Why Chinatown remains a masterpiece 50 years later

“Forget it Jake—it’s Chinatown,” we famously hear an associate of private eye Jake Gittes say to his boss. But while Gittes may be able to put it behind him, Chinatown can’t be so easily forgotten by its audience—even five decades years later.

Set in 1937 Los Angeles, Chinatown explores themes of corruption, power, and moral ambiguity. The story follows Gittes, played by Jack Nicholson, who is hired by a woman claiming to be Evelyn Mulwray to investigate her husband, Hollis Mulwray, the chief engineer for the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power, whom she suspects of infidelity. As Gittes delves deeper, he uncovers a complex web of deceit, corruption, and murder related to the city's water supply. The real Evelyn Mulwray, played by Faye Dunaway, reveals herself, and Gittes becomes entangled in a larger conspiracy involving land and water rights in Los Angeles, leading to a tragic and shocking conclusion.

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of Chinatown, conducted last week, click here. To hear the June episode of the Cineversary podcast, which celebrates Chinatown’s 50th anniversary, click here.

That was then, this is noir

After watching Roman Polanski’s brooding psychological mystery, originally released 50 years ago this month, one cannot overlook the overt resemblance it bears in both style and structure to classic film noir—a term invented by French critics to classify a particular genre of post-war American cinema. Noir represents a pessimistic, highly stylized brand of films that incorporate themes such as inescapable fates and femme fatales, and employs shadowy compositions and urbanized settings to frame its often bleak narratives. It personified the hard-boiled detective story, the murder mystery, the psychological crime drama, and the thriller. The era began, arguably, in 1941 with The Maltese Falcon and continued with a plethora of similar fare, including Double Indemnity, To Have and Have Not, Out of the Past, and The Big Heat, and supposedly reached its golden age denouement in 1958 with Orson Welles’ Touch of Evil.

Over a decade passed before Hollywood seemed to return to the thematic and formalistic characteristics quintessential of the discarded noir tradition, at least evident in a few prominent films. “Neo-noir” pictures like Klute, Dirty Harry, (both 1971), and The Godfather (1972) brought back the look and feel of old-school noir. Neo-noir movies like these adopt the themes, archetypes, and visual template of classic noir but often occur in modern settings and employ contemporary situations and/or sensibilities as well as present more graphic and adult content.

Among all the neo-noirs released over the past 60-plus years, Chinatown may be the greatest. It certainly mimics, for the most part, the look, vibe, and attitude of classic noir in its set design, costumes, cars, urban environment, duplicitous characters, and crime. However, this film deviates in that it’s shot in color and often in the bright light of day, there are no canted angles or expressionistic visual traits, a shadowy black chiaroscuro lighting scheme isn’t predominant, and Evelyn Mulwray isn’t an archetypal spider woman—she leads men into danger and is deceitful, but she doesn’t have evil intentions.

“Chinatown was seen as a neo-noir when it was released -- an update on an old genre. Now years have passed and film history blurs a little, and it seems to settle easily beside the original noirs. That is a compliment,” wrote Roger Ebert.

Brian Eggert of Deep Focus Review seemed to agree: “While not retro cinema or an imitation of classic film noir through black-and-white photography, the picture occupies the thirties setting without irony in a thorough rebuilding of the era’s décor and costumes. That the film does not attempt to imitate classic film noir is a testament to it occupying that very condition. Polanski does not overemphasize his mise-en-scène until it becomes impossible to ignore. Yet, we see the setting through modern eyes—which is to say, we see the film through the definitions of seventies cinema that is certainly broader than that of the forties in terms of censorship, allowing for a more salacious story to be told. Chinatown is a film neither wholly representing the thirties, forties, or the seventies; today, it feels timeless. And in its singularity, it assumes the identity of true film noir.”

Interestingly, Chinatown gives us a privileged look inside the repertoire of the archetypal noir detective, with many “inside baseball” details and techniques. Recall how Gittes cannily uses broken pocket watches to time those he tails, passes himself off as an important official by using that person’s business card, breaks the tail light on Evelyn’s car to shadow her more easily, coughs loudly to conceal a page pilfering from the hall of public records, and pulls a man’s jacket over his head to incapacitate the antagonist during a dustup.

Gushing praise on its golden anniversary

Ponder the picture’s joint virtues of timeliness and timelessness: Chinatown was a fascinating product of its period, yet it remains ageless and relevant because, despite its retro framing, it continues to be relevant over the last half century thanks to the pervasive pessimism that has characterized American society since the early 1970s.

Reflect for a moment on the sociopolitical context of that period. In 1974, Americans were more suspicious of authority, distrustful of government, and gripped by gloom in the wake of Watergate (the cover-up was exposed just before this film’s release), the lingering Vietnam War, the Warren Commission findings, gasoline shortages and the energy crisis, and the assassinations of major leaders in the late 1960s. There was a pervading, brooding sense of paranoia and cynicism in the culture, and conspiracy theories were becoming more popular to explain political mysteries. Many Americans felt helpless to affect change and blinded to what might really be going on. This vibe helped fuel the popularity of several dark, brooding, cynical thrillers that examined themes of paranoia, corruption, and disillusionment in the 1970s. Examples include Executive Action (1973); Day of the Dolphin (1973); The Parallax View (1974); The Conversation (1974); Three Days of the Condor (1975); All the President’s Men (1976); Capricorn One (1977); and Winter Kills (1979).

In the middle of this run came Chinatown, a film that seemed to eerily capture the mood and spirit of mid-1970s America. It was, as critics affirm, the product of an ingenious blend of social commentary in the screenplay by Robert Towne, a visual tour de force in technique and visual storytelling by director Polanski, and a showcase of masterful performances by Jack Nicholson, Faye Dunaway, Walter Huston and the rest of the cast.

Additionally, It marked the apex of the New Hollywood movement that began, debatably, with Bonnie and Clyde in 1967 and ended in the early 1980s. According to some film scholars, Chinatown represented the peak period of this movement before the release of Jaws the following year and the dawn of the blockbuster. New Hollywood movement films often explored the grim and dark aspects of human nature and societal constructs, and their themes commonly examined sociocultural dilemmas, often questioning the pursuit of the American Dream as a futile endeavor.

Chinatown was also graced with a talented crew that perfectly complemented the ambitions of such an intelligent film. Cinematographer John Alonzo blended sun-drenched yellows and browns with rich shadings in his deep-space Panavision framing. With the stylized production design and impeccable costuming of the period by Richard Sylbert, and the haunting horn and piano score by Jerry Goldsmith, the look and vibe of 1937 Los Angeles was flawlessly depicted.

The movie was nominated for 11 Academy Awards, with Towne winning for Best Original Screenplay. The American Film Institute ranks Chinatown #19 and then #21 on its 1998 and 2007 lists, respectively, of the top 100 American films ever made; it earns second place on the AFI’s top 10 mystery movies list; and Noah Cross was named the AFI’s 16th best villain of all time.

Today, Chinatown tallies an impressive 98% fresh score on Rotten Tomatoes, where its average critical score is 9.2 out of 10 and its audience score is 93%. At Metacritic.com, it boasts a Metascore of 92 out of 100.

Chinatown inspired several films in its wake. It established that neo-noir was critically and commercially viable as a subgenre, perhaps encouraging subsequent filmmakers to create, like Chinatown, retro noirish works set decades earlier such as Farewell My Lovely (1975) and The Big Sleep (1978, both starring Robert Mitchum), Angel Heart (1987), Miller’s Crossing (1990), Devil in a Blue Dress (1995), and LA Confidential (1997). It also enjoyed a sequel, The Two Jakes (1990), directed by Nicholson himself. Two animated comedies tip their cap to Chinatown: Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988) and Rango (2011). Brick (2005) draws inspiration from Polanski’s film. Three Hindi films released in India pay homage: Six Feet Under (2007), Sonchiriya (2019), and Raat Akeli Hai (2020). Director Matt Reeves cited Chinatown as an influence when making The Batman (2022). A Chinatown prequel has been in development with Netflix over the last five years, with Towne attached as screenwriter and David Fincher as director. And there were reports that Ben Affleck was going to direct an adaptation of the book The Big Goodbye, about the making of Chinatown, which sounds similar to the approach for The Offer (2022) about the making of The Godfather.

Exemplary direction

To accentuate the voyeuristic perspective of both Gittes and the viewer (seeing through his eyes), Polanski consistently uses subjective camera shots, commonly shooting over Nicholson’s shoulder, especially during driving scenes, or framing Nicholson in profile off to one side of the screen. This does more than merely present a subjective viewpoint. It also suggests Gittes’ impotence—his being ‘boxed in’ a corner in the face of evil or greater numbers—and hints at malevolent forces lurking in the corners, just beyond our field of vision. In this sense, a deep psychological framing is achieved, and a sense of apprehension is evoked with a more menacing off-screen space.

The director shrewdly employs foreshadowing techniques to hint at what’s to come, if you pay close attention. Examples include numerous mentions and imagery of water; Hollis Mulwray, then Gittes, losing a left shoe; sudden car honks that long precede the blaring car horn caused by Evelyn’s dead body at the conclusion; the revealed flaw in Evelyn’s iris, the same eye that is later blown away by a bullet; the object Gittes tries to fish out of the saltwater pond earlier, eventually revealed to be Noah’s bifocals; the car’s steaming radiator outside the window of the barbershop, which the steam emanating from Gittes’ car during the Orange Grove sequence recalls; and the missing left lens of Jake’s sunglasses after getting manhandled by the farmers, similar to the cracked left lens of Noah’s bifocals.

It was Polanski’s nihilistic vision that guided the film fluently along the pessimistic path of noir. Consider his tragic past: the murder of his Polish family members in Nazi Germany decades earlier and the killing of his wife Sharon Tate by the Manson family only five years prior. Perhaps these experiences motivated him, even subconsciously, to imbue the film with a consistently dark tone and prompted him to change the original, more upbeat ending of Towne’s script (in which Evelyn lives and Kathryn escapes to Mexico).

Possibly Polanski’s finest moment is the concluding scene, where all the disparate characters and conflicting forces converge in L.A.’s Chinatown neighborhood. The director fashions this sequence as a subjective experience for the audience, keeping the camera at eye level and maintaining Gittes’ POV as if we are present with him among the bystanders on the street.

Jack’s peak period

Nicholson embodies a multifaceted personality who veers from predictable personalization; unlike Bogart’s Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe, he isn’t two steps ahead of every other character as a master chess-playing gumshoe. The actor expertly plays Gittes as cocky and confident, but his Achilles’ heel is that he refuses to be deceived or outwitted, and he doesn’t realize until it’s too late that he’s in over his fedora. This is a self-assured man who doesn’t suffer fools lightly and enjoys the art of the humorous but corrosive insult, which often results in violent repercussions for him. Nicholson’s shamus can be refined, patient, suave, and sensitive but at other times vulgar, irascible, and vicious, the latter evidenced when he cruelly slaps the truth out of Evelyn. Nicholson deftly balances between these polarities and evinces the portrait of a complex individual—one with a shadowy past only hinted at in this story.

It’s significant that Nicholson is in every scene of the film, which is fitting because Gittes is the true surrogate for the audience; we only learn as much information as he does when he learns it. It’s also astounding that the actor – and the character – spends over one-third of the film either wearing an ostentatious facial bandage or sporting an ugly nose scab. Fortunately for us, Nicholson was no prima donna who refused to look unglamorous.

Roger Ebert wrote: “He can be raw, he can tell dirty jokes, he can accuse people of base motives, but all the time there’s a certain detached underlevel that makes his character sympathetic… Gittes becomes a man who just wants to get to the bottom of things. He’s tired of people’s lies…He doesn’t like being jerked around.”

This was Jack at the peak of his powers, during his incredible run of stellar performances that started with Easy Rider and continued through Five Easy Pieces, Carnal Knowledge, The Last Detail, and his Oscar-winning turn in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, all from the late 1960s through 1970s, when he earned five Academy Award nominations in six years.

Masterful storytelling

The original story by Towne could be the best screenplay ever written. The Writers Guild of America ranks it #3 behind only Casablanca and The Godfather. This is a tale that requires more than one viewing to not only fully grasp the intricate plot but also to appreciate how brilliantly the story unfolds and how craftily each scene builds upon what came before. Rewarding small details and foreshadowing easter eggs can be found by those who pay close attention. It’s one of the most intelligent and unpredictable cinematic yarns ever spun, and it represents a lost breed of slow-burn, downbeat, fatalistic, and intricately clever narratives that Hollywood stopped making a long time ago. It was “the last of the great complicated storylines that movies dared,” according to film scholar David Thomson.

Critics regard this story as Towne’s definitive statement, his brilliant apocalyptic vision of a counter-myth to modern capitalist society, with Noah Cross seen as a destructive variation on the narrative of America’s founding fathers. Per film critic Glenn Erickson: “Following in the footsteps of classic noirs that yearned for lost hopes and ideals, Chinatown constructs a noir metaphor for the Garden of Eden. In this case, the Garden has been overrun by the Devil.”

The screenplay is composed in the same formulaic private-eye style of author Raymond Chandler, with Gittes constructed as a contemporary Phillip Marlowe. Towne, however, kept the cynicism of the detective genre intact and further enhanced it with a layered, intricate social critique and a smooth plot pacing that offered one startling revelation after another with clean, perfect precision.

Salon critic Andrew O’Hehir wrote: “The greatness of Chinatown…lies not in its cynical view of the California dream (that’s too easy) but in its fatalistic, even tragic conception of America and indeed of human nature.”

“The exhaustive, labyrinthine narrative is built up like a fortress around this film’s bitter heart. If we place ourselves in his shoes, as a kind of moral crusader, what we end up facing is the emptiness of an all-or-nothing fuck you. It’s the kind of ending Hollywood was able to do at one time without fear, where they could upset the moral compass of the hero in order for the audience to think about their own,” opined Jeremiah Kipp of Slant Magazine.

The dialogue, particularly the caustic remarks and memorable lines by Gittes and Cross, is especially savory. Chinatown is richly abundant with eminently repeatable quotes, including:

“All right, Curly. Enough's enough. You can't eat the Venetian blinds. I just had them installed on Wednesday.”

“Are you alone?” followed by “Isn't everybody?”

“Politicians, ugly buildings, and whores all get respectable if they last long enough.”

“Mrs. Mulwray, I goddamn near lost my nose. And I like it. I like breathing through it. And I still think you're hiding something.”

“You see, Mr. Gittes, most people never have to face the fact that at the right time and the right place, they're capable of anything.”

“As little as possible.”

And, of course: “Forget it Jake, it’s Chinatown.”

Deeper meanings behind the mystery

Crafted with numerous themes and subtexts, Chinatown is an intellectually rewarding piece of cinema. The inescapability of guilt, shame, and past trauma is one key message. Jake, Evelyn, Hollis, Ida, Katherine, and Escobar have skeletons in their closets or dark secrets that come back to haunt them. Chinatown itself exemplifies Jake’s guilt; recall that years ago he had been told by a colleague to do “as little as possible” there, after managing to get an unnamed woman “hurt.” Chinatown represents a place but also a state of mind where the individual is helpless against powerful and unpredictable forces, evil propagates, and inexorable fate awaits.

Chinatown also explores the futility of good intentions and the common man’s ability to thwart evil. The financial power and influence of Cross and his cronies prevent Jake and the police from producing any change or protecting the innocent. Mulwray’s dam causes deaths, the police end up killing Evelyn, and her illegitimate daughter ultimately falls under the clutches of her vile father/grandfather.

Jake proves to be wholly ineffectual and inadvertently responsible for the death of Evelyn, Cross gains custody of Katherine, and Cross presumably succeeds in his plan to control the city’s water and profit from exploiting the farmers’ land. His poor instincts, lack of foresight, and inability to learn from his past failure as a cop in Chinatown result in an even worse tragedy. These examples underscore themes of ignorance and illusion. Consider, too, how Jake misidentifies many clues, such as not recognizing Detective Loach as the person who instructs him to visit Ida Sessions’ house, which sets into motion a series of dominoes leading to Evelyn’s demise. He constructs explanations based on unreliable, limited information and worsens the situation when he trusts his distorted reality. In trying to help Evelyn, he leads her father directly to her.

Additionally, Chinatown is a study on the repercussions of voyeurism and invasion of privacy. The film opens with a client looking at photographs of his wife in bed with another man taken by Gittes. He snaps photos of Hollis Mulwray with another woman together, which inadvertently get published and create a scandal. His telephoto lens and binoculars are used in other scenes, to spy on Evelyn or Hollis from afar. But Gittes’ covert spectatorship and curiosity have violent consequences. His nosiness results in a scar on his olfactory organ, a brutal thrashing from a pack of farmers, a philandering wife receiving a black eye, and a lover losing an eye and her life.

Duality and ironic opposites are in Polanski’s crosshairs, as well. Gittes prides himself on being a savvy private eye, yet he is blind to the truth. Evelyn is both a sister and a daughter to Kathryn. Escobar has a cold in the summertime. Water is abundant, yet there is a drought. Cross’s justification for his manipulation of the water supply is that he’s thinking about “the future”, which he won’t live to enjoy anyway. Saltwater is a life essence for fish but deadly to vegetation and human beings. Cross’ water is both “bad for the grass” and “bad for the glass,” namely Gittes’ ability to see the truth.

Chinatown also explores the American dream usurped by corruption. Consider that Cross pilfers from these dreamers and steals their land and water. This potent patriarch can be seen as a destructive variation on the story of America’s founding fathers. The drought in Los Angeles is transformed into a spiritual thirst, with the malevolent Noah Cross seen as a biblical perversion of his first name. He’s drowned his son-in-law, but he’s also secretly planning to nourish the valley so that a new Eden will emerge.

Basking in the glow of 50 candles

On its golden birthday, Chinatown confers a priceless present to film fans: It proved 50 years ago that noir, even a noir narrative anchored in antiquity, never went out of style. It may not have been the first major instance of neo-noir, but I believe it remains the best example to date of this evolved subgenre or style, however you choose to define it. Chinatown is a fascinating artifact in that, notwithstanding its age, it looks and plays like a more recent movie, as can be said of several period-piece and neo-noir contemporaries from the 1970s like The Godfather and The Godfather Part II, Badlands, Taxi Driver, The Long Goodbye, The Conversation, and The Sting. That’s because it was crafted with intelligence and respect for an intuitive and sophisticated audience, imbued with modern sensibilities, and unafraid to challenge our expectations for a straightforward plot.

The foreboding and pessimism oozing from nearly every pore of Chinatown’s sweaty brow ingeniously upset the viewer’s equilibrium in ways that arguably no classic noir did quite so effectively in the 1940s and 50s. Arrestingly armed with the graphic violence, nudity, and profanity verboten from private eye pictures and cinematic thrillers of the classic period and not beholden to any production code that demanded comeuppance for criminals, this film is responsible for helping noir transition effectively to the modern age. That transition was surely eased with legendary names attached like Nicholson, Dunaway, Huston, Towne, Goldsmith, and, separating the art from the problematic artist, Polanski.

On the noir continuum, Chinatown remains after five decades a momentous pivot point bridging two eras, refusing to atrophy or soften around the edges, ever insisting that rot and decay are just a shallow dig away if you’re determined to look. Jake may want to forget it, but we certainly don’t.

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Cineversary podcast welcomes back TCM's Eddie Muller to celebrate 50th birthday of Chinatown

In Cineversary podcast episode #71, host Erik Martin is joined again by Eddie Muller, host of TCM’s Noir Alley and founder/president of the Film Noir Foundation, to mark the golden anniversary of Chinatown (1974), directed by Roman Polanski and starring Jack Nicholson. Together, they investigate what makes this movie tick like precision clockwork 50 years later, why it still matters, crucial themes, and more.

Eddie Muller

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, Spotify, Audible, Castbox, Google Podcasts, Pocket Casts, PodBean, RadioPublic, and Overcast.

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

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Silence speaks volumes about the power of belief

Despite its enigmatic title, Silence has a lot to say about the mystery of faith and the religious and cultural differences that shape the world. This 2016 historical drama, directed by Martin Scorsese and based on Shūsaku Endō's 1966 novel, stars, and. Set in the 17th century, it follows two Portuguese Jesuit priests—Sebastião Rodrigues (Andrew Garfield) and Francisco Garupe (Adam Driver) who travel to Japan to find their mentor, Father Cristóvão Ferreira (Liam Neeson), who is rumored to have renounced his faith under torture. There, they witness severe persecution of Japanese Christians by the Tokugawa shogunate. Scorsese, driven by his Catholic background and passion for the novel since the 1980s, faced delays before finally bringing the project to fruition in 2016. The film received critical acclaim for its direction, cinematography, performances, thematic depth, and historical authenticity.

Click here to access a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of Silence, conducted last week.

This is one of the most intellectually stimulating and spiritually intriguing films ever made, prompting us to perform a self-examination of our personal beliefs and to question who and what is right or wrong, evil or virtuous, wise or foolish in this narrative. The filmmakers literally use the motif of silence and voiceless quietude (with minimal music used) to underscore how God/Christ remains non-responsive. We often hear ambient sounds like the wind, crashing waves, or bird calls, which are used almost in mockery to these prayers. The sounds we don’t want to hear are the frequent wails and cries of pain of the tormented and imprisoned. We do briefly hear the voiced response of Christ, but it’s assumed that this is Rodrigues’ conscience speaking.

Curiously, the film doesn’t explain why Kichijiro betrays Rodrigues, commits apostasy, or continually asks forgiveness, forcing us to ponder his motivations and explore deeper themes woven into the film. Slant Magazine reviewer Jesse Cataldo wrote: “The mystery of Kichijiro’s true intentions is also key to the fact that the film never offers definitive answers or conclusions, rejecting the brutal actions of the story’s ostensible villains while carving out ample space for empathy and understanding, supplying even these persecutors with valid arguments worthy of abundant consideration.”

One could argue that Silence is, perhaps unsurprisingly considering Scorsese’s involvement, fairly balanced. We feel sympathy and empathy for these priests and the surreptitiously Christian villagers and the persecution and pain they endure, and religious viewers may also struggle with what they would do in their same situations: renounce their faith or endure a horrible death. But Silence shows both sides of the argument here via the words of the inquisitor, the interpreter, and Ferreira, the latter of whom survived by embracing Japanese spirituality and culture and abandoning his religion—although he was forced to do so to spare human lives. While it’s easy to view these Japanese authorities as villains, those who remember their history know that there were unconscionable acts of brutality and inhumanity practiced by Christian inquisitors in Spain and other parts of the world at this same time.

The last shot, of the dead priest cupping a crucifix secretly placed in his hands by his wife, is a fascinating final image, suggesting that Rodrigues—despite being compelled to commit blasphemy and adopt a traditional Japanese lifestyle—never truly lost his Christian faith.

Among the prominent themes explored in Silence is a personal crisis of faith, experienced in particular by three priests—Ferreira, Rodrigues, and Garupe. Their religious beliefs and personal convictions are severely tested by Japanese authorities, who wreak torture and death upon the exposed Christian peasants and the priests themselves. The film also cogitates deeply on disloyalty: Like Judas, Kichijiro betrays his friend and earlier turns his back on his family, watching them die.

Is there a God, and if so why is God silent? And what’s the whole point of religion? Here’s a picture unafraid to examine these impossible-to-answer questions. The film continually emphasizes that Christ and the God these characters place their faith in does not answer their prayers or deliver them from suffering or death. Critic Amy Nicholson posited: “Silence wrestles with questions that've butchered millions of believers and non-believers in the last two millennia: Is there a god, and if so, does he appreciate bloodshed? What's the point of hearing confessions in a language (Rodrigues) doesn't understand? What's the point of disappointing a desperate mother by explaining that, technically, her baptized baby won't be in paradise — or paradaisu — until it dies? What's the point of his parishioners getting themselves killed by refusing to step on an icon of Jesus, the Inquisitor's dreaded Trample Test?”

Blasphemy versus humanism, or the value of rigid, dogmatic religious fidelity versus flexible faith is front and center, too. Are these priests damned for having denounced their Christian deity, or would Jesus have condoned or mirrored their choice to end the suffering and killing of innocent peasants?

Silence further teaches us that deep-seated personal beliefs can be incredibly steadfast and intransigent. "Mountains and rivers can be moved but men's nature cannot be moved,” as Ferreira states. We also learn that the benefits of belief are not necessarily universal. Rodrigues tells the inquisitor: “We believe we have brought you the truth. The truth is universal. It's common to all countries at all times. That's why we call it the truth. If a doctrine weren't as true here in Japan as it is in Portugal, then we couldn't call it the truth.” The interpreter responds: “But everyone knows a tree which flourishes in one kind of earth may decay and die in another. It is the same with the tree of Christianity. The leaves decay here. The buds die. It is not the soil that has killed the buds.”

While the motivations for the Japanese authorities rejecting Christianity are not fully explored, the inquisitor suggests that spirituality is very personal and can also be a territorial issue wherein some peoples see an outside faith as threatening. The inquisitor relays a story about the daimyo and his four concubines, whom he had to drive away to regain peace. He says: “The daimyo is like Japan, and these concubines are Spain, Portugal, Holland, England. Each trying to gain the advantage against the other and destroy the house in the process.”

Similar works

• Two earlier adaptations: the 1971 film Silence, and Os Olhos da Ásia, a Portuguese film from 1996
• Horror films like Witchfinder General and The Wicker Man
• Heart of Darkness and Apocalypse Now, which also involves a man commissioned to travel to a dangerous distant land to find a highly respected authority who has gone AWOL
• Scorsese’s The Last Temptation of Christ (1988) and Kundun (1997), also concerned with spiritual characters grappling with challenges of faith and belief
• Shogun, both the 2024 FX miniseries and the 1980 NBC miniseries
• The Mission
• Many films by Ingmar Bergman in which the spiritual faith of one or more characters is tested
• Ugetsu
• First Reformed

Other films by Martin Scorsese

• Mean Streets
• Taxi Driver
• Raging Bull
• The King of Comedy
• After Hours
• Goodfellas
• Casino
• The Departed
• Hugo
• The Wolf of Wall Street
• The Irishman

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Heaven-sent cinema

Wings of Desire, a German film directed by Wim Wenders, written by Wenders and Peter Handke, and released in 1987, is renowned for its poetic and philosophical explorations of existence and the human experience. The narrative centers on two angels, Damiel and Cassiel, played by Bruno Ganz and Otto Sander, respectively. These celestial beings drift through Berlin, quietly observing and providing solace to its residents. Damiel, however, becomes increasingly intrigued by the human experience, particularly after meeting Peter Falk (playing himself) and falling in love with Marion, a solitary trapeze artist portrayed by Solveig Dommartin. This growing fascination leads Damiel to abandon his immortality in favor of becoming human to fully experience life.

Click here to listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of Wings of Desire, conducted last week.

The film is distinguished by its unique visual style, created by cinematographer Henri Alekan, which uses a mix of black-and-white and color cinematography to separate the viewpoints of, respectively, angels and humans. Wings of Desire serves as a time capsule visually showcasing West Berlin in the melancholy years immediately prior to the fall of communism and the reunification of Germany. The city itself is depicted as a character in the picture, a location with a rich sociocultural and historical legacy, divided by the Cold War yet brimming with countless personal stories and dreams.

The filmmakers establish fairly easy-to-follow rules for this universe: There are apparently angels everywhere there are human beings; the angels’ POV is monochromatic; these sometimes wingless seraphim can only observe or perhaps inspire optimism in the subjects they watch—they can’t alter lives or events; only children and previous angels can see these heavenly beings; and angels can choose mortality if they desire, in which case life becomes chromatic.

However, Wenders’ movie employs a meditative, esoteric, and lyrical narrative approach, lacking a conventional plot and primarily abandoning spoken dialogue in favor of verbalized thoughts and mental monologues. These private thoughts are spoken offscreen and expressed as stream-of-consciousness ruminations, wishes, doubts, laments, and hopes. The words we hear many of these smaller characters speak internally are sometimes easy to parse and understand, while other lines are deeply philosophical thoughts and poetically phrased observations for which we the viewer have no context or background.

This is a work that relies on mood, tone, emotional atmosphere, and the historically weighted geography of Germany to tell its story. It’s a film replete with deeper meanings that requires extra patience and a rejection of rationality. Consequently, Wings of Desire can be a more difficult cinematic text to decipher or analyze for some audiences. Per Roger Ebert: “Wings of Desire” doesn’t release its tension in a smooth plot payoff. It creates a mood of sadness and isolation, of yearning, of the transience of earthly things. If the human being is the only animal that knows it lives in time, the movie is about that knowledge…The film is like music or a landscape: It clears a space in my mind, and in that space I can consider questions. Some of them are asked in the film: ‘Why am I me and why not you? Why am I here and why not there? When did time begin and where does space end?’”

Interestingly, while it can be called a spiritual film, this is not a religious text that espouses any particular religion or faith; in fact, God isn’t even mentioned.

Prominent themes include the nature of existence and what it means to be human. Wings of Desire delves deeply into existential themes and the unique perks of being alive in a corporeal body, underscored by Damiel's desire to engage in the sensory and emotional aspects of life.

Connection and alienation are also deeply explored. This film highlights the loneliness felt by both angels and humans, evident in Marion's life as a circus performer and Damiel's detachment from human life. Yet, Damiel can make connections with others—whether seen or unseen—which motivates him to want to become human.

Wings of Desire is, perhaps above all, a study of transcendence and wholeness. Damiel converts to the mortal world and bonds with Marion; the two join together as one and feel completeness as a result. Their personal experiences and separate emotional journeys across the landscape of Berlin symbolize the yearning that the divided German people felt at the time the film was made, when the city and the country were torn in two by the Cold War; just as Damiel and Marion desire unification, Germans longed for reunification as a free single nation and culture. Damiel and his black-and-white existence personify the craving East Germans felt, who, like Damiel, could only dream of the joys of living life in color, to its fullest, but without a voice or ability to affect change. Marion embodies West Germans: autonomous, admired, and ambitious yet feeling incomplete and lonesome for the company of others (East Germans) who share her passion for life, love, and happiness. Perhaps this is why the film ends with the words, “To be continued,” because Wenders and company were hopeful that German reunification would happen; it did within two to three years.

Additionally, the filmmakers examine the significance of world cinema and the extent to which art can help us transcend our troubles. Consider the closing title, which reads: “Dedicated to all the former angels, but especially to Yasujiro, François and Andrej”; these three names refer to the late filmmakers Yasujirō Ozu, François Truffaut, and Andrei Tarkovsky, who greatly inspired Wenders. Slant Magazine reviewers Bill Weber and Ed Gonzalez wrote: “The grand theme of Wings of Desire, Wim Wenders’ fantasy of angels in Berlin before the end of the Cold War, is storytelling in all its forms as a coping mechanism of the human race.”

Similar works

• The American remake City of Angels
• Its sequel Faraway, So Close!
• Movies and narratives featuring prominent angel or spiritual characters, including Here Comes Mr. Jordan, The Horn Blows at Midnight, It’s a Wonderful Life, A Matter of Life and Death, Heaven Can Wait, Defending Your Life, Meet Joe Black, Michael, and Angels in America
• The Adjustment Bureau
• Arthouse films in which the main character interacts with numerous other characters and we hear their thoughts, including 8½
• The third season of Twin Peaks, every episode of which ends with a visit to a club where an alternative music artist performs
• Blue, another film hoping for the reunification of Europe

Other films by Wim Wenders

• Paris, Texas
• Until the End of the World
• Faraway, So Close!
• Buena Vista Social Club
• Pina
• The Salt of the Earth
• Perfect Days

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A comedic force that still blows us away today

Is silent comedy genius Buster Keaton indirectly responsible for giving the world Mickey Mouse? Probably not, but his 1928 film Steamboat Bill, Jr. certainly inspired Disney to create Steamboat Willie, released later that year, which marked the official debut of that then soon-to-be-world-famous cartoon rodent.

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

Mickey aside, Steamboat Bill Jr. ranks high among Keaton’s filmography. Co-directed by Charles Reisner and Keaton himself, who also served as the producer, the feature tells the story of William "Steamboat Bill" Canfield (Ernest Torrence), a gruff steamboat captain eagerly anticipating the arrival of his son (Keaton), whom he hasn't seen in years. He hopes his offspring will be a rugged man capable of helping him compete against a rival steamboat operator. However, Bill Jr. turns out to be a slight, effete college boy who is not cut out for the rough life of a steamboat operator. The film follows their relationship as Bill Jr. tries to prove himself to his father, culminating in a significant part of the plot where the former rescues the latter along with girlfriend Kitty (Marion Byron) during a fierce storm, showcasing Keaton's signature physical comedy.

Keaton was famous for playing a straight-faced, unflappable underdog character who remains composed and persistent despite chaotic situations. What set Keaton, known as “the Great Stone Face,” apart from his peers is that he utilized elaborate and hazardous stunt work, performing all of his stunts himself and often doubling for some of his actors. His films—Steamboat Bill, Jr. included—typically offer a well-balanced blend of action, comedy, romance, and historical epic elements. The brisk pacing of his action and stunts, combined with tight direction, ensures the stories in his features progress smoothly and engagingly.

The film includes one of the most famous scenes in cinema history, where the facade of a building falls around Keaton, who survives by standing perfectly in the window's precise spot. Research shows he used an authentic two-ton building façade and no photographic or magician’s deception to realize this, the most famous stunt of his career.

This shot is part of the movie’s standout scene: the cyclone sequence, which occurs over the final 14 minutes. Debatably, this extended final act of the film is more remarkable for its practical effects and risky physical feats than its amusing bits. Keaton, who meticulously planned and performed his own stunts, was suspended by a cable from a crane that flung him around as if he were flying for the cyclone scene. The dramatic sequence, featuring breakaway street sets and six powerful Liberty-motor wind machines, required an additional $25,000. This cost alone amounted to one-third of the film's entire budget, which was estimated to be between $300,000 and over $400,000. The scale and execution of the cyclone sequence were exceptional for its era, highlighting Keaton's dedication to authenticity and physical comedy.

TCM’s John Miller and Felicia Feaster remarked about Steamboat Bill, Jr.: “The film also highlights Keaton's mastery of composition. He favored the long shot for clarity, to firmly set the elements of the scene in the viewer's mind. Typically, such elements were the little guy (Keaton) set against the larger forces of machines (steamboat, locomotive, hot air balloon, etc.) or nature (cyclone, raging river, rock slide, etc.) in a realistic and defined setting. Keaton economically establishes the workings of the besetting forces, then places himself and the camera for maximum impact. It is by conscious design, not accident, that images from Keaton's films are so iconic. Keaton is always a figure in motion and he is best enjoyed that way, yet his compositions are so pleasing that stills and frame blow-ups from his movies also have power and resonance.”

Many of the sight gags and humorous bits still land with impressive comedic force today, although arguably we don’t start getting to the funny business until just before Keaton’s character enters the narrative, roughly six minutes into the runtime. Arguably, the film isn’t consistently laugh-worthy throughout, and there are stretches where a bit more levity could have been infused.

Viewed through a 2024 lens, the picture reveals the strong patriarchal values of the time, when male characters in movies were expected to throw a punch in protest, act manly and macho, and respect their fathers. The dynamics between Steamboat Bill and his offspring offer a cinematically exaggerated but still antiquatedly semi-accurate sociocultural depiction of familial relationships.

Like Chaplin, Lloyd, and other contemporary geniuses of silent comedy, Keaton regularly incorporated sight gags, slapstick, and humorous chases throughout his filmography. Both Keaton and Chaplin were not only stars but also writers and directors of their own films. Each portrayed underdog characters, with Keaton often donning a pork pie hat and Chaplin a bowler hat. They expanded the formula of simple silent films into more epic narratives, as seen in the expansive scope of Keaton’s The General and Chaplin’s The Gold Rush. Both were meticulous craftsmen, carefully planning and choreographing their scenes in advance. Their work heavily relied on perfect timing to achieve comedic and stunt success.

However, Keaton was a much more acrobatic comedian and physical risk-taker in his stunt work than Chaplin. The authenticity of the mise-en-scène is evident in Keaton films, with more realistic props, locations, backgrounds, and careful attention to period detail than movies by Chaplin and other peers that often used more stylized or abstract sets.

Roger Ebert always favored Keaton over Chaplin and Lloyd, opining: “The greatest of the silent clowns is Buster Keaton, not only because of what he did but because of how he did it. Harold Lloyd made us laugh as much, Charlie Chaplin moved us more deeply, but no one had more courage than Buster. I define courage as Hemingway did: "Grace under pressure." In films that combined comedy with extraordinary physical risks, Buster Keaton played a brave spirit who took the universe on its own terms, and gave no quarter… His films avoid the pathos and sentiment of the Chaplin pictures, and usually feature a jaunty young man who sees an objective and goes after it in the face of the most daunting obstacles. Buster survives tornadoes, waterfalls, avalanches of boulders and falls from great heights, and never pauses to take a bow: He has his eye on his goal. And his movies, seen as a group, are like a sustained act of optimism in the face of adversity; surprising how, without asking, he earns our admiration and tenderness.”

Similar works

• Modern Times
• The Keaton shorts One Week and The Boat, and his features Our Hospitality and The Navigator

Other feature films starring and directed by Buster Keaton

• Three Ages
• Our Hospitality
• Sherlock Jr.
• The Navigator
• Seven Chances
• Go West
• Battling Butler
• The General
• College
• The Cameraman

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Oh, my--have you seen Omar?

Since the terrible events of October 7, 2023, it’s difficult to try and examine the current Israeli-Palestinian conflict through the lens of recent cinema. But one film that emerges as a touchstone on this topic is Omar, a Palestinian drama directed by Hany Abu-Assad (who is of both Arabic and Israeli descent, raised in Nazareth) that debuted in 2013 and earned a nomination for the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film. This picture—starring Adam Bakri in the titular role along with Leem Lubany, Samer Bisharat, Waleed Zuaiter, and Eyad Hourani—aims to illuminate the Palestinian viewpoint on life amid occupation, delving into themes of love, betrayal, and resistance.

The storyline centers on Omar, a young Palestinian baker who regularly scales the West Bank separation wall to visit his love interest, Nadia, the sister of childhood friend Tarek. Engaged in resistance against the Israeli occupation, Omar and his companions face turmoil after a fatal attack on an Israeli soldier. Arrested and pressured into collaboration by Israeli authorities, Omar grapples with mounting suspicions among his inner circle. Caught between allegiance to his cause and safeguarding loved ones, the film chronicles Omar's journey navigating the intricate dynamics of trust, betrayal, and loyalty amid the ongoing conflict.

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

Omar lingers long in the imagination after the end credits roll because it consistently upends our expectations, throwing us curveballs and sliders. Consider how, each time Omar climbs over the barricade wall separating the territories, we anticipate that he’s perhaps on a dangerous mission; instead, he’s often simply attempting to visit his girlfriend. Or ponder our surprise when we learn (SPOILERS AHEAD) that Omar is to be released not once but twice from custody, not to mention the serious love triangle subplot that emerges toward the end involving a pregnancy we eventually learn is a lie or the cat-and-mouse games played between Amjad and Omar to save their skins or protect Nadia. Agent Rami isn’t the outright villain we thought he’d be, either, showing shades of humanity and compassion we didn’t see coming. And we don’t get any hot and heavy passion scene or sex sequence featuring Omar and Nadia.

The movie isn’t preachy or severely biased toward the Palestinian side. While we see how Omar is humiliated by Israeli police and tortured by Israeli interrogators, we also witness the three friends involved in a random and senseless act of killing an Israeli soldier. We also empathize a bit with agent Rami in a brief scene depicting a minor familial problem. Additionally, none of the major characters are motivated by religious beliefs or a faction like Hamas.

Salon critic Andrew O’Hehir wrote: “Abu-Assad never editorializes about the morality or usefulness of the idiotic scheme that Omar and his pals cook up to ambush and kill an Israeli soldier with a hunting rifle. It’s presented as almost a natural outgrowth of a situation of boredom and frustration… If you want an inspiring political essay about the plight of the Palestinian people, or the promise of a hopeful future, look elsewhere. “Omar” is a story about a place where ordinary people, decent enough on their own terms, destroy each other and themselves. When the cascade of violent climaxes comes, you’ll see it was there all along.”

Omar checks several genre and subgenre boxes, proving to be an effective spy thriller, love triangle romance, coming-of-age drama, and pseudo-documentary-of-sorts revealing everyday moments inside an occupied territory. Tonally, Omar can shift abruptly between tense, comical, disturbing, and tender. Per Critic Geoffrey Macnab: “Some of the sudden lurches in tone in Omar are disconcerting. The film combines gentle comedy and moments of lyricism with scenes of torture and violence. Such shifts are intentional. Abu-Assad is simply reflecting the ever-changing nature of his characters' daily lives in a fraught and strange environment in which betrayal has become endemic.”

You don’t need a PhD to parse the prominent subtexts at work: betrayal, suspicion, and mistrust. Each of the Palestinian friends in this story betrays or is suspected of betraying each other, which reaps devastating consequences on their relationships and the deaths of Omar and Tarek. Loyalties are in a constant state of scrutiny, with paranoia prevailing as characters navigate the repercussions of their choices and confront the looming specter of betrayal from those closest to them. The film also navigates the complex three-way relationship between Omar, Nadia, and Amjad, where loyalties and friendships are continually tested.

The consequences of occupation are also explored. The movie depicts the harsh realities endured by Palestinians in the occupied territories as well as the violent opposition inflicted upon Israeli soldiers. Additionally, the film shows the price humanity pays for prolonged conflict: Omar, Nadia, Amjad, Tarek, and their loved ones can’t live a normal or safe life amidst this ongoing violence and oppression.

Lastly, while shown more from the Palestinian point of view, the film deftly portrays how there are victims and casualties on both sides of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, ruminating on a vicious cycle of violence. It also offers no answers for how to solve this crisis or curb the violence that it creates. Each act of aggression triggers a chain reaction of retribution, perpetuating a destructive cycle of vengeance and reprisal that ensnares the characters and fuels the ongoing strife.

Similar works

• The Battle of Algiers
• Paradise Now
• Bethlehem
• The Attack
• Private
• Salt of This Sea
• About Elly

Other films by Hany Abu-Assad

• Rana's Wedding (2002)
• Paradise Now (2005)
• The Courier (2012)
• The Idol (2015)
• The Mountain Between Us (2017)
• Huda's Salon (2021)

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Coulda' been a contender? Waterfront is nothing less than a champion

Seventy years since it first hit theaters, On the Waterfront has lost little of its impact as a timeless American classic. Helmed by Elia Kazan, the story centers on Terry Malloy (Marlon Brando), a Hoboken dockworker who finds himself ensnared in the nefarious dealings of union overlord Johnny Friendly (Lee J. Cobb). Confronted with a moral quandary upon witnessing the murder of a colleague who intended to expose the union's corruption, Malloy must navigate the tug-of-war between his conscience and the union's coercion.

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of On the Waterfront, conducted earlier this month, click here. To access the May episode of Cineversary, which celebrates this film’s 70th birthday, click here.

On the Waterfront is fully deserving of our attention in its 70th anniversary year for multiple reasons. First, the collective talent on display here is astounding. It’s almost impossible for this film to fail when you have stellar names attached like Brando, Cobb, Rod Steiger, Kazan, screenwriter Budd Schulberg, producer Sam Spiegel, and composer Leonard Bernstein. More importantly, the movie, along with previous recent movies by Kazan and his Actors Studio thespians like Brando, exemplified a new era of acting that was more emotionally plausible and realistic—a style that is both “physical and introspective and distinctly more nuanced, immediate, unpredictable—more truthful—than most acting that preceded it. It’s the style of poetic realism that informs the great performance,” according to Criterion Collection essayist Michael Almereyda. “Kazan virtually invented the style, and refined it in this film, and its power remains undeniable.”

Ponder, too, how Waterfront is a creative personal statement by a gifted but divisive filmmaker—a subtextually political film that is relevant to and revealing about Kazan’s life and beliefs. In 1952, he agreed to testify before the House Un-American Activities Committee and name names of friends and colleagues affiliated with the Communist party, an extremely controversial move that haunted Kazan the rest of his life, but that he justified as the right thing to do at the time. He saw himself as personified in the character of Terry, who also felt torn and ultimately compelled to testify against oppressive forces to do, in his mind, the right thing. It’s ludicrous to many how these two things can be equitable, but Kazan nevertheless envisioned himself as a martyr-like outsider who was forced to make a difficult moral choice, like Terry. Many saw Kazan as ratting on friends who got blacklisted simply because of their political beliefs so that Kazan could continue to work in Hollywood—which he did successfully for years afterward.

This picture works as an effective amalgamation of docudrama, film noir, and topical social message movie. This was the era when noir was in full flourish, and social message films were building momentum thanks to the efforts of producers like Dore Schary at MGM and independent filmmaker Stanley Kramer, who made movies like Tea and Sympathy, Bad Day at Black Rock, Blackboard Jungle, The Defiant Ones, On the Beach, Inherit the Wind, and Judgment at Nuremberg. On the Waterfront drew increased public awareness to the problem of corrupted unions and labor racketeering and also benefited from hitting theaters merely weeks following the downfall of Senator Joseph McCarthy.

There’s no denying Waterfront’s critical reputation and status as a statuette heavyweight. It became one of the most honored and decorated films in Oscar history, earning 12 Academy Award nominations and ultimately claiming eight Oscars, among them Best Picture, Best Actor for Brando, Best Supporting Actress for Eva Marie Saint, Best Director for Kazan, Best Screenplay for Schulberg, and Best Cinematography for Boris Kaufman. This film continues to be regarded as an exemplary, important, and inspirational American work, as well. In the American Film Institute’s top 100 American movies list from 1998, On the Waterfront ranked number eight; in the AFI’s 2007 ranking, it placed number 19. On the AFI’s best 100 movie quotes list, the following earned third place: “You don't understand! I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody instead of a bum, which is what I am." And Terry Malloy earns the #23 spot on the AFI’s list of 100 greatest heroes.

On the Waterfront is credited as a pioneering project in a few ways. It was in the vein of topical social problem/social message movies that were popular in the 1950s – which often drew from the look and verisimilitude of Italian neorealism as well as the visually expressive style of film noir. And it was inspired by a true story of a longshoreman who attempted to bring down a crooked union, as reported on by Pulitzer-prize-winning journalist Malcolm Johnson in the late 1940s. His articles and the later film brought to light the widespread influence of organized crime within labor unions, a theme that hadn't been thoroughly explored in mainstream cinema previously.

But what’s especially interesting is that the movie employed Kazan’s distinctive blend of “poetic realism” in telling its story. Kazan said: “I don’t think of myself as a realist…I think of myself as a poetic realist or ‘essentialist.’” Typically, poetic realism films, popularized in France in the 1930s, represented a type of reimagined reality, marked by stylized and studio-confined settings versus the raw authenticity seen in documentary-style social realism. But in Waterfront, Kazan and his collaborators chose to shoot on location in Hoboken, New Jersey, showcasing real docks, alleys, tenements, rooftops, bars, and even longshoremen who play themselves as extras. They filmed during cold, wintry conditions—you can often see cold vapor breath trails spewing from the actors’ mouths—and used natural lighting, often eschewing a controlled, fabricated set or stage. Consider the ragged handheld camera shots when Terry stumbles his way back to work after being horribly beaten. Waterfront can often look and feel like real life while also playing as a stylized morality tale divorced from the real world.

“On the Waterfront earns its status as a masterwork and a classic by breaking free of strict realism to tell a story that is, finally and enduringly, a poetic fable,” per Criterion Collection essayist Michael Almereyda. Slant Magazine reviewer Chuck Bowen wrote: “Kazan conjured an illusion of docudrama spontaneity with his on-location shooting that allows him to stage images with psychological symbolism and religious metaphor with relative subtlety… On the Waterfront is a Hollywood fantasy with an unusually distinct atmosphere of disenfranchised frustration that remains contemporary, which is to say that it fulfills an audience member’s daydream of grandeur while fulfilling his or her desire to see a film that speaks directly to their experience.”

Creative decisions from Kazan—who also impresses with his direction of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (1945), Gentleman’s Agreement (1947), A Streetcar Named Desire (1951), Viva Zapata! (1952), East of Eden (1955), Baby Doll (1956), A Face in the Crowd (1957), and Splendor in the Grass (1961)—help elevate On the Waterfront to the rank of masterwork. Recall how he shrewdly opted to have a ship whistle overpower Terry’s voice when he’s confessing to Edie his role in her brother’s death, suggesting that the impact of this admission and the emotions triggered by his words are more important than the words themselves. The director also cleverly used geography, landscape, and spatial dimensions to demonstrate moral hierarchy across the narrative. Ponder how the waterfront and docks are slightly above sea level, but Friendly’s ironically cramped shack headquarters is just below that, while Edie’s tenement is high above the street and Terry’s rooftop pigeon coop—enclosed within confining wire yet exposed to the great wide open—is at the highest level. Likewise, Kazan commonly employed two-shots or wider compositions in Waterfront to illustrate a character arrangement or power hierarchy, often carefully placing one character opposite another in dominant-subordinate respective positions.

Additionally, Kazan staged some crucial scenes outdoors that perhaps should have plausibly occurred indoors, such as Edie and Terry’s getting-acquainted scene in the park, Terry confessing his guilt to Father Berry outside the church, and Terry’s discovery of his dead brother hanging on a fence. The takeaway here is that Hoboken is not only an important character unto itself but also a witness to these important events, silently observing and absorbing the good and bad words and actions of its people and bearing the scars of the conflict and violence they create.

More significant historically is that Waterfront ushered in a new age of acting authenticity. Brando's portrayal of Malloy marked a sea change in film acting thanks to the performer’s approach to the role and his adherence to the method acting technique, which was characterized by deeply internalizing the character's emotions and delivering a more naturalistic performance. The offbeat choices he makes depicting this pugilistic lost soul, including his mannerisms, facial expressions, line deliveries, and physical gesticulations, inspired thespians of his generation and beyond.

Furthermore, reflect on how this film influenced many screen and stage works in the years following its release. Playwright Arthur Miller was inspired to write the play A View From the Bridge (1955), and Edge of the City (1957), starring John Cassavetes, was an obvious knockoff. Rocky (1976) and Raging Bull (1980), and their brawny yet vulnerable boxer characters, drew heavy influence from Brando’s Malloy. The shy and inexperienced Adrian in Rocky also owes a debt to Saint and her personification of Edie. Martin Scorsese pays homage to Waterfront in Goodfellas (1990) in several shots, including the dead mobster hanging from a hook like Charley. Praising Waterfront, Scorsese commented: “The faces, the bodies, the way they moved…the voices, the way they sounded. They were like the people I saw every day. It was as if the world that I came from, that I knew, mattered.” Three movies released in India were inspired by or served as remakes of On the Waterfront: Kabzaa (1988), Ghulam (1998), and Sudhandhiram (2000). (Interestingly, the contender monologue drew from a predecessor, Force of Evil [1948], which also has a similar scene in the back of a taxicab.)

The casting of Brando proved pivotal, for obvious reasons if you pay close attention to his portrayal and compare it to acting styles of this time. Kazan said: “... what was extraordinary about his performance, I feel, is the contrast of the tough-guy front and the extreme delicacy and gentle cast of his behavior. What other actor, when his brother draws a pistol to force him to do something shameful, would put his hand on the gun and push it away with the gentleness of a caress? Who else could read ‘Oh, Charley!’ in a tone of reproach that is so loving and so melancholy and suggests the terrific depth of pain?”

Roger Ebert believed “Brando cut through decades of screen mannerisms and provided a fresh, alert, quirky acting style that was not realism so much as a kind of heightened riff on reality…He became famous for his choices of physical gestures during crucial scenes…There's a moment when Terry goes for a walk in the park with Edie…She drops a glove. He picks it up, and instead of handing it back, he pulls it on over his own workers' hands. A small piece of business on the edge of the shot, but it provides texture…And look at the famous scene between Terry and his brother…it has been parodied endlessly (most memorably by Robert De Niro in “Raging Bull”). But it still has its power to make us feel Terry's pain, and even the pain of Charley, who has been forced to pull a gun on his brother.”

Indeed, the latter sequence has rightfully been cited as a game-changer in cinema history. J. Hoberman of the Village Voice opined: “The scene of scenes, in which Terry reproaches his smarter brother (Steiger) for selling him out, is the most triumphant expression of failure in American movies.”

It’s striking how often Brando elects to, despite facing a character he’s talking or listening to, cast his eyeballs elsewhere, far off in the distance. No other actor in the film does this, which makes this idiosyncrasy stand out. Actors in the classic Hollywood period typically maintained eye contact or looked up at an opposite character’s forehead or hair when engaged in a dialogue, but not Brando.

Quick sidebar: It’s noteworthy that, early in his film career, Brando became known for playing martyr-like personalities who often take a serious physical beating yet defy the odds and fight back, as evidenced in this film as well as Viva Zapata! (1952), One-Eyed Jacks (1961), The Fugitive Kind (1960), The Appaloosa (1966), and The Chase (1966).

It makes sense that neither Cobb, Steiger, nor Malden picked up a win for their Best Supporting Actor nominations because they’re each so good that they likely canceled each other out among Oscar voters. Steiger is particularly memorable in his more mannered style contrasting with Brando—and it helps that the actors look like they could be related. And Cobb practically oozes steam from his pores when he reveals the hair-trigger rage that colors his character and stares with those fiery eyes. Malden’s Father Barry more than capably looks his part, commands a righteous indignation that’s crucial for this story, and deftly leverages the chemistry he created earlier with Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire (1951).

Making her film debut, Saint shines as the angelic-faced love interest and female voice of principle who helps convince Terry to do the right thing. Her slim and delicate physicality, sincerity, and naïveté juxtapose effectively with Terry’s burly presence and streetwise machismo. Everybody remembers the “coulda been a contender” line, but Edie has the most ethically impactful quote in the film: “Shouldn't everybody care about everybody else? Isn't everybody a part of everybody else?”

On the Waterfront continues to impart valuable life lessons seven decades onward. It certainly preaches the virtues of making the right ethical choice and listening to your conscience. Terry is caught in the middle between two opposing forces—the morally righteous duo of Father Barry and Edie on one side, and the cruel, manipulative thugs led by Johnny Friendly and his brother Charley on the other. He must decide whether to protect the evil status quo or expose them to aid the cause of their exploited workers.

Additionally, this is a cogitation on the corrupting nature of power. Johnny Friendly is depicted as having a tough childhood, but his lust for power has stripped him of any kindness, grace, or humility. Even his overlord, “Mr. Upstairs,” doesn’t hesitate to drop Johnny when his underling brings heat to their operation.

At its core, Waterfront is an affecting redemption story, as well. This is ultimately a yarn about a troubled young sinner who has a chance to do the right thing and redeem his self-respect, dignity, and soul. This theme ties in nicely with the backstory that Terry was a prizefighter, one who “coulda’ been a contender,” but lost his opportunity; this represents his second chance, the ability to fight the mob bosses and stand up for the little guy.

The film reminds us, too, that we are our brother’s keeper. It teaches us that human beings have a responsibility to help and protect others, especially those in duress. Edie expresses this in her question to Terry: “Shouldn't everybody care about everybody else?” Terry’s responses are telling: “What good does it do ya besides get ya in trouble? You wanna hear my philosophy of life? Do it to him before he does it to you…Down here, it’s every man for himself.” Terry’s change of heart and brave stand against the mob demonstrate that even one determined man – small as he is against the might of the machine – can have a significant effect on the lives of many.

Sacrifice, martyrdom, and faith represent a powerful thematic triumvirate in Waterfront. Terry must risk his life by choosing to inform on the criminals and trust in the intangible power of faith—not religious belief, but personal conviction—espoused by Edie and Father Barry, which is in contrast to the very tangible allure of money and power wielded by Friendly. Joey paid the price earlier by being killed after informing, and he serves as a Christ-like figure when we see his body cradled in Edie’s hands. Other religious motifs and imagery are used throughout the film, including the shot of Father Barry ascending from the cargo hold with Dugan’s corpse like he’s rising to heaven, and Charlie’s body hanging slumped and dead on a hook, resembling a crucified Christ. Recall, too, how the near-dead Terry is resurrected to life by the priest’s inspiring words.

If you’re a fan of cinematic symbols and motifs, Waterfront’s got plenty. Among the signifiers prevalent are:

• Pigeons, identified with Terry and vice versa. Terry wants to live free and simple like them, but they’re also vulnerable to the hawks he mentions to Edie; Terry can also be viewed as a “stool pigeon” by the mob.
• Hooks, used by the longshoremen in their work but which signify the heavy, dangerous weights that hang over them literally and, in the form of Friendly’s thugs, figuratively. Hooks also play into the talon-like imagery of the hawks that endanger pigeons that Terry mentions.
• The rooftop, standing as a sanctuary and retreat from the oppressive world below and a step closer to aspiring to new moral, religious, and personal heights that Terry, even subconsciously, yearns for. Joey was a past denizen of the rooftop and became a victim because of it.
• The Hudson River, representing a demarcation line between the exploited workers and the majestic Manhattan skyline beyond—a line that they cannot cross due to their symbolic slavery.
• Gloves, which are dropped and/or removed by Edie and Charlie, leaving exposed hands that epitomize their vulnerability. Terry playing with and putting on Edie’s dropped glove, while a subtle move, indicates an intimate, sexual, harmless as well as aggressive gesture.

Naysayers argue that viewers can’t quite reconcile the confusing ending of the film. Practical questions arise: Why does Terry have to be the first one to report to work in the final scene? What assurances do we have that the dockworkers will be protected going forward and that Friendly is finished? Why does he demand that the workers return to the job, but then tell them not to go back to work a few minutes later? And who is this “Mr. Upstairs” overlord character? DVD Savant critic Glenn Erickson wrote: “On the Waterfront segues directly from its Christ allegory to a strangely ambiguous finale. The battered Terry Malloy leads his miserable fellows to answer the whistle of the real big boss, apparently a shipping executive. Nothing has changed for the dockworkers as they disappear behind a pair of giant warehouse doors.”

Perhaps certain elements of Waterfront haven’t aged as gracefully viewed through the modern lens. Case in point: Malden’s Father Barry comes off as a bit too preachy to some tastes. The character and its performer could benefit from more nuance, internal conflict, and a greater range of emotions. Malden is primarily playing this priest in a one-note fashion, unswervingly virtuous, heavy-handed, and sanctimonious. One can respect that this is necessary for the character as written, but it’s hard to relate to a 1950s-era man of the cloth whose best efforts at appearing human and down to earth are to ask for a cigarette or a glass of beer. Then there’s the scene where Terry busts down Edie’s door, grabs her as she’s clad in a skimpy slip, and forces her to kiss him as she acquiesces to his passion—which doesn’t play so nicely today. While it’s only one short segment, Terry becomes a much less sympathetic character nowadays. Lastly, the brassy, emotional musical score by Bernstein, while superb in many sections, sometimes catches the ear as syrupy and prolonged.

Flaws aside, the biggest present this picture bestows on us in its 70th birthday year is its ability to inspire. Terry’s devolution then evolution from promising pugilist to conformist palooka to rebellious protester to witness for the prosecution to bare-knuckled boss-buster is a stirring flight path we follow and admire. His pluck, and Brando’s extraordinary embodiment and rendering of that underdog gumption and avenging angel resolve, light a fire in the viewer’s belly and help make Waterfront revisits reliably gratifying. Audiences love a good David versus Goliath story, and this film never disappoints on that level. It holds up surprisingly well for a 1950s-era film in the 2020s, primarily because corruption and pessimism never go out of style in the modern era. One of the best exchanges in the film is when Terry tells Edie that pigeons are faithful and “get married just like people,” which provokes Terry’s younger buddy Tommy to say “Better.” That cynical view of humanity in one simple word sums up how far we’ve fallen as a species and how much of a triumph Terry, the pigeon-like ex-prizefighter with a birdbrain but the heart of a champion, achieves by the conclusion of the narrative.

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Cineversary podcast honors 70th birthday of On the Waterfront

Michael Phillips and Stephen Rebello

In Cineversary podcast episode #70, host Erik Martin lights 70 birthday candles for Elia Kazan’s On the Waterfront, starring Marlon Brando. Two esteemed guests join him this time around: Stephen Rebello, author of the forthcoming book A City Full of Hawks: On the Waterfront Seventy Years Later; and Michael Phillips, film critic for The Chicago Tribune. Together, they examine why this movie still matters seven decades later, what makes it a movie masterwork, salient themes, and 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, Spotify, Audible, Castbox, Pocket Casts, PodBean, RadioPublic, and Overcast.

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

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A cookie - and a film - full of arsenic

Looking for a noir without the bullets or brutality but that still packs plenty of bang? Take a closer look at Sweet Smell of Success, directed by Alexander Mackendrick, produced by James Hill, penned by Clifford Odets and Ernest Lehman, and released in 1957. Drawing inspiration from Lehman's novelette, the film delves into the murky depths of journalism and publicity and the relentless machinations of a formidable newspaper columnist, J.J. Hunsecker, portrayed by Burt Lancaster, and the conniving endeavors of Sidney Falco, played by Tony Curtis, a sycophantic press agent yearning for Hunsecker's favor. As Falco maneuvers to curry favor with Hunsecker, he finds himself entangled in the columnist's personal vendetta, ensnared in a web of manipulation, deception, and ethical compromise.

Click here to listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of this film, conducted last week.

What makes Sweet Smell of Success distinctive, surprising, and memorable? It resembles a noir with its high contrast lighting scheme, caustic tone, pessimistic worldview, and fall-from-grace narrative, but doesn’t involve murder, detectives, wrong-man themes, or femme fatales like proper noir films do. Additionally, the characters, while often rotten, still smell sweet thanks to their complexity. The film presents personalities who are richly layered, flawed, and quotably articulate—especially Hunsecker, who emerges as a compelling antagonist whose manipulation and dominance propel much of the plot forward, and Falco, his obsequious acolyte.

Criterion Collection essayist Gary Giddens wrote, of Tony Curtis’ performance: “He refuses to play the part as cute or malleable, so that a perversely fantastic purity graces Sidney’s relentless grubbing…he secretes energy. We see him as a blackmailer, pimp, fixer, stooge, liar, and betrayer of everyone, but he bewitches the film with the agility of a magician or dancer.” According to Roger Ebert, “Although Falco is in exile as the story opens, Hunsecker cannot quite banish him from his sight, because he needs him. How does the top dog know he rules unless the bottom dog slinks around?...The film stands as the record of one of the most convincing and closely observed symbiotic relationships in the movies. Hunsecker and Falco. You can't have one without the other.”

No doubt about it, the screenplay is exceptional. Odets and Lehman crafted a narrative that’s celebrated particularly for its incisive and biting dialogue. The rapid exchanges between characters infuse the story with a palpable intensity and tension, drawing viewers deeper into the story's intricacies. Sample some of the great lines and exchanges in Sweet Smell of Success: “I’d hate to take a bite out of you. You’re a cookie full of arsenic.” “You’re dead son. Get yourself buried.” “My right hand hasn’t seen my left hand in 30 years.” “It’s a publicity man’s nature to be a liar. I wouldn’t hire you if you wasn’t a liar.” “The cat’s in the bag and the bag’s in the river.” “Match me, Sidney.” “Harvey, I often wish I were deaf and wore a hearing aid. With a simple flick of a switch, I could shut out the greedy murmur of little men.” “Sidney, conjugate me a verb.” And: “Do you believe in capital punishment, Senator? A man has just been sentenced to death.”

The look perfectly captures The Big Apple in 1957, showcasing the nightclub scene, the prime period of jazz, and the fashions and styles of New Yorkers. Cinematographer James Wong Howe employs inventive techniques, such as low-angle shots and stark lighting, to enhance the film's noir aesthetic. These methods effectively evoke feelings of claustrophobia and moral decay, enriching the viewing experience.

It further feels like a time capsule zeitgeist movie thanks to the jazzy Elmer Bernstein score coupled with the music played by the Chico Hamilton Quintet, who also appear in the film as Steve Dallas’ band.

This is a rags-to-riches story offscreen. Initially met with mixed reviews, Sweet Smell of Success has since earned acclaim as a quintessential example of the film noir genre. Its enduring influence is evident in subsequent works that explore similar ideas of power dynamics, corruption, and betrayal within the entertainment industry.

There’s a hint of an incestuous relationship between Hunsecker and his sister Susan, making for an even more despicable characterization. The Hunsecker personality and his plot to smear sister Susan’s fiancé is loosely based on old-time columnist Walter Winchell. Fixated on the romance between his daughter Walda and her lover, Winchell, with the assistance of FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover, exerted pressure on the boyfriend to leave the United States.  

Its fatalistic themes and cynical tone help the movie maintain an evergreen sheen in the modern age. Despite its 1957 vintage, the film's exploration of the downsides of fame, success, and ambition and its examination of the darker aspects of human nature resonates across generations.

Hubris and karma dominate as key themes. Like Icarus,  Falco flies too close to the sun in his ambitions to get to the top and be famous like Hunsecker. He makes a devil's bargain in agreeing to ruin the jazz musician boyfriend of Hunsucker’s sister, which also involves pimping his match girl part-time lover to a rival columnist – compromising any positive virtues he has left and metaphorically selling his soul.

Sweet Smell of Success spells out the corrupting nature of power and influence, certainly. Hunsecker demonstrates how absolute power corrupts absolutely, wielding the popularity of his newspaper column as a cudgel with which to beat down anyone he disfavors and control others. His ruthless arrogance, smug attitude, and lack of empathy, compassion, and human decency create one of the most formidable and loathsome bad guys in film history. In fact, Hunsecker places #35 on the AFI’s top 50 movie villains list. The film lays bare the grim underbelly of celebrity status and the media exposing the cutthroat world of entertainment and gossip where ambition reigns supreme.

Loyalty and betrayal are key subtextual signposts, as well. The characters in this morality play navigate their relationships in pursuit of personal gain. Falco sacrifices his friendship and romantic ties with Susan as he strives for success, while Hunsecker's controlling demeanor strains his bond with his sister.

Similar works

• All About Eve
• The Barefoot Contessa
• Night and the City
• The Hucksters
• The Great Gatsby
• Wall Street
• Bombshell
• Young Man With a Horn
• Pete Kelly’s Blues
• Broadway Thru a Keyhole

Other films by Alexander Mackendrick

• The Ladykillers
• The Man in the White Suit
• Crash of Silence
• Whisky Galore!

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