TSPDT placing: #257
Directed by: Raoul Walsh
Written by: Virginia Kellogg (story), Ivan Goff (screenplay), Ben Roberts (screenplay)
Starring: James Cagney, Virginia Mayo, Edmond O'Brien, Margaret Wycherly, Steve Cochran, John Archer, Wally Cassell, Fred Clark
WARNING: Plot and/or ending details may follow!!!
When it comes to gangsters, nobody could play 'em quite like James Cagney. White Heat (1949) is often considered to feature his finest performance, and the film certain delivers the promised thrills and suspense. Disturbed, violent and volatile, Cody Jarrett is a dangerous crook with a short fuse, and, for the dedicated undercover detective who has secured the criminal's trust, a single blunder could betray his identity, and the game would be up. Raoul Walsh, who had directed Cagney on three previous occasions, was well-versed in the gangster genre, and had already imbued it with shades of early noir in the star-making Humphrey Bogart picture, High Sierra (1941). Cagney, after acclaimed performances in The Public Enemy (1931), Angels with Dirty Faces (1938) and The Roaring Twenties (1939), had taken a decade-long recess from playing a gangster, and, as Cody Jarrett, he exploded onto the screen with more intensity than ever. Exhibiting an unhealthy intimacy with his overbearing mother, Jarrett's extreme mental sickness is most memorably observed in his final deranged words: "Made it, Ma. Top of the world!"
Unlike some gangster pictures, which tend to take a few minutes to swing into gear, White Heat opens with a daring railway robbery, in which Jarrett and his gang murder four innocent men and flee with thousands of dollars in cash. In order to escape the gas chamber, the master-criminal surrenders to the authorities and claims responsibility for a minor hotel heist, receiving 1-3 years imprisonment but eluding suspicions that he played a role in the bloody train robbery. The detectives in charge, however, remain unconvinced, and dedicated undercover agent Hank Fallon (Edmond O'Brien) is sent to the prison to gain Jarrett's trust and acquire evidence of his involvement in the crime. Meanwhile, opportunistic femme fatale, Verna (Virginia Mayo), plays a deadly game with treacherous associate Big Ed (Steve Cochran), while Jarrett's predatory mother (Margaret Wycherly) seethes ominously in the shadows. When Jarrett and a gang of lackeys stage an exciting jail-break, Fallon attempts to alert the authorities to his latest movements – but this felon isn't going to take failure lying down.
White Heat played an important role in the development of the heist picture sub-genre, and, like Walsh's High Sierra (1941) years earlier, paved the way for the classic and influential narrative formula to be found in John Huston's The Asphalt Jungle (1950). With Cagney always brimming with pent-up violent energy, his character consistently maintains a state of extreme volatility – his mental breakdown during the prison meal is gripping and realistic – and, as a result, the story never allows the viewer to flag their concentration. Edmond O'Brien is also excellent as the honest undercover investigator who earns Jarrett's trust before betraying it, and there's a wonderful moral ambiguity in the sense that we, as the audience, have grown so attached to the charismatic and unpredictable villain that we're almost cheering for his success. That Cody Jarrett is doomed from the very beginning is a fact forever present in our minds, and that's what makes his inevitable downfall even more tragic, devastating and unforgettable. At that moment, James Cagney really was at the top of the world.
8/10
Currently my #2 film of 1949:
1) The Third Man (Carol Reed)
2) White Heat (Raoul Walsh)
3) Kind Hearts and Coronets (Robert Hamer)
4) A Run for Your Money (Charles Frend)
5) Nora inu {Stray Dog} (Akira Kurosawa)
Into the rubble-strewn ruins of Vienna comes an American pulp-novelist, Holly Martins (Joseph Cotten), who arrives, without a dime in his pocket, in search of an old friend named Harry Lime. However, upon his arrival, Martins is horrified to to learn of Lime's tragic death in a traffic accident. Unsatsified with the explanations he receives from the authorities and witnesses, he teams up with Lime's ex-girlfriend Anna Schmidt (Aldi Valli) to solve the mystery of his best friend's death. Was it an accident? Was it murder? Who was the "third man" who was seen carrying Lime to the roadside? Of course, as you and I both know, Martins' childhood friend, having faked his own death, is very much alive, and intent on keeping his continued existence quiet. The extraordinary moment, when Harry Lime's face is abruptly illuminated in a doorway, as a cat affectionately nuzzles his shoes, hardly comes as a surprise after fifty years, but the magic is very much still there.
Orson Welles' amused boyish smirk, wryly taunting Martins across the roadway, signals the entrance of one of cinema's most charismatic supporting characters. Despite being absent for the first half of the film, Lime's presence is felt throughout, his darkened shadow continually towering over Martins as he seeks to ascertain the actual cause of his friend's death. Lime is a perfect example of cinema's anti-hero, a vibrant, likable and identifiable personality who commits atrocities that should immediately warrant our detestation. Graham Greene's brisk and intelligent screenplay gives Lime all the best lines, particularly on the Ferris Wheel ride when he muses on the value of those inconsequential "little dots" walking below, though Welles himself takes credit for penning the celebrated "cuckoo clock" monologue; a rapidly-delivered acknowledgment of the creativity born from "warfare, terror, murder, and bloodshed." Though Welles justifiably receives a lot of the praise, every other cast member delivers a wonderful performance, particularly Cotten as the bemused and morally-conflicted foreigner, Valli as Lime's steadfast lifelong disciple, and Trevor Howard as the Major who very much wishes that Lime had remained underground.
Director Carol Reed famously clashed with producer David O. Selznick over various facets of the film's production, with Selznick insisting on pivotal casting decisions, and allegedly suggesting that the film be titled "Night Time in Vienna." However, in the case of the suitably downbeat ending, both producer and director saw eye-to-eye, and Greene's original optimistic conclusion (in which Holly and Anna reconcile) was shelved in favour of the wonderful static long-shot, in which Martins is completely ignored by the women whose trust he is perceived to have broken. The Third Man, perhaps as a result of these contradictory artistic influences, has acquired, like no other film I've seen, a distinct personality of its own. Karas' zither soundtrack, as though consciously flouting traditional noir conventions, adds an element of whimsy to the proceedings, and somehow complements perfectly the larger-than-life distortion of Krasker's photography, in which ordinary human shadows tower three storeys in height, and even the most commonplace of interactions takes on the warped dimensions of a drug-induced dream. In Vienna, the truth can be as elusive as a ghost.
The films of Ealing Studios can often be characterised as good-natured, down-to-earth comedy offerings, light-hearted in tone and always steering towards the attainment of community betterment; characters typically conclude the film having learned a valuable lesson, and the ending is usually most ideal for all concerned. Later films such as The Lavender Hill Mob (1951) and especially The Ladykillers (1955) returned to the murky themes of Hamer's film, but they couldn't avoid reinforcing the age-old adage that "crime doesn't pay," whereas this comedy leaves ample room for the possibility of our killer escaping scot-free {however, for audiences across the Atlantic, the Production Code dictated that this ambiguity be removed}. Likely influenced by Charles Chaplin's Monsieur Verdoux (1947) – a "comedy of murders" – Hamer unwaveringly filled his film to the brim with dark themes, dry wit and bitter irony, finding a hilariously suave and classy serial killer in actor Dennis Price, whose unflinching murderous plight attains a twisted sense of empathy through the maltreatment of his mother's memory at the hands of the D'Ascoyne family.
I've often remarked that Alec Guinness never plays the same role twice, his character changing unrecognisably from picture to picture. In the case of this film, he virtually changes from scene to scene, portraying all eight heirs to the Dukedom of Chalfont with uproarious charisma and versatility. It helps that most of Guinness' creations, merely targets for the conniving Louis Mazzini, are wholly unlikable or frustratingly senile, though there's certainly a pang of regret when the amiable photography hobbyist is murdered, and the manner in which The Duke is dispatched is shocking in its sheer cold-bloodedness. Perhaps a single complaint is that the murders of Lady Agatha and the General were skipped over much too quickly, and I would have enjoyed a more in-depth examination of the mechanics of the crime. The final act of the film is swathed in a healthy dose of irony, as Mazzini is arrested and charged for the one murder he didn't commit, his fate sealed and then rescued by his jilted mistress, Sibella (Joan Greenwood), who alone guesses the truth about what he has done.
Following the defeat of General Custer at the Battle of Little Bighorn, the American frontier is in disarray. Tribes of Native Americans – Cheyenne, Comanche, Apache – are forgetting their petty inter-tribal disputes and banding together in opposition to the invading settlers. Capt. Nathan Cutting Brittles, though somewhat reluctant to retire at such as crucial stage of the conflict, embarks on his final objective, though is hampered by the baggage of two women (Joanne Dru, Mildred Natwick) who must be evacuated before winter sets in. The film's storyline is somewhat inconsequential, never threatening to even approach the emotional depth of 'The Searchers,' and some of the film's events are almost incomprehensible to one who is ill-versed in American history and Westerns in general. However, Wayne's profound characterisation of Capt. Brittles forms the picture's core, and he is, indeed, astonishing in the subtle and thoughtful complexity that he brings to his character. The remaining, less-experienced players, such as Harry Carey Jr. and John Agar, aren't particularly memorable, but serve the story adequately and with presumably-sound authenticity. 
Fortunately, John Ford litters the rather lightweight story with an enjoyable amount of humour, compensating for the relative lack of emotional depth with sheer entertainment. Sgt. Quincannon (Victor McLaglen) provides most of the laughs, particularly during a drunken brawl sequence that sees him fending off seven able-bodied soldiers and still finding time to take another sip of whisky between swings. Also mildly amusing is the friction between lieutenants Flint Cohill and Ross Penell (Agar and Carey, Jr.), both of whom notice that Olivia Dandridge (Joanne Dru) is wearing a yellow ribbon, and hope that it is for them. The story's ending struck me as something of an anti-climax, even though, admittedly, it would have been downright arrogant for Ford to alter history. As the Native Americans congregate in preparation for a direct assault on their enemies, Brittles' stern conversation with Chief Pony That Walks (Chief John Big Tree) promises an incredible climactic battle of epic proportions. However, when John Wayne astutely manages to disrupt the planned attack by scattering the tribes’ horses, I couldn’t help feeling just a bit disappointed.
9 years ago
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