Monday July 7

8:00 PM TCM Presents Elvis Mitchell: Under the Influence - Sydney Pollack (2008) - C-28 mins. - The channel debuts a new series where film critic Elvis Mitchell sits down to interview well-known actors and directors. This initial episode should be bittersweet as it was one of Pollack’s last interviews before passing away in May. For better or worse, his recent death will add an entirely different dimension to the viewing. The program repeats at 10:00 PM and also on Saturday morning.

4:45 AM To Paris With Love (Hamer, 1955) - C-78 mins. - A little film that once again pairs director Robert Hamer with Alec Guinness. The story is slight, with Guinness playing a man who takes his young adult son to Paris in search of a proper mate. Once there, it’s Guinness who finds a young woman to romance. I couldn’t find a DVD available in the UK or the US so it seems to be unreleased. IMDb lists Rank as the original UK distributor and Continental in the states. Where that leaves DVD rights is anyone’s guess.

Tuesday July 8

8:00 PM Craig’s Wife (Arzner, 1936) - BW-75 mins. - More Rosalind Russell this evening, beginning with a movie directed by Hollywood’s lone female director from the studio system. As such, it’s not surprising that this is what one might call a “woman’s picture,” but maybe slightly subversive of that. Russell plays a character who grabs for materialism instead of more female-centric attributes. Dorothy Arzner’s films often get labeled as giving women a masculine edge and this would certainly fit in that mold. The same story was remade in 1950 as Harriet Craig, with Joan Crawford in the lead. Neither are on DVD, with Sony controlling.

1:30 AM Sister Kenny (Nichols, 1946) - BW-116 mins. - What was Dudley Nichols doing when he wasn’t writing screenplays for John Ford, Howard Hawks and Fritz Lang? A little bit of directing, it turns out. He earned credit on three films in total including this one. Rosalind Russell again stars in the fact-based story about an Australian nurse who discovered a way to effectively treat polio. Russell won a Golden Globe and picked up an Oscar nomination for her portrayal. Made for RKO, the film is not on DVD and its rights should rest with Warner Bros. in R1.

Wednesday July 9

12:00 PM Surprise Package (Donen, 1960) - BW-99 mins. - If you’re not sold by Yul Brynner as a deported gangster then how about Noel Coward as a king whose crown Brynner is trying to take for himself. Stanely Donen’s comedy adaptation of Art Buchwald’s novel A Gift from the Boys doesn’t sound particularly good, but it does look to be interesting. Mitzi Gaynor livens things up further as Brynner’s girl. The film was made for Columbia and hasn’t found a DVD release from Sony. I would say it probably won’t either, but the company might surprise as they did recently when word slipped out that a series of unrelated treats, including Husbands and $, are due soon as “martini movies.”

10:00 PM I Dood It (Minnelli, 1943) - BW-102 mins. - What a stupid title. Vincente Minnelli was put on the film by MGM after original director Roy Del Ruth was fired. Minnelli had just made his first feature Cabin in the Sky and probably wasn’t thrilled about stepping in to direct Red Skelton and Eleanor Powell. Skelton plays a tailor’s assistant who develops a crush on stage star Powell. Though you won’t see his name anywhere in the credits, Buster Keaton and his Spite Marriage were the inspiration for I Dood It, and Skelton apparently lifted gags verbatim from Keaton. Some of what’s in the final version of this film is Del Ruth and some of it is Minnelli. Fans of the latter may be able to detect a number he did with Lena Horne and Hazel Scott against an all-black chorus. Things weren’t all bad for Minnelli, though, as he got to make Meet Me in St. Louis for his next picture. I Dood It isn’t on DVD, and is controlled by Warner Bros.

Thursday July 10

1:00 PM Dead Heat on a Merry-Go-Round (Girard, 1966) - C-107 mins. - James Coburn seemed like a pretty cool guy in the ’60s, right. The Flint movies, The President’s Analyst, and some odd ducks like this and Duffy (which I mentioned in a past week and which also follows at 3:00 PM). Coburn here is a con man who plans an elaborate airport bank robbery. I’ve read comparisons to Spielberg’s Catch Me If You Can. Bernard Girard was credited both as director and sole screenwriter for the film, but doesn’t have much else of interest in his CV. The movie was at one point on R1 DVD, but a victim of Sony’s inane removal of several titles from the marketplace. It seems to be easy enough to find on the secondary market, but is technically out of print.

4:45 PM The Happening (Silverstein, 1967) - C-101 mins. - More sixties oddness here. Director Elliot Silverstein’s follow-up to Cat Ballou is about hippies who abduct a gangster, only to have him see things their way when his family doesn’t demand his return. Anthony Quinn stars as the kidnapped man, but it’s Faye Dunaway in a supporting role (the same year as Bonnie and Clyde was released) that caught my attention. Other members of the supporting cast include Michael Parks, Milton Berle and The Apartment’s Jack Kruschen. Columbia again and not on DVD either.

Friday July 11

8:45 AM Penelope (Hiller, 1966) - C-98 mins. - The good news is that a Natalie Wood box set is supposedly on the way from Warner Bros. later this year. It was informally announced but nothing official yet. The bad news is that this wasn’t included in the list of titles in the box. Natalie plays a wife who feels neglected by her husband (Ian Bannen) and decides to rob a bank as a way of getting attention. Peter Falk and Jonathan Winters co-star. Director Arthur Hiller was pretty obviously an uneven craftsman, but he did make at least two extremely good movies (The Americanization of Emily and The Hospital, plus the more well-known Love Story, Silver Streak, and The In-Laws) so perhaps Penelope has its charms. It was made for MGM, but Warner Bros. should have the rights.

8:00 PM Paper Lion (March, 1968) - C-105 mins. - Alan Alda when he was “Robert Alda’s son” instead of “Hawkeye Pierce.” It’s mildly unbelievable that there’s no DVD of this film yet. Writer, sometime actor, and general participant in most everything the world had to offer George Plimpton posed as a quarterback for the Detroit Lions training camp and turned it into a book. Alda plays Plimpton and numerous football players appear as themselves. United Artists released the film so MGM should have its DVD rights. What’s the hold-up, though? Football movies, especially ones that are fairly well-known, seem to be popular enough to warrant release. This was Alda’s breakthrough so it’s shocking to still not have it out. Those who missed Otto Preminger’s Skidoo last time it aired, TCM has another showing scheduled for 2:00 AM. It’s likely to be the same full frame print, however.

Saturday June 28

8:00 PM The Spiral Staircase (Siodmak, 1945) - BW-84 mins. - It’s on DVD in R1, but Siodmak is a favorite and his films during this period were excellent. Dorothy McGuire plays a mute girl who’s threatened by a serial killer targeting the handicapped. Ethel Barrymore picked up an Oscar nomination, as she also did for Hitchcock’s The Paradine Case which follows.

Sunday June 29

10:00 AM Force of Evil (Polonsky, 1948) - BW-79 mins. - Great little film noir starring John Garfield as a lawyer whose brother (Thomas Gomez) is part of the numbers racket he wants to end. A tough, dynamic movie and it was Abraham Polonsky’s first as director. Polonsky would soon be blacklisted and unable to really direct again until 1969’s Tell Them Willie Boy Is Here. The R1 DVD was put out by Republic and could use an upgrade. It’s cheap, at least. The film’s rights must be in some sort of odd situation become MGM is listed as the original distributor, but Republic put out both VHS and DVD editions.

12:00 AM Phantom (Murnau, 1922) - BW-117 mins. - Already out in R1 from Flicker Alley and soon to come from Eureka’s Masters of Cinema label (apparently later this year), F.W. Murnau’s silent classic nevertheless gets a rare television showing. Probably not the ideal starting point in diving into the director’s work, but not a terrible one either.

2:00 AM The Fifth Horseman is Fear (Brynych, 1968) - BW-99 mins. - I’m shocked TCM is showing this at all because it’s more obscure than their usual “TCM Imports” selections. The Czech film replaces the originally scheduled showing of Fellini’s Satyricon. Facets released an edition in R1 and I’ve read that it’s a surprisingly competent transfer. Someone at Amazon commented that a scene was cut, though, and I’m not sure whether TCM will be airing the same print. Regardless, the film sounds enormously interesting, with a plot set during WWII and concerning a Jewish doctor in Czechoslovakia who helps an injured political fugitive. The channel’s schedule doesn’t indicate it’s letterboxed, which would be a problem especially since the aspect ratio is 2.35:1, but hopefully it will be.

Tuesday July 1

6:30 PM Crime School (Seiler, 1938) - BW-85 mins. - Remake/reworking of The Mayor of Hell, replacing Cagney with Bogart. I didn’t even like the earlier film very much, but anything with Bogart in a lead role that isn’t on DVD should probably warrant a mention. It’s a Warner Bros. title.

12:30 AM My Sister Eileen (Hall, 1942) - BW-97 mins. - Really interesting origins here. The film is based on stories by Ruth McKenney, who moved from Ohio to New York with her sister Eileen. Rosalind Russell plays Ruth while Janet Blair is Eileen. The real life Eileen married novelist Nathanel West, but their union was short as the couple died in a car accident just eight months after the wedding. Russell, TCM’s star of the month, received an Oscar nomination for her role here. The film is not on DVD and was made by Columbia, leaving the dreaded Sony with its rights.

2:15 AM No Time for Comedy (Keighley, 1940) - BW-93 mins. - Rosalind Russell also plays the lead in this film, co-starring James Stewart. The two are married, with Stewart a playwright specializing in comedy and Russell his lead. He’s persuaded to try his hand at tragedy, but the results are underwhelming and life-altering. Interestingly, Stewart’s role was apparently played by Laurence Olivier on Broadway, according to an IMDb reviewer. The Epstein brothers, who would go on to write the Casablanca screenplay, did the adaptation. It’s unavailable on DVD and was done for Warner Bros.

Wednesday July 2

9:00 AM The Feminine Touch (Van Dyke, 1941) - BW-98 mins. - More Russell, but this time with Don Ameche. The two are married and he’s a college professor who’s written a book, but publisher Van Heflin is much more interested in Roz than the book. Van Dyke’s specialty was the romantic comedy (and he cranked ‘em out with abandon), but the cast here, also including Kay Francis as Ameche’s editor, seems quite strong. It sounds like the kind of airy escapism that I love from the studio system. The studio in question here would be MGM, putting Warner Bros. in control of the DVD rights. It’s currently unreleased.

1:30 AM Dancing Co-Ed (Simon, 1939) - BW-84 mins. - A very early Lana Turner vehicle (she would have been 18 at best when it was made) that’s controlled by Warner Bros. (made for MGM) and not on DVD. The plot is something about a contest search for a dancer. Artie Shaw plays himself. I believe the film airs as part of TCM’s July focus on big bands. That also sets up several shorts playing on the schedule, frequently late at night. Perhaps the best musical live action short ever made in Hollywood happens to get an airing early in the morning, at 5:10 AM. The wonderful and mesmerizing Jammin’ the Blues is a must-see. It’s available from Warner Bros. on DVD, but you have to to buy the entire Humphrey Bogart Signature Collection Vol. 2 because the disc it’s a supplement on (Passage to Marseille) is exclusive to that set. However, it can also apparently be found on a release entitled Improvisation that features other jazz-related curios.

Thursday July 3

4:45 AM What’s Up, Tiger Lily? (Allen, 1966) - C-80 mins. - Woody Allen’s first film as director, wherein he famously re-dubbed a Japanese movie to center the plot around an egg salad recipe. I recently discovered that the R1 DVD has gone out of print and is fetching some pretty decent prices. Those who’d just like to watch the movie will get that chance here. If you have to have it on DVD, Optimum released a disc in R2 earlier this year and it’s cheaper to import than to dive into the secondary market for the R1.

Living where I do and having an interest in some form of the popular arts (film, music, literature) has allowed for many opportunities to view people whom I admire up close. It’s a weird sensation, undoubtedly, but even stranger is when it stops seeming like a big deal. I never have anything worthwhile to say or ask so I usually just politely demur or thank the person if there’s an autograph involved. I’m always (overly) cognizant of trying to avoid embarrassing myself, first and foremost, and, additionally, not bothering anyone more than is absolutely necessary. I rarely take pictures, not because I wouldn’t like to have them, but more to avoid the trouble. So I play the role of observer and soak it all in. This establishes a bit of a routine that prevents nervousness and the like, but also keeps me from losing my marbles when so-and-so is a few feet away, especially if I’ve watched/read/listened to so-and-so’s work enough to imprint their sensibilities somewhere in the midst of my own budding tastes and opinions.

That’s a long, explanatory introduction to my experience of watching a beautiful Scope print of Masaki Kobayashi’s Harakiri at Film Forum and then immediately watching the film’s star, Tatsuya Nakadai, get up from his seat three rows in front of mine to read a few prepared statements and take questions from the small, 150-member or so audience. Difficult to not be affected by that kind of breaking of a 46-year-old fourth wall. The idea that Nakadai, whose films essentially are Japanese cinema of the 1960s, would be in the same place where I was still seems unimaginable. This is arguably Japan’s greatest, most versatile movie star. I’m with the Mifune mifunites as much as the next person, but Nakadai has him beat in terms of a filmography to rival most any actor in any country at any time. Nakadai’s versatility alone, moving from Kobayashi’s The Human Condition trilogy and Harakiri to The Face of Another, films with Kon Ichikawa, Mikio Naruse and Hideo Gosha, and starring in Kurosawa’s two epic achievements of the 1980s, Kagemusha and Ran, remains astounding. I’m not saying he’s Japan’s best actor or that Mifune was inferior, only that Nakadai showed a greater range and worked with a wider array of directorial talent than Mifune. I wouldn’t trade the latter for anyone, but if someone put a tantō against the skin covering of my entrails, I’d pick Nakadai over Mifune.

With that unpleasant image in mind, how about upgrading to the entirely gruesome shot of Akira Ishihama trying to commit the film’s titular act with a dagger made of bamboo. On DVD, reclining on one’s couch in privacy’s creature comforts, the scene feels affecting and uncomfortable. But projected onto a large screen, in a darkened room with a full audience, it’s nearly unbearable. The black and white cinematography hardly mitigates the palpable pain, even if the blood is inky black instead of deep red. That crude oil look that blood has in black and white films seems to be far more effective than the distractingly fake stuff of horror movies and Peckinpah westerns. Unless I’m seeing internal organs, this scene in Harakiri ranks with any in terms of audience discomfort. When the viewer is sitting helpless in a screening room, hardly able to even avert one’s eyes, the excruciating length of time Kobayashi lets it play out is squirm cinema at its best. Part of the scene’s extraordinary nature is that it comes in a film that’s largely nonviolent and only contains any action sequences in its very last part, which even then Kobayashi playfully avoids showing in their entirety.

Still, I think those final, vengeance-infused showdowns between Nakadai and everyone else, scored to perfection by Tôru Takemitsu, are what the viewer largely takes away from Harakiri. The actor admitted after the screening that he couldn’t compete with Mifune’s madman swordsmanship, but Kobayashi’s film is only concerned with the climactic scenes of Nakadai against everyone else in the aftermath of a great deal of background having already been established. Though Kobayashi aligned himself with the popular reading of the film as a plainly harsh attack against feudal Japan, as well as the more modern powers behind the country’s entry in World War II, I also think it’s important to remember how essential the title is. This is a film about, concerned with, and in critique of the practice of seppuku, and one wholly without an endorsement. It’s like the samurai equivalent of suicide bombing. Nakadai’s own words, when answering a not entirely well thought out question from an audience member, probably sum things up best. He said something to the effect of not being able to support any government that requires its citizens to kill themselves, regardless of the reason.

As an increasingly conflicted American who hopes to soon find the flame of hope in his own country, it’s too easy to forget the courage of filmmakers and actors like Kobayashi and Nakadai. Japan is hardly the first nation one associates with radical directors of the 1960s, despite the somewhat subtle subversions everywhere in the films of Teshigahara, Imamura, and Oshima, but the ones who did place their politics on screen did so with extreme skill. Certainly Ichikawa’s Fires on the Plain is one of the most striking and compelling films against the practice of war that I’ve seen. Kobayashi was apparently outspoken all along, somehow navigating through Japan’s studio system for years before turning independent. Harakiri is a stark slap against the cheek of the country’s insincere history on film. Kurosawa romanticized the samurai to an extreme that wasn’t completely his fault, but nevertheless remains to this day. How many wasteful Americans proudly own an “authentic” samurai sword? The answer: too many.

I’m in the minority, but I’ll gladly take Harakiri over any of Kurosawa’s samurai films, or anyone else’s, for that matter. By facing the glaring hypocrisy head on and without apology, Kobayashi destroyed the Western myth of samurai as honorable warrior with one deft slash across cinema. There are few images more damning against a nation’s symbolic heritage than Nakadai destroying the armor edifice late in Kobayashi’s film. The director, as well as Shinobu Hashimoto’s expanded adaptation of the source material, simply refused to adhere to Kurosawa’s wandering ronin populist images found in Yojimbo just one year earlier. Harakiri’s retainers are insects with swords. They obey the orders of a corrupt master without considering any consequences, ethical or otherwise. As Kobayashi brilliantly lays out both with contained subtlety and obvious conviction, true honor is a foreign concept to these men. There’s the idea of maintaining total conviction to the samurai calling, but it’s all at the expense of freethinking. The parallels, essentially, are abundant for any military-based dictatorship, either in confirmed action or Orwellian doublespeak. Kobayashi would not be happy with my country circa the last seven plus years.

Politics aside, it’s a bit of a disservice to assign Harikiri as a film strictly concerned with an agenda. It’s a great movie period. I had it at number twenty in my 1960s list, and, while it may be difficult to really scare up a spot any higher, it’s completely deserving of that ranking. What begins somewhat deliberately envelops the viewer to an extent hardly common or easily explained. The simple storytelling of the Rentaro Mikuni character’s flashback, leading to Nakadai’s recounting of his experiences in broken parts, may be deceptive in its simplicity, but only a skilled combination of artists could keep the viewer repeatedly mesmerized. By the time Nakadai’s displaced ronin unveils one of the great minor twists in film history, affixed in an intricate topknot itself, the viewer is transfixed on the actor’s every move.

These three guys, Lubitsch, Sturges and Wilder, form the backbone of classic Hollywood comedy. Their colleague Leo McCarey was another vital presence who also worked at Paramount and whose key films (including Ruggles of Red Gap) remain largely unreleased, now increasingly difficult to see in repertory screenings, as well. Josef von Sternberg is right there, too. If there’s anything at all worth smiling about, it’s that several films related to this trio have recently surfaced on DVD. Quite a few of their films as writer and director are still without a DVD release, possibly deterred even further by this turn of events, but I wanted to mention the few that have reached the market, which, conveniently, I’ve also reviewed for DVD Times.

Back in February, Criterion’s Eclipse line released Lubitsch’s four Paramount musicals in a nifty, extras-less edition. It’s a must-own for fans of the director. Around the same time, Wilder’s The Apartment got a nice upgrade from MGM. (It was originally released by United Artists.) More recently, the BFI put out Lubitsch’s final completed film, Cluny Brown. Made for Fox in 1946, it’s an appropriate ending to a great career. I had vastly underestimated the film after an initial viewing when I put up a review back early last year on this site. The more pertinent Paramount/Universal titles hit stores in April. I’ve reviewed all these, including Wilder’s first film as director in Hollywood, The Major and the Minor. Also out are a pair of Mitchell Leisen-directed efforts. Easy Living, with screenplay from Sturges, and Midnight, a sparkling film written by Charles Brackett and Billy Wilder, finally received their digital releases, I believe, for the first time anywhere in the world.

This still leaves several Paramount-made, Universal-controlled pictures from the Lubitsch, Sturges, and Wilder cycle unavailable on R1 DVD. Most notably - Angel, directed by Lubitsch and available in a Marlene Dietrich set in R2, Bluebeard’s Eighth Wife, another Lubitsch picture and written by Brackett and Wilder, Remember the Night, written by Sturges and directed by Leisen but not on DVD anywhere, Hold Back the Dawn, which was directed by Leisen and scripted by Brackett and Wilder, and two early Wilder-directed films, Five Graves to Cairo and A Foreign Affair. Both of those latter movies are available in other regions, but still absent in R1. There are a handful of others, things like Arise My Love which I’ve been anxious to see, but I’m now hesitant as to whether any of these films will make it onto R1 DVD in the near future. Despite business concerns, it would seem appropriate for Universal to reveal exactly what films were lost (surely their bookkeeping contains such records) instead of playing so coy.

In all its glory, here are my choices for the top 50 elite films of the 1970s. This is the fourth such list I’ve made now, and it just doesn’t get any easier. As with the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s, the list has been submitted for the Criterion forum’s Lists Project. I made an intentional effort to abide by my own subjective whims this time, placing little or no emphasis on canon. My tastes are my tastes, but the goal was to balance between favorites and acknowledged quality while trusting that what I like deserves to be here. The strength of American films, combined with the R1 unavailability of several well-regarded foreign films of the decade, has resulted in a list heavily favoring the English language. Not a problem in my book because I love what was going on in Hollywood during this time. In all, there are only 9 foreign language films among these 50, with another 8 in the list of 25 also-rans I posted previously. I do hope a few people find the list and my justifications/appreciations interesting to look through, read, or browse for recommendations. I know I enjoy the whole process. Any writing I’ve done on a particular film is linked to below.

1.) The Godfather Part II (Coppola, 1974) - I’ve resisted the idea for years that Coppola’s sequel is superior to the first film, but I don’t think I can really deny it any longer after spending a full night with the two parts. This is a richer, more focused effort that completely understands what it wants to project and does so brilliantly. The acting has an understated balance often missing from the earlier film and the tragedy cuts far deeper. Michael’s reveal to Fredo that he knows and Michael’s slap of Kay both send chills down my spine. I don’t particularly see this entry as being about family so much as it is about America. I’m prone to reading the American experience into numerous films, but this must be one of the most glaring. From young Vito’s entry at Ellis Island to Michael’s returning the favor of betrayal as he sits in ominous solitude, Coppola’s film completely embodies a certain side of the possibilities offered by the country.

2.) The Godfather (Coppola, 1972) - Long having been one of my very favorite movies, the adaptation of Mario Puzo’s best-selling (but inferior) novel probably has as lofty a reputation as any piece of 20th century art. Impossible to encapsulate in such a short space, The Godfather’s memorably quotable screenplay (perhaps second only to Casablanca) begins with the immortal words “I believe in America,” but it’s the nonverbal power of the baptism scene that makes good on the film’s opening line. It remains one of cinema’s dazzlingly brilliant sequences. There’s a point where there’s possibly still room to turn back and then there’s running full speed ahead. The ambiguity and moral conflict is so murky that half a dozen viewings and I still don’t know if I’m rooting for the Corleone family.

3.) The Long Goodbye (Altman, 1973) - Here’s what Robert Altman’s films can do to a person. You see something and enjoy it well enough, then watch it again a year later and recognize it was much stronger than you first realized. Another year passes, and you’re ready to consider it one of the finest films of the decade. Nearly all of Altman’s films improve on repeated viewings, but I’ve gotten it into my head that this is his best. It’s full of sly truths, an epic central performance from Elliott Gould, and has a pleasingly bizarre supporting cast lead by a toasted Sterling Hayden. It really is amazing to sit back and see what Altman does to the detective genre.

4.) Being There (Ashby, 1979) - A film that never peaks, always steadily rising until it literally walks on water. I find it incredibly sad that both Peter Sellers and Hal Ashby were unable to make anything of substance afterwards despite both still being relatively young. Sellers, of course, died in 1980 and Ashby followed just a few years later, but couldn’t continue making the kinds of films he so brilliantly crafted in the ’70s. Sellers seems like he’s actually gone crazy while the cameras happen to be rolling. His Chance is a reactionless blank canvas where everyone projects their own thoughts and inclinations. It’s rare for me to proclaim that I really love a film, in the sense that I feel both an emotional connection and would argue that it’s justified. I love Being There. I loved it the first time I saw it and I loved it the most recent time I saw it.

5.) Avanti! (Wilder, 1972) - A final masterpiece from one of cinema’s finest directors. Billy Wilder hit a creative roadblock after One, Two, Three that lasted the rest of the decade. His films were commercially successful, for the most part, but a little out of touch with a changing Hollywood. Too mean, too quaint, nothing that really stretched his talents. Then he had a very difficult time with the release of a heavily-edited version of The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes and stayed in Europe to once again re-team with Jack Lemmon. The result was a still-neglected gem that effectively modernized Lemmon’s growing crustiness with the hidden heart Wilder liked to slip into his ’60s films. I think I hold the movie up a bit higher than most anyone whose opinion I’ve read, but there does seem to be a quiet contingent privy to the film’s considerable charms.

6.) The Passenger (Antonioni, 1975) - None of Antonioni’s other films have struck me like this one. I don’t know if it’s because of Nicholson or exactly what the cause is, but this movie mesmerizes me. I see the alienation in his character more than the comparatively empty protagonists of other Antonioni films. The plot here helps a great deal, which is reminiscent of Hitchcock but told in an entirely different style. And just an extraordinary ending that might cause you to shake your head, rewind the disc, or both.

7.) Nashville (Altman, 1975) - It’s a bit on the surreal side for someone who grew up in middle Tennessee to watch Altman’s 24-character tapestry. Though my understanding is that the city wasn’t fond of how the film turned out, the critical consensus usually places it as the director’s finest. No serious arguments here, even if it’s not my absolute favorite. I don’t think Altman ever made a film so deeply and powerfully emotional. Gwen Welles breaks my heart, especially with the stripping scene coming just after Keith Carradine’s performance of “I’m Easy.” What had been this sprawling, unassuming epic suddenly converges into a dark place that becomes increasingly confusing and upsetting. Watching the final series of events, you’re filled with dread - knowing what’s about to happen, wanting it not to, and being unable to stop it.

8.) Chinatown (Polanski, 1974) - I don’t feel as much emotional connection to Chinatown as I do the films above it here, but it’s certainly on the same level artistically as anything past the Godfather films, in my estimation. What I like a great deal about the movie is how Nicholson makes Jake Gittes, a character that could have easily become bland (see The Two Jakes for evidence of that), an audience surrogate who’s neither too smart nor too stupid despite the notoriously curvy plot. He’s almost entirely grey and, thus, the perfect protagonist. The obvious thing to love about Chinatown is Robert Towne’s script, tweaked and improved by Roman Polanski. It’s truly a Hollywood miracle that works with a big concept (pre-war Los Angeles) while also achieving the more intimate character details that keep the viewer interested.

9.) Mean Streets (Scorsese, 1973) - There’s a rawness at work here that isn’t present in Taxi Driver or Raging Bull. This is less polished and feels more free. Despite my strong admiration for Scorsese, some of his signatures have gotten a little stale over time. Not so in Mean Streets, where the ferocious immediacy remains alive and well. The Catholic imagery is fresher here and, for all its rough edges, the film never recedes into the methodical violence of one upping the director’s legacy, which was obviously almost nonexistent at the time. I don’t think this was Scorsese’s peak for sure, but I do prefer it to Taxi Driver, and I think it remains his most personal film.

10.) Husbands (Cassavetes, 1970) - Am I allowed to declare this as Cassavetes’ best film? I hope so. It’s just a shame that it’s so difficult to track down (illegally downloading it onto your computer doesn’t count; if you’ve only seen a film in a poor quality version on a small screen in the wrong aspect ratio then you haven’t really seen it at all). Months after seeing Husbands, I still think about it constantly - wondering about the characters, about myself.

Justifications, recommendations, and considerations. This is an alphabetical list of 25 films not included in my forthcoming Top 50 of 1970’s. Some things you’ve seen, some you may not have. I’ll repeat this when the main list is posted, but I made an intentional effort to be entirely subjective this time, leaving several of the usual suspects off and a few more in this group of also-rans. These 25 were not submitted in any way for my entry in the Lists Project and, thus, are just detailed here for fun. The 50 that did make it should be up on Sunday June 1. Happy reading and watching.

Badlands (Malick, 1973) - Film enthusiast heresy, but after not caring much for Days of Heaven I was pleased to discover how good of a film Badlands is. The substance I craved in Malick’s later film was more pronounced in his debut. That’s not to say it’s teeming with ideas. I get that same emotional disconnect from Malick as I often do from Kubrick, Tarkovsky, Herzog and a few other well-respected directors. There’s usually at least one film tucked away in the filmography of each that I do appreciate, and this is it.

Celine and Julie Go Boating (Rivette, 1974) - Mlles. Celine and Julie do indeed go boating, but it takes three hours of whimsical nonsense before their brief nautical adventure. Rivette’s film is so incredibly unorthodox, yet original and admirable, that it’s difficult to grasp even the most tentative of handles on it after just one viewing. Shiny jewels of dinosaur eye candy transport the main characters into participants of a melodramatic, tonally opposite movie from the previous hour or more. Strange is putting it mildly and I do think, even with Bulle Ogier and Marie-France Pisier, that the film within the film drags on too long with unnecessary repetition. Otherwise, this probably would have made my main list. (I know admirers love to rhapsodize about the Alice in Wonderland, free form nature, but I’m not there yet.)

Charley Varrick (Siegel, 1973) - Follow-up to Dirty Harry for Don Siegel and, in my estimation, vastly superior. I wish Walter Matthau had more roles like his title character here and the transit cop he played in The Taking of Pelham One Two Three (both films are treated poorly on DVD). His Varrick is one of Matthau’s classic protagonists - cool, collected and smarter than he seems. The only misstep in the plot is why in the world Felicia Farr’s character would sleep with Varrick. It’s worth overlooking, though. Surely Cormac McCarthy had this film in mind while writing No Country for Old Men.

Don’t Look Now (Roeg, 1973) - Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie. The color red. Venice. Nicolas Roeg’s chaotically inspired editing. A creepy gnomish woman. There’s enough imagery to fill half a dozen movies here. It defies genre, working as a film about coping with losing a child, a crumbling marriage and a meditation on the supernatural all at once. The cinematography is gorgeous, one of the very few instances where the Italian city is done justice in an English language film. Despite all that, I’ve never completely broken through to the side of those who unapologetically worship Roeg and his work.

Emperor of the North Pole (Aldrich, 1973) - Excellent Depression-era film that’s far less known than it should be, released without the “Pole” in its title. Lee Marvin is A No. 1, a hobo known far and wide as being able to stow away on any train, but put to the test by Ernest Borgnine’s sadistic rail man Shack. Easily read as allegorical, but also quite entertaining merely for Marvin, the cinematography, and the story. Keith Carradine is, typically, a hindrance and annoying. Part of a strong late-career surge from Aldrich.

Fox and His Friends (Fassbinder, 1975) - Fox and His Friends can be disheartening, mostly because Fox is a character whose disappointment is apparent from very early on and there’s little sympathy to be found, but it remains a powerful experience. Fassbinder directs and plays Fox, a former carnival worker who finally wins the lottery and soon has his fortune spent by a “posh and prissy” lover. I’m never ready to watch a Fassbinder film and I usually have a difficult time getting over the experience. Fox and His Friends is exceptional because Fassbinder never hides the impending doom for his main character, but the viewer still feels almost violated for the harsh treatment afforded the protagonist, regardless of how simpleminded and shortsighted he is. Really an outstanding film that rises far above its limitations.

Gimme Shelter (Maysles, et al., 1970) - The music is one thing, but the human drama is something else entirely. As just a concert film, this is still completely entertaining. But as a chronicle of chaos, Gimme Shelter lives up to its name. Not too many films feature an actual murder captured on camera as their centerpiece. There’s no good reason this failed to rank highly in my actual list. It’s nearly flawless. I just had to bump something and took this out because, even with the musical performances, it’s not something I can watch with any frequency.

Harry and Tonto (Mazursky, 1974) - There’s a really sweet movie about an older man and his cat waiting inside here. Paul Mazursky, one of those semi-great writer/directors whose career never reached the same heights after the ’70s, gave Art Carney an excellent role and the actor responded by somehow winning the Oscar (over chumps like Nicholson, Pacino, Hoffman, and Finney, all in prime roles). I like this one because it never overdoes the schmaltz and seems to know exactly what it is without trying to be anything more or less. Carney was able to turn his renewed interest into pretty good, but unsung pictures like The Late Show and Going in Style.

Images (Altman, 1972) - Inspired in part by Bergman’s Persona, Altman uncharacteristically explored a woman’s battle with schizophrenia while she’s in the country with her husband. Susannah York is unnervingly effective and the entire atmosphere Altman establishes is that of a psychological ghost story. I was surprised by how much I was drawn in to this film and it’s a credit to Altman that the influence of Persona is noticeable without being overwhelming, similar to what he’d do with 3 Women a few years later.

Junior Bonner (Peckinpah, 1972) - I feel like I should somehow justify both liking this film very much and excluding it from my top 50. I can’t do that. There are only 50 slots and I didn’t have room, but I’ve always loved this film and McQueen’s performance especially. One thing that’s particularly annoying is that it was shot in Scope but the DVD isn’t anamorphic, thus making it difficult to really appreciate what you’re seeing. Piling on, I first saw it pan and scan off television years ago. If I had the chance to see a theatrical print, my opinion would no doubt jump considerably.

The Killing of a Chinese Bookie (Cassavetes, 1976) - Ben Gazzara is an actor who’s always interesting to watch. Aside from the Cassavetes’ films, he’s also superb in Bogdanovich’s They All Laughed (and possibly Saint Jack, but I haven’t seen that yet). Here he plays that kind of sad, fatalistic masculinity that I tend to gravitate towards. Criterion’s Cassavetes set contains two notably different versions of the film - one at 135 minutes and the other at 108 minutes. In some ways, having the separate edits makes it more difficult deciding whether to include the film.

The Last Detail (Ashby, 1973) - A great Nicholson performance (iconic, even) that was smack in the middle of a very exciting time to watch the actor. Randy Quaid is quite good here also. Hal Ashby at this point had directed only The Landlord and Harold and Maude, but this is a more serious film, with an even greater sense of disillusioned meandering. I prefer both of those earlier movies, but The Last Detail is special for other reasons. That constant rejection of conformity found in Ashby’s work rises to the surface and gets its true embodiment from Nicholson, an actor seemingly finding new ways of playing anti-establishment figures with every role at this point. The military nature of the lead characters gives them a sense of implied authority that’s flat-out repudiated in the film.

Last Tango in Paris (Bertolucci, 1973) - More heresy, but this is the only time I’ve ever really been impressed watching Marlon Brando as an actor. I see the brilliance elsewhere, but it still always feels like emoting to the point of ridiculousness. This is different. This is real, it’s raw, and it’s painfully realized. Bertolucci’s film is also exceptional, if shaky at times, but it’s impossible to separate Brando’s performance from the whole. With Bertolucci you should always expect something scandalous so the broad sexuality didn’t affect me, but Brando here is truly iconic.

M*A*S*H (Altman, 1970) - Altman’s most popular film, and really the one he owed his career to, probably isn’t even in his top ten in terms of achievement, but I do like it all the same. Of course, the movie is also paled by the television show, though they are different animals. Regardless, I enjoy watching M*A*S*H for several reasons - it’s so obviously about Vietnam instead of Korea; the football game; Gould and Sutherland; the final loudspeaker announcement (spoken by Altman).

Maîtresse (Schroeder, 1976) - There’s a scene in this film that’s literally painful to watch for males. Some might add that the whole thing is painful to watch, but I was fascinated by Schroeder’s storytelling and the performances. Something about it (besides Bulle Ogier) is hypnotic, like a really well-made teenage sex comedy that’s removed the problems inherent in that subgenre. Gerard Depardieu is at his oafish best and Ogier is remarkable. Not everyone’s cup of tea (and I’m a little surprised at my own reaction), but just an enormously engrossing film.

Mikey & Nicky (May, 1976) - Seeing Peter Falk and John Cassavetes together is itself a treat. Watching how their relationship, let’s say, evolves over the course of this film carries a somewhat slow, yet involving, picture into an unforgettable indictment of friendship amidst the mob. Director Elaine May shot an almost inconceivable amount of film for this movie, which now seems like an omen for her doomed Ishtar. It’s speculated that Cassavetes directed much of this himself, but I don’t think it matters really. It does feels somewhat like one of his films (especially Chinese Bookie), though May was no slouch either.

Monsieur Klein (Losey, 1976) - Exceptionally compelling film about a French art dealer profiting from Jews selling their paintings during the German occupation who gets mistaken for a man of the same name who’s Jewish. One of Alain Delon’s best performances and impressive direction from Joseph Losey. I saw this in preparation for the last ’70s list, and I placed it on there, but I haven’t watched it since. I wish I’d had the chance to see it again this time around, as it’s a film which benefits from a second viewing.

Night Moves (Penn, 1975) - There’s a mood established in Night Moves by Arthur Penn, screenwriter Alan Sharp and Gene Hackman. It’s difficult to succinctly characterize, but you can feel it just by watching Hackman. It’s a great neonoir performance, in nice contrast to his Popeye Doyle and Harry Caul. The rest of the cast, populated by obnoxious and inferior actors, nearly bring down the picture for me, though. The other ingredients are there, but the couple of times I’ve watched it there seems like something’s missing. I usually end wanting to like Night Moves more than I do, which is still a considerable amount.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (Forman, 1975) - The first time I saw this film it had a profound impact on me. The next time it was much less affecting. Whether this has more to do with the film or the viewer, I can’t say. I’m not crazy about the final scenes so maybe that’s the cause. They feel rushed, jumbled, and their impact doesn’t hold up for me on multiple viewings. That said, the majority of the film, especially Nicholson’s strong anti-authority performance, remains rewarding and I do think this is one of the great tragicomedies of the decade.

The Phantom of Liberty (Buñuel, 1974) - The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie is the more popular choice, but I think I prefer his follow-up. Sure it’s largely a thematic sequel that’s even looser in its narrative, but The Phantom of Liberty bites a little harder. You can almost see Buñuel grinning behind the curtain. The “missing” little school girl bit is inspired madness. And the sniper. And the toilets. And the dominatrix. After The Milky Way and The Discreet Charm, I’d say this was the perfect culmination of the director’s “search for truth” triptych.

Small Change (Truffaut, 1976) - Largely plotless, this is a beautiful example of a small movie that’s completely dialed down and perpetually rewarding. Truffaut looks at a group of young school children and their everyday lives both at home and in class. Simple, yet not really. The director’s keen ability to draw excellent performances from children is on full display here. A delightful film that exceeds expectations.

The Spirit of the Beehive (Erice, 1973) - Though they’re two very different films by two separate filmmakers, this and Cría cuervos share Ana Torrent and thus seem instantly comparable. I think most people prefer Erice’s film for its gothic difficulty and overtly political subtext, though I’m on the other side of the fence. The Spirit of the Beehive remains a unique, potentially shattering experience that I found a bit difficult to embrace fully without a good basis in Franco and the Spanish Civil War. That’s not to deny how affecting the film can be and the subtle rewards that await repeat viewers.

Taxi Driver (Scorsese, 1976) - Extreme conflict for this viewer between a charismatically unsettling film and a character in Travis Bickle who just doesn’t work for me. Even reading others’ thoughts and watching interviews, I can’t see him as this universal avatar of loneliness. I can’t identify or understand Bickle, and I do not find him particularly interesting on screen. Setting that significant barrier aside, Taxi Driver remains a deeply engrossing, impeccably atmospheric look at a blank enigma shrouded in the filth of urban decay. I can recognize the fascination and it’s an entirely compelling film, but I want no part of Travis Bickle. I see no sympathetic qualities, only sympathetic treatment done brilliantly.

The Tin Drum (Schlöndorff, 1979) - Another film that I found completely engrossing (my enjoyment of the German language probably helped). A little Felliniesque perhaps, which is a positive. Not having read Günter Grass’ novel, I had no preconceptions going in, just that it had won the Foreign Language Academy Award and a controversy erupted later on. I do think the material we see on screen is handled well by Schlöndorff, whose first film Young Törless I also enjoyed a great deal. The young actor who plays Oskar really seals the deal, though. At times annoying, but always fascinating, his presence is vital to the film’s success.

Young Frankenstein (Brooks, 1974) - How did I leave this out?!? I feel guilty about all these also-rans, like I’ve somehow slighted their worth. Silly. If I’d had the opportunity to watch Brooks’ film more recently it might have eked onto the main list, but only so many hours in the day and so forth. There’s a wealth of things worth loving about this film. The acting is uniformly perfect, with everyone from Gene Wilder and Peter Boyle to Marty Feldman and Madeline Kahn giving the kind of performance actors immediately become associated with their entire career and beyond. That’s not even mentioning Teri Garr. Or Gene Hackman’s blind man cameo. The “Puttin’ on the Ritz” number. Too much to love. Can’t say I’m a fan of the Broadwayization that Brooks has signed off on.

There are two reasons I’ve been anxious to see Hold Back the Dawn. One is Billy Wilder and the other is a nonexistent cockroach. I’ve brought this up before, but it’s a good enough story that you really can’t tell it too many times. When Wilder was still under contract as a writer for Paramount, he took to writing an adaptation of the not-yet-published book that became Hold Back the Dawn with his usual partner Charles Brackett. The director Mitchell Leisen, who had previously helmed Midnight, also written by Wilder and Brackett, was assigned the picture and Charles Boyer had the starring role. His character is a Romanian dancer/gigolo (no doubt an “occupation” close to Wilder’s heart) named Georges who’s stuck in a Mexican purgatory while he waits for his immigration papers to be approved, estimated to be a few years because of the U.S. quota system in place at the time.

Early on in the film, after a cutesy opening where Boyer, in character, visits the Paramount lot (hello Veronica Lake) in search of a director he’d met in Europe (played by Leisen) to tell his story to in exchange for $500, Georges finds himself unshaven and holed up inside his Mexican hotel room. In Wilder and Brackett’s original script, a cockroach was to walk towards a broken mirror and Boyer’s character, frustrated by not being able to obtain his immigration papers, would interrogate the cockroach about the insect’s visa. As Wilder told it, Boyer nixed the idea as being idiotic and Leisen backed his actor. The writers weren’t even allowed on set to protest and Wilder decided that was the last time he’d write a script he couldn’t direct himself. Thus, out of a missing cockroach scene, Billy Wilder’s career as director was hatched. He’d deliberately pick a commercial project, The Major and the Minor, for his first directing job the following year.

So, after finally seeing Hold Back the Dawn, it’s pretty obvious where the cockroach would have appeared and it’s also pretty obvious that it wouldn’t have changed the existing picture much at all. Surely Wilder was looking to branch out into directing anyway and this little episode could have been a push, real or imagined, into that area. I say it wouldn’t have affected the film because Wilder’s gallows humor is already all over that first portion of the movie and hardly present for the remainder. It’s a very atypical Wilder script, briefly witty in the early goings but mostly a conventional romantic drama told quite well. The story is good, the acting is superb, and the direction by Leisen is unimaginative and adequate. Had the cockroach scene been filmed and put in the movie, the only difference would have been an odd little interlude unessential to the plot or characterizations. Yet, Wilder was notorious for demanding his scripts be adhered to by the actors without changing a word or even an emphasis. One wonders if he’d have been so strict later on had Leisen filmed what was written. (Probably so!)

Some of the most obviously Wilderian touches are, as I alluded to above, in the first act. Not only was Wilder likely able to step into Georges’ dancing and gigolo shoes, as he’d been in the same position while living in Berlin, but the Mexican layover before entering the United States was one Wilder had likewise experienced firsthand. After leaving Germany upon Hitler’s rise to power, he first went to Paris and then tried to come into the U.S. via Mexico. He apparently came across an immigration officer who was a film enthusiast and, after learning of Wilder’s desire to write movies, allowed him in the country with the instruction to “make good ones.” Boyer’s Georges isn’t so lucky. He’s stuck in the Hotel Esperanza when his former dancing partner Anita (Paulette Goddard) happens to show up. She tells him that marrying an American will get him into the country in just four weeks.

Here’s where Wilder’s classic opportunist model comes in, as Georges thinks back to the Californian schoolteacher he encountered earlier. Emmy Brown (Olivia de Havilland) had a car full of students on a field trip for the Fourth of July when she rear-ended another vehicle. The car must be fixed and Georges just happens to pass by the mechanic shop. She’s anxious to head back home, but Georges, after a brief and failed attempt on another woman, needs just a couple of hours to win her over. It’s loneliness finds loneliness when the two meet. Emmy can’t resist his charms. Georges then conspires with Anita to wait out the four weeks so that he can get a quick divorce and the two dance partners can bring their show to New York. The monkey wrench is Emmy showing up unexpectedly and Georges quickly taking her on an impromptu honeymoon. His feelings begin to change and he realizes he can’t just coldly discard Emmy.

This second act, where the Boyer character hardly resembles the scoundrel from earlier, plays exactly like a classic Hollywood movie. That is to say that it’s entertaining, but safe and predictable. The third act shakes things up a little by letting Paulette Goddard shine first and de Havilland follow in an Oscar-worthy scene that mauls over the other actors in its force of nature-type glory. The sequence isn’t overdone or played with histrionics, a nice reigning in from Leisen, but it’s powerful all the same. It sounds patently obvious, but de Havilland really was some kind of actress. Watching the movie with the knowledge that Wilder and Brackett were apparently still writing the final portion of the film when they learned Boyer had refused to soliloquy with their cockroach, it’s easy to recognize how they turned the actor from star to third banana.

I’m not going to say the film suffers from this transition in focus because it’s still a good picture, but the first act certainly feels like a Wilder movie whereas the rest just doesn’t. Georges changes, leading to the happy ending audiences expect even now from Hold Back the Dawn, and he’s far less interesting as a result. Again, his reform is one we can actively root for in the context of classic movie happy resolutions, but it somewhat betrays the original character and strips the film of any more of those Wilder touches I love so much. You put the cockroach scene in and we might have altered second and third acts, but, by itself, I don’t think it would have tipped the scales much either way in the version that exists now. My hindsight goggles are content to keep it out of the picture so we can enjoy Double Indemnity, Sunset Blvd., Ace in the Hole, The Apartment, etc. Seems like a fair trade-off.

(Hold Back the Dawn is not on DVD anywhere in the world to my knowledge and is controlled by Universal.)

It’s not very popular to assert the opinion that The Getaway is your favorite Sam Peckinpah film. As just a casual Peckinpah admirer, I might be able to get away with it, but I know I’m skating on thin ice among the faithful. I can only imagine the dismissive reaction I’d have if someone called Sabrina their favorite Billy Wilder movie. It could be generational. Peckinpah’s films now feel very much like the product of a bygone era. They’ve influenced countless filmmakers, but show almost zero modernity in comparison to what’s come along this decade. His patience is not particularly in style nowadays. Yet, that laconic quality is part of why I appreciate The Getaway so much. The film takes its time from start to finish. It’s an action movie with very little action.

As far as movie stars who understood subtlety in the ’60s and ’70s, the discussion begins and ends with Steve McQueen. The idea of him overacting is inconceivable. Detractors might view this as an emptiness, but I’d beg to differ. While the method style of acting gained notoriety for overdoing emotions to the point of fake realism, McQueen didn’t choose this particular path. His style was far more contemplative. A look from McQueen could eliminate half a page of dialogue. I’d love to have seen what Jean-Pierre Melville would have done with him. Instead, we know what Peckinpah was able to achieve while working with the actor both here and on Junior Bonner, two of McQueen’s four or five best films. In The Getaway, he’s Doc McCoy, who suffers the remedial prison life until his wife (Ali MacGraw) pays a porn-like visit to a man with bureaucratic pull named Benyon (Ben Johnson).

Even MacGraw’s terrible acting works here in this particular scene. She’s so stilted, so uncomfortable, that the character inherits a blank slate of determination at any cost. With Doc out of prison, the next step is to further appease Benyon by robbing a bank with two of his thugs. The title of the film obviously alludes to the aftermath and not the actual heist, instructive because Peckinpah handles the robbery with an uninterested coolness. It’s quick, messy, and little more than a slight curve in the road. A half million is siphoned out, but McCoy’s unwanted partners become thorns. One is killed and one kills. Rudy (Al Lettieri) somehow survives after ambushing Doc, whose lack of trust saves him, but still fails to eliminate his greedy cohort. And we’re off on a chase where Mr. and Mrs. McCoy transport the bag of money around Texas, losing it in the process, before realizing Rudy and his new traveling companions (Jack Dodson and Sally Struthers) are just a few steps behind.

McQueen and MacGraw fell for each other while making the movie, and even if you can’t really tell much of anything from looking at her face, McQueen hardly hides his attraction. The naive outrage he has upon learning that she had negotiated his release from prison with her body plays like natural hurt. His initial confusion after re-entering the outside world and sitting beside MacGraw in bed is similarly realistic. In McQueen’s best movies, including the two he did with Peckinpah, the viewer can just see an uncommon intelligence at work behind his eyes. Never one to relish much dialogue, the actor’s subdued performances have rarely been given their due. I miss that style of underacting. It rewards audiences willing to actually pay attention to what’s on the screen instead of bathroom and obesity break pausing. Much is made of McQueen’s enormous style and charisma (and deservedly so), but, in the right role, he really was a terrific actor.

His sequence on the train in this film is probably my favorite, where a small-time con man thinks he’s lucked into the fat case of money only to have Doc track him down and administer a beating to the point of unconsciousness. McQueen says maybe a line or two (”when you work on a lock, don’t leave any scratches”) and demonstrates what it means to be a screen icon. The black suit with thin black tie helps, but none of his peers (even Paul Newman, who was McQueen’s unofficial rival and a better actor) could have so convincingly pulled it off with so few lines. This is the beauty of The Getaway for me. Peckinpah trusts McQueen (who also had final cut) enough to allow him to hardly say anything throughout the entire picture. It’s a movie with a minimum of dialogue, and little action, but played out with surprising coherence, never leaving the viewer uninterested.

In a very logical sense, The Getaway is framed around a classic film noir plot. Several things negate it being a true noir (most obviously - when it was made, being filmed in color, and the ending), but the film’s structure of the protagonist being released from prison and subsequently taking part in an imperfect bank robbery is prototypical of the style. Indeed, McQueen would have been absolutely perfect as a film noir hero. This film is probably the closest he ever came to making what might be considered a neonoir, but the actor’s ingrown ability to play characters who seem to place an emphasis on survival over all else could have fit ever so neatly a couple of decades earlier. Doc’s relationship with the MacGraw character is both reminiscent of a femme fatale and a trustworthy moll. The actress’s vacuous inability to register on any level could only possibly be endearing in a film like this, where understated minimalism is applauded next to a vast landscape of unwritten Texas possibility. The less she says the more believable she seems.

It’s a bit absurd to try and figure out where the McCoys fit in among these criminals. Their almost total refusal to disrupt some fictional code of crime ethics prevents the viewer from harboring any ill will and McQueen’s charm tips the scales in his favor with spades. This overwhelming glamorization is a little disturbing for those who enjoy sleeping well at night. Doc is an ex-con bank robber who’s completely let off the hook by Peckinpah and screenwriter Walter Hill (working from Jim Thompson’s book). McQueen probably knew the audience would cheer him on and want his character to experience crisis without consequences. He’s right, of course. The thought of Doc receiving any kind of comeuppance would seem to be entirely foreign in lieu of how he’s portrayed throughout the film. These are glaring imperfections in a film that never makes claim of being anything but a fine entry in the McQueen legend. In that regard, it’s nearly flawless. In other facets, maybe less so. I tend to be forgiving to a fault with The Getaway because of its casual likability. Peckinpah was a director-for-hire and McQueen was out to further his legacy of cool, but I turn my head and forgive the blemishes.

This most recent watch of the film was on HD-DVD and it should be mentioned that an additional featurette about Jerry Fielding’s rejected score is here despite not being on the standard DVD release. Also absent but present on the high-definition release, I believe, are the bank robbery sequence with Fielding’s score and the entire film with his isolated score as an audio track. Quincy Jones scored the film as released and it’s mostly excellent, but Fielding was a close collaborator with Peckinpah up to this point and his contribution is an interesting addition. Certainly this hi-def version is superior to the regular DVD release because it contains additional supplemental material. However, I will add that skin tones are quite red, almost distractingly so early on, but detail and clarity are predictably excellent and better than the DVD.

If film noir had an official sport it would be boxing. Black and white cinematography perfectly captures the sweat and grit of two men pounding their gloved fists into each other’s raw skin. Raging Bull isn’t a film noir, but it accomplishes the visual doom of a fight without the use of color, as does The Set-Up, Robert Wise’s brilliantly lean noir starring Robert Ryan. Boxing threatens to be the subject of Phil Karlson’s 99 River Street, too, but it’s soon shown to be a visual trick. The audience sees a match that turns out to be a television replay being watched by the man getting his eye punched into partial working order. Ernie Driscoll (John Payne) is now driving taxi cabs in New York City and his marriage to Pauline (Peggie Castle) seems ruptured. Things were probably better when Ernie was regularly winning fights, but his new dream of opening a filling station isn’t glamorous enough for Pauline’s taste.

Ernie’s boss and pal Stan (Frank Faylen) suggests a tried and true method of patching things up with Pauline: buy her a big box of chocolates, take her out on the town, mix in a few glasses of brandy, and whisper sweet nothings in her ear. The next thing you know a bouncing baby will pop out and everything will be good as new again. Ernie’s plan never gets off the ground, though. He has the chocolates, but it’s Pauline who surprises him by kissing her lover Victor Rawlins (Brad Dexter) at the flower shop where she works. Ernie is both devastated and livid. He then gets distracted by would-be Broadway actress Linda James (Evelyn Keyes) who confesses she’s killed someone. Ernie means well, but ends up with an arrest warrant for assault and battery. By the time the ex-boxer finds his wife’s dead body in the backseat of his cab, things seem like they could hardly be any worse

Though Payne is a generic noir protagonist, 99 River Street has enough other attributes to merit a closer look. Karlson’s direction is expectedly stellar, and Franz Planer, who would go on to shoot several Audrey Hepburn films, emits some strong noir camera work. There’s a very striking cut to Peggie Castle’s legs, with a mirror visible in the background between her two outstretched limbs and Brad Dexter appearing in the reflection. It’s an exquisite image. Another memorably framed shot comes when Linda, by now tagging along to help Ernie no matter the cost, meets up with Rawlins. Their cigarettes kiss and ash never looked so sensual. The entire scene, played out in a Jersey bar, gives Keyes the chance to fully steal the film.

Her performance is deserving of high praise as one of film noir’s essential female characterizations. Linda is first introduced as seemingly delusional, an actress who’s been in the city three years without a job and thinks she’ll land a lead role in a Broadway play. We next encounter her as a more hysterical figure, but learn this was merely her acting a part. This back story of the character as a struggling actress works perfectly within the film’s plot. Unhappy with letting down her friend Ernie, she remains loyal as a witness to his innocence and gets another opportunity to play a role, this time as a flirtatious barfly. The bedroom eyes she gives Rawlins make for an absolutely breathtaking shift that’s perfectly executed by Keyes. To see the importance of contextual performance in film noir, watch Evelyn Keyes here. She’s exceptional.

Another turn I enjoyed in the film was from Jack Lambert, a character actor who initially comes across as a poor man’s Lee Marvin, but sort of carves out his own B-movie villain niche in the process. He also pops up in Kiss Me Deadly alongside Jack Elam as Paul Stewart’s henchmen. That 99 River Street was obviously a low-budget film with modest expectations is a reality that probably should be taken into consideration, but it doesn’t really burden the picture in any way. Sure you could put Robert Mitchum in the Payne role and have a stronger film, but you’d also lose something. Mitchum would make it his own and distract from the narrative. As it is, the film curves through unpredictable paths and the audience can never be sure how Ernie, with a built-in volatility from his fighting days, will react. Payne’s a stiff, but the fact that his character has been placed in a very noir and desperate situation shouldn’t be overlooked.

One of the hallmarks of 1950’s film noir, as opposed to most of what came out of the 1940’s, can be found in the evolution of the protagonist into a wrongly accused innocent. It’s the paranoia angle that would especially rise up in the politically-themed films of the 1970’s. Hitchcock loved this motif, using it to good effect in The Wrong Man, I Confess, and the non-noir North by Northwest. It’s also found in The Big Heat, Crime Wave, Nightfall, and Karlson’s Kansas City Confidential, among others. The idea that someone not guilty of a crime would be hunted by law enforcement now seems very much like a movie plot, but it shouldn’t be forgotten that this basic insinuation betrays the ideal that the police are infallible. We know, of course, that they’re not, but we also know that criminals don’t always receive the justice they do in movies. Exploring these themes of vengeance owed and non-guilty protagonists getting framed for crimes they didn’t commit was a favorite of Karlson’s, as well.

In 99 River Street, the director was able to put both to good use. It seems like Ernie might have killed someone if given the chance, but his hands stay clean. He certainly has reason to lash out, and the overall tone feels bleakly pessimistic. By the film’s end, when we learn the title address is actually in Jersey City, desolate blacks cover the night sky of the waterfront and that unmistakable noir mood becomes all-consuming. The happy conclusion betrays the template, but it’s forgivable. Even with Payne’s shortcomings, which admittedly could be seen as strengths allowing the viewer to easily relate to the actor, this is still an important film noir, made by one of the movement’s unsung champions. A DVD release seems like an obvious prospect, but nothing so far. The theatrical print I saw was almost stunning in detail and rich black levels, nearly immaculate from start to finish. It was part of a United Artists’ 90th anniversary retrospective so here’s hoping MGM follows their noir releases of last summer with a fresh set very soon.

Before Mickey One, Penn mentioned that he had brought in Eddie Sauter to do the score, with the idea that Sauter would bring a similar unconventional attitude as Penn was planning for the film. What he said he didn’t know was that Sauter was good friends with Stan Getz, who tagged along to the recording sessions and ended up making an indelible impression on the film through his saxophone improvisations. Certainly the score sticks out in Mickey One, not to rival what Miles Davis did for Elevator to the Gallows, but with an undeniable strength nonetheless. Taking into consideration that this was only Penn’s third feature, after The Left-Handed Gun and The Miracle Worker, it was a blazing leap forward. With Warren Beatty as his star and Godard and Truffaut serving as obvious influences, Mickey One must have looked almost nothing like anything Penn, Beatty, or anyone else was making in America in 1965.

Beatty is the title character, a Detroit nightclub comic who may or may not have several thousand dollars’ worth of gambling debts to the mob. He moves to Chicago where he’s dubbed “Mickey One” and returns to his natural calling of strip clubs and bars before getting a shot at a bigger pond, the Xanadu, where the man calling the shots is a very weird, very gay Hurd Hatfield. Mickey sees his death in everything, with paranoia leaking through his pores, and resists the Xanadu for fear of the mob possibly having found him out. A few audacious cuts and playful edits recall Breathless and other films of the Nouvelle Vague. The black and white cinematography, absolutely a sterling effort from Ghislain Cloquet, whose credits include everything from Night and Fog and Le Feu follet to Au hasard Balthazar and Mouchette, sort of reminded me of the later film Lenny, Bob Fosse’s biopic about Lenny Bruce. There’s a definite Kafka feel to the whole thing, too. That existential question mark about Mickey’s involvement brings to mind The Trial. Overall, a very odd, but exceptionally interesting film that should be on DVD.

Meanwhile, in celebration of the 40th anniversary of the mayhem of 1968, the Film Society of Lincoln Center is offering up 1968: An International Perspective. With selections from Godard (La Chinoise), Marker (Grin Without a Cat), Oshima (The Man Who Left His Will on Film, aka The Battle of Tokyo or He Died After the War), and Antonioni (Zabriskie Point), among others, this looks to be an exceptional series of rarely shown films not readily available on DVD. I’ve only seen two in that series, WR: Mysteries of the Organism and Medium Cool. I’m afraid I’ll dislike Zabriskie Point, but I’m still anxious to see it. Film Forum also gets in on some ‘68 fever by showing five weeks of Godard’s films from the 1960’s. Not being a huge Godard admirer, I can’t say how often I’ll be partaking, but my sights are set on Made in the U.S.A. and Sympathy for the Devil. My favorite Godard film Vivre sa vie, and one which I do have total admiration for, will play for a full week in a new print, courtesy of Janus Films. Criterion will surely be releasing a comprehensive DVD later in the year.

Possibly the most anticipated program at the local repertory theaters for me personally comes later on when Film Forum will dedicate seven (!) weeks to legendary Japanese actor Tatsuya Nakadai, from June 20 to August 7. Words can barely contain my enthusiasm for such a tribute, which includes a pair of personal appearances by the actor. Hiroshi Teshigahara’s The Face of Another is one of my favorite films and will be shown in the retrospective, as will everything from Harakiri (with Nakadai present for a Q&A), Yojimbo, High and Low, Kagemusha, Ran, and three weeks of The Human Condition trilogy. The real gems are the things not yet on English-friendly DVD - films like Ichikawa’s I Am a Cat and Odd Obsession, Naruse’s Untamed, Kobayashi’s Black River, and Hideo Gosha’s Onimasa and Goyokin. As much as I hold Toshiro Mifune near and dear, Nakadai may be my favorite Japanese actor so I’m absolutely ecstatic at the possibility of seeing him in person. Kudos to everyone at Film Forum for having the guts to dedicate one of their screens for such a long period of time to Nakadai.

When looking at Billy Wilder’s films as director, there are four that especially stick out in terms of incompatibility with the rest. The Emperor Waltz is a Bing Crosby musical and generally regarded as unsuccessful on most every level. The Spirit of St. Louis, despite being a fine film, puts Wilder in studio-constricted biopic land. Witness for the Prosecution, another excellent movie, has few, if any, of Wilder’s signatures and seems like it could have been made by at least half a dozen other competent directors. Then there’s The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes, Wilder’s 1970 needling of Arthur Conan Doyle’s mythic detective. The film exists only in a version that was drastically shortened from the original intentions of Wilder and his longtime screenwriting partner I.A.L. Diamond, but it still manages to feel like a cohesive, brilliantly executed whole.

There are certainly several of Wilder’s fingerprints in the picture, it’s just that the use of such a well-known character and the Scottish locations, among other things, feels like fresh dust. It’s a perfect marriage of classic Hollywood filmmaking with the newfound freedoms that resulted from an especially creative period in American movies. For some people, the problem may be that it’s not entirely either one of those. The pacing is deliberate and relaxed, yet the first half hour has little to do with the remainder of the film. Holmes and the trusty Dr. Watson may be familiar names ingrained in most of our memories, but the portrayals are hardly consistent with interpretations up to that point. Holmes, in particular, is much more ambiguous and complex, with noncommittal sexual preference, questionable decision making, and an unapologetic dependency on cocaine.

These are attributes parsed from the original stories, to be sure, but they still vary significantly from the consensus of Holmes as an infallible master of deduction. Robert Stephens, whose cocktail of whiskey and sleeping pills during the shoot delayed production for weeks, plays Holmes as prim, proper and arrogant, all attempts to mask the character’s sadness. Colin Blakely’s Watson is just the opposite, convivial and slightly bumbling. Both performances are perfectly used by Wilder, regardless of how they fit in with Conan Doyle’s mythology. As we see in the film, Holmes scolds Watson repeatedly about his extreme glamorization of the detective’s work. Considering these are two of the most famous fictional characters in literary history, it’s undeniable that Wilder and Diamond had a difficult task in bringing their skewed version of Holmes and Watson to the screen. The interesting thing is that the film seems destined to disappoint both those looking for a Sherlock Holmes movie and the ones interested in a typical Billy Wilder effort. And yet The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes is an exceptional film. No wonder it was a commercial disappointment! Who’s supposed to embrace this thing again?

People who enjoy quality filmmaking, for starters. That initial half hour, when Holmes and Watson are mysteriously summoned to a Russian performance of Swan Lake so that the star can request the detective’s paternal seed, is so good that you wonder why other films don’t frequently employ episodic structures. Of course, that was Wilder’s intention, to present a series of four episodes, all of which were filmed and ready to go. A story about a Belgian woman dropped on the doorstep of Holmes and Watson, leading the trio to Scotland and an apparent encounter with the Loch Ness Monster, comprises the remaining hour and a half while the other two portions were cut. In terms of holy grails of lost footage, as much as I’d like to see Orson Welles’ more complete version of The Magnificent Ambersons, I think I’d be equally anxious to see the full version of Wilder’s film. It’s a huge credit to Wilder’s ability as a director that even with the severe edits he was able to produce something as brilliant as the existing cut is here.

After Gabrielle Valladon (played by the lovely Genevieve Page) is deposited at Holmes’ Baker Street address, Wilder does well to produce a subversion of the famous character’s well-documented skills, veiled in a pretty good mystery. At some point, it seems natural to try and understand why Wilder and Diamond would bother in making a fairly difficult film with Holmes as the center. The best explanation I can come up with would be the desire to portray Holmes as a man wrongly described, whose actual attributes are far more humanlike than what’s shown in the stories. It’s the burden of brilliance, but also the inconvenience of not being as intelligent as your superhuman reputation. There are several chuckles, but the film certainly isn’t a comedy so I don’t think that was ever the aim, to place Holmes in a simple and slightly comic series of situations. It would seem more that the idea was for a repositioning of the Holmes character as a man unable to deal with his basic loneliness and alienation, soothed only by pompous one-upping of his sidekick Watson and frequent drug use.

The Holmes here is ultimately a failure at the hands of technology, bested by his brother Mycroft, who, in turn, suffers a major miscalculation of his own. So is it the dissolving of myths that Wilder is interested in? Is this his Liberty Valance? Yeah, I sort of think so. Though he was only 64 at the film’s release, and would churn out four more pictures afterwards, Wilder created his definitive “old man” movie here. The call-backs to a more classic style even than in his previous few efforts and the patience of experience he displays are both important elements to bridging the old with the new. Even when Wilder was younger, he didn’t normally employ the classical and calculated sense of purpose seen here. The structure is considered and nearly perfect. This is part of why it’s so incredible to think that the film was initially envisioned as much longer. The existing version feels appropriate as it is, only marred, in my opinion, a little by the first part of the Loch Ness Monster bit.

When Sherlock Holmes fails to really do much of anything right, despite his predictably shortsighted detective work, it’s at the expense of volumes of lionizing literature. The film thus works as a warning against the perils of smug overconfidence. For Holmes, the sticky truth isn’t that he’s a failure (something he seems to be fighting against throughout), but that a promising opportunity for romance has been squandered. It’s a slow realization, but by the end it’s obvious that he’s in movie love with the not-really Belgian Gabrielle/Ilse. The sexuality aspect here is interesting because Wilder and Diamond put it at the forefront for the viewer. Holmes’ reluctance to declare his heterosexuality to Watson early on seems to be due to one of three reasons: 1.) He’s being coy; 2.) He’s unsure himself as to his current feelings; or 3.) He’s so desexualized as to make it seemingly irrelevant. I think any of these three explanations work perfectly fine. With any of them, Holmes makes it obvious that he’s not actively searching for female companionship, making the presence of Gabrielle/Ilse a difficult situation.

The forced push at the end, when Holmes seems to realize his feelings for her just when she’s no longer attainable, serves as another reminder of how empty his life is. Watson and his silly stories are just about all the character has going for him. Then when it looks like the audience will be treated to the usual ending wrapped in sentimentality, Wilder continues the film and, in so doing, removes any trace of happiness. Watson is little more than a hyper-intelligent canine with a medical bag and Holmes the junkie can only shoot up and pass out (off-screen, of course). In essence, this is Wilder’s most daring film since Ace in the Hole, and it appeals to generally no one outside the director’s most devoted followers. He was able to completely demystify a legendary character with a huge following, using a fully sincere approach, while also putting together a deceptive genre story that proves quite entertaining. The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes is destined to remain largely unappreciated because it has few of the attributes Wilder is most known for, but it’s nevertheless an atypical slice of brilliance from the director.

Wilder himself apparently disagreed. In Cameron Crowe’s book Conversations with Wilder, The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes is characterized by its creator as basically a great film ruined by later editing after the director went off to another country (shades of Ambersons). Wilder retained final cut in his contract, but a terrible test screening and a supposedly misplaced negative resulted in the trimmed version, topping out at 125 minutes, being what hit theaters. Other reports seem to indicate Wilder was agreeable with the existing edit. Regardless, upon release it promptly sank, just like Ace in the Hole. Wilder had gone four years since the release of his last film, The Fortune Cookie, and it’s not surprising that audiences mostly stayed away from this one. The financially successful films of 1970 were either epic spectacles like Aiport and Patton or then-daring expressions of a new generation like M*A*S*H and Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice. Ironically, despite the freedom afforded Wilder that probably would have been unimaginable a decade or two earlier, his audience was no longer interested.

The saga of the film’s different incarnations is well documented on the R1 DVD, which ported over several of the laserdisc extras. A new 15-minute interview (from 2003) with Christopher Lee, who plays Mycroft Holmes, doesn’t shed a lot of light on the various cuts, but it does give Lee the chance to single out Wilder as the best director he’s ever worked with, and it also lets the actor reminisce on his own turns playing Sherlock Holmes. The film’s editor Ernest Walter, the man referred to by Wilder in Crowe’s book, goes into great detail about what was cut and so forth in a half-hour interview from the mid-nineties that was originally on the laserdisc. Then, you can see for yourself much of what was removed. A prologue with Colin Blakely as Watson’s modern-day grandson would have further set up the idea that these four episodes derived from material deemed too private to be published in Holmes’ lifetime. This particular portion is told on the DVD from still photos and script excerpts, but the viewer definitely gets a good feeling of how it might have turned out.

The crude reconstruction continues with one of the excised sequences, a lengthy story involving an upside down room. It has audio, but only photographs instead of video. I think this would have been an exceptionally strong portion of the film had it remained because it reinforces the idea that Watson cares deeply for Holmes and that the detective is sort of miserably entwined in his own intelligence. The next scene removed was a brief flashback where Holmes and Gabrielle/Ilsa are just about to go to sleep on the train. The scene was intended as a means for explaining some of Holmes’ reluctance to become romantically involved, stemming from an incident with a schoolboy crush who turned out to be a prostitute. This too would have fit perfectly within the film and improved the existing scene without bogging it down.

The final episode not in the finished film exists on the DVD in letterboxed video, but is missing the audio. The dialogue from the script has been inserted as subtitles. The scene is very funny and concerns Watson putting on Holmes’ hat (literally) and trying to solve a murder. In relation to the rest of the film, it seems to fit the least of the cut portions. If the movie had been made today, this little bit could have worked perfectly as a DVD-only extra or even a short intended to run before the film. All total, there’s over an hour of extra material here, all of which was shot and excluded from the final cut. The inclusion of this footage on the DVD is really something to be thankful for, but the hope that somehow Wilder’s full version could be restored still nags.

You know you’re in for a bit of “social enlightenment” when a prologue comes up even before the studio logo. In the case of The Sniper, Edward Dmytryk’s 1952 return from the Hollywood blacklist, the viewer is promised a “man whose enemy was womankind.” In several ways, this is a novel approach. Here we have a movie about a man who was sent away to prison for violently going after a woman with a baseball bat, placed in the psych ward, and paroled despite still being under psychological care. The film’s point of view could easily have been that Edward Miller (played by Arthur Franz) was a product of either his own insanity or, alternatively, society’s. Even the idea that an unstable criminal might have a reason for his madness is unusual for movies of this era, when the bad guys are often portrayed as shadowy black hats without the need for analysis. We accept villains simply because they do unseemly things the same way we recognize cops because they carry a badge and retain a serious demeanor at all times.

The much more humanistic path taken by Dmytryk’s film, trying to understand what causes men like Miller to inflict pain on others, is a tricky one, especially when dealing with someone who’s shown killing pretty brunettes in cold blood. Though not elaborated on, the culprit of Miller’s irrational violence towards women is implied to be his mother. A handful of years before the screen’s most famous mother complex, in Psycho, a man is shown indiscriminately shooting women from afar because he’s apparently trying to repeatedly murder the one who gave birth to him. The audience witnesses a test run when Wilson aims his rifle from above, steadies a female neighbor in his sight, and pulls the trigger, resulting in an empty click. In the first of many hints of sympathy, the man copes with his psychosis by struggling for help. His prison shrink isn’t available so he intentionally burns his hand on the apartment stove.

By the time Miller actually does claim someone’s life, his reaction veers significantly from remorse. A friendly customer of the killer’s dry cleaning delivery job, played by the always welcome Marie Windsor, is coldly shot outside the club where she plays piano, her head breaking the glass that encloses an advertisement with her own picture on it. The images are bold, abrupt, and startling. The killer’s answer is to have a drink at a bar. He’s happier now than at any other point in the film, acting as though some pressurized force has finally been unleashed. The second killing is even more striking and follows soon after. A woman at the same bar writes her address on a coaster, but soon rebuffs him upon sensing his instability. She then goes home, fixes herself a drink and stands behind an uncovered window. She too is shot in the head, as an efficient bullet leaves behind shattered glass. As we’ve seen and read about serial killers in the decades since, Wilson is the type who begs to be caught, and even writes a letter to the police anonymously seeking capture.

At this point, about midway in, the film shifts from a character study about a mentally ill serial killer to a rather conventional, sometimes preachy police procedural. Most surprising is that the headlining actor playing the main detective is none other than political wingnut Adolphe Menjou, one of the loudest voices of the HUAC-supporting Motion Picture Alliance for the Preservation of American Ideals. Showing his true stripes were dotted with green instead of faux red, white, and blue, Menjou here takes top billing in a movie directed by a man who was an admitted Communist for a brief period of time, and who had just recently been released from serving four and a half months of prison time for refusing to cooperate with the Congressional witch hunt. Values. Of course, Dmytryk by this time had groveled away his reputation (RIP Jules) and helped legitimize the whole sordid mess, so he was apparently “cured.” The involvement of message man Stanley Kramer as producer adds even more to the intrigue.

Reportedly shot, er, filmed in a remarkably quick amount of time (just 18 days according to this excellent article), The Sniper may have given Menjou a swift paycheck and top billing, but his character is underwritten and the true lead performance is from Franz as the troubled killer. Menjou’s most effective scene comes when a young punk is mistaken for the sniper and brought into the police station. The kid puts on a tough act, but Menjou gives him a good slap and he starts bawling. Is this the best way to handle those who have trouble coping with their problems? Give the whiners a swift kick in the pants so they’ll swallow their complaints? The crybaby is annoying, but the film still seems inconsistent. Miller can’t find anyone to save him from himself, yet he’s portrayed with incredible humanity given the circumstances. Menjou’s character slaps the potential junior sniper into place, but the entire movie bathes the actual killer in a warm glow of empathy.

Whether a result of intentionally ambiguous filmmaking or simply a sloppy narrative, The Sniper leaves quite a few blanks unfilled. Instead of seeming bothersome, it gives the film a tautness commonly found in such low-budget, quickly-shot films of the time. Proponents of the movie could easily argue that it urges the viewer to look deeper inside the killer’s mind and not be content to expect an explanatory flashback of the character’s various traumas. A criminal psychologist played by Richard Kiley preaches about the mentality of men like Miller, sketching out the makings of what we now know as profiling, and, though it can’t help but be slightly tedious, the scene is also fascinating because the methodology has proven true time and again. The Sniper was a decade or more ahead of its time, but it nevertheless resembles an early, truncated version of some of the finer serial killer films of the past two decades. The main difference, and the reason the film is still interesting, comes from the decision to spend well over half the runtime with the killer in a mostly non-judgmental tone, including a consistent, but still unexpected final scene that emphasizes him as a man more than a monster.

I also wanted to thank anyone who read or commented on my No Country for Old Men review, which has been predictably popular and yielded some kind words. I think it’s one of my favorite things I’ve written, and it’s always more fun to write about a film you love than something you’re indifferent to or flat-out don’t like. Night and the City was an