It's a strange world. And David Lynch proves it

Before he started swimming almost exclusively in the deep end, David Lynch actually made some (relatively) mainstream, comprehensible content in the early to mid-1980s. Case in point: Blue Velvet (1986), a neo-noir thriller in which college student Jeffrey Beaumont (Kyle MacLachlan) uncovers disquieting secrets in his idyllic hometown. Teaming up with high school student Sandy Williams (Laura Dern), Jeffrey's investigation leads him to Dorothy Vallens (Isabella Rossellini), a traumatized lounge singer trapped in a sadistic cycle of abuse by Frank Booth (Dennis Hopper), a psychotic crime boss (with an unnerving penchant for inhaling amyl nitrite) holding her family hostage. As Jeffrey descends deeper into this surreal world and is exposed to terrifying violence lurking beneath suburban tranquility, he taps into a darker side of human nature.

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

Forty years later, Blue Velvet hasn’t lost any of its potency as an exposé of America’s dark underbelly. The film espouses that even the most wholesome and healthy-appearing environment can conceal festering evil and decay if you look closer beneath the surface. The famous opening – one of the most visually arresting in film history – begins with the nostalgic titular ballad, which harkens back to the “golden age” 1950s when it was written, along with comforting iconography associated with small-town USA: red roses against a white picket fence and a deep blue sky (the three hues of the American flag), yellow tulips, a crossing guard shepherding young children to school, and a happy homeowner hand-watering his lawn while his TV-watching wife sips coffee on the couch. But suddenly the man falls to the ground sick; a dog barks erratically as it gulps up wayward water gushing from the hose, and we are brought to ground level as the camera creeps through the lush lawn, bringing us face to face with undulating waves of crawling black beetles.

Not long afterward, Jeffrey discovers an ant-infested severed ear, obscured amid the grass in a field, and the camera pulls us into the ear canal, taking us visually and symbolically deeper into the unfolding mystery. Indeed, not all is as it appears in Lumberton, a place the sweet, virginal girl next door calls home but which also contains hidden-in-plain-sight abominations like Booth and his band of toxic miscreants.

This remains one of Lynch’s very best films, representing a worthy comeback after the failure of his Dune adaptation in 1984 and the movie that established his pre-Twin Peaks reputation as a visionary filmmaker known for dabbling in dark subject matter and infusing his works with surreal imagery, unsettling dream logic, and bizarre characters. Here, we can easily identify a more mature, confident, and skillful director who benefits from a fine script and a dependence on the plot, excellent casting of Hopper and three relative unknowns at the time in MacLachlan, Rossellini, and Dern, vividly dark, rich and chromatically vibrant cinematography courtesy of Frederick Elmes, and a standout score by Angelo Badalamenti, who regularly partnered with Lynch from this collaboration onward.

Part of Blue Velvet’s greatness lies in its boldness: its ability, especially back in 1986, to challenge audiences with more disturbing themes, graphic violence, and evil characters, much in the same way Psycho did in 1960 and A Clockwork Orange accomplished in 1971. This was an extremely controversial motion picture for viewers and critics alike four decades ago. But by pushing the envelope, Lynch and his team helped open the door to exploring more intense subject matter, particularly sexual violence, in a way that advanced the conversation and forced audiences to recognize the black yin opposite the white yang in characters both likeable (Jeffrey) and despicable (Booth).

Deep Focus Review essayist Brian Eggert believes that “No other Lynch film affects or transports more than Blue Velvet…the viewer never feels completely astray inside some horrible subconscious delusion, nor does the viewer feel immersed in over-the-top comic irony…the film also resists being as literal as his true stories. Even still, Lynch’s film doesn’t stop to ask why or assign psychoanalytical meaning…his style of filmmaking is unfiltered subconscious.” Eggert calls it a work that balances “between dreamworlds—the American Dream and an American nightmare—enough to create a false feeling of equalization, if not normalcy by the conclusion…To watch Blue Velvet is not to see only the dreadful, ugly parts of America; it’s about seeing the world itself from a unique angle, which is to say, from the surreal perspective of David Lynch.”

Blue Velvet boasts an array of exceptional Lynchian visuals that long imprint on the mind. Especially impressive are the nighttime outdoor shots, especially down the dark, deserted neighborhood streets of Lumberton as the camera lingers on things like the ominous tree branches overhead, inky blacks from which characters emerge (such as Sandy’s sudden appearance from out of the shadows), and the ominous apartment building where Dorothy resides. Lynch’s lighting, compositions, and milieu details perfectly capture the look and feel of a tranquil small town.

Four particular motifs used effectively include swishing curtains; flickering candles that get snuffed out; extreme slow-motion shots (Jeffrey hitting Dorothy, the dog gulping up the hose water) punctuated with animalistic noises that are artificially slowed down to make them sound more aggressive; and insect imagery and associations (the beetles and ants, Jeffrey’s exterminator ruse, the double-dealing detective in the “yellow jacket,” and Booth’s gas mask that perhaps makes us think of a pest control safety apparatus).

One unforgettable shot often cited is Booth standing in Ben’s doorway, threatening aloud to “fuck anything that moves” as he laughs maniacally and – poof – instantly vanishes from that very spot as we hear the squeal of his tires. This image and sound here convey all the menace, capriciousness, and imminent danger that the man signifies.

Lynch masterfully uses misdirection in the scene where, behind the wheel, Jeffrey thinks he’s being chased by Booth’s black car, but it turns out to be Sandy’s angry boyfriend. What’s emotionally fascinating is that, when the jealous steady emerges from his vehicle and, backed by his posse, threatens to harm Jeffrey, it feels like a relief compared to the Booth alternative.

Of course, this is a Lynch work so it’s going to include some outright weird optics and directorial oddities, such as the dead yellow man standing stonelike despite being shot in the brain; Booth’s zippered-up sexual assault; the unattended baby walking near Jeffrey’s prostrate father; Ben’s neon-lit den of grotesques; and the animatronic robin.

The director also opts for striking symmetry by bookending the film in two ways: Blue Velvet opens and closes with those eerie swaying blue curtains, and similarly to how we are visually sucked into the force field that is the ear canal from that detached appendage, near the ending we slow zoom out from that same auditory orifice.

Upon digging further, it’s satisfying to learn how Lynch stayed authentic to his memories, emotions, and gut instincts in shaping the story and tone of Blue Velvet. This was a filmmaker famous for drawing creative inspiration from dreams, premonitions, pieces of music, past experiences, and the transcendental meditation he regularly practiced. We learn that he was first motivated by an intuitive feeling, by an unprovoked image of a severed ear lying in a field conjured out of nowhere in his imagination, by the raw vibe he felt when listening to Bobby Vinton’s chart-topping 1963 cover of the song Blue Velvet, and by a distressing childhood memory of a nude female walking down the street at night.

Blue Velvet is distinctive in the Lynch canon. His filmography begins with Eraserhead (1977), a more unhinged and experimental black-and-white midnight movie cult film with horror undertones, then segues to a more traditional narrative with The Elephant Man (1980), which was widely hailed for its performances and direction. Lynch was hamstrung by a limited budget and studio interference with his third outing, an adaptation of the science-fiction literary classic Dune (1984).

While he infused his unique brand of surreal cinema in Eraserhead, a work that defies conventional logic and traditional filmic storytelling conventions with unsettling visuals and a distinctive sound design, he returns to some of these eclectic approaches in Blue Velvet; yet, unlike that first foray, this movie has a coherent plot and a narrative throughline that satisfies mainstream audiences. Along with The Straight Story (1999) and The Elephant Man—both based on true stories—Blue Velvet is the most coherent and accessible of Lynch’s works to wider audiences. He more widely diverged from the straight and narrow just a few years later with his polarizing Wild at Heart (1989), Twin Peaks TV show (1990-1991), and spinoff film Fire Walk with Me (1992), followed by a trio of increasingly outlandish, dreamlike, and noirish mystery thrillers: Lost Highway (1997), Mulholland Drive (2001), Inland Empire (2006), and Twin Peaks: The Return (season 3; 2017). It’s these qualities and collective works that have earned the artist his own adjective in the dictionary: Lynchian.

According to Slant Magazine reviewer Chuck Bowen, “Blue Velvet’s mix of pop cultural fetishizing and extreme, occasionally ironic brutality, its swirling together of banality, kink, and tragedy, would prove to be monumentally inspirational. Quentin Tarantino’s films, namely Reservoir Dogs (1992) and Pulp Fiction (1994), would be unimaginable without Blue Velvet.”

You could also draw a throughline to later films like Safe (1995), which channels the same blend of suburban alienation and psychological dread; Happiness (1998), which exposes the dark, taboo desires festering underneath the squeaky-clean surface of middle-class suburbia; and Blue Ruin (2013), which follows an unassuming protagonist stumbling out of his depth into a gritty criminal underworld.

Precursors that presumably influenced Lynch in the creation of this film include the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew mystery books; numerous film noir pictures from the 1940s and 1950s, especially Kiss of Death (1947), also featuring a psychopathic and unpredictable killer; Sudden Fear (1952), which has a protagonist who similarly uncovers a monstrous truth from a hidden vantage point; and works by Hitchcock, particularly Shadow of a Doubt (1943), another film that reveals the darkness lurking beneath the surface in small town America, Rear Window (1954), and Psycho (1960), the latter two steeped in like-minded voyeuristic themes and mysteries that pull the lead characters into danger. Turner Classic Movies’ Richard Harland Smith also makes a compelling case that the mechanical robin used in Mary Poppins (1964) likely inspired Lynch to use a similar artificial bird in Blue Velvet.

This is the picture that gave us one of cinema’s very best movie villains in Booth, played so convincingly by Hopper in a role that represented his critical and popular comeback after years of lesser films and being sidelined with addiction problems. (Blue Velvet, in fact, helped rejuvenate Hopper’s and Lynch’s careers, and also served as a big-screen launching pad for Rossellini.) Casting Hopper was a coup, as this actor and several of his earlier roles were long associated with controversy, instability, and impulsiveness. He’s a thespian with piercingly wicked eyes and an upsetting countenance when playing angry.

Booth’s strongest attribute as a terrifying antagonist – which also demonstrates the actor’s supreme command of this character – is his unpredictability. He appears when you least expect him to. He employs clever disguises when necessary. After Jeffrey punches him in the face, Frank surprisingly doesn’t torture or kill him. This is a man who will cry tenderly when hearing a beautifully sung song, but will also murder, rape, kidnap, and mutilate the innocent. What’s also fascinating is, at the same time, how predictably Booth will spew F-bombs and childish-sounding profanities and escalate his verbal volatility.

On multiple levels, Booth’s rape of Dorothy is a downright scarring sequence for watchers—and I say watchers because, like Jeffrey, we are complicit in the act of voyeuristically watching this horrific act. We see Frank punch, slap, and physically dominate her, threaten her with scissors, engage in orally fetishistic behavior by stuffing their mouths with a blue velvet sash, use a gas mask to deeply inhale a mind-altering vapor, verbally berate her with shouted obscenities, and—strangely—dry hump her supine form in a penetration-less assault that only lasts a few seconds. We also observe Dorothy acquiesce without much struggle and, at points, bear an expression of seeming enjoyment. And we witness Jeffrey do nothing to stop Frank and aid this helpless woman.

There’s also the stomach-turning scene where Jeffrey discovers Dorothy wandering naked in the street in a fugue state, displaying cuts, scrapes, and bruises. This may have been the last straw for late critic Roger Ebert, who, in his one-star review of the film, remarked: “Rossellini is asked to do things in this film that require real nerve. In one scene, she’s publicly embarrassed by being dumped naked on the lawn of the police detective. In others, she is asked to portray emotions that I imagine most actresses would rather not touch. She is degraded, slapped around, humiliated and undressed in front of the camera.”

While the picture ends with Dorothy reunited in a happy embrace with her son, we are inevitably, devastatingly reminded how much she has suffered to get to this point and will continue to suffer: Her husband is dead, her dignity and agency had been stripped away, and she bears deep psychological scars from the experience. She will never be the same again.

Essentially, Blue Velvet is most concerned with the mystery that is Jeffrey: his inherent sexual duality and oscillation between altruistic amateur detective and unwitting Booth understudy. “I’m seeing something that was hidden – I’m involved in a mystery,” Jeffrey admits.

“It’s about a young man’s learning through flabbergasting and violent experience to appreciate a relatively safe and manageable sex life…This is possibly the only coming-of-age movie in which sex has the danger and the heightened excitement of a horror picture… There’s no sticky-sweet lost innocence, because the darkness was always there, inside,” wrote Pauline Kael, who added that the film puts us in an “erotic trance.”

We continually observe an empathetic, kindhearted young man who’s falling fast for Sandy and everything she represents. But we also observe how Jeffrey's swelling sexual curiosity draws him into the exotically appealing vortex of Dorothy and down the Frank rabbit hole of depravity. This isn’t a simple Riverdale Betty vs. Veronica paradigm; Jeffrey’s suffering from a classic madonna-whore syndrome where he can’t resist Dorothy’s dangerous allure and the sadomasochism associated with her, yet he’s also drawn to the downhome innocence and family-friendly simplicity of Sandy. Tellingly, we hear her say, “I don’t know if you’re a detective or a pervert,” to which Jeffrey replies, “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

Later, we see how conflicted Jeffrey is after indulging in her S&M demands, now clearly distinguishing between the selfish titillation and the real-life abuse. By the third act, Jeffrey has apparently abandoned his dark fantasies forthwith and refocused his desires in a healthier direction by pursuing Sandy, a much safer and more fulfilling partner. Still, we can’t escape the uncomfortable truth that the young man earlier discovered within himself: Human nature harbors a hidden darkness.

Ponder, as well, the Freudian conflict woven into this perturbing tale. Laura Mulvey, a feminist film scholar, posited that there’s an Oedipal family in this movie, represented by two parents (Dorothy and Frank) and a child (Jeffrey). In this psychoanalytic dynamic, Jeffrey desires to kill his symbolic father and sexually possess his mother. Per film critic Michael Atkinson, “Dorothy represents the sexual force of the mother because she is forbidden and because she becomes the object of the unhealthy, infantile impulses at work in Jeffrey’s subconscious.” And Debopriyaa Dutta of Slash Film wrote: “Although Jeffrey is both repulsed and fascinated by Frank’s existence, he must eliminate Frank’s unchecked id (instinct) to return to his fantastical world of white picket fences and blissful ignorance. Once the Freudian id is destroyed, the false normalcy of Jeffrey’s ego (logic) takes over my bringing the adventure to an end.”

Dichotomy and duplicity pack a powerful one-two punch in Blue Velvet. We see two sides to many characters here — the caring vs. the libidinously deviant Jeffrey; the docile, tormented victim vs. the trauma-triggered masochistic Dorothy; Frank the sociopath vs. Frank the mustachioed, wig-wearing avatar of chaos; and the detective in yellow who moonlights as Frank’s accomplice.

In a movie already packed to the gills with stirring ideas, perhaps the most consequential takeaway is the fallacy of normalcy. The quiet, peaceful town of Lumberton, like so many other outwardly ordinary ’burbs and burgs, exudes a sheen of normality, harmony, safety, virtuousness, and domestic tranquility. But crime, sin, and chaos exist behind the locked doors and around the outskirts. And even when the evils are flushed out into the open and presumably vanquished, there are other threats buried beneath the surface, waiting to emerge.

For proof of this pessimism, consider the dénouement. Jeffrey is awakened from a dream – in which he has exited safely from the inner canal of that detached ear – by a robin singing energetically, which reminds us of Sandy’s earlier dream. Recall her description of that slumbering vision, in which the world was dark because there weren’t any robins: winged creatures that represented pure love. She warns of trouble until these birds appeared. Sandy, Jeffrey, and his mother and aunt stare fascinated at a curiously phony-looking robin that appears on the windowsill; look closely and you see that their feathered friend has in its beak one of those repellent black beetles we noticed in the opening scene. The aunt expresses revulsion over the bird eating the bug, but Jeffrey and Sandy seem to gloss over this fact, intentionally oblivious to the violent nature of this conquest and opting instead to believe that love and light have triumphed over darkness.

If this conclusion is intended to bring happy closure, it’s unpersuasive. No, the implication here is clear: Evil may be out of sight, yet it’s ever-present, and even when it’s rooted out, it’s only a temporary victory that can bring a false sense of security. That tidy carpet of well-manicured emerald orderliness is actually just a thin barrier separating us from the countless miles of ugly decomposing matter underneath, fooling many of us into thinking that this world is a safe, civilized, and beautiful place. “It’s a strange world,” we hear Sandy and Jeffrey say multiple times, one that can be both lovely and loathsome.

While Jeffrey ultimately makes the safe and sensible choice in Sandy – apple pie over dark chocolate – there’s the potential danger of complacency here. Optimistic Americans like the ultra-sincere Sandy may continue to convince the Jeffries of the world that the robins are present and plentiful, which could blind them both (accidentally or willfully) to future infestations of hidden insects, or whatever new form these bugs take.

Blue Velvet earned Best Film and Best Director honors from the National Society of Film Critics in 1986 as well as a second Oscar nomination for Best Director for Lynch. The film has garnered widespread critical acclaim in the years since, taking fourth place in an Entertainment Weekly list of 100 new film classics from 1983 to 2008, and slotting #37 in that magazine’s 1999 all-time top 100 survey. The American Film Institute ranked it 96th on its 100 Years... 100 Thrills list (2001), placing Frank Booth 36th on its greatest villains list (2003), and naming it the eighth-best mystery film in its "Ten Top Ten" poll (2008). It subsequently placed fifth in a December 2002 Sight & Sound UK critics' poll of the 10 best films of the last 25 years, clocked in at #95 in Variety's 2007 online community poll, and received a #54 ranking for Frank Booth on Premiere magazine's list of the greatest movie characters. It came in at #69 in the 2012 Sight & Sound greatest films list, and #60 in BBC Culture's 2015 ranking of the greatest American films; in the 2022 Sight & Sound poll it earned #85 in the critics' poll and #72 in the directors' poll. Today, Blue Velvet commands a 91% fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes, with an average critical score of 8.4 out of 10.

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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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