Although I’m uncertain if it technically falls within the purview of my normal work, my internship finds me manning the reception desk today. It’s a surprisingly tense job, to be honest with you, because there’s such an abundance of protocol, all of which must be executed in rapid order. I think people can tell I’m panicking up here, wildly throwing the wheel port and starboard, no constellations in the sky.
But moving right along, Dear Reader, I saw a wonderful film last night. Those of you who possess powers of Netflix should mosey on over to the “Instant” section and view a little flick called “Double Indemnity,” a Billy Wilder picture from ’44. It’s classic California noir, sinister and foreboding with just the right edge of absurdity. You never take it too seriously, but it spins a compelling web, and the dialogue crackles like the characters all had ten minutes to think out their conversations before having them.
I’m gradually becoming a fan of noir, after a few rough patches between the genre and I. The first time I tried to watch “Chinatown” (which is technically a “neo noir” I suppose) was a few years back, and at the time I was even more ignornat about cinema than I am now. I struggled with it, and then some kind of time commitment pulled me away and I never felt compelled to return. I had enjoyed “Touch of Evil” much more, but it had been years since I saw it, and for some reason I felt little desire to visit it again. I began to wonder if our relationship wasn’t ill-fated, something that would have disappointed me profoundly on account of the fact that I love German expressionism and anti-heroes, and both of those things are cornerstones of noir. The way things got better was a little backwards: I discovered neo-noirs, even third and fourth generation neo-noirs. Many of them left little impression on me, but three became all-time favorites: “Blade Runner,” “The Usual Suspects,” and “Bound.”
The first, of course, is Ridley Scott’s highly existential sci-fi detective story. Although coming to understand this masterpiece was a long journey, the arrival was well worth it. “Runner” taught me about the hypnotic qualities of noir, and this was an invaluable piece of instruction. I had assumed that since the genre was literally drenched in darkness both thematic and visual, I was intended to be put on alert, to watch defensively. But Ridley’s lesson was that noir wants to wash over you, to burn in your throat like whiskey. There is not a single drop of rock and roll in it, everything is jazz and blues (if you’ll ignore the obvious historical connection between the first and last).
On top of that, “Blade Runner” was the movie that definitively expanded my horizons beyond likable and/or charismatic protagonists. Many other films had tried to win me over on this, but Harrison Ford’s brilliantly disillusioned Deckerd broke the camel’s back. He wasn’t charming, he wasn’t smooth or in good shape, and although he was a decent detective, his methods were conniving and sneaky; ol’ Rick got farther from being able to take a punch than being able to throw one. Worst of all, he didn’t have any triumphant self-awareness about his shortcomings like Richard III, he was an average guy who thought of himself as more capable than he was.
But these are the men who populate noir: not just sexy villains that everyone loves like Hannibal Lecter, but legitimately cold-hearted low lives with no amazing talent to offset it. Men who lie to themselves first and foremost. Ugly reflections of the most deluded parts of human nature. For many years such characters made no sense to me, but the complexities of adult life (or the brief part of it I’ve experienced so far) teach you that it is people like this you should be afraid of becoming. They are decent enough, or at least not particularly bad, until they find it in themselves to make that one little wrong decision…
I have said many times that “The Usual Suspects” is the best neo-noir of all time, and I maintain that assertion. It is best in two ways: firstly, on merit alone with no concern towards genre; it is simply a better piece of film making than even the most esteemed of its colleagues, “L.A. Confidential.” Secondly, but just as important in this discussion, “Suspects” perfectly captures the key components of noir, and does so with such grace that you’d be hard pressed to notice. Most entries in this genre are loud pieces a la “Brick,” screaming their identity until you can’t miss it. I have no problem with that, but I admire this a little more.
Roger Ebert once said that the point of noir is that there are no heroes. “The Usual Suspects” epitomizes this, as its entire cast of protagonists are thieves and murderers, who in the end are all slaughtered by another thief/murderer because he is much better at it than them. What’s remarkable about the film is how it manages to involve you so completely in these men’s lives, while simultaneously never quite permitting them to be…loved, exactly. You care what happens to them to such an intense degree that you can scarcely keep your seat, but their untimely demise feels correct anyway, and you don’t mourn them even slightly. They were terrible men.
Some have complained that “Suspects” does not “look” adequately noir, and this is ridiculous. Much of its daytime photography would be right at home in the sun-drenched desperation of “Indemnity” and “Chinatown,” and the night stuff, particularly on the boat, is so expressionist you might think Fritz Lang shot it. Everything about this movie is noir, and yet so few people outside of the film community seem to notice. I think this is why “Suspects” was so important for me: it got me acquainted with the tone and texture of the genre in a subtle, permanent way.
“Bound” is as noir as it gets, albeit the Wachowski Brothers (making an incredible debut just prior to “The Matrix”) dropped in lesbians just for good measure. The two leads are no one’s idea of how gay women actually behave, but there’s something almost adorable about two comic book geeks reveling in fantasy. The first thirty or so minutes is more or less about our “heroes” beginning an affair, and while it has a very real over-the-top charm, it would be a disaster in a film that asked for open sympathy towards its characters. Fortunately, all “Bound” requires is that you agree to the following: these ladies are smart, determined, and in a lot of danger.
Although I won’t spoil anything, the central plot revolves around Gina Gershon’s Corky and Jennifer Tilly’s Violet attempting to rip the mob off for a cool $2 million. The plan is ingenious, and possibly largely thanks to Violet’s status as trophy girl for a local mob goon (the wonderful Joe Pantoliono). Once the first quarter of the movie is over, a gritty ticking clock thriller emerges from the enjoyable but silly trash. Where we had cartoony lesbians exchanging throaty dialogue, suddenly we’ve got headstrong women fighting for their lives, improvising, manipulating, flying a little too close to the sun. It’s a psychological showdown of relentless intensity, and it’s totally grounded. Even if you enjoyed the beginning, you have no time for it now.
If “Bound” departs from its origins at all, it does so by being a little too thrilling. There’s no time to sit back and ruminate on double-crossing dames, or how everyone’s in on the take, or any of those wonderful pessimistic noir adages, because there isn’t even time to freaking breathe. In every other regard, though, “Bound” is daddy’s little girl, totally committed right down to the shooting style.
I saw all of these movies with absolutely no intention of rekindling a flame with noir, and because of this they were able to impart smidgens of wisdom and guide me towards their ancestors. The next time I watched “Chinatown,” it clicked. That led to “The Maltese Falcon,” which led to Humphrey Bogart in general. Now things were beginning to move, but I wasn’t all-in until I saw Hitchcock take a whack at it with “Dial M for Murder” (some debate that one, I think it counts), “Vertigo” and “Strangers on a Train.” Boom, sold.
I’m not well-versed in the genre by any means yet, but I think there’s a good chance that someday I will be. I always knew we were meant to be together.
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