The lowdown on High and Low

Police procedural films and TV shows abounded between the late 1940s and early 1960s. But a seminal big-screen work from overseas that further advanced this subgenre was High and Low, helmed by Akira Kurosawa and released in March 1963—the acclaimed Japanese crime thriller loosely adapted from Ed McBain’s novel King's Ransom. Kingo Gondo (Toshirō Mifune) is a wealthy shoe executive who has leveraged his entire fortune to stage a corporate buyout, only to be thrown into an agonizing moral dilemma when a kidnapper accidentally abducts his chauffeur Aoki's (Yutaka Sada) young son instead of his own, demanding a ruinous 30 million yen ransom. Supported by his compassionate wife Reiko (Kyōko Kagawa), Gondo chooses to pay the ransom to save the child, destroying his financial future and shifting the narrative into a meticulous detective hunt led by Chief Inspector Tokura (Tatsuya Nakadai) and veteran detective Taguchi (Kenjirō Ishiyama).

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of High and Low, conducted last week, click here.

Unlike Kurosawa’s well-known jidaigeki or chambara period pieces, High and Low is a modern story set in contemporary Japan. Filmed in an extreme widescreen aspect ratio, it utilizes every inch of the frame with rich, detailed visual information. Like the director’s Ikiru (1952), the narrative is composed of distinctly different parts. In fact, the story unfolds across three clear acts. Act I is a static, highly confined visual drama staged like a play almost entirely within Gondo’s home. Shown from Gondo’s perspective, it concentrates on his internal psychological struggle as he wrestles with his conscience, featuring impressively long uninterrupted takes. Act II shifts outdoors and follows the law enforcement perspective, becoming a kinetic, propelling police procedural with quicker cuts that depict the money drop on the train and the ensuing pursuit of the kidnappers. Finally, Act III takes us down into the seedy world of the master kidnapper, Takeuchi, as the authorities move in for the capture.

This descent into the dark depths of Japanese urban life would have been eye-opening to early 1960s viewers, particularly its candid depiction of drug use. Unlike typical kidnapping narratives, the fate of the child is revealed quickly, meaning the story's tension does not hinge on that resolution. Crucially, Kurosawa gives the audience the villain’s point of view early on, establishing that this is not a traditional whodunnit. (SPOILERS AHEAD) Much like Hitchcock revealing Judy's true identity mid-way through Vertigo (1958), Kurosawa grants the audience extra information beyond what the protagonists know, showing who the criminal is and how he reacts to the police pursuit.

Visually, Kurosawa demonstrates absolute mastery of geometry, spatial relationships, shot juxtaposition, and structural symbolism. He’s never afraid to keep rolling without cuts, as evidenced by the nearly 10-minute continuous shot depicting the kidnapper’s second phone call to Gondo. Another striking visual choice is the sudden splash of color—the pink smoke—in an otherwise black-and-white film, a technique that may have influenced filmmakers like Spielberg in Schindler’s List. Aurally, music is used sparingly throughout the film, with diegetic sounds taking precedence over Masaru Sato’s original score. Ultimately, these formal choices serve a brilliant moral quandary: the central twist of Gondo wrestling with whether to pay a ruinous ransom for another man’s son rather than his own.

Recall that, in the final confrontation between Gondo and the kidnapper in prison, their faces visually blend as one man's reflection is superimposed over the other on the glass divider. This visual technique suggests that the two men are fundamentally linked—sharing similar identities, or perhaps even the same soul, despite standing on opposite sides of the law. Early in the film, Gondo harbored ruthless aspirations to pull off a corporate coup and wrest control from his company's leadership. Similarly, the kidnapper harbored aspirations to pull off a crime and wrest power and control from Gondo. Both characters have exhibited selfish, dangerously individualistic tendencies at the expense of those around them.

The scene offers a powerful final statement precisely because the kidnapper delivers no grandiose monologue or ultimate revelation. We never fully understand his motives; instead, all we hear is his primal scream of pain, as if he is already burning in hell. As Gondo is forced to face a blank steel wall that slams shut, the staging insinuates that he, like the kidnapper, has achieved absolute solitude and isolation. The two figures essentially merge into one, culminating in the tragedy that each man has envisioned the other as an uncaring, inhuman monster.

To understand the core message of the film, one must first consider its Japanese title, Tengoku to Jigoku, which more literally translates to "Heaven and Hell." At its heart, High and Low is an exploration of rich and poor, class warfare, and the stark divide between social strata. It illustrates how quickly economic fortunes can be won or lost, shifting class status in an instant. Film scholar David Desser breaks the narrative into three chronological "planes of action" that chart this movement from "high" to "low," moving from Gondo's hilltop mansion down through the detective work and into the criminal underworld.

Ultimately, the film functions as a cautionary tale and a moral lesson about the dangers of greed, personal ambition, and human detachment. It warns of how easily one can be humbled by unpredictable twists of fate once financial security collapses. By the conclusion, both Takeuchi and Gondo realize that they—and by extension, their respective social classes—have inflicted mutual pain on one another.

To reinforce this concept, the movie relies on a collection of contrasting dualities: Gondo versus Takeuchi, Gondo's son versus the chauffeur’s son, Gondo's stubborn capitalistic drive versus his humanistic morality, and his assistant's initial loyalty versus his underhanded opportunism.

Thematically, the film also serves as a modern reinterpretation of the Biblical story of Abraham facing the sacrifice of a son. At the same time, it offers a contemporary spin on the central conflict found in Kurosawa's classic samurai films: Gondo exhibits the self-conscious pride and warrior-like cunning of a samurai, yet he struggles to navigate the traditional imperative of remaining loyal to his master—represented here by his corporate employer.

Similar works

• I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang (1932)
• Postwar documentary-style police procedural films (T-Men [1947], The Naked City [1948], and Call Northside 777 [1948])
• Rear Window (1954)
• Night of the Living Dead (1968)
• Police procedural TV shows (e.g., Law & Order [1990], CSI: Crime Scene Investigation [2000], Bones [2005])
• Michael Mann’s Heat (1995)
• Ransom (1996)
• Parasite (2019)
• High and Low adaptations (King's Ransom Japanese TV film remake [2007]; Spike Lee’s Highest 2 Lowest [2025])

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There will be film analysis (and some blood)

What’s the better film from 2007: There Will Be Blood, or No Country For Old Men? For many, not only is the former superior, but it’s ranked in their minds as perhaps the best movie of the 2000s or – for that matter – the 21st century thus far.

Released in late December of that year and directed by Paul Thomas Anderson, There Will Be Blood is a historical drama set during the Southern California oil boom that follows the ruthless and misanthropic oil tycoon Daniel Plainview (Daniel Day-Lewis) as he ruthlessly builds his fortune, clashing fiercely with the charismatic local preacher Eli Sunday (Paul Dano). Along his path of capitalistic greed and psychological decay, Plainview navigates relationships with his adopted son and business partner H.W. Plainview (played as a child by Dillon Freasier and as an adult by Russell Harvard), a man claiming to be his long-lost half-brother Henry Brands (Kevin J. O'Connor), and business associate Fletcher Hamilton (Ciarán Hinds).

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of There Will Be Blood, conducted last week, click here.

The sheer strength of Day-Lewis’ performance as Daniel Plainview elevates this from a good to a great film in immeasurable ways. As Robert De Niro did in Raging Bull – masterfully portraying a thoroughly detestable character – Day-Lewis inhabits this personality so completely and makes him so unique with distinctive touches and fascinating traits that everything else, including the plot, takes secondary priority to the viewer.

“Day-Lewis mesmerizingly embodies the character with a gruff hardness that can be gleaned in his calculating eyes, his contemptuously deliberate comportment, and his semi-condescending tone with all those he speaks to. His oil baron is at once upfront about who he is and yet willing, when the situation suits him, to bend the truth in service of attaining what he wants, a bastard alternately honest and devious whose bullheaded determination is amplified by Day-Lewis’s rigorously controlled—and yet somehow still wildly unpredictable—modulation of expression and action,” wrote Slant Magazine reviewer Nick Schager.

The actor seems to invoke the voice and cadence of the late director/actor John Huston, particularly Huston’s performance as Noah Cross in Chinatown; Huston was also the director of Treasure of the Sierra Madre, which Anderson studied extensively while making this film, citing it as a major influence.

The score by Radiohead guitarist Jonny Greenwood pulses with dread and throbs with an undulating tension that orchestrates Plainview’s success-at-all-costs ruthlessness. It’s a decidedly nontraditional, avant-garde soundtrack that plays during moments both expected and unexpected.

The cinematography is exquisite – With most scenes shot outdoors on a massive ranch in Marfa, West Texas, by Robert Elswit, who won the Oscar that year for Best Cinematography.

Pay close attention, and you’ll realize that there is virtually nothing spoken for the first 20 minutes of the movie; yet this introductory section – in which we see Plainview shift from struggling silver prospector to fledgling wildcatter – is as riveting as it is efficient in showcasing exactly what kind of a man he is.

So, what’s it all about? Essentially, Blood is concerned with the exploitative power of two major pillars of America: capitalism and religion. There Will Be Blood depicts how oil men and robber barons like Plainview, as well as false prophets like Sunday, driven by ruthless determination and greedy ambition, fleeced people to increase their wealth and power. Daniel uses his adopted son as a prop to convey a more family-friendly image, and demonstrates little empathy when his workers are killed. The film repeatedly compares and contrasts these two forces, embodied in Plainview and Sunday, and demonstrates how their manipulative tactics, duplicity, arrogance, and quest for control overlap. (Recall symbolic imagery like the oil smeared on the infant’s forehead as if the baby was religiously anointed.) Yet Daniel continually dominates Eli, suggesting that capitalism was and remains the more potent force in shaping America.

We’re also reminded how absolute power corrupts absolutely. This is a cautionary narrative about the price you pay for success and valuing money and power over human beings. The more wealth and influence Plainview commands, the more corrosive, competitive, and dehumanized he becomes, to the point where he devolves into an outspoken figure who spews hatred, burns bridges with loved ones, and commits murder with no remorse. And a worsening alcoholism and purposeful alienation from the outside world fuel his loathsome actions.

Deceit and duplicity abound in PTA’s magnum opus. Daniel, Eli, and Henry present themselves as people they are not, projecting a façade of likeability and altruism to the gullible around them and profiting from their charade. There’s even a possibility that Paul and Eli—presumably twin brothers—are actually the same person.

Reflect, too, on how the film explores the drawbacks of the Nietzschean ideal. Daniel personifies Nietzschean philosophy, weaponizing his will to shatter moral boundaries and fuel an unconstrained ambition fueled solely by capitalism, completely bypassing the moral boundaries of religion. Per Deep Focus Review essayist Brian Eggert: “Plainview despises morals as signs of weakness. And though his ambition leaves him misanthropic and achingly lonely, his overarching desire for a pointedly American symbol of success, namely oil and the isolationist comforts it affords, circumvents all else.”

The film exposes the fatal flaw in this worldview by stripping Daniel of all genuine human connection, leaving him isolated, bitter, and spiritually hollow inside a massive, lifeless estate. His violent, unhinged breakdown at the climax proves that sacrificing empathy and morality in pursuit of absolute conquest ultimately yields total self-destruction rather than true victory.

Similar works

• Oil!, a novel by Upton Sinclair
• Citizen Kane (1941)
• Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948)
• Giant (1956)
• 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)

Other films by Paul Thomas Anderson

• Boogie Nights (1997)
• Magnolia (1999)
• Punch-Drunk Love (2002)
• The Master (2012)
• Phantom Thread (2017)
• Licorice Pizza (2021)
• One Battle After Another (2025)

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Discover the astounding animated anomaly that is Anomalisa

If your mature mind occasionally craves some anti-Pixar programming, take a detour down Charlie Kaufman and Duke Johnson’s 2015 rabbit hole Anomalisa. This thought-provoking stop-motion adult animated comedy-drama follows Michael Stone (voiced by David Thewlis), a depressed, middle-aged customer service expert who perceives every person he encounters as identical in appearance and voice. Still, his monotonous reality is upended during a business trip in Cincinnati when he meets Lisa Hesselman (Jennifer Jason Leigh), an insecure and ordinary woman whom he perceives as uniquely special, prompting him to escape into a brief, transformative romance.

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of Anomalisa, conducted last week, click here.

The choice to film this as stop motion with marionette puppets is curious; Anomalisa could have been a live-action film using ample digital effects to homogenize the faces of all the other characters besides Michael and Lisa, but co-directors Kaufman and Johnson opted to adapt the former’s shorter 2005 audio play into an animated adult feature film. The advantage of using stop-motion animation is that the characters truly look like interchangeable puppets (which they are), which plays into the story’s thematic elements; even the limitations of old-school marionettes—like a visibly hinged jaw—remain, which they could have digitally erased.

“Whereas live-action mimesis might have muted the characters’ distinguishing traits – Michael’s slumped gait, the half-curtain of mousy hair hiding Lisa’s facial disfigurement – the puppets’ movements invite anthropological scrutiny. The distancing effect of the animation limits subjective identification with the characters while heightening audience awareness of the film’s social and sexual dynamics,” opined BFI critic Graham Fuller. Additionally, avoiding live-action actors and easily identifiable celebrity voices allows us to become better immersed in this eerie, offbeat world without getting distracted by overfamiliar elements.

Anomalisa lingers long on mundane, everyday actions, unfolding often in real time as we follow Michael through a predictable first act of arriving at his destination, checking into the hotel, and going through the motions. This is the thinnest of plots, but it forces us to pay attention to the smallest details.

Interestingly, this boasts one of the most moving and credible sex scenes in any film ever made, which is ironic, considering it's stop-motion animation. The dialogue is excellent in this sequence, and the behaviors of the characters are realistic and plausible. Indeed, Anomalisa proves that eye-catching animation is not limited to family fare alone; it can be made for and appreciated solely by the grownups. (This was actually nominated for a Best Animated Feature Oscar, being the first R-rated animated movie in this category.)

We quickly discern that this is a narrative about disconnection and alienation from fellow human beings. Michael sees others as blandly similar, non-distinct beings who fail to excite him because they look and sound alike. He suffers from a myopia fueled by depression and an insular, self-absorbed worldview that limits his capacity for empathy.

“Kaufman is nearly without peer in simulating the biological sensations of depression, particularly the numbness, the tastelessness, as well as the conviction that nothing worth experiencing is capable of happening to you. This formal mercilessness is essential to lowering the audience’s guard for the unexpected tenderness of the film’s big scene: Michael meeting (Lisa),” wrote Slant critic Chuck Bowen.

His callous disregard for others’ feelings is evidenced by how, the morning after he has enjoyed transcendent intimacy with Lisa, he curtly criticizes her eating habits; how he inappropriately gives his young son a sex toy (did the semen-like liquid come from Michael himself?), and the way he insensitively reopens old wounds with past lover Bella.

This is a midlife crisis of individuation and identity experienced by many males, one that threatens to suck all the joy out of Michael’s existence. He struggles to find uniqueness in a homogenized world and connect with others, choosing to hide behind a mask and perceiving that others are doing the same thing.

To his credit, Michael can see beyond the flaws and faults of others; he bonds with Lisa, finding her distinctive personality and physical scars appealing because they distinguish her from the rest of the pack. But he seems doomed to repeat a cycle of relationship futility. Apparently, his dysfunctional pattern is to rush headlong into a relationship but quickly lose interest once the initial thrill is gone.

One theory bandied about on social media is that Lisa is not a real person but rather a psychological projection manifested from the antique Japanese doll Michael buys earlier in the film; it’s a conjecture supported by a web of subtle clues – ranging from her identical facial scar and the pre-taped nature of her singing to the inexplicable absence of cleanup after their unrealistic sex scene and the doll's final, haunting Japanese refrain. But that doesn’t perfectly align with the end scene, in which we see Lisa’s older blonde co-worker with a different and presumably realistic appearance (she looked more like the homogenous faces in the crowd earlier, proof that Michael wasn’t recognizing her true self), as evidence that Lisa and the co-worker are real; this is the only scene not from Michael’s POV and a tell that the hotel affair was not all in his imagination. But, like other creative works of oblique cinema, Anomalisa is open to multiple interpretations.

Similar works

• Mary and Max (2009), a bittersweet, melancholy animated feature about two incredibly lonely, eccentric pen pals forming a life-saving bond
• Her (2013), a live-action look at a lonely man seeking a genuine, warm connection in an increasingly sterile, detached world
• My Life as a Zucchini (2016), a beautifully mature, emotional stop-motion film about orphans dealing with grief and finding belonging
• The Wolf House (2018), a surreal, deeply unsettling stop-motion nightmare using shifting physical materials to evoke psychological trauma
• Chico & Rita (2010), a cel-animated film that features highly sensual, explicit love scenes and a mature, complex portrayal of infidelity and heartache
• Perfect Blue (1997), which deals with intense psychological stalking, identity breakdown, and highly graphic, disturbing scenes of sexual violence
• Memoir of a Snail (2024), a picture that explores heavy, devastating themes of profound grief, trauma, hoarding, and severe emotional abuse
• Waking Life (2001), a rotoscope-animated film that focuses on complex, heavy philosophical discussions about existential dread, free will, and the meaning of death
• Flee (2021), which covers mature, real-world themes of refugee trauma, survivor's guilt, and navigating one's sexuality under threat of persecution

Other films written by Charlie Kaufman

• Being John Malkovich (1999)
• Human Nature (2001)
• Adaptation (2002)
• Confessions of a Dangerous Mind (2002)
• Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004)
• Synecdoche, New York (2008, his sole directorial effort)

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The films that changed us forever

Earlier this month, our CineVerse group gathered for another quarterly Freeform Wednesday. This time around, the topic was "The movies that changed us forever": films that changed our lives in a meaningful way, altered our destinies somehow, or had a profound effect on the way we view cinema and/or the world. Our discussion covered different angles, including when we each viewed these particular films, the ideas and emotions each picture generated, and examples of how the experience of watching it or reflecting on it was a game-changer. 

To listen to this recording of our group discussion, click here.

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Cineversary podcast celebrates 90th birthday of Swing Time

Brian Seibert and George Stevens Jr.

In Cineversary podcast episode #96, host ⁠Erik J. Martin⁠ commemorates the 90th anniversary of Swing Time, directed by George Stevens. Joining him on the dance floor is Brian Seibert, a renowned dance critic for The New York Times and author of the book What the Eye Hears: A History of Tap Dancing; and George Stevens Jr., son of the Swing Time director and founder of the American Film Institute. Together, they’ll examine why Swing Time is a cut above in the fancy footwork department, what elevates this material above other Fred and Ginger films, the exceptional songcraft on display, and much more.

To listen to this episode, click here or click the "play" button on the embedded streaming player below. Or, you can stream, download, or subscribe to Cineversary wherever you get your podcasts, including Apple Podcasts and Spotify.

Learn more about the Cineversary podcast at www.cineversary.com and email show comments or suggestions to cineversarypodcast@gmail.com

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Fred and Ginger's finest moment

The swing era of rhythmic jazz played by the big bands was in full swing by the mid-1930s. But the creative forces behind the film Swing Time must not have received the memo. That’s because this George Stevens-directed musical comedy, released in late summer 1936, eschews that increasingly popular musical style of the era and instead emphasizes a Great American Songbook score composed by the legendary songwriting team of Jerome Kern and Dorothy Fields. But one element that wasn’t falsely advertised was the scintillating on-screen dancing of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.

In case you care about the plot, it concerns John "Lucky" Garnett (Astaire), a talented tap dancer and gambler who travels to New York City to earn $25,000 to prove his worthiness to his wealthy fiancée back home, Margaret Watson (Betty Furness). However, complications arise when Lucky falls deeply in love with Penny Carroll (Rogers), a charming dance academy instructor he accidentally meets on the street. Together, Lucky and Penny form a sensational professional dance duo, navigating standard romantic misunderstandings, a jealous bandleader rival named Ricardo Romero (Georges Metaxa), and comedic mishaps alongside Lucky's loyal sidekick, Pop Cardetti (Victor Moore), and Penny's cynical friend, Mabel Anderson (Helen Broderick).

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of Swing Time, conducted last week, click here.

This is often ranked as the finest of the Astaire-Rogers films, and for good reason: It showcases perhaps their very best dancing to possibly the greatest repertoire of songs in any of their 10 pictures together. And the eyes don’t lie—Many believe Fred and Ginger have never looked better together, both on the dance floor and as romantic partners.

Roger Ebert, who included Swing Time in his Great Movies essay series, wrote: “What Fred and Ginger had together, and what no other team has ever had in the same way, was a joy of performance. They were so good, and they knew they were so good, that they danced in celebration of their gifts…They brought such grace and humor that they became the touchstone of all things elegant…The chemistry between Fred and Ginger was not simply erotic, but intellectual and physical: They were two thoroughbreds who could dance better than anyone else, and knew it.” Dance critic Brian Seibert called it “the best dance film ever made because of the way that dance is integrated into the film.”

And Imogen Sara Smith maintains that, “Of all the films Astaire and Rogers made together, Swing Time does the best job of integrating music and dance into a credible story.” She particularly praises Rogers' work in this film. “She has the universal traits of the thirties working girl: she is wised-up, suspicious, and implacably sensible. And this is precisely why Fred needs her: Ginger is his ballast. Without her, he might float off into the empyrean, loosed of all ties to earth. His temperament is as airy as his physical presence; in each film, before meeting Rogers, he is carefree…she bursts his bubble and gives him something to work for. Rogers’s physicality likewise matches her character…Her opposition and eventual surrender play out in her spine and shoulders, which go from taut to melting; her body is as expressive as it is breathtakingly lovely.”

Swing Time boasts six unforgettable songs, most set to brilliant dancing, and each a showstopper in its own right. The fun starts with Pick Yourself Up, a polka tempo tune that gets the couple’s feet moving and our toes tapping with its uplifting message and exuberant stepping. It’s also the most down-to-earth and relatable, featuring dancing that’s no less graceful or impressive than any of the formalwear numbers that follow.

Next, we hear the familiar strains of an all-time classic melody that earned the movie its single Academy Award, for Best Song, and became Astaire’s biggest hit on the music charts: The Way You Look Tonight, a foxtrot featuring Astaire singing solo.

The wordless Waltz in Swing Time oozes elegance and grace in three-quarter time, with Astaire’s tap shoes punctuating the pageantry and Ginger’s puffy-sleeved, ruffled-skirted gown satiating our senses. The eternally hummable A Fine Romance, a quickstep sung but not danced by the duet amid falling snowflakes, comments on the twosome’s iffy relationship with cleverly caustic lyrics.

As cringeworthy and socioculturally dated as it is today due to Astaire appearing in blackface, Bojangles of Harlem is actually an eye-popping sequence brimming with arresting visuals and syncopated symmetry involving 24 female performers moving in perfect step with Astaire (at one point he’s dancing with all of them at one time, stacked in a straight but oscillating line) before shifting to a wowzer-for-its-time trick photography tour de force in which Fred dances with three gigantic shadows of himself.

Then, topping all the other tunes for emotional impact and visual elegance, we get Never Gonna Dance, an artfully evergreen Art Deco spectacle that begins by presenting Astaire in lone voice mode, shot from a high angle as he laments their seemingly doomed romance, and which proves the song’s title as truthful in the moment. Eventually, the lyrics stop, and the exceptionally fancy footwork begins, bringing us the last of Swing Time’s three duet dances and closing out the picture in grand style with a cornucopia of dance styles—from balletic glides and lunging tilts to acrobatic adagio lifts and rapid-fire spins.

Like the five earlier Astaire-Rogers pictures, Swing Time continues a relatively new tradition of departing from theatrical staging-style musicals common in the early 1930s. This approach completely deviated from the standard "front-row center" stage perspective and the massive, geometric chorus girl spectacles popularized by Busby Berkeley. Instead of framing musical numbers as static stage routines performed for an in-universe audience, Stevens and Astaire integrated the dances seamlessly into the narrative itself, utilizing more fluid camera movement and tracking shots. Astair insisted that the camera capture the full bodies of the dancers (head to toe) in single, uninterrupted shots, with as few edits as possible, to preserve the beauty and integrity of the performances. Stevens moved the camera horizontally with the dancers as they moved and avoided cutaways or close-ups of faces or feet. The goal was to create a more intimate, three-dimensional, and naturalistic world than the proscenium arch of a live theater allowed.

Swing Time also marked somewhat of a change in Astaire’s choreographic style. In some instances, it melds his trademark rhythmic tap dancing with the sweeping, graceful lines of classical ballet and the expressivity of modern dance to fashion a sophisticated stylistic pastiche. Earlier Astaire pictures often emphasized traditional ballroom steps and straightforward tap routines, but here, numbers like Waltz in Swing Time and Never Gonna Dance incorporate balletic pirouettes, elongated extensions, and fluid, dramatic movements. Astaire and his dance director collaborator Hermes Pan wanted to expand the grammar of cinematic dancing beyond tap alone to better convey profound yearning and romantic tension.

Also, the songs in Swing Time aren’t one-offs or sung soliloquies siloed off from the story. The lyrics are more conversational and attuned to the narrative and the romantic dynamics, helping to advance or inform Lucky and Penny’s relationship.

Unlike earlier Astaire-Rogers collaborations, which often depict primarily European fantasy worlds populated by wealthy characters in fancy attire amid wall-to-wall lavish settings, Swing Time is set in America and was and is more relatable to audiences. It better taps into the fact that this is a contemporary story set during the Great Depression. Lucky and Pop are broke and must steal aboard a train and use pluck and impromptu resourcefulness to earn money, keep a roof over their heads, and win their love interests.

Notably, Swing Time tests our patience but also builds our eager anticipation for eurhythmics by allowing 28 minutes to pass before the first full dance number commences.

Unlike so many other cinematic pairings between Fred and Ginger, Swing Time shines thanks to savvy oversight by Stevens, a quality director known for imbuing comedic flourishes (and famous by this time for helming memorable light comedies, romance pictures, and character studies. He ended up directing a handful of masterworks in a variety of genres over his career, including Gunga Din (1939), Woman of the Year (1942), A Place in the Sun (1950), Shane (1953), and Swing Time—one of only two musicals in his filmography). We watch Swing Time for the dancing, but this is a Fred and Ginger picture you don’t have to fast forward through to get to the good parts because it’s packed with plenty of jokes, comedic callbacks, and mirthful meet-cutes in between, which this filmmaker would have prioritized. While we may not care much about the formulaic narrative or the love quadrangle, Stevens and company infuse Swing Time with jocular joy and needed laughs that still mostly land after 90 years.

The casting of Victor Moore as Pop does quite a bit of the heavy lifting in the humor department, as this fretful and maladroit sidekick gets some of the best lines and amusing interplays with other side characters. What also helps propel the comedy is a series of running gags, including Pop’s shifty card tricks, pantless protagonists, the losing and breaking of coins and currency, and, most memorably, Lucky and Penny continually being interrupted from kissing (fans would actually never see them lock lips until two years later in their eighth film). The second-best joke occurs when the police officer asks Pop to repeat what he apparently muttered under his breath, to which Pop replies, "Look out for the great big ditch” (“ditch,” of course, rhymes with or can be mistaken for other common single-syllable profanities).

For many, the funniest bit is when Lucky arrives at the house of his fiancée but is greeted by the painted portrait of a frowning family patriarch, a growling dog, and a hissing cat; after impressing Dad with his capitalistic savvy, the portrait suddenly smiles, the dog wags his tail, and the cat sidles up to Lucky’s leg in purring approval.

Swing Time has screwball sensibilities, and it’s also replete with comedic ironies: Lucky initially pretending to Penny that he has two left feet, him singing about her lovely appearance at an unlovely moment for her in mid-hair wash, and the fact that he’s a richer man with a lucky Penny than his lucky quarter. (Let’s also not forget the irony built into the film’s misleading title.)

Stevens was also known as a meticulous craftsman who notched many retakes to get the perfect scene, an ethos that meshed with Astaire’s obsessive perfectionism. They did more than 48 takes of the Never Gonna Dance sequence, according to Ginger Rogers, who suffered bleeding feet after so much dancing. This director was also enamored with Americana and stories like Swing Time that depicted the pursuit of the American Dream.

Let’s address the elephant in the room: the Bojangles of Harlem blackface number. Today, it’s deeply upsetting to see any white actor of any bygone era wearing greasepaint to make themselves look Black. This dated and distasteful imagery strikes a raw nerve, especially for African-Americans, because minstrel performers were typically condescending and denigrating of Black people, attempting to imitate or mock their appearance, culture, and mannerisms in exaggerated ways that reinforced harmful racial stereotypes.

However, what may be different about the Bojangles of Harlem sequence compared to so many other minstrel numbers in old movies is that some believe Astaire was attempting to reverently honor the talents and legacy of two African-American dance greats: Bill Bojangles Robinson, a pioneering African-American tap dancer who achieved massive nationwide popularity from the 1910s through the 1930s as a premier headliner in Vaudeville, on Broadway, and in major Hollywood films; and John Bubbles, dubbed the Father of Rhythm Tap and one of Astaire’s former teachers.

While it doesn’t lessen the blow, note that Astaire’s greasepaint isn’t as dark as was common in minstrel shows of the time, and he doesn’t accentuate his lips to further that racial caricature. Also, half of his female dance partners in the scene are wearing black outfits while the other half are wearing white, which could intentionally suggest intercultural unity and racial integration.

Nevertheless, it’s understandable for people of any color to be offended today by the presence of a blackface scene in Swing Time, and it must be acknowledged that this is a mark against the film that hampers its universal and evergreen appeal.

Flaws aside, Swing Time’s most lasting benefaction is that it reminds us of the transcendent power and enduring allure of the dance, an art form that, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, modern cinema occasionally revisits (with Chicago, The Artist, and La La Land as prominent examples in this century) to remind us that human beings practiced in the skill of moving rhythmically to music and shifting their fleet feet to the beat are eminently watchable. A world where Astaire and Rogers make heavenly hoofing look easy and attainable is a world I want to continue to live in, even if it’s merely a 103-minute monochrome fantasy that’s as antique and extinct as a Duesenberg or a double eagle coin. The way you look tonight, Ginger and Fred, is the way you’ll look every night in my memory: lithe and effervescent, dazzling and dapper, ever defiant of gravity and the ravages of time. 

Swing Time is preserved in the Library of Congress's prestigious National Film Registry for its cultural and aesthetic significance and ranks #90 on the American Film Institute’s (AFI) 100 Years...100 Movies list from 2007. The Oscar-winning ballad The Way You Look Tonight slotted #43 on the AFI’s greatest songs list, and the film was also named in Entertainment Weekly’s 100 Greatest Movies list. Additionally, Swing Time earns a 93% fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes and an 8.9 out of 10 critical score vs. a 91 out of 100 Metascore on Metacritic. 

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Unexpected noir from afar

Directed and written by Kaneto Shindō, Onibaba (1964) is set in 14^th century feudal Japan during a time of civil war. The film follows the harrowing lives of two unnamed women — an older female (Nobuko Otowa) and her daughter-in-law (Jitsuko Yoshimura) — who survive by murdering passing samurai and foot soldiers and selling their belongings to Ushi, a black market trader. Their precarious existence is disrupted when a neighbor, Hachi (Kei Satō), returns from the war and forms a lustful relationship with the younger woman, creating swelling tension and, in her mother-in-law, overpowering jealousy. 

Yet, despite being a masterful blend of folk horror, psychological thriller, and Jidaigeki period drama, Onibaba cannot escape the long shadow of classic film noir. But is it a noir or not?  That's the question I attempt to answer in a Noir City magazine article that recently published, available here.

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That's one high calibre cop

If you’re a cop and your last name is Bullitt, your character had damn well make an explosive impact. Thankfully, despite his laconic nature, Frank Bullitt hits the mark, as evidenced in Bullitt (1968), an iconic police procedural thriller directed by Peter Yates and produced by Philip D'Antoni as a star vehicle for Steve McQueen. This team, with this film, aimed to revolutionize Hollywood cop movies by infusing them with gritty, documentary-style realism and pioneering on-location stunt work.

The plot follows a cool, no-nonsense San Francisco PD lieutenant Bullitt who is tasked by an ambitious, corrupt politician (Walter Chalmers, played by Robert Vaughn) with guarding a high-profile mob informant; when the informant is assassinated, Bullitt secretly conceals the death to track down the hitmen.

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of Bullitt, conducted last week, click here.

Bullitt was somewhat groundbreaking for a late 1960s crime thriller. Look closely at the famous car chase scene, and it’s easy to see how. This was one of the fastest chases on four wheels ever, shot across incredibly difficult terrain to maneuver. Cinematographer William A. Fraker used Arriflex 35 IIC cameras to do something remarkably bold for a film of this era. At the time, major Hollywood productions still favored massive, heavy studio cameras. But Bullitt was one of the very first major studio action films to be shot entirely with compact and durable ARRI cameras, which meant the crew could literally strap the camera directly onto the hood of McQueen's Ford Mustang and the killers' Dodge Charger. Also, no music is used. And the way the sequence was choreographed, filmed, and edited influenced a whole new generation of movies—from the French Connection to the Blues Brothers to the Fast and Furious to Death Proof.

The filmmakers insisted on verisimilitude and a heightened focus on authenticity. For proof, consider that Bullitt was shot on location in San Francisco: Those are real Frisco streets those muscle cars are zipping around on (which must have made for very difficult stunts and camera work), and it helped make the city a star on the big and little screen, leading to it being the preferred setting in dozens of subsequent films and TV shows, including the Dirty Harry movies and the Streets of San Francisco TV series. Also, many non-actors were used, such as actual police officers and working nurses. And McQueen insisted on doing much of the stunt work and driving himself.

Additionally, the movie benefited from a distinctive approach to editing and sound. Ponder the choice of straight, simple cuts between shots to maintain a smooth, steady flow, and how the camera lingers on subjects for an extra beat or so.

McQueen’s character helped establish a new kind of cop hero: the anti-authority, defiant, vigilante justice-style police officer, later echoed by Dirty Harry Callahan, Popeye Doyle, and Charles Bronson characters; as well as the youthful, hip, and well-equipped cop, later exemplified by Starsky and Hutch and Miami Vice on TV.

Like John Wayne and Bogart, McQueen is often accused of simply playing himself. But he’s a screen persona you identify with because of the legend and presence he’s built up; when actors like this try too hard to “act” and stand out, it looks unnatural and contrived. Just because he’s not overemoting or playing someone who’s suffering an extreme conflict doesn’t mean he isn’t accomplishing a solid performance. Sparse dialogue is used throughout, ratcheting up the tension and emphasizing how this is more of a character-driven story where nonverbal action and simple facial expressions tell the tale. McQueen makes it work: He’s the kind of actor who can express more without the use of talking or melodramatics. Considering the film is skim milk thin in plot and words, the lead actor had better be pretty easy to watch. So if you’re a fan of this flick, McQueen deserves much of your praise.

The sticky wicket with Bullitt (besides several gaping plot holes) is Frank’s girlfriend, Cathy (Jacqueline Bisset). She’s a sexy love interest, but she’s given seriously wooden, clunky lines and not a very interesting role. Arguably, she comes off as unsympathetic, naïve, and frustratingly fragile in her inability to understand why Frank so effectively emotionally compartmentalizes the disturbing nature of his job. How does she expect him to process and cope with all the violence he encounters?

At its heart, this is a tale about gritty professionalism versus slick opportunism. Frank’s dogged commitment to solving the crime on his terms and leaving no stone unturned clashes with the greedy ambitions and manipulative tactics of Chalmers, who seeks to profit professionally from this situation. Frank is a man of integrity driven by a strong work ethic, and Chalmers is a self-serving politician.

Bullitt also explores the danger of desensitization to violence, demonstrating that Frank pays a heavy emotional toll over years of being exposed to disturbing violence in his line of work, a profession that threatens to alienate him from his girlfriend. The film critiques the "cool” veneer of Frank and, by association, McQueen. Turns out that his stoicism isn’t a stylistic choice—it’s an emotional wall built against a corrupt and ugly world. Recall how, despite his victory in solving the case by the conclusion and surviving against his adversaries, Frank achieves no closure. We see him stare wearily into a bathroom mirror. One shot speaks volumes.

 

Similar works

• Thunder Road (1958)
• The French Connection (1971)
• Vanishing Point (1971)
• Gone in 60 Seconds (1974)
• The Blues Brothers (1980)
• The Road Warrior (1981)
• Terminator 2 (1991)
• Ronin (1998)
• The Fast and the Furious (2001)
• The Matrix Reloaded (2003)
• Death Proof (2007)

Other films by Peter Yates

• The Friends of Eddie Coyle (1973)
• Breaking Away (1979)
• The Dresser (1983)

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Stranger danger

The 1950s proved to be director Alfred Hitchcock’s finest decade of work, a period when he hit the peak of his talents and benefited from outstanding collaborations with composer Bernard Herrmann, actors James Stewart, Grace Kelly, and Cary Grant, and stellar screenwriters such as John Michael Hayes, Ernest Lehman, and Samuel Taylor. But long before all-time masterworks from this decade like Rear Window, Vertigo, and North by Northwest ever hit the screen, he served notice that this was his time to shine with the release of Strangers on a Train, which debuted 75 years ago on June 30, 1951.

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of Strangers on a Train, conducted earlier this month, click here. To hear the latest Cineversary podcast episode, which celebrates the film’s 75th anniversary, click here.

This was a perfectly timed comeback vehicle for Hitch, who had directed a string of lesser pictures and commercial disappointments following Notorious in 1946, including The Paradine Case (1947), Under Capricorn (1949), and Stage Fright (1950). Strangers on a Train marks the beginning of his 1950s dominance as arguably the best filmmaker of that 10-year run.

The movie boasts an impressive showcase of one visually astounding set piece after another – even for Hitchcock, a director already well-known for iconic sequences and remarkable imagery. This film flaunts at least five or six showstopper scenes or shots that continue to be studied by film scholars and relished by cinephiles: the strangulation of Miriam by Bruno reflected in her glasses; Bruno seen stalking from afar, standing eerily motionless on the steps of the U.S. Capital building; the kinetic tennis match and the zoom-in that reveals a still-faced Bruno staring directly at the camera amidst a sea of spectator heads swiveling left and right; the gripping cigarette lighter retrieval sequence where we observe Bruno’s hand reaching through a storm drain grate to reclaim that pivotal pocket-sized piece of evidence; and the chaotic carousel spinning violently out of control as Bruno attempts to murder Guy.

There’s also the unforgettable opening wherein we see two pairs of shoes moving toward each other and eventually making contact; Bruno’s choking simulation of a party guest at Senator Morton’s home; the expressively shadow-steeped Tunnel of Love sequence; and the uncomfortable segment where Guy sneaks into Bruno’s father’s home to warn him of his son’s plan.

“Plenty of Hitchcock movies move from set piece to set piece in whatever expedient way can connect them, but in Strangers on a Train the set pieces are organically structured and feed off one another,” wrote critic Glenn Erickson. “This is Hitchcock's first ‘power suspense story,’ where the dynamism is driven not by lavish action scenes or intense romantic melodrama, but by Hitchcock's nuts 'n' bolts cinematic engineering. Airplanes don't crash, and there are no giant noses of Ingrid Bergman and Gregory Peck colliding. Instead, our attention is riveted by things as simple as two pairs of walking feet compared in a parallel cutting structure, capped by intersecting rails that visually represent the inevitability of the collision between Guy and Bruno.”

This picture is also dazzling in its intricate narrative construction and powerful as a well-tuned engine that effectively delivers robust thematic ideas. And while the screenplay may not be airtight as far as murderous machinations and plausibility are concerned (by hiding in his father’s bed, doesn’t Bruno risk being killed by Guy? How do Guy and Anne know exactly when Bruno is going to return to the fairgrounds to plant the lighter, and what’s the guarantee that the police will even find that piece of evidence?), it is narratively efficient, thanks to Hitchcock’s masterful “show-don’t tell” visuals. The story and the setup are off and running quickly, and the movie benefits from having no superfluous scenes.

“Strangers on a Train is the first Hitchcock film that fully, equally merges text and subtext in a fashion that will largely characterize the remainder of the filmmaker’s career,” according to Slant Magazine reviewer Chuck Bowen.

The film showcases Oscar-nominated cinematography, compliments of Robert Burks, who went on to collaborate with the director over the next 13 years. Additionally, the memorable score by Dimitri Tiomkin playfully explores Hitchcock’s theme of doubles, continually using contrasting musical motifs and orchestrated cues that riff on the differences and tension between Bruno and Guy.

The segment where Bruno stalks Miriam and strangles her ranks high in the Hitchcock canon of iconic visual sequences. The specific shot where we see the murder reflected in Miriam’s glasses required a specially constructed distorting or concave reflector/lens setup to film the reflected strangulation image; separate elements were then combined through optical double-printing to achieve the final composite shot. It’s an image that lingers disturbingly long in the imagination, thanks to its aesthetically innovative execution.

Likewise, the climactic scene depicting the chaos of the out-of-control carousel inventively employed a combination of rear projection, miniatures, facial close-ups, and insert shots, all ingeniously edited together. Hitchcock detonated a small explosive charge inside a toy carousel model and filmed the blast. He then blew up and projected this footage onto a massive background screen, carefully staging live actors in the foreground to seamlessly blend them into the deadly shower of flying plaster horses and debris. (Incredibly, the shots of the older man crawling beneath the whirling carousel are not photographic fakery – the man was an actual carousel operator who volunteered for this role and risked his life.)

Ponder how this director shrewdly uses geography and space in the frame to convey his themes and also build suspense. After scrutinizing the tense scene where Guy returns to his D.C. apartment to find Bruno lurking across the street with Miriam's glasses, British film critic Robin Wood noted that Hitchcock places the symbolic forces of good and order on the right side of the screen – as symbolized by the towering, floodlit dome of the U.S. Capitol – and the forces of evil on the left. When a police car suddenly approaches, Guy's panic drives him to the left side of the screen, physically retreating into the darkness with Bruno. Guy quickly steps behind the bars of an iron fence and laments that he’s being forced to act like a criminal, suggesting that his submissive positioning has trapped Guy within Bruno's malevolent, chaotic world.

The director gave careful thought to virtually every aspect of his lead character’s personalities. For proof, consider what he purposely chooses Bruno and Guy to eat and how they consume it. Hitchcock said, "Preferences in food characterize people…Bruno orders with gusto and with an interest in what he is going to eat – lamb chops, French fries, and chocolate ice cream...And the chocolate ice cream is probably what he thought about first. Bruno is rather a child. He is also something of a hedonist. Guy, on the other hand, shows little interest in eating the lunch, apparently having given it no advance thought, in contrast to Bruno, and he merely orders what seems his routine choice, a hamburger and coffee."

The film’s sexual dynamics are particularly fascinating. Bruno, as played by Walker, is eccentric in mannerisms, walk, and flirtatious behavior, clearly insinuating a queer-coded character. Looking closer, you can perceive that Bruno is angered by the heterosexuals around him, including his father; Miriam, with her repellant flirtatious behavior with men (recall her phallic licking of the ice cream cone); and Guy, whose success Bruno envies.

We know that Guy is intrigued by Bruno, and deep down we know he has to be contemplating Bruno’s murder proposition. A 21st-century queer reading of the film suggests that Guy is perhaps sexually confused, suppressing a latent desire that Bruno coaxes to the surface.

Per Roger Ebert: “Granger is softer and more elusive, more convincing as he tries to slip out of Bruno’s conversational web instead of flatly rejecting him. Walker plays Bruno as flirtatious and seductive, sitting too close during their first meeting, and then reclining at full length across from Guy in the private compartment. The meeting on the train, which was probably planned by Bruno, plays more like a pickup than a chance encounter. It is this sense of two flawed characters – one evil, one weak, with an unstated sexual tension – that makes the movie intriguing and halfway plausible, and helps explain how Bruno could come so close to carrying out his plan.”

However, Bruno unfortunately continues a tired tradition during Hollywood’s golden age where queer characters are depicted as deviant, aberrant, perverse, askew, and criminally capable – as evidenced by famous non-heterosexual personalities in classic films like Mrs. Danvers in “Rebecca,” Joel Cairo in “The Maltese Falcon,” Waldo in “Laura,” and the college roommates in “Rope.”

But what’s fascinating about Bruno as a Hitchcock villain is that, regardless of his sexual orientation, he’s capable of both magnetic charm and wit as well as appalling violence and volatility. Bruno can murder cruelly without compunction, while in a subsequent scene help a blind man across the street. He’s a loose cannon who’s boasted of driving a car over 150 mph and flying a jet plane, and he’s expressed a desire to blow up the White House. This is a creepy, malicious, nearly omniscient presence who seems to know where Guy is at all times – he’s almost like a stalking vampire who waits for the sun to go down so he can fulfill his evil plans.

Interesting aside about the casting: Robert Walker was a heterosexual in real life who was known for playing likable boy next door types – yet, he’s cast against type here as villainous and queer, if not at least sexually ambiguous – while Farley Granger was a bisexual actor being asked to play a straight character.

1950s audiences likely found several elements of the film disturbing or risqué. Exhibit A: Miriam’s licentious behavior for a 1951 movie. She’s married to Guy, yet pregnant with another man’s baby and flirting with multiple men, including the two at the fairgrounds who take turns pawing and playfully groping her. Exhibit B: We are manipulated into identifying with Bruno, a sociopath, just as we are forced to identify with Norman Bates after Marion Crane is killed in Psycho. We find ourselves rooting for Bruno to retrieve the cigarette lighter and evade a near capture by police.

Consider, as well, the outright weird relationship between Bruno and his possibly insane mother, which viewers of any era would find especially peculiar. And let’s not forget the terrible violence that concludes the rogue merry-go-round sequence. It’s evident that many children must have been killed, yet this tragedy is overlooked because the filmmakers and the audience demand – especially in 1951 – that Guy’s guilt and culpability be resolved.

Looking closely, we can clearly see the DNA of Strangers on a Train in later pictures. Running along the same tracks are subsequent movies like Bigger Than Life (1956), centering on a suburban father whose psychological unraveling turns him into a danger to his family; Once You Kiss a Stranger (1968), a loose, gender-swapped reimagining of Strangers on a Train involving a coerced murder pact; Throw Momma from the Train (1987), a pitch-black comedy in which an eccentric student embraces the idea of “swapping murders”; Once You Meet a Stranger (1996), a TV movie remake about two women who meet on a train and devise a deadly arrangement; Horrible Bosses (2011), a comedic variation where three friends agree to eliminate one another’s abusive employers; Mojave (2015), which follows a brilliant drifter who invades an artist’s life and sparks a psychological duel; A Simple Favor (2018), a neo-noir mystery of toxic friendship, manipulation, and deception; Do Revenge (2022), a stylized dark comedy where two teens agree to carry out revenge schemes for one another; and

It’s a stretch, perhaps, but there’s a case to be made that Strangers on a Train (1951) helped establish the thematic blueprint for the giallo horror subgenre that flourished many years later. It traps a “wrong man” in a labyrinth murder plot, features a highly stylized scene involving the strangulation of a woman, and is obsessed with fetishized clues that predate some of the core elements later perfected by Italian directors. The murder swap setup and psychological web potentially paved the path for later giallo thrillers like Sergio Martino’s The Strange Vice of Mrs. Wardh (1971), and Massimo Dallamano's What Have You Done to Solange? (1972).

What helps Strangers on a Train maintain an evergreen sheen are its relevant themes. The big enchilada, of course, is innocence and guilt, and the transference of culpability, which Hitchcock explored in so many of his films. The main motivation for Guy to foil Bruno by the end of the film is Guy’s guilt stemming from the fact that he has overtly wished for Miriam’s death, which is fulfilled.

But just as significant is the examination of good vs. evil, light vs. dark, and the shades of gray and ambiguity between them. It’s easy to regard Guy as the white hat character in this twisted morality tale opposite Bruno’s black hat figure, but let’s not forget the words that came out of Guy’s mouth: "I’d like to break her foul, useless, little neck... I said I could strangle her!" We know he’s not capable of doing so, but Guy secretly wishes for retribution on Miriam, and Bruno represents the dark side to Guy’s wish fulfillment. These are psychological alter-egos, with Bruno acting as Guy’s dark shadow and manifesting Guy's repressed desire to kill his wife. Ironically, the "shocked" Guy is carrying a murder mystery book. The consistent interplay of shadow and light evident in many compositions emphasizes this message.

Other visually and thematically obvious messages replete in Strangers on a Train include doppelgängers, pairs (more on this next), opposites, crisscrossing, and double-crossing. And you certainly can’t miss the sexual tension, as this film so skillfully hints at homoeroticism, cuckoldry, Oedipal rage, and psychosexual obsession, infusing undercurrents of deviant sexually motivated behavior into its story and characters.

Strangers on a Train’s greatest gift is how it serves as an endlessly captivating exercise in meticulously planned visual design. First, reflect on the many geometric shapes and patterns used throughout that turn this film into a big-screen game of tic-tac-toe, complete with X’s, O’s, and gridlines. Respectively, recall the crosscut editing between two pairs of shoes walking toward each other, the crossed legs, the railroad crossing signs, and the cigarette lighter with its overlapping tennis rackets; the circles, as exemplified by Miriam’s round glasses, the circles spotted on Bruno’s robe, the shape of his strangling hands, the white globe atop the lamppost, the child’s balloon, the sun Bruno glances at, and the spinning, circular merry-go-round; and the parallel lines, as evidenced by the shadow of window blinds that fall across Bruno’s face, the large gate with its vertical bars, the rows of matching heads swiveling left and right watching the tennis match, the lines on the tennis court.

But even more impressively, the movie ingeniously utilizes a recurring motif of doubles, 22 examples of which are cataloged by Stephen Rebello in his outstanding book Criss-Cross. Here’s a roundup of key examples:

• Parallel openings: Two Diamond Cabs arrive simultaneously at the station, where Guy and Bruno walk at the exact same pace toward an inevitable collision.
• The shoes: The film opens tracking two pairs of feet. Later, Guy accidentally kicks a passenger's shoe, mirroring how his and Bruno’s feet first bumped on the train.
• The tracks: A locomotive POV shows tracks intersecting and crossing. Later, the exact same camera angle is used for both Guy's and Bruno's separate arrivals in Metcalf.
• Apparel and shadows: On the train, Guy wears a crisscross tie while Bruno wears vertical stripes. Meanwhile, the window blinds cast a crossed shadow pattern over Bruno's face.
• The lighter: Guy carries a silver lighter embossed with crossed tennis racquets. Bruno lights Guy’s cigarette early on; later, Guy replicates the gesture for a passenger.
• Drinks and gifts: Bruno orders a double Scotch, explicitly asking for "a pair, doubles." Both men carry gifts from women: Guy’s lighter from Anne, and Bruno’s tie pin from his mother.
• Hitchcock's cameo: As Guy exits the train in Metcalf, Alfred Hitchcock makes his signature cameo appearance struggling aboard with a double bass.
• The daughters and fathers: Anne’s sister Barbara (played by Hitch's daughter) creates a "double Hitchcock" presence. Both sisters have an influential, older father, mirroring Bruno's wealthy, elderly father.
• The music store: When Miriam double-crosses Guy, the scene visually features two female clerks, two overhead light fixtures, and two listening booths – one with a young couple, one with an older couple.
• The stranglehold: In a phone booth, Guy rages that he wants to "strangle" Miriam. His face cross-dissolves into a close-up of Bruno's hands flexing, acting out the subconscious wish.
• Agents of chaos: Both Miriam and Bruno are childlike, hedonistic forces who disrupt Guy's life and threaten to embarrass him by causing public scenes.
• Fairground duplicates: At the carnival, Miriam is flanked by two boyfriends. The background mirrors this duplication with two old men at the carousel and two little boys near the grounds.
• The spectacle double: Barbara wears thick glasses, making her Miriam's visual double. At a party with two women discussing "perfect crimes," the flame on Guy's lighter reflects in Barbara's glasses, triggering Bruno to nearly strangle a guest.
• Metcalf repetitions: In Metcalf, Guy encounters a familiar policeman twice. Later, Bruno steps into a public phone booth, directly mirroring Guy’s earlier phone booth scene.
• The double fault: While Guy frantically plays a tennis match, Bruno struggles to fish the lighter out of a storm drain. During the game, the umpire calls a "double fault."
• The detectives: The investigation is highlighted by two sets of detectives tracking the men, closing the law's trap from both sides of the crisscross.

When speaking about Strangers on a Train to François Truffaut, Hitchcock remarked: “Isn’t it a fascinating design? One could study it forever.” I certainly continue to do so, and I firmly believe this remains a major part of the film’s appeal to the new generations that discover it.

It’s little wonder, then, why this work places higher than you’d expect on major industry lists, clocking in at #32 on AFI's 100 Years...100 Thrills (celebrating America's most heart-pounding movies) and No. 75 on Time Out’s 2022 countdown of "The 100 best thriller films of all time." Review aggregators mirror this praise: Strangers on a Train maintains an 88 out of 100 score on Metacritic, while earning a 98% fresh score and an 8.9 out of 10 critical average on Rotten Tomatoes. And in 2021, the Library of Congress inducted the movie into the United States National Film Registry for preservation.

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