The Red Shoes (1948)

There are spoilers.

Director and Screenwriter: Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger

Starring: Anton Walbrook, Marius Goring, and Moira Shearer

Images from the 1999 Criterion Collection release.

There are two fundamental kinds of self-reflexive films. Those that reflect the medium explicitly, such as The Player or Sunset Blvd., and those that convey an interior, implicit reality, such as Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger’s The Red Shoes (along with Rear Window and The Double Life of Veronique). There is, of course, plenty of overlap, and I simply cannot make a value judgement on which is more important. It could be said that the latter is simply a broader realization of the former, but I like to think of them as two separate perspectives: one of an interior relatability and another of external realities. Both complement one another like the body and the soul.

The musical is one of my favorite genres, and while The Red Shoes is no musical, it is, I believe, reflective of the melodrama that the genre often achieves. Both are not representations of reality so much as expressions of emotion. Expressionism is usually appended to German works conveying an emotional reality, and while classic film examples are Pandora’s Box or Metropolis, I believe expressionism is applicable to musicals and films of that ilk as well.

There is something hyper-real about the luscious Technicolor of The Red Shoes, and the film pulses as if blood flows through its veins. It is difficult to describe and impossible to convey with a screenshot, but even in relatively still scenes, there seems to be motion in the colors, as if they are beating to some silent rhythm. Every time I see the Technicolor in these sorts of films, an entirely closed system is opened up to me. These films almost don’t seem like a photographed external reality, but rather an interior reality, almost like a cartoon.

The division between reality and fantasy plays out over and over again in movies, since it is something inherent to film and audience, literature and reader, or listener and music. What these texts do is pull someone into an alternate reality and transmogrify their experience through vicariousness. How many times have you think you’ve experienced something, but then realize it was something you saw in a movie or read in a book? Yet, it is reductionist to simply point at fiction as merely shadows on a screen or words on a page with no sway towards actual experiences.

There is something about picking a film apart, like how one takes apart a machine to see how it works, that reduces the magic created by it. It’s as if the images on screen serve the same purpose as words in a story: as a guide that inspires imagination within the viewer. Perhaps, then, the magic lies not in the medium alone but the interplay between a viewer’s mind and the medium.

If it sounds like I’ve digressed, it’s because I have, to an extent. The Red Shoes is less concerned with the audience and more with the creators of what the audience takes in. Martin Scorsese loves the film, and the fight scenes in Raging Bull are inspired by the subjective reality of “The Red Shoes” ballet, which emphasizes the writers, directors, producers, and dancers while distancing itself from the audience. Notice the emphasis of the screenshots sandwiching this paragraph on Julian, Vicky and Lermontov. The audience becomes a background, like the ambience of waves crashing against rocks. Yet, it is the same ability to crawl inside a medium that binds the audience to performer, and since I have never had a hand in creating art and am not professionally engaged to film/art, I must find another way to relate to what goes on within the movie screen to my own experience.

What The Red Shoes does so brilliantly is juxtapose images that suggest a fusion between fantasy and reality. Perhaps this goes back to the look and feel of the film, in that it is simultaneously filmed reality (people before a camera) and a representative of an expression and mood (conveyed by the sumptuous colors and the dramatic arc). Nowhere do these images merge more beautifully than in “The Red Shoes” ballet. Like many musicals, the film gives us an extended sequence that is entirely self-contained and stands alone as a masterpiece unto itself, like a story within a story. Yet the best of these pieces, like “Broadway Melody” in Singin’ in the Rain, “Let’s Face the Music and Dance” in Follow the Fleet, and “The Red Shoes” ballet are simultaneously standalones as well as serving to enhance the film they’re in, commenting on the thematic elements and expressing them in a highly cinematic mode of storytelling.

Another short digression, but generally speaking, the two least interesting aspects of films, for me, tend to be the story and dialogue. Invariably, when I’m asked about a movie, it’s about “the story,” as if plot alone is enough to recommend it. For me at least, plot is the clothesline, but it is certainly not the clothing. It helps stitch the fabric of a film together, merging the pieces without overpowering these elements, which include character, mood, atmosphere, and symbolism. The unimportance of the story in my mind, explains why I consider The Red Shoes to be as much about film as it is about dance, even if there is nary a mention of movies throughout the picture.

All of this, I think, is contained within “The Red Shoes” ballet, which sort of magnifies the entirety of the film within its 20 or so minutes. It is like watching the film in miniature, and in the process, it explores the medium of cinema itself and compares it with the stage. The ballet, perhaps endlessly analyzable, begins from a viewer’s perspective and then crosses over into increasingly subjective angles, finally departing completely from the stage, only to reappear in the theater as the number closes. This is what I’ve come to recognize as fantasy surrounded by reality and is representative of the film going experience: as a film begins, we begin to lose reality and by the end, we slip away from fantasy, reciprocating the initial transition. Of course, this is more broadly applicable to fiction in general, although it is more filmic in the sense that the stage cannot shift perspective as easily.

Where it gets (even more) interesting is in viewing Vicky Page as an allegory for the acting piece of the filmic jigsaw puzzle. There is another moment where, in a flash of light, her dancing partner transforms into Lermontov. In another flash, Lermontov changes into Julian Craster. And there is another moment when Julian steps up on stage towards Vicky, but then transforms into a dancer. The film is transposing the conductor into the characters themselves, as if he is conjuring the characters into being with his baton, like a wizard wielding a wand. In a way, the film is arguing for the auteur theory in collaborative art forms like film or the stage. The conductor, like the director, is almost a puppet master pulling the strings and controlling the movements of the player (the puppet, incidentally, is used in The Double Life of Veronique, one of my very, very favorite movies).

Personally, I’m not crazy about the auteur theory, although I tend to identify movies by director, since they are generally the biggest creative force. While it is important to acknowledge every person involved in the filmmaking process, I also believe the film itself is like a living entity, acting and reacting to what it sees. There are some things that simply cannot be accounted for, and perhaps luck, fate, or whatever you want to call it is responsible. It is an invisible force, like strings being pulled by a higher power, or perhaps no power at all other than life itself. We are all governed by something which we cannot fully explain, and it is this mystery that causes Vicky to jump from the building. Yes, we can say she jumped because she couldn't take it anymore, but why was she so torn and what caused this?

The division between Vicky’s love for dance and her love for Julian is balanced on a razor, and upholding both, as the film implies, is difficult. Her obsession with either one is like a love affair, and there is an interesting shot of her dresser where we see a picture frame. One half has a photograph of Julian, and the other is a cartoon of what appears to be Lermontov. When Julian storms in her dressing room, it is like the husband catching the adulterous wife. Interesting, too, that Lermontov’s picture is a drawing, perhaps reminding us that dancing is an alternate reality from “real life.”

Boris Lermontov is a caricature more than a complete human, representative of having complete devotion to a craft and treating it like a religion. There is a shot that, for me, more or less defines him: He is next to a statue of a ballerina’s shoe, literally placing it on a pedestal. His relationship with Vicky is intended to be completely professional, and I sense no lust in his obessesion with her.

The red shoes are an allegory of this life force tugging at an individual to make divisive choices. It is often said the shoes are representative of obsession with perfecting a craft. Just as Vicky puts herself inside them, she is immersing herself within the dancing profession, and this is applicable to virtually anything in life. The ending of the movie can be seen as the tug between love and vocation, finally tearing the individual apart.

I see the ending not so much as a tragedy, but as an allegory for transcendence. When Vicky dies, her spirit doesn’t float into the ether but rather becomes the red shoes. The ballet continues eerily without her, having the spotlight shine wherever she would be. This idea of having the performance transcend the body is, for me, a self-reflexive gesture that was foreshadowed in the earlier rendition of the ballet. The first time, the demonic shoemaker holds the red shoes and makes them dance, just like a puppet master (he can be seen as representative of Julian/Lermontov, who are in turn, representative of the filmmakers).

The film medium is incorporeal, yet the images on screen have a life of their own. Moira Shearer may have passed away, but she lives on in The Red Shoes, just like any other film actor's work. Having the final ballet with a physically incorporeal, yet imaginary and mentally tangible, dancer is indicative of the film medium itself. The demonic shoemaker is emblematic of the director, and there is a simultaneously intimate, yet violent, sequence where Vicky battles with the demon. It’s almost a love-hate relationship, in which there is a love between actor and director, and at the same time, hostility.

The Red Shoes is a magnificent, engrossing film. Like all movies, there needs to be some sympathy with what the film is trying to do, since it is melodramatic. It is a lyrical meditation on life and vocation, and attempting to balance on a tightwire above the two. Like The Double Life of Veronique, there is the sense of a metaphysical, transcendent state, in which artist and medium, audience and text, illusion and reality, merge into a single disposition. It is an act of love.

Shadow of a Doubt (1943)

There are spoilers.

Director: Alfred Hitchcock

Screenplay: Thorton Wilder, Sally Benson, and Alma Reville

Starring: Teresa Wright, Joseph Cotton, Macdonald Carey, Patricia Collinge, Henry Travers, Wallace Ford, and Hume Cronyn

Images from the 2005 Universal Masterpiece Collection release.

Shadow of a Doubt is, for me, one of the most fascinating Hitchcock pictures. With it, our beloved master of the macabre arranged the unholy matrimony of the sinister with the banal, a subject that undoubtedly fascinated him and is present in much of his work. While it is said to be his favorite, he told Truffaut that:

"I wouldn't say that Shadow of a Doubt is my favorite picture; if I've given that impression, it's probably because I feel that here is something that our friends, the plausibles and the logicians, cannot complain about."

A common contemporary criticism leveled against Hitchcock's movies was how believable they were. Since that complaint has since died down, Hitchcock's other more outlandish movies like The Birds, Vertigo, North by Northwest, and Rear Window have gained considerable acclaim, overshadowing (ha!) a simple, yet masterful piece like Shadow of a Doubt. Nevertheless, the film's grip on me is unmatched by any Hitchcock film except maybe Rear Window. The Hitchcockian ideas are layered like one dense onion, and I am never bored by it.

Shadow of a Doubt tells the story of an American family in quaint Santa Rosa, California who is visited by their Uncle Charlie. His niece Charlie, who's named after him, simply adores her uncle. She soon discovers that Uncle Charlie may not be as wonderful as she thinks him to be. The film presents some of the best contrasts and juxtapositions of any Hitchcock movie.

Opening Shots

In the spirit of Jim Emerson's Opening Shots Project, I'll continue here.

The opening shots of Shadow of a Doubt show couples dancing to a waltz, which then dissolves to a view of the East (?) River. Along this river we see what appear to be homeless people:

This juxtaposition provides us with much of what the movie will be concerned with. Since we are first shown the couples dancing, this evokes a moment of glamour that is absent from the everyday feel of the rest of the film. We can read this as the divide between the fantasy of the past and the bitter reality of the present. This also suggests Uncle Charlie's disgust for the world and his justification for murdering widows: That their insulation from the real world borders along reprehensibility worthy of punishment. The shots also bring to mind the idea of losing our innocence as we mature. There is a pull on Uncle Charlie, where he is embarrassed by his youthful ignorance while at the same time, he yearns for the haven of the past and the good ol' days of 46 Birnam St..

I Now Pronounce You Uncle and Niece, Husband and Wife

Maybe the most interesting relationship developed in a Hitchcock movie is between Charlie and her uncle. The common perception is their psychic connection. The first time we see each of them, they lay in the same positions, forging a spiritual link of sorts:

While that interpretation is fine and dandy, I think it's valuable to dig deeper. I see their relationship as the marriage of innocence to evil... an incestuous union that serves as an allegory for the pervasive way in which the macabre has become a fact of everyday life. Anyone familiar with Hitchcock can see how this would appeal to him. From his innocent man wrongly accused pictures, to the everyday murder weapons, to his "chamber films" that hold up the mirror to the public and reveal the sinister goings on happening in the most average of homes, the idea of bringing corruption into an innocent situation is something that Hitchcock explores again and again in his movies.

This idea manifests itself in Shadow of a Doubt beautifully. The film brings up the motif of matrimony so frequently, that it's difficult for me to look at the film without thinking about it. I can see the whole film as the proposal, marriage, conflict, and divorce between Charlie and her uncle. The "marriage," so to speak, occurs when Uncle Charlie gives his niece a ring:

The scenes between the two Charlie's are the most fascinating in the film, and they carry with them inbred insinuations. This idea of marriage is brought up over and over again throughout Shadow of a Doubt. Watch Young Charlie's behavior evolve, and you can almost see the two as a married couple. At first, there is such a high admiration for him, that it borderlines on a crush. At the dinner scene where Charlie has found out about her Uncle's crimes, the two seem like a couple who are passive aggressively quarreling. As Charlie tells her uncle:

"You can throw the paper away. Dad's read it and you've read it. We don't need to play any games with it tonight."

In their subtle verbal jousting, there is also the sense of "adultery." Young Charlie's wardrobe is interesting. When she gets the idea to send a telegram to Uncle Charlie, she puts on this jacket:

The two buttons reinforce the dichotomy that Charlie and her uncle form. The jacket with the two buttons can be associated chiefly with her Uncle Charlie. Consider the dress she wears with the same pairing, this time with what appears to be birds instead of buttons:

This dress can be associated with Jack. Francois Truffaut considered Jack to be one of the weak links of Shadow of a Doubt. I'm inclined to agree, but only to a point. If he's lackluster and a bit humdrum, that's fitting. It's the same reason that Paul Henreid in Casablanca is somewhat drab. Teresa Wright and Joseph Cotten have to have the attention in the movie, and I feel that having Jack played more strongly could hurt their dynamic. In addition, it furthers the auteur theory for Hitchcock, since his films invariably have a policeman who is boring.

Incidentally, in that scene, Katherine (the one with the glasses) adds a lot to the picture and enhances the idea that Charlie is "seeing" older men. Each time we see Katherine, she is always ogling the men that are with Charlie. Clearly, she's jealous, or perhaps she sees it as gossip fodder. Regardless, I love how Hitchcock does it in a completely cinematic manner. It's the sort of thing that couldn't be written into dialogue.

Returning to the idea of an "affair" for the "marriage," the shot that brings these associations of Teresa Wright's wardrobe together is this one:

Simple, yet effective, this shot at its most apparent level shows a conflict in Charlie's mind. Should she trust this man's word or should she have faith in her uncle? But when we add the idea of marriage to the situation, it creates, in my mind, the idea of an affair. Once we form the associations of the dress with the birds and the jacket with the buttons, we can infer a kind of "affair," in which she is at the very least being unfaithful to her uncle.

The "divorce" of the film, then, would have to be that masterful confrontation at the back porch:

This shot is an easy one. Notice the little ring between them for pulling the shade down? It's a complete contrast to the earlier scene where Uncle Charlie gives his niece the ring. Their clothes are darker and the window is white. It's practically a negative print of the earlier scene.

If there is one more piece of evidence for the idea of marriage, it lies in Uncle Charlie's philosophy concerning widows:

"Women keep busy in towns like this. In the cities it's different. The cities are full of women, middle-aged widows, husbands dead, husbands who've spent their lives making fortunes, working and working. Then they die and leave their money to their wives. Their silly wives. And what do the wives do, these useless women? You see them in the hotels, the best hotels, every day by the thousands. Drinking the money, eating the money, losing the money at bridge, playing all day and all night. Smelling of money. Proud of their jewelry but of nothing else. Horrible, faded, fat, greedy women."

Uncle Charlie has such a complete disdain for widows, but moreover, he abhors the ignorant that leech off others. It is because of this belief that the "marriage" makes sense, at least for me. Uncle Charlie wants to stir the calm waters of Santa Rosa and awaken his niece to reality. Their bond can be seen as a multitude of marriages: innocence and corruption, fantasy and reality, youth and maturity, and awareness and ignorance. I'm sure there are others.

The Sinister in the Banal, Lost Innocence & Maturation: Something Wicked This Way Comes

Look at any Hitchcock picture and you can tell it's his. Some may be easier to recognize than others, but the vast majority (and certainly all the best ones) carry common threads. The big one is this undercurrent of macabre humor in the most pedestrian of situations. Look at The Trouble with Harry (one of his underrated movies). The whole thing concerns a town who fuddles around trying to figure out what to do with a dead body. It's black humor, but if you're in sync with it, it's hilarious. In Shadow of a Doubt, we get some of the best comic moments in Hitchcock's work. Chiefly, this comes from Charlie's father Joe and his literary friend Herb:

Their arguments center around what's the best way to kill a person... specifically, each other. I liked the one where they discuss the use of a blunt object, and Herbert says: "I'd press your hands against the lead pipe to make you look like a suicide case. Then again, it doesn't seem hardly likely that you'd kill yourself with a blunt object." The significance of these talks, other than comic relief, is that Young Charlie is able to call attention to their morbidity when she is finally awakened to the idea that the world isn't harmless.

Maturity begins with a loss of innocence. We are no longer naive, but "aware" of the world's horrors. Trying to recapture that innocence is the hardest thing in the world, and it's interesting that I've just read the graphic novel Ghost World and seen the screen adaptation, since the idea is present in it and Shadow of a Doubt as well. Uncle Charlie clearly has ambivalent desires. On one hand, there's the desire to recapture his youth in returning home. He even expresses his wish to settle down in Santa Rosa and live a quaint life. His voice is filled with warm nostalgia on talking about 46 Birnam Street and he says the world was a better place back then:

"Everyone was sweet and pretty then, Charlie. The whole world. Wonderful world. Not like today. Not like the world now."

And yet, he is simultaneously embarrassed by his youth when Emma remarks about his childhood accident:

"What's the use of looking backward? What's the use of looking forward? Today's the thing. That's my philosophy. Today."

In addition to the idea of marriage as an allegory for juxtaposition of opposing ideas, Shadow of a Doubt can be seen as a story of maturity. Like the story of Pandora, Young Charlie is innocent, yet stagnant. In an effort to stir those waters, she is awakened to a very simple realization: That the world is not a place of bliss, that her former problems always seem trivial (remember her angst at the beginning of the picture?), and that even her most beloved relative can be a sociopathic killer.

Another one of the great scenes in the film is at the bar:

What we have here is again a dichotomy that is very similar to Ghost World. In the film, Young Charlie doesn't seem to work, but rather spends all her time with her family. Her former classmate Louise works at a bar, and there couldn't be a more deadpan voice. The general plan after high school is college or work. In Charlie's case, she seems to hang in a limbo between the innocence of childhood and the worldliness of adulthood. It is in the film that she matures, and by the end, I don't think she's necessarily better off. Maturity is "better" in the sense that we aren't as naive as we once were. But I often wonder if that's worth sacrificing the happiness of being a child. It's something that I've certainly lost, and while I'm content now, the happiness is different.

An interesting way of thinking about Shadow of a Doubt is also to view it in the context of World War II. The ideas of ignorance, in this case, are clearly directed at the US. There are certainly undertones of film noir as well, although I'm not sure the movie counts as noir. It is the first of Hitchcock's pictures set in the US and is decidedly an American film. The ideas it covers are best seen in the context of the US as well as the era out of which it was born.

Shadow of a Doubt is one of the seminal works in Hitchcock's career and works at its most basic levels as an excellent thriller, a Hitchcockian Pandora's Box and an allegory for maturation , and an examination of marrying the sinister with the banal, the young with the old, fantasy and reality, and awareness and ignorance.

Notorious (1946)

Spoilers galore...

Director: Alfred Hitchcock

Screenplay: Ben Hecht

Starring: Ingrid Bergman, Cary Grant, and Claude Rains

Images from a 2002 Korean bootleg (Region-free) of the Criterion Collection release.

Having not seen Alfred Hitchcock's Notorious in almost a year, I had forgotten just how much I loved the picture. Along with Rear Window, Francois Truffaut claimed it as his favorite Hitchcock movie. The film is not my absolute favorite of his, but it's definitely up there, and after refreshing and revising my thoughts, I think it's one of his most fascinating movies. Here, we have Hitch approaching one of his many summits of perfection, and in Notorious, we have the director at his most subtle, manipulative, and controlling. As with Ace in the Hole or Sunset Blvd., Notorious is also a film noir that breaks free from the conventions we normally apply to the genre/style. The acting too, is perhaps among the strongest in any Hitchcock movie.

Notorious tells the story of Alicia Huberman, the daughter of a Nazi spy who is enlisted by Agent Devlin to go undercover and investigate a group of Nazis in Brazil, headed by Alex Sebastian, a former friend who is easily seduced, falls in love with, and then marries Alicia.

From the very first shot of Notorious, we can see that the film is, to some extent, self-aware.

The credit cards and this first shot, which pans around to look at photographers/reporters just outside a courtroom, are framed within another frame. Just like Rear Window, we become aware of Hitchcock's omnipresent control. The reporters can also be seen as an intrusive force, and they, along with the film itself, direct Alicia and Devlin's actions. Notorious, at its most basic level, is a film about a love triangle, and the people pulling the strings (Hitchcock's camera, Madame Sebastian, Devlin, Alicia, and Prescott).

Control: In Love, War, and Patriotism... Exercise subtlety.

Plot-wise, Notorious is like any other romance. The story is simple: An FBI agent falls in love with a Nazi member's daughter. Against his own feelings and for the sake of his country, he pushes her away and into the arms of another man who's in love with her. What distinguishes it from say, Casablanca, is that it is a Hitchcock picture. In Notorious, there is a feeling of entrapment, something that Hitchcock put into his very best movies (Rear Window, Rope, Shadow of a Doubt, Vertigo, Strangers on a Train, etc., etc.).

Hitchcock's movies, by in large, have a police-phobia, perhaps stemming from the well-known, well-told story of his father sending him to a police station to teach him a lesson about law abiding. When we see Alicia driving (drunk) with Devlin, there is of course, a policeman:

More than just Hitchcock's (sub-)conscious phobias expressing themselves, we can also see this as the coming rift between Devlin and Alicia caused by their patriotic duty and sense in upholding of US law. Alicia is also wearing a zebra patterned blouse, suggesting at least two things. On one level, she is a kind of prey to Devlin, as well as his profession. It also symbolizes her promiscuity and primeval nature, and to me, it suggests her as a sort of femme fatale, if we adopt a film noir approach to the film (I'll discuss this later).

Maybe it's just me, but I've never felt like "rooting" for Devlin to get the girl. It's not at all the feeling you get from seeing Casablanca, where you really want Rick and Ilsa to be together. Yes, Devlin does have the guarded stoicism of Rick, but Rick's comes from his wounded past, whereas Devlin's comes from his sense of duty. In Notorious, Devlin acts as a puppeteer, and it is through his actions that he guides Alicia into the hands of Alex Sebastian.

It is in this scene (along with many others) that Devlin orchestrates the action by spurring Alicia's horse and causing Alex to run after her and "Meet Cute." From this shot, you can sense the animosity between the two, expressed by Alicia's hat, which shields her from Devlin.

One thing I noticed about the shooting style is that it's very consistent and precise, and the camera movements suggest feeling and provide atmosphere (duh!). The famous kissing scene is done in one long take. The film does not provide any breaks from the moment and shoots them in a close-up that envelopes the lovers. While also adding a sense of intimacy to the scene, the shot also serves as a snare and an allegory for love and duty. The long take binds them and does not allow for any escape.

In later scenes, we see the animosity between the two grow, and as it does, the shooting style changes. Take, for instance, the scene where Devlin first tells Alicia of her assignment. At first, they are all love-y dove-y, and both are shown kissing in the same cozy close-up. As the details of her assignment are made clear, the two begin drifting apart. Eventually, we don't see them intimately in the same frame and the film begins cutting between individual close-ups. There is a moment in which we see Alicia alone behind the veiled window curtain, deciding her fate to go undercover. The scene ends provocatively with this noir-ish shot:

Devlin's love throughout the film is masked by contempt. He loves her, yet he is irked by her promiscuity and how his boss, Prescott, encourages exploiting it. We will see that he will constantly use her unstable past as a source of fodder in their verbal jousting.

"I guess this is the part where you tell me you have a wife and two kids and this affair cannot continue."

"Well, you'd be used to it by now."

"Right below the belt, every time."

The image places them apart, yet it wisely places them in the same frame. Their romance has been undermined by the assignment while at the same time, they must keep in contact because of it.

The shooting/editing style of first showing them together and then indicating a rift by separating them in shot-reverse-shot is subtle, which I think is in keeping with the whole espionage theme of the film. Emotion is rarely stated overtly or melodramatically. Suspicions are insinuated by simplistic dialogue. I'm amazed at how little music there is too, unlike Hitchcock's many collaborations with Bernard Hermann. In Vertigo or Psycho, the music is such an integral part of the movie that it's impossible to think about them without taking Hermann's contributions into consideration. Notorious, on the other hand, does not use musical cues to emphasize emotion, instead relying on visuals for expression:

This scene is one of my favorites, because in some ways, it is the entire film summed up in a nutshell. We first see Devlin and Alicia together, with her feeding him information right under the nose of Alex Sebastian. There is then a smooth transition to Alex and Alicia. The visuals tell us the situation, and here, Alicia's clothing suggests she is caught like a fish between the two men, as well as her love and her duty.

If Alicia is being manipulated by Prescott and Devlin, the counterpoint to this relationship is Alex's manipulation by his mother. As with other Hitchcock films (Psycho, North by Northwest), my fascination with his characters often stems from their unorthodox relationship with their mothers. Alex Sebastian isn't quite as odd as Norman Bates, but in some ways, the relationship is more interesting, and on one level, creepier (Yikes! Did I just say that?).

Along with her possessiveness of Alex, there is also a hint of incestuousness, like when Alex says:

"You've always been jealous of any woman I've shown any interest in!"

His mother acts as a director much in the same way that Devlin does. She does, after all, hold the keys to the mansion. The mansion itself is kind of like Manderley in Rebecca, an arena in which Hitchcock can move his pieces to his liking. The interiors are simultaneously vast while still filled with claustrophobic close-ups. The centerpiece shot of the film is all Hitchcock, complete with chessboard and pawns:

Hitchcock loved hitting on little details with shots and edits to signify their importance, using Pure Cinema as he called it. Maybe that's why I like Hitchcock. His movies tend to have a strong visual component, and he told stories more with images than words. In Notorious, the key and the poisoned coffee (both controlled by Mme. Sebastian) become his central motifs. The hoodwinking of the key, perhaps parallels Alicia's undercover affair with Devlin. And for me, the poison provides an allegory for the dangers of marriage, as well as suggesting the possibility of Alicia as a femme fatale. As Alex says:

"[...] entirely due to your presence, my dear. You always affected me like a tonic [...]"

Notorious as Noir

The funny thing about Notorious is that I actually feel the most sympathy towards Alex. In looking at it through the lens of noir, I see Alex, not Devlin, as our conflicted noir hero and Alicia becomes the dangerous woman (maybe even... notorious), and could be called a femme fatale. After all, it is Alicia who puts on the mask and surprisingly, Alex falls for it by proposing marriage. In some ways, Notorious is a noir like Touch of Evil, where the "good guy" (Devlin) is less interesting, and even less sympathetic than the "bad guy" (Alex).

Alfred Hitchcock and film noir were both highly influenced by German Expressionism, and while they do cross paths, Hitchcock isn't really considered a noir director. I think part of that may be his tendency to experiment and go with bombastic globe trekking movies like Saboteur or his techni-color films later on. Still, Notorious has definite noir qualities, particularly the masking of emotion and expressionism.

The Cast

What sticks out about Notorious among Hitchcock movies is that the casting is perhaps at its very limits of perfection.

Of the Ingrid Bergman movies I've seen, I think Notorious has her best performance (yes, better than the Oscar winning Anastasia or Gaslight performances). This movie in particular, shows her range. One thing about the acting in Notorious that strikes me is the eye movements. There are frequently shifting glances by Grant and Bergman that fit very well with the subtlety of the film. Especially Bergman, who is so good with close-ups and often has eyes that search the face of whomever she's looking at.

Cary Grant's calm stoicism is also well suited, and it's an interesting choice to have him as less sympathetic than Claude Rains, who perhaps gives the most fascinating performance. With Notorious, the characters are not pigeonholed into a standard damsel-in-distress routine but given dimensions. While I tend to say Devlin is unsympathetic, I say that because of how he deals with his love more than his inner feelings. Of course he loves her, but he closes himself off, both for his job and out of contempt for her past behavior.

If I say Claude Rains is the most sympathetic, part of that comes from his position. To everyone, he is basically a tool to be used. Rarely do you see him in any control: the poison is decided by mother, the keys are held by mother, he does not instigate his relationship with Alicia, his fate comes from his own gullibility, etc.. There is a sense of fatalism to his character in particular that seems very noir-ish.

Out of the Past (1947)

There are spoilers.

Director: Jacques Tourneur

Screenplay: Geoffrey Homes

Starring: Robert Mitchum, Jane Greer, and Kirk Douglas

Images from the 2004 WHV release.

"You're no good and neither am I. That's why we deserve each other."
-Kathy Moffat

Out of the Past is quintessential film noir, containing all the important elements that are typical of the style and utilizing them to create a film that not only engrosses the viewer, but examines the nature of temptation, regret, retribution, and redemption. It tells the story of Jeff Bailey, a former detective who wishes to escape the mistakes of his past and live a quiet, normal life. However, he is soon drawn back into the folds of murder, lies, deceit, high stakes, and one hell of a vicious femme fatale.

The opening scenes with Jeff Bailey and Ann Miller fishing at the lake are decisively placid and in complete isolation from the world. Jeff is a man with a hidden past, and it is here that he finds a sanctuary from it. Ann is idyllic and romanticizes about the world as one big, beautiful place. She is drawn to this mysterious man who seems to have been everywhere, whereas he would like nothing more than to forget where he's been and think only of being with her. When I see Out of the Past, I am always struck by the contrast in the film. It's hard to believe the darkness and coercion later in the film begins so peacefully. It is through this contrast of ideal simplistic living and the convoluted world of film noir that Out of the Past attempts to explore the depths of the human soul and how far it can be corrupted before being beyond salvation.



The title for Out of the Past is perfectly suited for its subject matter. Jeff is a man who channels his regrets inward. Robert Mitchum's deadpan demeanor is particularly well suited for the noir hero, who expresses his ambivalence through lack of overt emotion. Jeff attempts to stamp out his past failures, only the more he hides, the more apparent it becomes that facing these demons is inevitable. The fatalistic manner in which this encounter is approached reminds us of film noir's focus on death. Death is the common denominator and belaying the inevitable is as impossible as perpetual happiness. The bliss of sitting by that pond is so short lived that it is all but forgotten about when we are plunged into the convolutions of Jeff's past.



I have stated that plot isn't something that interests me a great deal. Film noirs often have such convoluted plots that even after viewing them 4-5 times, I'm still not clear what's going on. Fleshing out all these details isn't important, however, I wouldn't dismiss plot as lacking in meaning. What I do glean from the story of Out of the Past, in particular, is that amidst the chaos, it is Jeff that attempts to gain some sort of redemption for his actions. He is plagued by regret and it is this that drives him to seek out justice outside the law, which is distant and powerless in the film.

I am particularly aware of the idea of fate in Out of the Past. It's as if Jeff is acting on a will that is his own, but paradoxically one that he cannot change or shy away from. As Joe Stephanos tells him to go to Whit Sterling's house on Lake Tahoe:

"You won't miss it... you can't."

As Jeff recounts his past to Ann, the film already becomes enveloped in the darkness of film noir's world.



Perhaps I have watched too many pessimistic films, but Ann Miller seems to have an unusual amount of trust borderlining naivete to the point of ignorance. It's odd, and I am always surprised by how calm and understanding she is hearing of Jeff's flaws and his affair with Kathy Moffat. Give credit to Virginia Huston for imbuing Ann with a gaze that expresses a willingness to accept a man regardless of what he's done. She even earnestly encourages him to decide whether he still loves Kathy, a woman she has heard nothing but rotten things about. Somehow, I doubt Ann would have been so understanding if she had grown up in the city. Out of the Past attributes this trustfulness with small town virtues and contrasts it with Jeff's world weary disillusionment.

To counterpoint Ann, Kathy Moffat is the archetypal femme fatale. I've rarely had such a polarizing view of a character and it becomes difficult to decide just how much I should like, or be repulsed by, Kathy. There are moments that seem genuinely romantic and sincere and I can't help but like her. The music helps convey her subjectively through Jeff's eyes, as it succumbs to her beauty with romantic melodies.



One thing Out of the Past does particularly well is to question the nature of temptation. What is it that drives us to go against all rationality and embrace what we know is no good? Why is it that Jeff feels the desire to whisk Kathy away from Whit, when he is perfectly aware of Whit's reach? There aren't any definitive answers, other than to say that such things are inherent to the human psyche, and it is these flaws that define us.

As an allegory for these temptations, Out of the Past frequently presents the motif of gambling. Whether it be the race tracks, Whit playing poker, or Jeff and Kathy at the roulette table, games of chance come to define the aspirations of these characters: the desire to risk everything for a slim chance at happiness.



The roulette table, I think, is a particularly strong image. Not only does it convey the ridiculous odds stacked against Jeff, but it also works to define Kathy. She is a woman forever associated with the revolver, both for "jumping from gutter to gutter," as well as for killing the most people in the film. Not only does she kill Jack Fisher, Whit Sterling (who she had shot on a previous occasion), and Jeff Bailey, but in a way, she is responsible for Joe Stephanos' death as well.

Kathy Moffat comes to define the femme fatale so completely, that even the most romantic scenes are undercut by an impending sense that nothing real or lasting can ever happen between them. He knows there's little future to be had, but he's so swept up in the moment that it becomes impossible for him to resist temptation. There is something incredibly alluring about a woman from whom no good can come. The idea of the femme fatale is not new, either. In The Odyssey, the Sirens were bird-like women who would lure men to their deaths, much as a mirage can lead one to chase an illusion. In fact, Kathy's entrance is very much like a woman coming out of a mirage, and she eventually ensnares Jeff.



The beach scenes serve as a turning point in Jeff's character, especially considering the roulette scene came immediately prior. It is when he kisses Kathy on the beach that there is no turning back. He's a fish caught in that net. For him, it's as if once he's begun, there is no out. This notion is also expressed in Billy Wilder's Double Indemnity, reminding us of the fatalistic way in which film noir colors the world.

There are really some terrific bits of dialogue throughout Out of the Past that perfectly convey the disillusionment present in film noir:

Kathy: "I'm sorry he didn't die."
Jeff: "Give him time."

or

Kathy: "I didn't take [the $40,000]... you have to believe me."
Jeff: "Baby, I don't care."

Kathy is so deceptive, that it is easy for the viewer to fall under her spell. It's quite clear, however, that she relishes nothing more than to catalyze the primal urges in the males around her. Just as Pandora released chaos unto the world, so does the femme fatale, only in this case, her motives are not out of curiosity or ignorance, but out of a desire to be the object of men's desires. I think Jane Greer effectively captured what makes the femme fatale malicious and there is a wonderful smirk on her face and glint in her eye as Jeff and Jack Fisher fight before her:



Maybe it's just me, but I seem to notice that film noir often references "the movies." In Out of the Past, there is a theater across from El Mar Azul, where Jeff first meets Kathy. Others such as Nicolas Ray's In a Lonely Place and Billy Wilder's Sunset Blvd. directly situate themselves amongst the Hollywood atmosphere. Perhaps it has to do with the very fleeting nature of a movie. As in The Purple Rose of Cairo, a movie used as a means of escape from reality can work wonders as a temporary reprieve. Just as escape through film provides momentary happiness, the bliss of Jeff's meetings with Kathy (and Ann, for that matter) have no permanence.

In keeping with the self reflexive spirit, I don't think it's much of a stretch to compare the femme fatale to the screen actor either. Consider how easily Kathy is capable of inspiring pity, or how perfectly she can imitate Mita Carson's voice. The femme fatale embodies many things, but it's impossible to pin her down to a single entity. She is a doppelganger that can inspire pity, woo the hearts of men, or suddenly turn on them if it's to her advantage. And after spinning these men around, she can repeat it again and again. 



It'd probably be worthwhile to discuss Whit Sterling, who is a character I still haven't quite figured out yet. I almost want to say he and Jeff form the same dichotomy I discussed earlier between Sam Spade and Miles Archer in The Maltese Falcon. Whit does seem more extroverted than Jeff, and while he seems to express his thoughts more openly, it's almost as if he's divorced himself from any real emotions. It's like he's operating completely on his wealth:

Whit: Ten years ago, I hid my feelings away somewhere and I haven't been able to find them."
Jeff: "Where'd you look?"
Whit: "In my pocketbook."

He's a strange fellow, to say the least, however I suspect his desire for control stems from compensation for impotence. After all, he did get shot by Kathy (and later murdered by her). He seems to gain a smug sense of superiority by having Kathy living under his thumb after she'd run off with Jeff. Of course, such feelings of superiority don't really give him any authority, merely the illusion thereof. 



One of my favorite scenes in the film is where Jeff visits the home of Leonard Eels, a lawyer who is in the position to expose Whit's tax fraud. Unbeknownst to Jeff, he is being framed for Leonard's murder:

"I think I'm in a frame..."

As Leonard tells Jeff so fittingly:

"All women are wonders... because they reduce all men to the obvious."

There is something visual about the scene that I feel works quite well, and it's only recently that I think I've figured it out:

I think it's the line of car lights moving slowly across the bridge that completes the scene. It reminds me of another one of my favorite films, Guillermo del Toro's Pan's Labyrinth. That film touched briefly on the idea that the world does not end with one man's death, regardless of who that man is. That is, a man is killed and the crickets will still chirp, oblivious to the loss of life. Likewise, it is strangely disquieting to see a line of cars perpetually moving in the distance, and that it will keep moving no matter how horribly this man is to be killed.

This part of the film is where I feel knowing the plot to some degree can give a greater appreciation to understanding Jeff's motives. Still, his motives are never completely clear and there is always some ambivalence. I wonder just what he's trying to do. Is he trying to save Eels to save his life? Or perhaps he's more interested in not getting framed. Personally, I feel he is searching for some sort of salvation by his own personal form of justice. 

For me, I think his guilt is best expressed upon his failure to prevent Leonard's death here:

It's interesting to think about what Jeff believes is retribution/redemption for his sins. My belief is that he feels the only way he can gain any real forgiveness is by bringing Kathy to justice. And yet, the very fatalistic nature of this world prevents him from gaining anything other than an eye for an eye. That is, he will never gain an "upper hand" over his enemies. The best he can do is to break even. 

I do not believe that Jeff feels there is any other way for salvation. He does not accept the brand of forgiveness that Ann gives him. 

Ann Miller is as much a fabrication as Kathy Moffat. They can be seen as an idealization of a woman, both of which form two sides of the same coin. Whereas Kathy embodies the summation of all male desire and temptation, Ann represents a benevolent and understanding woman that above all else, is willing to accept a man's flaws, no matter how deep. In a way, they form the idea of the goddess-whore complex that Martin Scorsese frequently touches on in works such as Raging Bull.

I suppose it could be argued that ignorance is bliss. Ann definitely seems as though she lives in a bubble of idealism and undying hope for humanity. In some ways, I wonder whether she is too far removed from harsh reality. She's the one who says:

Ann: "She [Kathy] can't be all bad..."

Jeff: "She comes the closest."

This faith in humanity seems to have a naivete that is all but absent from the disillusioned noir hero. Ann lives on an island amidst a sea of all that is base and carnal.

She is not, however, entirely selfless or pious. During the final scene, she asks:

"Was he going away with her? I have to know."

To which the deaf and mute kid replies with a nod. I feel like Jeff would've wanted it that way. It's as if it was his one last act to reach some sort of salvation. He realized that if she thought he had died for her, the rest of her life may  have been wasted in mourning. While this ending stings (and you can see her heart break, just a little), he has essentially saved Ann's life by severing his ties with her.

I almost want to think of Ann and the deaf and mute kid as an allegory for the audience. Ann presents a forgiving nature that would be uncommon in reality. I feel as if a movie audience is more forgiving to a morally questionable celluloid persona as opposed to a real criminal. I wonder if the Hays production code in a way, helped to elicit morally fascinating characters through its restrictions. By creating rules like Criminals Must Get Their Comeuppances, interesting stories could be created by looking from the noir hero and femme fatale's perspectives.