TSPDT placing: #137
Directed by: Arthur Penn
Written by: David Newman (written by), Robert Benton (written by), Robert Towne (uncredited)
Starring: Warren Beatty, Faye Dunaway, Michael J. Pollard, Gene Hackman, Estelle Parsons, Denver Pyle, Gene Wilder
WARNING: Plot and/or ending details may follow!!! [Paragraph 3 only]
In 1967, two films ushered in a new wave of Hollywood film. Mike Nichol's The Graduate (1967) introduced casual sexuality into the mix, with young graduate Dustin Hoffman enjoying a tryst with Anne Bancroft's Mrs. Robinson, highlighting the vast generation gap between the Baby Boomers and their parents. Arthur Penn's Bonnie and Clyde (1967), likewise, pushed the boundaries of what was acceptable to show in film, featuring glorious set-pieces of violence that would influence the later work of Sam Peckinpah and Martin Scorsese. This new brand of authentic yet stylised brutality may have been borrowed from Spaghetti Western director Sergio Leone, whose own "Dollars" trilogy had proved successful with American audiences {his Hollywood-funded follow-up, Once Upon a Time in the West (1968), was a magnificent film, but noticeably toned down the violence}. Many reviewers were initially indifferent to Penn's picture, and Warner Brothers had little faith in its financial prospects, but the support of critics like Pauline Kael prompted a swift reevaluation, and Bonnie and Clyde was soon a box-office hit.
Despite being set in the 1930s, and, of course, based on true events, Penn's retelling of the Bonnie and Clyde story overtly reflected the revolutionary cultural times in which the film was made. The two titular fugitives symbolised the attitudes of the young people of the day – brash, impudent, dismissive of authority, and indifferent as to the consequences of their actions. Intriguingly, Bonnie and Clyde appears to suggest that something more than mere anarchistic tendencies fuelled the pair's violent escapades. Clyde Barrow (Warren Beatty) is portrayed as sexually impotent, and a lengthy, uncomfortable would-be sex scene emphasises the self-loathing frustration that, perhaps, fuelled his personal inadequacy and prompted him to seek other, more destructive means of alleviating his stress and exhibiting his masculinity. Bonnie Parker (Faye Dunaway) is depicted as a young woman whose sexual repression at the hands of a well-meaning but morally-uptight mother has stifled her femininity, and only through societal rebellion does she appear to regain her sense of identity. This theme ties in nicely with the Women's Liberation of the 1960s.
Beatty and Dunaway are perfect in the two leading roles, displaying enough charisma and sex appeal to come across as likable, but also inspiring sympathy and disapproval for their clearly irresponsible and reprehensible behaviour (the film initially provoked controversy for its perceived "glorification" of criminals, but, though the audience's empathy is recruited to some extent, the destructive and inevitable consequences of the gang's actions are hardly glossed over). The famous, gruesome climax – in which Bonnie and Clyde are apathetically gunned down in a bloody police ambush – was perhaps the most intense minute of cinema American audiences had ever experienced. Of course, once the floodgates were opened, New Hollywood began to adopt his fresh, powerful frankness in its storytelling. Sam Peckinpah, no doubt inspired by Penn's efforts, decisively raised the bar with his Revisionist Western The Wild Bunch (1969). A landmark American film, Bonnie and Clyde furthered the reputations of both its director and star Warren Beatty, and successfully launched the acting careers of Faye Dunaway, Gene Hackman and Gene Wilder.8/10
Currently my #4 film of 1967:
1) Voyna i mir {War and Peace} (Sergei Bondarchuk)
2) The Graduate (Mike Nichols)
3) In the Heat of the Night (Norman Jewison)
4) Bonnie and Clyde (Arthur Penn)
5) Cool Hand Luke (Stuart Rosenberg)
2) The Graduate (Mike Nichols)
3) In the Heat of the Night (Norman Jewison)
4) Bonnie and Clyde (Arthur Penn)
5) Cool Hand Luke (Stuart Rosenberg)
For the most part, The Godfather: Part III is a wonderful film. Gordon Willis' return as cinematographer ensured that the film remained aesthetically consistent with its predecessors, and Coppola's film-making is, for the most part, handsome and professional. The screenplay, co-written by Coppola and Mario Puzo, is just as convoluted as the original film, but I'm confident that a second viewing will substantially improve my understanding of each character and their motives. Though the first few dialogue scenes seem strained, as though the actors are easing into their roles, the performances are generally excellent. Only Sofia Coppola – and I don't want to labour the point, since she's been lambasted enough – fails to construct a well-defined screen persona. She wears a peculiar scowl for most of the film, and her role in the story is vague and superficial. Nevertheless, any of the picture's weaknesses are quickly forgotten in lieu of an unforgettable climax, set amid an operatic performance of "Cavalleria Rusticana," perhaps the finest instance of prolonged suspense since the Albert Hall sequence in The Man Who Knew Too Much (1956).
As with The Godfather, Coppola's film could only have succeeded with interesting and authentic acting performances, and the cast doesn't disappoint. Al Pacino has rarely been better, playing Michael Corleone with a violent intensity that suggests the lasting influence of brother Sonny (James Cann), who was assassinated in the previous film. Pacino's scene with Diane Keaton, in which we learn that she received an abortion for her unborn son, is one of the most traumatic moments of spousal interaction I've ever seen, with Pacino exhibiting a barely-suppressed rage through his severe, almost fearful, eyes, and a quiver in the jaw. An under-appreciated John Cazale brings depth and pathos to weaker brother Fredo, and Robert Duvall is excellent as Tom Hagen. New to the Godfather cast are Lee Strasberg (President of the Actors Studio) and Michael V. Gazzo, as business associates who may be plotting against the Corleone family. De Niro won an Oscar for his portrayal of a younger Don Vito, understatedly evoking the essence of the character without parodying Marlon Brando.
The Godfather: Part II is certainly an impressive achievement, but it doesn't quite manage to equal its predecessor. Whereas the original film achieved the bulk of its emotional power through the transformation of its central character, Part II leaves Michael hopelessly stranded in his despair, portraying neither his rise nor his downfall. Having effectively sold his soul for the family in the previous film, Michael must now come to terms with his desolation, alone in his misery, and having long forsaken any opportunity for salvation. He concludes the film still at the height of organised crime in America, and yet receives no reassurance from his position of power. Michael is alone, a dejected and self-loathing soul, without comfort from the family he helped destroy. It's a haunting ending that will remain with you for hours afterwards, but nevertheless doesn't seem like a conclusive ending to the entire Corleone saga. Fortunately, Coppola returned sixteen years later to direct The Godfather: Part III (1990), which charts, I believe, Michael Corleone's inevitable downfall. Hopefully I won't be disappointed.
A notable artistic observation regarding The Godfather is that Coppola's film-making style is strictly traditional. Whereas a new generation of filmmakers like Martin Scorsese and William Friedkin were introducing a gritty new cinema aesthetic, Gordon Willis' cinematography is graceful, understated and handsome, predating his excellent work for Woody Allen {the most notable example being Manhattan (1979)}. A sprawling family saga, The Godfather boasts a staggering ensemble cast of emerging and established actors, as well as many unknowns who nevertheless give letter-perfect performances. The scenes of violence are typically abrupt and effective, but much of the film's running-time is more closely concerned with dialogue and human interaction, particularly among family members. Needless to say, the quality of talent is more than enough to make these scenes, not only watchable, but astonishingly compelling. Every character down to the smallest speaking part – and there are a lot of them – has such a richly fleshed-out personality, making their actions and development throughout the film both authentic and interesting.
Marlon Brando – in what, along with Last Tango in Paris (1972), was deemed a grand comeback – gives a towering, Oscar-winning portrayal as Don Vito Corleone, the aging head of an Italian organised-crime family. Having endured decades of corruption and inter-family conflict, and seeing his household disintegrate in the futile pursuit of family honour, Vito finally understands in his final moments the folly of his wasted life, and the fateful mistakes that led to this undesirable lifestyle {these precursor years would be explored in greater depth, with Robert DeNiro in the role, in The Godfather: Part II (1974)}. Most central to the story, however, is the transformation of youngest son Michael (Al Pacino), who, in the course of the film, effectively sells his soul to retain that elusive "family honour." The climactic sequence, utilising Eisenstein's style of montage to its fullest extent, intercuts the baptism of Michael's nephew with the simultaneous assassination of the Corleone family's enemies. This scene also serves as a baptism of sorts for Michael, symbolising his irreversible initiation into a life of crime, and the final transaction of his soul.
Lt. Vincent Hanna (Al Pacino) is something of a cliché, the hard-working homicide detective who is distant from his family. However, Pacino gives the character depth, a hard-edged, street-wise cop who is basically good at heart. When writing dialogue for Al Pacino, the temptation is always there to make him shout a lot, and there are several scenes when Mann does exactly that, but the character is strongest when he's not talking at all, lost in silent contemplation or embracing the hysterical mother of a murder victim. Neil McCauley (Robert De Niro) sits on the opposite side of the law, a principled professional thief who has dedicated his entire life to crime. McCauley has a motto: "don't let yourself get attached to anything you are not willing to walk out on in 30 seconds flat if you feel the heat around the corner." His failure to adhere to this advice is ultimately what gets him killed, for, though he is prepared to discard his relationship with a sincere art designer (Amy Brenneman), McCauley unable to walk away from his own principles.
Heat boasts an impressive supporting cast – including Val Kilmer, Tom Sizemore, Dennis Haysbert and Jon Voight – but it's no surprise that Pacino and De Niro dominate the film. Their single face-to-face encounter is a corker, as they sit opposite each other sipping coffee (the table between them representing not only the border between police and criminal, but also a mirror of sorts). Hanna and McCauley exchange terse pleasantries like old friends, despite having never met before, and the two master actors coolly and effortlessly exude charisma with every word. The film's promotional tagline boasts "a Los Angeles crime saga," suggesting that Mann was attempting something akin to his own The Godfather (1972), though he doesn't quite pull it off as readily as Coppola. His film could have done with a few trimmings, excising a few largely superfluous personal subplots, including an impromptu suicide attempt that came right out of left-field. Nevertheless, Heat is a gripping crime story, with great performances, and one of the best shootouts that you'll see anywhere.
Jack Carter (Michael Caine) is a London gangster, an entirely unglamorous occupation that entails such duties as gambling, murder and watching pornography. After his brother, Frank, dies in Newcastle under suspicious circumstances, Jack goes up there, against the wishes of his employer, to find out exactly what happened, and to punish all those responsible. What he finds is the usual assortment of sleazy low-lifes and lascivious whores, all part of the underground lifestyle into which he sold himself. Get Carter obviously derived a degree of influence from the trashy pulp-fiction novels of Raymond Chandler and Mickey Spillane, and, indeed, this inspiration is openly acknowledged when Carter is seen reading "Farewell My Lovely" {adapted by Edward Dmytryk as Murder, My Sweet (1944)}. Like many of the hard-boiled anti-heroes of 1940s and 50s film noir, he has sold his soul for a chance at revenge, and there's no going back. A detail worth noting is that Carter's eventual assassin is first spotted in the opening credits, sitting opposite in the train carriage. A cruel coincidence, or was his fate sealed from the very beginning?
Get Carter may have served as inspiration to the recent generation of British gangster film, but the Quentin Tarantino/Guy Ritchie style of film-making favoured today – the most notable example of which being Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels (1998) – is often excessively trendy and highly stylised. Mike Hodges' idea of a gangster film is ugly – disgustingly and uncomfortably repellent, offering not a glimmer of respectability nor nobility in its selection of depraved characters. Even Jack Carter himself is not a man we are asked to admire. He may have a steady supply of droll one-liners at hand, but at his heart he is cold, almost completely devoid of human emotion. Just watch Carter's stone-face as his car is rammed into the bay (with an unfortunate captive in the boot), or his indifference to the fate of friend Keith (Alun Armstrong), who is thoroughly roughed-up while lending a hand. Hodges appears only to find decency in the deceased Frank, who represents the honest, working-class type of man. However, even this legacy is coming to an end, for the next generation, Doreen, has already been corrupted.
Both leads are excellent in their respective roles. Jean-Paul Belmondo plays a Humphrey Bogart-wannabe, an out-of-his-depth car thief who speaks tough, but whose brave frontage is immediately transparent. His character works effectively as a semi-affectionate satire of Hollywood's hard-boiled film noir heroes – ripped from the pages of Hammett, Chandler and Spillane – who don't actually exist in real life. Jean Seberg, an American actress who only found success after migrating to Europe, is beautiful and sensual as his independent some-time lover, who finds excitement in the notion of a fugitive boyfriend, but has yet to decide if she loves him or not. As far as the romantic subplot is concerned, Godard emphasises the selfishness of his new generation. Love is no longer an intimate and enduring connection between two people, but a succession of lurid and meaningless sexual encounters. Though Michel and Patricia frequently speak their love of each other, their motives are purely egocentric in nature. Each character frequently alludes to their own needs and desires, and Patricia eventually informs on Michel to prove, for her own benefit, that she is indifferent to him.
My only previous Godard work, Alphaville (1965), had sufficiently intrigued me with its half-satirical espionage thriller set against a backdrop of science-fiction. However, when the narrative periodically came to a standstill, so too, I found, did my interest in the film. Breathless gave me similar sentiments, albeit to a lesser degree. While never boring, there is a sizable patch in the middle of the film – in particular, a long scene spent inside Patricia's apartment – where Michel's status as a wanted man is entirely forgotten. The film's narrative drive comes to a grinding halt, and the two characters are left in limbo. When he's not trying to entice his American companion into bed, Michel raises seemingly arbitrary philosophical questions – such as, out of nowhere, "do you ever think about death?" – that apparently serve no purpose other than to justify Godard's film as an important "arthouse" picture. Much has been said about the pioneering use of jump-cuts, a creative trick to trim down the running-time without losing key scenes, but I found the technique unnecessarily jarring and unpalatable.
Though his film follows – and, to an extent, sympathises with – the activities of an IRA-like organisation, Reed largely avoids making any sort of political statement. The story opens with a brief title-card in which we are assured that "it is not concerned with the struggle between the law and an illegal organisation, but only with the conflict in the hearts of the people when they become unexpectedly involved." The involvement of a "terrorist" organisation in the story is not to show support for the IRA or similar causes, but to suggest how political differences have eroded society's morals to such an extent that perfectly decent people will not extend their hand to help a dying man. As Johnny McQueen (James Mason) stumbles through the bitter winter snowstorm, frozen and bleeding following a botched robbery attempt, he is passed from one person to another, each of whom either turns him back out into the cold, lest they become implicated in his crime, or they exploit him for their own selfish means.
What works so magnificently about Odd Man Out is how authentically Reed is able to establish mood. The story unfolds in a single day, the bulk of which is spent in the darkness of a cold winter's night, snowflakes falling delicately to the ground, lending the film an icy chill that, even though it's approaching summer down here, had me drawing the clothes tighter to my body. No small praise should go towards Australian-born cinematographer Robert Krasker, whose elegant photography captures both the cold despair of the winter snowstorm, and the persistent warmth in the eyes of McQueen's young love, Kathleen (Kathleen Sullivan). In American noir, you usually come face-to-face with grotesque characters who are frightening and ugly; in British films, and I'm not exactly sure why this is, there's a certain charm about the grotesque. F.J. McCormick plays a doddering bum who tries hopelessly to profit from his discovery of Mason's dying fugitive, and yet his character is oddly likable. Robert Newton, likewise, plays an eccentric, humorously-flamboyant artist whose one obsession is to paint the portrait of a doomed soul.
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 
A perfect example of the film's style of satire can be found early on, after veteran news anchorman Howard Beale (Peter Finch) learns that he is to be fired in two weeks' time, on account of poor ratings. The following evening, Beale calmly announces to millions of Americans his intentions to commit suicide on the air in a week's time. The show's technicians idly go about their duties, oblivious to what their star has just proclaimed, before one employee tentatively ventures, "uh, did you hear what Howard just said?" The network, in their ongoing quest for high ratings, was so blindly obsessed with perfecting all their technical aspects that the mental-derangement of their leading anchorman went almost completely unnoticed. At first, there is an attempt to yank Beale from the air, but one forward-thinking producer, Diana Christensen (Faye Dunaway), proposes that the network could double their current ratings by keeping him in the spotlight. 
Peter Finch, who was awarded a posthumous Best Actor Oscar for his performance, is simply explosive as the unhinged anchorman whose volatile outbursts of derangement are celebrated by a society which, in a better world, should be trying to help him. Beale's memorable catch-cry – "I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore!" – symbolises his revulsion towards the crumbling values of today's society, and, as fanatical as he might be, most of his raves are worryingly close to the truth. William Holden is also excellent as Max Schumacher, Beale's long-time colleague, who resents the networks' treatment of his friend, but does little to interfere. Schumacher's adulterous relationship with the seductive but soulless Diana (Dunaway) consciously follows the conventional path of a television soap opera, ending with the realisation that his affair with the ratings-obsessed mistress is sapping him of any real emotion or humanity; in Schumacher's own words, "after living with you for six months, I'm turning into one of your scripts." Television corrupts life.
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 first forty minutes of The Lady from Shanghai left me relatively indifferent, in the sense that I had no idea where the story was heading, and couldn't understand the significance of the film's events to date. My reaction, apparently, differs little from that of Columbia Pictures President Harry Cohn, who couldn't decipher Welles' labyrinthian tale, and demanded that somebody explain it to him. The story itself was lifted from Sherwood King's novel, "If I Die Before I Wake," which was chosen practically at random. Welles had offered to adapt the book when Cohn gave him an urgently-needed $55,000 to finance costuming for his musical stage-show, "Around the World in Eighty Days." Filming for the film took place, in addition to the Columbia Pictures studios, in San Francisco and Acapulco, Mexico, aboard a yacht belonging to none other than Errol Flynn. Welles' original cut for the film ran 155 minutes, but, as occurred with tragic regularity through his career, the studio raised their scissors to his picture, slicing off at least an hour of footage.
It is perhaps because of this studio interference that The Lady from Shanghai cuts rather choppily from a thriller to a courtroom drama. The trial episode is played largely for satire, with Welles emphasising the blatant disorder of the courtroom, abound with constant interruptions from noisy audience members and sneezing jurors {one cut juxtaposes the judge playing chess with an aerial shot of the courtroom, suggesting that it's all just a perverted game}. Welles' inventive use of the camera is always a treat to observe; in one sequence, as Michael (Welles) speaks with George (Glenn Anders) atop an ocean lookout, the downwards-angled camera dangles the two characters over a fatal precipice. The film's climax is absolutely unforgettable, a gripping and innovative shoot-out in a carnival house of mirrors. As each character blasts away at illusory images of their enemies, the bullets shatter their own reflected profiles, fulfilling Michael's foreshadowing anecdote that compares Elsa (Hayworth) and Arthur (Everett Sloane) to sharks gnawing feverishly at their own flesh.
Fortunately, I had a copy of the film back at home, and promptly viewed the scenes that had been neglected, allowing me to better appreciate the intricate depths to which the film explored its characters and their respective situations. Antoine Doinel (Jean-Pierre Léaud) was born out of wedlock, and practically abandoned by his parents to live with relatives. After several years, Antoine returns to his resentful mother (Claire Maurier) and his friendly, if inadequate, stepfather (Albert Rémy) to hopefully commence a normal lifestyle, but, driven by the discomfort of his uneasy home relationships, Antoine descends into a life of mischief and petty crime. When his misbehavior becomes overwhelming for his strained parents, Antoine finds himself in a correctional facility for juvenile delinquents, and, despite the institute's strict disciplinary action, he still finds himself yearning for "a life of his own," to be completely independent of his elders, and to live unrestrained by their narrow-minded restrictions.
Léaud, in only his second film appearance, is wonderfully natural in the main role, portraying Antoine's tortured confinement – stemming both from society's restrictive disciplinary system, and his stagnant family relationships – with poignant, and often funny, enthusiasm. He would reunite with Truffaut on a further four occasions between 1962 and 1979 to complete the story of Antoine Doinel's life. There's little doubt that The 400 Blows is at least partially autobiographical. Truffaut himself never knew his natural father, had a detached relationship with his mother and frequently found shelter in his love for cinema. During the film, Antoine discovers a passion for the French novelist and playwright Honoré de Balzac, whose successful career was borne from a life plagued with personal and professional difficulties, his willful nature often squandering his attempts at business success. Always thirsting for independence from those who dictate rules to him, Antoine relates easily with Balzac, even building a candle-lit throne to the author, but his word-for-word "homage" is mistaken for plagiarism by his short-sighted school teacher.
The film's final moments are rightfully celebrated for their touching and poignant ambiguity, as Antoine escapes from the juvenile institution and proceeds towards the ocean, which he has never seen before; his arrival at the rolling waves representative of that almost-unattainable independence of which he was so desirous. In a single, extremely smooth long-shot, Antoine ambles across the sand, always moving forward but seemingly getting nowhere. As he finally kicks at the breaking surf, Antoine pauses, perhaps uncertain of his path from here. Having acquired his goal of independence, he suddenly finds himself alone and purposeless, a small boy playing dolefully in the water. Antoine turns his back to the ocean and faces the audience directly (does he see his pursuers approaching in the distance?), and the camera zooms in on a captured frame of Antoine's face, his soft, inquiring eyes asking us what he's supposed to do now.
Recently-released criminal mastermind, Doc Erwin Riedenschneider (Sam Jaffe), has, for the last seven years of his incarceration, protected the plans for the most ambitious and profitable heist of his "distinguished" career. He arrives in a dreary, smoggy, crime-ridden city, where low-lifes patrol the darkened streets and law officers, some honest and some crooked, do their best to control the escalating crime-rates. The Doc hires a diverse assortment of essential criminals to ensure the success of his caper – a "boxman," or a safecracker (Anthony Caruso) with a young family, a "top-notch" getaway driver (James Whitmore) with a twisted back, and a small-time "hooligan" (Sterling Hayden) with a costly passion for horses. Also involved in the elaborate scheme is Cobby (Marc Lawrence), a sleazy, treacherous bookie, and Alonzo D. Emmerich (Louis Calhern), a bankrupt professional businessman who agrees to finance the operation but houses plans for a disastrous double-crossing. The film's female protagonists come in the form of innocent Doll Conovan (Jean Hagen, prior to her career-defining performance in 'Singin' in the Rain (1952)') and an up-and-coming Marilyn Monroe as Emmerich's sexy, playful and naive young mistress.
As was typical in film-noir films of the era, whose contents were dictated by the meddlesome Production/Hays Code, the ultimate moral of the story is that crime doesn't pay. Each of the thieves receive punishment for their involvement in the robbery, either through conviction or death, as does the fraudulent detective (Barry Kelley) whose corruption is described as a "one in a hundred" case. Nevertheless, Huston succeeds in creating a certain amount of empathy towards the criminals, sympathetically presenting the audience with each man's reasonable motivations towards breaking the law. By recruiting our support, Huston invariably places the audience in the shoes of a criminal, suggesting, as the perfect scheme begins to unravel, that our own fates lie in the balance. This evocation of realism is certainly complemented by Harold Rosson's gritty, documentary-like cinematography, and the heist sequence itself – while falling well short of Jules Dassin's breathless 30-minute counterpart – is tense, intriguing and authentic. As Huston himself explains in a pre-film introduction on the DVD release, each of his characters is immoral, largely unlikable and driven by a debilitating vice; however, despite this, or perhaps because of it, we can't take our eyes off them.
If Jeff Bailey (Robert Mitchum) thought he could escape his old enemies by purchasing an old gas station in a small American town, then he was sorely mistaken. A previous employer, Whit Sterling (Kirk Douglas), a seedy and sly gangster, has sent for him, and, more than likely, the meeting has something to do with Kathie (Jane Greer), the beautiful seductress with whom Bailey {back when he was called Jeff Markham} fell in love when he was supposed to be capturing her. Bailey is a smooth, shrewd operator, and recognises that plans have been drawn against him, but he responds to the situation as one whose judgement should never be doubted. The romance described early in the film, as Bailey recounts his doomed love story to local innocent girlfriend, Anne (Virginia Huston), is deceptively touching, and, despite the clear framing device around which the story is structured, I was completely fooled into sympathising with Kathie, only to be left feeling foolish and hollow as her initial betrayal is revealed.
In the United Kingdom, Tourneur's film was released under the title Build My Gallows High, also the name of the novel from which the screenplay was adapted. There are enough sharp, bitterly-ironic snippets of dialogue for me to spend all day listing them, but lines such as "Baby, I don't care," "…if I have to, I'll die last" and "you dirty double-crossing rat!" are pure noir, and serve as an excellent introduction to the style of American film-making that was most prominent from 1941-1958 {basically from John Huston's The Maltese Falcon to Orson Welles' Touch of Evil}. The story comes to a successfully downbeat conclusion, with each of the three main characters meeting a messy and tragic end in a suitably Shakespearian fashion. Though Jeff Bailey was ostensibly our story's hero, he had already committed enough sins by the film's beginning to avoid a happy ending, and his fate was effectively sealed from the moment he chose to revisit his past employer, despite obviously having little choice in the matter. Such is film noir.
Meanwhile, Gypo is plagued with guilt for his friend's untimely death, and descends into a bout of heavy-drinking that rivals Don Birnam in The Lost Weekend (1945) in its excessiveness. As Gypo drowns his sorrows in copious volumes of alcohol, trapped in a vicious little circle of depression, his extravagant spending captures the attention of the investigating IRA members. For the one time in his life, Gypo finds himself surrounded by admirers (including an amusing J.M. Kerrigan), who enthusiastically clap him on the back and christen him "King Gypo" for his physical might. However, it's obvious that these people feel no affection for the man, and are simple showing him attention to exploit him for money. The additional £20 brought by Frankie's death could never buy Gypo an assembly of friends – indeed, in a bitter twist of irony, the money was only made possible by the betrayal and loss of one of his only good companions. A relatively simple fellow, Gypo could not possibly have fully considered the consequences of his actions, and is eventually offered forgiveness on account of his "not knowing what he was doing," but his foolishness must not go unpunished. 
By 1950, director Jules Dassin had already released a string of well-received American film-noir thrillers, before falling victim to the Hollywood blacklist. Considered un-backable by the bulk of the European studios, Dassin languished in poverty for a period of five years, before he was offered the opportunity to direct a low-budget French thriller based on Auguste Le Breton's novel. Du rififi chez les hommes (1955) {which loosely translates to "of brawling among men," a suitable description for the destructive male behaviour that devastates their well-laid plans} proved Dassin's redemption of sorts, becoming an incredible critical and commercial success and winning Best Director at the 1955 Cannes Film Festival. Then-critic François Truffaut famously referred to Dassin's film as "the the best film noir I have ever seen," a lofty word of praise if there ever was one. Though the film differs from classic film noir in that the story unfolds in Paris, it contains sufficient elements of the movement to easily qualify. Indeed, Jean Servais' character, Tony le Stéphanois, might conceivably have been played by Humphrey Bogart – he may be a man past his prime, but he's proud, shrewd and decisive, and it'd be a mistake to get in his way.
Rififi takes a few minutes to fully swing into motion, and, though our introduction to the fellow team members is quite interesting, I found little importance in Tony's relationship with former girlfriend Mado (Marie Sabouret). It was possibly included to further flesh out his character, and to interestingly define the role of women in this particularly story, but I felt that Mado simply distracted from the caper that we were all here to see. However, the undisputed centrepiece of the film is undoubtedly the breathless 33-minute heist sequence, which is entirely devoid of all music and dialogue. The crime unfolds in almost complete silence, the thieves' quiet movements barely audible in the hushed atmosphere of the empty jewellry store. Every unexpected sound leaps out at the audience like a dagger, the single resonating note of a piano acting as the men's mortal enemy. Their ingenious heist unfolds like a meticulously-staged ballet {somewhat reminiscent of the extended pickpocketing sequence in Robert Bresson's Pickpocket (1959)}, every man completely and silently aware of his role in the operation. Following the successful jewel theft, composer Georges Auric is finally allowed to spread his musical wings, and Dassin begins to toy sadistically with the fates of his characters.
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