CineM Review: The Big Heat (1953)

PROLOGUE

Too many Bollywood films in the 80s and 90s bolstered by the phenomenon of the angry young man featured the protagonist as a cop hell-bent on busting crime with a passion which can only be termed ‘manic’ and a personal confrontational style which is centered around violence – acting out fatuous impulses with the inevitable result that his loved ones would be promptly bumped off, which would again only, understandably whet his appetite for further mindless destruction. This celebrated ‘knight’ always simmered with seething rage which would ultimately boil over, but at the same time was also capable of performing good deeds like rescuing a hapless orphan from the streets. Bollywood brought out (and still does) a slew of anti-establishment films characterised by a compulsive desire to dispose off every piece of criminal scum in the country, featuring heroes whose destructive behaviour ensures that every member of the supporting cast either got killed or tortured. What these films essentially manifest is a war and the troubled hero as the soldier for whom this war becomes his only life.

A Different Bane

Before attempting to write a critique of ‘The Big Heat’, it is perhaps important to understand 2 things – firstly, the notion of the dark anti-hero as developed in art and secondly, the origins of the film’s director, Fritz Lang. Art forms like cinema and comics have developed and fine-tuned the ‘anti-hero’ concept for the last 4 decades, evolving the lone crusader from a do-gooder with an individualistic sense of meting out justice at all costs into the morally-flawed paranoid reactionary who is only too willing to kill and maim in his quest; a possessed individual with twisted, dark moods and overt violence in his thoughts and actions. However, it was a far more conventional form of evil which had shaped and defined Fritz Lang’s life and work. Partly-Jewish Lang was one of the foremost German directors (he had already made ‘M’ and ‘Metropolis’) and personally mandated by Hitler and Goebbles to make Nazi propaganda films before he escaped and became a Hollywood legend making films out of the eternal motifs of the dubious circumstances surrounding man and the evil that perennially lurks inside him. Lang’s films are streaked by the presence of individuals insidiously primed to wreak violence and the accompanying emotional ravages. Lang’s career spanned geography, language and culture; bridging as it did both the silent and sound eras. Lang’s earlier films effectively laid the ground stone for establishment of that intense brooding genre in Hollywood’s Golden Age - film-noir.

On the face of it, this is a plain cop-versus-mob crime thriller but it has considerable dark undertones of moral ambiguity and psychological conflict. Like many other film-noir classics, this is a canvas defined not by the traditionally uplifting qualities of heroism, idealism or duty but by knotty hues of self-preservation, vengeance and utter oblivion in its pursuit. This is a remarkably violent film – in which other film else have you seen all the female characters killed off?

The film starts with a lingering shot of a pistol lying on a table in a study. A man picks it up and blows his brains out. Glenn Ford as Detective Sgt. Dave Bannion is assigned to the case and he starts the investigation with the dead man’s widow. It turns out that the dead man’s an ex-cop and from there, Bannion picks up the threads leading to a brief meeting with the man’s girlfriend who comes up with a possible story which Bannion finds unbelievable and the widow upon questioning, dismisses as baseless. Subsequent events seems to point at the prevailing mob boss in the city and his henchman Vince Stone (a very young but very very talented Lee Marvin). The introduction of Vince Stone’s character is accompanied by the first appearance of his girl, Gloria Grahame as Debby Marsh. Juxtaposed against the coldness of the criminal world are interesting short and warm vignettes of Bannion’s blissful life with his wife (Jocelyn Brando) and kid.

This film which is at one level, that of a heroic and dedicated police officer is at another wholly disparate level, really about something else. The tipping point in the film occurs when the murder investigation casts its own dark spell of mayhem on Bannion’s little family. The big heat inside Bannion’s character find a volcanic way out…and how!!

Besides the dead man in the opening sequence, the story chillingly kills off all the 4 main female leads and what is morally damning for Bannion is that in one way or another, his reckless actions have been culpable in all the 4 killings. Bannion for all his sincerity and dedication in the early part of the murder investigation is prone to foolhardy and impulsive decisions. Like when he promptly discloses the information provided by the dead man’s girlfriend which leads to her torture and ultimate murder, and he does not think twice before bouncing off to the mob boss’ house to confront him for threatening calls being made to his house, and to add insult to further injury, slams his fist into an underling’s face at the slightest provocation.

The tragedy which befalls his family shortly afterwards lays bare the sinister mask underneath Bannion’s character. A brilliantly played-out scene of intimidation, brazen challenge and momentary capitulation in a city bar involving Vince, Debby, another mob hand and Bannion, brings to the fore Bannion’s barely-suppressed rage. “Thief!” Bannion splutters  with venom at the face of Vince.

This scene at the bar prefaces the third act of the film which was for me personally, the most enigmatic. This portion of the story showcases the immense talents of Gloria (Debby) and Lee (Vince). Debby is the typical moll with a flippant attitude, a light speech and coquettish mannerisms (eyes which twinkle with allure, lips which curl up invitingly, and a languorous body language) and the gangster Vince possesses that coldness evident in the thin lips, lean face and not-unattractive scowl. Lee successfully portrays the wired-up violent streak in Vince’s character which the film brings out with sharp intensity in a couple of marvelous bits. The most vicious bit of violence in the film is where Vince with great intent and a chilling callousness, upturns a pot of boiling coffee on Debby’s beautiful face. This coffee-throwing incident sparks a transformation in Debby from a vacuous and self-loving pretty girl whose favourite pastime it seems, is checking herself in a mirror. Gloria excels in the character of Debby; her bounce, lithe figure, a child-like enunciation and suggestive expressions are on the surface, all that is to the character. As with most such characters however, there is a hard steel in the spirit and an obscure sense of righteousness which when provoked, manifests itself in the most resolute of actions. The new Debby proceeds ahead on that new trail of retribution along with Bannion.

This is a remarkable film; remarkable for its performances, remarkable for the terrific lines (Debby with her irreparably disfigured face bravely tries to keep up her act: "I guess the scar isn't so bad -- not if it's only on one side. I can always go through life sideways.”), remarkable because it does not shy away from uncovering the terrible face of human lusts even when the mission seems righteous. The main writer of the screenplay is screenwriter Sydney Boehm, a former crime reporter who alongwith Lang lends that strange, unquiet air of apprehension and impending danger.

p.s. Though largely unheralded in his lifetime, Fritz Lang’s oeuvre is the stuff of master filmmaking and the sceptre of the dangerous world of layered human evil is relevant in modern cinema too. No wonder then, that as a heads-up to the great director in Quentin Tarantino’s latest offering replete with cinematic references - ‘Django Unchained’, the beguiling, menacing character of Dr. King Schultz played by Christoph Waltz rides on a horse whose name is you guessed it, ‘Fritz’!!

CineM’s Verdict:

CineM Review: The Station Agent (2003)

Quiet, Real

Back in 2003, I was trudging through a dreary final year of my graduation; that same year however, Hollywood twirled, weaved and waltzed to give us two brilliant films on unlikely friendship and quietly-born intimacy. Both Sofia Coppola's ‘Lost in Translation’ and Thomas McCarthy’s ‘The Station Agent’ are understated and yet sparkling gems, unobtrusively exploring characters disparate in all respects but possessing a common intangible sense of loss or unfulfillment, and the uncommon friendship which evolves out of nothing more than a shared existence; in LIT’s case, of staying in the same hotel and in TSA’s case, of living in the same town.

It would be easy to reduce this movie’s story to one of the unlikely coming together of first a dwarf, second an energiser bunny who may be considered a festival of unaffected gregariousness, and third a single woman grappling with twin losses – that of a dead child and an approaching divorce. The slightly more challenging task is to see beyond the stereotypes which such characters usually attract, and take a peek into what makes them behave the way they do. Real-life ‘short person’ Peter Dinklage as the dwarf Finbar McBride, Bobby Cannavale as the hugely enthusiastic Joe Oramas operating a coffee-shop-on-wheels and always-perfect Patricia Clarkson as the hesitant Olivia Harris, are the people around whom the story revolves. Michelle Williams as the unsure but well-meaning local librarian (Emily) and cute Raven Goodwin as the sedate school-girl Cleo complete the delectable ensemble.

Intensely reclusive Fin moves from the city to a quiet town called Newfoundland in New Jersey (his lawyer helpfully informs him that “there’s nothing out there…nothing”), to take over a recent inheritance which is actually an abandoned train depot; what follows immediately his arrival is a portrait of quiet but rich mirth. Fin who must have inwardly rejoiced at the lawyer’s dismissive view of placid Newfoundland is met with an acutely polar reality. Picture Fin’s first day in Newfoundland – he goes over to Joe's mobile coffee-shop just outside his depot where he is treated to a morning cuppa accompanied by a relentless flow of friendly questions, and while on his way to the local convenience store, he is nearly run over by a distracted Olivia who apologises profusely and drives off, but nevertheless manages to narrowly avoid crushing Fin a second time while he’s on his way back. Fin’s lengthening stay in the depot is punctuated with all-too-familiar interactions with the indefatigable Joe who persists in plugging away at his reserve and the much quieter interactions with a naturally good-natured Olivia. Fin lets in the other two slowly into his quiet world of the train depot and trainspotting, and we are treated to an unhurried but very revealing slice of how the characters behave, and their motivations.

Writer-director Thomas McCarthy who is deeply interested it seems, in developing stories of unlikely friendships (in ‘The Visitor’, ‘Win Win’, ‘UP’) draws out such minute details of the characters (Fin walks mostly with his hands deep in his pockets and his head perennially held down) with a delicate touch. He builds the characters with a sure-footed intensity, and complements the tumult in the lives of his main characters with the flustered and needy inflections of the librarian Emily and directness of the only character in the cast un-afflicted with any inner struggles – that of Cleo, the young girl with frank questions and an open mind. I felt a clear identification with the characters; their completely real lives and the blossoming of a friendship which is honest and filled with actual warmth.

In a movie which is actually well-acted with just the right amount of expression and reserve, Bobby Canavale’s turn as the unflappable, ‘doesnt-take-no-for-an-answer’ blaze of energy is the real showstopper.  He actually bludgeons both Fin and Olivia with absolute open, warm human connect and wriggles his way into the lives of two very introverted people. Peter Dinklage brings out a real character tethered to his own sense of self and the perceptions so easily expressed, by others; in a life of either ridicule or absolute isolation, the way he has trained himself to be defensively reserved and the manner in which he is drawn out of his solitude by the gutsy friendliness and obvious interest of Joe and the similarly troubled and calling-for-help aura of Olivia, is slowly but clearly tapped into. The surprise in the package for me is Michelle Williams who even in that limited space gave ample proof of the quiet strength which she inherently brings to the characters she plays (like ‘Wendy and Lucy’, ‘Meek’s Cutoff’ among others).

This is one of those movies so sparsely-populated with characters and so thin on a plot, but very riveted on showcasing not ‘what is to happen’ but ‘what exists’. The 3 main characters so perfectly act out a lifetime of feelings in their performances, and convey so many little truths about grief, solitude, compassion and simple pleasures. By the time Fin, Joe and Olivia take their quiet leisurely stroll down the rail tracks in picturesque New Jersey, I very much wanted to be there on that walk with them too.

CineM’s Verdict:

CineM Review: Ikiru (1952)

To Create Is Beautiful

When Akira Kurosawa began filming ‘Ikiru’, the commercial and critical success of ‘Rashomon’ (it won the highest award ‘The Golden Lion’ in the Venice Film Festival 1951 and collected an unheard-of amount for a Japanese film in the US) was fresh behind him. He must have felt very confident about his story-telling abilities. And that shows amply in ‘Ikiru’ – a film examining the struggles in the life of a bureaucrat who is fated to die of cancer shortly; the story itself an inspiration from Tolstoy’s short story "The Death of Ivan Ilyich".

Ikiru means “to live” and strangely (but perhaps not so strange after all), the protagonist starts leading a life true to himself only when he is compelled to stare straight ahead at the grim prospect of death. Kurosawa teamed up with Shinobu Hashimoto (who had earlier written the sparkling script of ‘Rashomon’) and Hideo Oguni to write the screenplay, and the nuances that they bring into a seeming-conventional story are very insightful. The story outline is simple enough – a long-serving, tired and thoroughly insipid bureaucrat is diagnosed with stomach cancer but given a misleading medical prognosis; he gathers though that he does not have long to live and surrounded by a stifling work-place environment and an equally unloving atmosphere at home with his son and daughter-in-law, our protagonist examines his past life, and comes to an epiphany about what he should do in his remaining days. This is a theme which has been widely explored both in literature and films – the onset of a fast-approaching death coupled with memories of a life made up of words left unsaid and work left undone, the ritual breakdown of mind and body, all culminating in a deeply-felt realisation about life (or death). This much-travelled niche is where Ikiru breaks the mould - through performances so sincere, a screenplay so sensitive, and a camera so faithful and alert to what it seeks to capture and what it desires to leave out.

Ikiru’s opening shot with a voice-over narration introduces the protagonist’s death even before we have had a glimpse of the protagonist, in a form of a X-ray film showing the cancerous growth in the stomach. The story then progresses along as the versatile Japanese actor Takashi Shimura in the role of the bureaucrat as Kanji Watanabe, sits through a cold, unsettling (and as proved, ultimately devious) medical diagnosis, stumbles back home to his dark bedroom which is sparsely adorned with certificates of appreciation for a long (but hollow) career in service, ultimately rebelling against his own deep-set frugal nature to seek out a night of pleasures and thrills. This is the definitive point where the film veers away from convention to present us with a truly masterful narrative.

That single night of debauchery has been shot in a marvelous sequence where Watanabe accompanied by a kindred spirit, a writer of cheap novels but possessor of an altruistic sensibility, taste the pleasures of a night that Tokyo has to offer. Stumbling in and out of dubious alleys, in and out of bars, both men end up in a lounge. This lounge is the setting for the scene which strikes me the most; Watanabe requests a song (‘The Gondola Song’) which the lounge pianist starts playing, the young and beautiful people of the night congregate to dance, but stop in mid-step when Watanabe starts singing the lonesome strains. The camera which initially lingers behind a swaying bead screen as the young couples start to dance, glides onto Watanabe as he sings, panning upwards to his face with the glass ceiling in the background reflecting the frozen figures of the other revelers. The sad lyrics of the song which call upon the young to come fall in love before their youth fades away, are sung in a low, so soft voice with the lips scarcely moving and tears silently welling up in Watanabe’s eyes, have stayed with me. This sequence is further embellished with interesting use of reflections of the people on glass surfaces presenting us with allegorical shots of how life holds different views for different people. In a sense, we see the characters both as they really are as well as how they appear to be.

That night is followed by a curious and unlikely relationship that develops between Watanabe and a much- younger female colleague. This bond which Watanabe feels is not easily understandable until the cathartic last dinner in the restaurant when Watanabe reveals haltingly and with characteristic reserve, and later more urgently what he seeks from the girl – the silent and somewhat raw cry of him who is going to his grave for an attempt at redeeming the life which is now past him. Kurosawa directs this part of the story with a stark camera’s eye which lays bare the utter helplessness in Watanabe’s soul – there is a wonderful shot where the side profile of Watanabe’s face frames the picture while the younger, happier, more open face of the girl lingers in the background – a contrast between the two.

Moments in Ikiru are not poetic; scenes are sometimes jagged, insistent, urgent, often giving us close shots of Watanabe’s face as he’s trying to work out his thoughts, perhaps attempting to capture the conflicts in the mind. The most dominant feature on the screen is Watanabe’s drooping figure; the camera follows him ruthlessly around, in one shot capturing his sorry bent figure on knees, frozen in a dark staircase – in a futile attempt to reach out to his son.

As the character of Watanabe approaches and meets its inevitable end, we are presented with a penetrating study into life and human nature, as his family and colleagues attempt to deconstruct his later days and ultimate death, while sipping sake in his wake. Unlike ‘Rashomon’ which captures truth as it undergoes a beguiling and self-mutating cycle of discovery, Ikiru is more concerned with examining the truth as it appears from one incrementally-developing perspective. We, the audience possess the privilege of knowing the unalloyed truth of both Watanabe’s life and death; however as the story’s characters (unsure and some of them, over-zealous) try to understand the motivations for Watanabe’s change from a bored bureaucrat to a tenacious civil servant, we are treated to the scattered and small ways in which the truth and eventually the meaning of life itself, make themselves apparent.

The masterstrokes in this film are too numerous to list them all; however I will make special mention of the scene where Watanabe’s rushes off after that fateful last dinner with the girl, while a bunch of happy party-people gather around the stair-head. They enthusiastically sing ‘Happy Birthday’ for someone who is as yet unseen but coming up the stairs, as Watanabe hurries down below them, his hands clutching his new symbol of hope, with a new flame in his eyes as he understands the way to live. We revel in his re-birth.

CineM’s Verdict: