ass. Harry's mind is racing so fast, he's unaware of how ridiculous his final plan is; sure, fella, turn yourself in so Mary can get the reward. Well-thought out.

Of course, this is all the point of Night and the City, the last movie Jules Dassin directed before hightailing it out of the United States, thanks to the finger-pointing about his alleged ties to the Communist Party. Dassin would later dazzle audiences with such foreign-based heist films as Topkapi and Rififi (two films I've yet to see, but which I'm very eager to now); he started out in America with hard-bitten film noirs such as this and The Naked City, two movies that presented the world of the film noir as real, not some heightened universe in which parodies are welcomed or appropriate. Even though Widmark's performance is slightly theatrical, if only because of how unrealistically fast-talking and fast-thinking he comes off (fast-thinking, by the way, doesn't equal intelligence), this story feels real, especially in the climactic chase scene, wherein Harry heads out on foot to get away from the enforcers trying to kill him. As he runs through the shores and harbors of London, the bombed-out sections of the city that still hovered years after the war, there's a chill you can't escape, realizing that Dassin isn't using studio sets, but simply pointing his camera at what is there.

Widmark's performance dominates the film, but Herbert Lom (soon to be driven crazy by Inspector Clouseau in the Pink Panther series) is a dark and creepy antagonist, as the shrewd and condescending Mr. Kristo. Credit should be given, if only because Kristo is a three-dimensional antagonist, presented as a gangster with emotions and a brain. Tierney, despite having a small role, projects a sad-eyed tenderness in her scenes. But it's Widmark's performance, playing a man who tries so hard, too hard, to be better than he is, that makes Night and the City sing. In many ways, the title is a reference not just to the atmosphere presented in the story, but to what the world becomes when even the daylight seems oppressive. Harry Fabian is a lonely and pathetic man, and anything he does to further himself simply presses him further into the ground, so he remains stuck in a place he'd rather die than be in. That he gets his wish by the film's end only compounds his sadness.

Next: Matthieu Kassovitz's La Haine

A Self-Education in Film: Max Ophuls' La Ronde

We begin here, you and I, with a film made completely, cheekily, of artifice. Though co-writer and director Max Ophuls based La Ronde on the play by Arthur Schnitzler, the film is centered around a framing device that exposes the film, and perhaps even its theme, for its fakery. On the left of the picture is Anton Walbrook, a fascinating and charismatic actor who first made an impression on me in 1943's The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, in which he plays a compassionate and sympathetic German soldier whose life is as equally described as that of the title character. Here, he is credited as the Raconteur, or better yet, Ophuls himself. From what I know of the late filmmaker (and I will honestly admit that I know little, aside from what I've read on blogs written by Glenn Kenny and the like), he was nothing if not a man who enjoyed flourish in his work. What I mean here is that he was a colorful director, someone who enjoyed a camera that moved, a camera that moved often, and over-the-top relish and brio all around.

If I am wrong, correct me (and I do mean that sincerely, by the way). What I know from his work in La Ronde is that he is more concerned with the artifice of the relationships being presented onscreen and with the artifice of film itself than anything else. Walbrook's Raconteur is laid-back, calm even when he should be a bit flustered, and charming enough to soothe every character he deliberately runs into. Here is the twist of the film: unlike the play, the Raconteur is unique, operating a merry-go-round that functions as a second glance at the theme of love being as flighty and wavering as the wind. Walbrook introduces us to the city of Vienna, in which we meet a prostitute. Then, we meet a soldier she sleeps with. The soldier moves on to a maid, who ends her dalliance by following up with a more educated man than she. And on and on until we end on the same prostitute meeting up, unexpectedly, with a Count.

So, the movie asks, what is love? Why is love worth more than a fling? Why should it be more than a fling? In some ways, La Ronde is a frustrating film to delve into as a viewer, because all we're seeing are characters who fool around with each other without any full meaning. Even the married couple we see in the film end up with other partners, though both are fully drawn and exceptionally performed, as it goes with every actor in the production. And yet...love is frustrating. Whether it's long-term or a one-night stand, love is not something that remains happy. It does not remain memorable in the best ways. Love can be awful (though we never see anything too depressing here), and love can be fleeting. What fascinates me most about this movie is that none of the characters are too put out even by the idea of their respective lovers going to others (as none of them appear to realize or care that their significant others are not monogamous). For these people, among varying levels of class in Vienna or in any city, love is comprised of brief encounters that may not be as fulfilling as long-lasting love, but it's something, right?

What I reveled in with La Ronde was its theatricality. Alongside the appearance of the Raconteur, who shows up often, there is the idea that the film's stories are being controlled by the Raconteur. When one of the players ends up...unable to perform, as it were, the Raconteur must fix his merry-go-round before things can be fueled up again. He must nudge the characters into the right places, and make sure that they're not disturbed, as when he shoos away an elderly professor from bothering one of the men, mid-coitus. What's more, the film begins with Walbrook narrating, to us, as he strolls around the outskirts of the studio setting where the film was shot, going so far as to acknowledge a movie camera hanging around. There's nothing taken for granted here in terms of making the audience aware of the lack of reality infusing this film.

But, despite the theatricality, the idea that La Ronde pushes forth is that love is only part of life. We cannot hope for love to encompass our minds, our hearts, our bodies. We can only hope to capture it in part. Only at the end is there any kind of hangover from the near-drunken frenzy with which these ten characters become intimate, as the Count wanders down the cobblestone road with his faithful dog, unsure of how he ever ended up with a prostitute, let alone one who's so far down the class structure. And even then, the Raconteur is there to cheerfully sing us out, skipping and hopping past, the way he came in, passing his merry-go-round, the camera, and the tiny stage which opens and closes the film.

I'm excited to watch another of Ophuls' films, if only because it's clear that he has a fuller sense of what a film camera can do than most modern directors. One thing that drives me to distraction is how often cinematography is wasted, how often the space can be filled out with nothing. If you have a wide composition, as Ophuls would have in future films, use it appropriately. I'm not asking for clutter, but for the space to be used appropriately. Max Ophuls, even in his black-and-white, fullscreen compositions, knows how to use his space. Would that every director were so shrewd.

Next: Jules Dassin's Night and the City

A Self-Education in Film: Prologue

I know, it's been too long. Four weeks ago, I spent a bit of time expressing my opinion on why Jay Leno's a huge hypocrite. Now, we're days away from his inevitable return, the Olympics are winding down, the sixth and final season of Lost is five hours long, and things have, in general, changed. As they do. In the meantime, and probably thanks to the complete lack of original programming on TV while the Olympics rage on, I've begun to once again excite myself at the prospect of watching more movies. Of course, it helps that I got a chance this past weekend to check out the latest film from Martin Scorsese, Shutter Island. I won't spend more than a sentence or two on that film; suffice to say, it is easily my favorite film the iconic director has made since, at least, The Aviator, and farther back, I'd wager.

I also managed to once again get the taste of watching Criterion Collection movies that I haven't seen. I wish--oh, how I fervently wish it--that I could say I've seen more than my fair share, more than half, more than 75 percent of the Criterion output, but that would be a bald-faced lie. In reading a fair number of blogs over the past week, including usual haunts such as Glenn Kenny's Some Came Running (http://somecamerunning.typepad.com) and Jeffrey Wells' Hollywood Elsewhere (http://www.hollywoodelsewhere.com), I realized that it's all well and good to sit around and read about film, current or otherwise. What good is it to read without context, though?

And so, a project. Or, perhaps, an experiment in my stamina. How long can I keep up at educating myself in film? I call myself a film buff, but in looking on it, I have not seen many, many films, and not just from filmmakers I'm aware of. I've seen Transformers, but I have not seen Seven Samurai (a major crime about to be reversed, as I'm currently looking at my copy from the local library). I've seen Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs, but I have not seen a Hiyao Miyazaki film. I've not seen anything by Godard, Melville, and barely anything by Powell and Pressburger. I want to better myself. I need to, if I want to consider myself anything close to a buff. Amongst my closest friends and family, I'm the king of movies. Among pretty much anyone else on the Internet, I fear, I'm about as low on the totem pole as a guy can get.

No moping or pity, though. This isn't exactly some crazy idea here; I'm just going to chronicle my way through watching films, foreign or otherwise. Some of these entries will find their way to Box Office Prophets as classic reviews. Most will stay here. I've got two entries lined up, right after this prologue. Both are from foreign-born directors, whose works I've never seen. Neither are as well-known as Steven Spielberg, though both are arguably as important to the language of film. Enjoy it, as I hope to. Comments are welcomed, so don't be shy. We're all in this together.