“How could I have known that murder can sometimes smell like honeysuckle?”
For years when I watched Double Indemnity, Walter Neff’s (Fred MacMurray) iconic lines were merely the work of a clever wordsmith, an unforgettable turn of phrase- nothing more. However, this evocative image is a metaphor for the paramount theme of the film. A haunting tale of lust, greed and transgression, this cinematic masterpiece explores the disparity between how things appear to be vs. what is real. In the end, Double Indemnity proves normalcy often belies the disturbing and bizarre: in its universe, a striking blonde dame can reveal herself a duplicitous murderess while an ordinary neighborhood sales man can turn out to be the killer next door.
Cinematographer John F. Seitz’s juxtaposition of sunny Los Angeles with somber interiors suggests a deadly menace can always lurk…even behind the most innocent facades. As film critic Imogen Sarah Smith notes, from the outside, the Dietrichson house appears to a visiting salesman “almost as desirable as the platinum-blonde housewife who greets him wrapped in a towel.” A stately staircase of red brick leads to the gorgeous spanish-style mansion while warm Santa Ana winds carry the hypnotic scent of honeysuckle. But inside the place reeks of stagnation. Dark and oppressive, the house’s only light sneaks in through venetian blinds, illuminating the dust in the air. The living room, Neff observes, is still “stuffy from last night’s cigars.” Like a prisoner, bewitchingly seductive housewife Phyllis (Barbara Stanwyck) is sentenced to a life of tedious domesticity, condemned to endless nights of wearisome silence and Chinese checkers.
In much the same way her glamorous Los Feliz estate conceals an existence of quiet desperation, Phyllis’s beguiling physical allure masks the fact that she’s “rotten to the core.” Upon meeting her, Neff is immediately enthralled by her sexuality. “That’s a honey of an anklet you’re wearing, Mrs. Dietrichson,” he flirts ogling her voluptuous figure, a choice of words that foreshadows the later idea that murder smells like “honeysuckle.” The fact that Neff refers to her provocative anklet as “honey” suggests her sexuality is as tantalizing as the yellow brown nectar. But just as murder can smell like honeysuckle, beauty can disguise the malevolent and lethal. Phyllis perfectly embodies this paradox: like an exquisite but poisonous oleander, she uses her womanly charms to manipulate Neff into committing murder. Clearly, Mrs. Dietrichson is familiar with the phrase “you catch more bees with honey than with vinegar.”
A shrewd salesman who can smell fraud, Neff sees through Phyllis’s concerned housewife act and correctly guesses she wants to buy accident insurance for her husband so she can kill him and collect. When he realizes her plan, he’s initially appalled but eventually consents to committing murder. But why? what motivates a rather ordinary and, for all intents and purposes, moral man to such a heinous act as murder? Neff has no real motive to kill Mr. Dietrichson besides the fact that he feels a visceral lust for his wife; still, a one-night stand doesn’t seem like enough motive to slaughter someone, especially in so brutal and personal a way as strangulation. So why does he do it?
“Because,” he confesses in his voiceover, “it was all tied up with something I’d been thinking about for years since long before I ran into Phyllis Dietrichson. Because you know how it is Keyes, in this business you can’t sleep for trying to figure out all the tricks they can pull on you. You’re like the guy behind the roulette wheel watching the costumers to make sure they don’t crook the house. And then one night you get to thinking, you could crook the house yourself and do it smart.”
Neff may seem like your average run-of-the-mill salesman, but he will soon reveal himself a remorseless, sociopathic killer. Like a veteran cop who becomes convinced he can pull off the perfect crime, Neff begins to think he can outsmart his insurance buddies at Pacific All-Risk and get away with murder. Despite arguments to the contrary, his decision to slaughter Dietrichson is the result not of lust but of pride, an egotistical longing to pull one over his boss. Interestingly, it’s Neff- not Phyllis-who gets greedy and pushes for the double indemnity clause, even though accidents covered by this stipulation are incredibly rare and will surely bring the case under closer scrutiny. Is he enticed by the promise of more money? No, neither character seems to care much for the 100 grand. His desire to pull off such a daring plot is purely a matter of ego. Though many critics interpret Double Indemnity as the archetypal film noir- boy meets alluring but lethal femme fatale, femme fatale leads boy to his doom- Phyllis is the opportunity for the crime-not the motive.
Of all Wilder’s characters, Neff shows that man has two selves: an outer and an inner. Outwardly, Neff seems charming, smooth-talking but, inwardly, he fantasizes about outwitting the system and harbors disturbing delusions of his own grandeur. He doesn’t kill for rational reasons, for love, say, or money, or vengance, nor does he kill in a fury of senseless passion- he kills to simply prove he can, no real reason at all. What’s more terrifying than the thought of a bored housewife secretly plotting to murder her neglectful husband is the idea that a normal man of sound mind can kill without just cause. The only redeemable character in Double Indemnity is Keyes, Neff’s boss. In what has to be the most suspenseful scene in cinematic history, Phyllis is on her way over to Neff’s apartment when Keyes unexpectedly shows up. “Hello Keyes,” Neff mutters nervously, knowing Phyllis will be there any moment, “What’s on your mind?” Unlike most claims managers who readily accept the official narrative presented to them, Keyes possesses the persistence to sniff out a fraud. After 26 years of dealing with cons trying to swindle him, Keyes is well aware things are often not what they seem. Though it seems like Mr. Dietrichson was simply unfortunate enough to fall off a train, Keyes-using his sharp reasoning skills and impressive statistical knowledge- comes to recognize such an accident’s impossibility. What’s the likelihood that someone takes out a $100,000 accident insurance policy only to die a few days later? and in such a rare way? One out of billions. While no one seems to question the plausibility of a man meeting his demise by falling off a slow-moving train, Keyes begins to correctly suspect that the Dietrichson case is not an accident, but a calculated, rather cleverly plotted murder.
But who’s the killer? “I always tend to suspect the beneficiary,” he confesses as Phyllis eavesdrops from the hallway, “Yeah, that wide-eyed dame that just didn’t know anything about anything.” As Neff walks Keyes out, a trepidatious Phyllis hides behind the door. Here, the mise en scene operates to build a nail-biting, almost intolerable sense of suspense: will Phyllis escape undetected or will Keyes see her and, thus, discover their guilt? As viewers, we hold a privileged position and can see Phyllis hiding; however, from Keyes’s vantage point, the only thing you can see is Neff holding open the door. The shot’s composition provides a masterful way to get viewers engrossed in the film, but more than that, it forces them to contemplate the thematic core of the story itself: the necessity of “looking closer.” Just as Neff appears to be standing alone in front of a door when in actuality his accomplice is hiding behind it, appearances can be deceiving. If we are to locate the facts, Wilder argues, we must be like Keyes: skeptical, questioning, and relentless in our refusal to accept things at face-value.
Few movies have portrayed journalism with such grounded realism and deep reverence as 2015 Academy Award winnerSpotlight. Though director Tom McCarthy paints a rather unglamorous portrait of the profession (the majority of reporting occurs either in the Boston Globe’s dreary manila beige offices or dimly lit basements haunted by the stench of dead rats), it’s clear he possesses a worshipful esteem for the occupation. Like so many films consumed with the minutiae of daily journalism, Spotlight is a “tour de force of filing cabinet cinema,” endlessly fascinated with the details of what today has become a dying craft: the poring over records, the digging up leads, the sifting through clips. But this film is not simply for journalists who wistfully remember the days when newspapers were delivered to your doorstep (or longingly recall the whir of the printing press)- it’s for anyone who believes in the tremendous power of a few individuals to have a far-reaching impact. “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has,” Margaret Mead once said. This subtly gripping tale proves true this sentiment.
A first-rate newsroom drama based on real life events, Spotlight documents the Boston Globe’s Pulitzer Prize-winning investigation into the widespread sexual abuse of children by Roman Catholic priests. The year is 2001: the traditional newspaper has only just begun to compete with the internet but local publications like the Boston Globe are struggling to maintain their readership. To boost sales and make their paper more relevant, the Globe brings in new editor-in-chief Marty Baron (Liev Schreiber), an unmarried man of the Jewish faith. “What are you reading?” Walter Robinson (Michael Keaton), editor of Spotlight, the paper’s investigative division, asks when they meet for a business meeting over dinner and drinks. “The Curse of theBambino but, to be honest,” Baron confesses, “I’m not much of a baseball fan.” In a predominantly Catholic city that devours peanuts at Red Sox games, Baron is an outsider to say the least. But it is his status as newcomer that makes him willing to take on Boston’s mightiest, most formidable adversary: the Archdiocese. After reading that the Archbishop of Boston, Cardinal Law, potentially knew priest John Geoghan was molesting local children, Baron urges Spotlight to investigate.
An ensemble of fine actors compose the Spotlight team: tough guy Michael Rezendes (Mark Ruffalo) typifies the determined persistence of the classic reporter as he tirelessly tracks down leads, sneaking into offices uninvited and enduring door after door slammed in his face. Fellow staff writer Sacha Pfeiffer (a warm performance by Rachel McAdams) interviews victims while diligent reporter Matt Carroll (Brian D’Arcy James) discovers whenever a priest was accused of abusing a child, the Archdiocese would officially say he was on “sick leave” and send him to a treatment center only to reassign him to another parish where he would surely resume his predatory ways.
As the group of journalists delve deeper, they begin to realize the sheer scope of what they’ve stumbled upon: the systematic abuse of children isn’t just limited to Boston-it goes to the heart of the Vatican itself. What makes such rampant horror possible? Creator of the infamous Stanford prison experiment Phillip Zambardo would argue these atrocities weren’t perpetrated by a few “bad apples” but the result of a bad barrel. Lack of oversight, a complete absence of accountability: the Catholic Church created a precarious situation in which priests faced no repercussions for their actions and could therefore be seduced into abusing their power in the most despicable ways. “When you’re from a poor family, religion counts for a lot,” survivor and impassioned victims advocate Phil Saviano explains, “When a priest pays attention to you, it’s a big deal. When he asks you to collect the hymnals, you feel special. It’s like God asking for your help.”
What’s chillingly disturbing about the Catholic Church scandal is not only the ways in which so-called “men of God” use the collar to prey on the helpless and vulnerable but the countless legal, political, and social institutions complicit in the cover up. After all, if the abominable abuse of children was happening on such a grand scale, how did nobody know? The Boston Globe comes to estimate there are nearly 90 offending priests in Boston alone. By discreetly settling these abuse cases out of court, lawyers like handsome, smooth-talking Eric MacLeish (Billy Crudup) keep the Church’s disgraceful secrets hidden from public view (not to mention make a small fortune for themselves). On a larger scale, police departments perpetuate the abuse by releasing offenders like Geoghan back into the hands of the Archdiocese rather than follow standard protocol and press criminal charges. Even the Globe itself, we learn, is partly responsible. The paper had been tipped to the existence of a scandal as far back as 1993 but turned down the opportunity to cover the story. Why? For the same reason families of victims didn’t speak out- they were afraid of taking on an organization as influential as the Archdiocese.
The press, lawyers, police: all wittingly and unwittingly contribute to the conspiracy of silence that enables such monstrosities to continue. Though Spotlight never indulges in the speechifying or grand-standing typical of a Hollywood drama of this material, it unwaveringly maintains a stance that is moral: not only are the perpetrators themselves culpable- loathsome men like Geoghan and their superiors like Cardinal Law- but, through our inaction, we bystanders are equally at fault. As lawyer Garbedian sharply notes, “If it takes a village to raise a child, it takes a village to abuse one.”
The governing philosophy of writer-director Noah Baumbach’s heartfelt, sharp-witted The Squid and the Whale is nicely summed up by the unsparing words of one of his central protagonists Barnard: “people can be very stupid.” A tender, exquisitely painful look at the aftermath of a messy divorce, The Squid and the Whale is also a portrait of the manifold ways people can be petty and foolish when heartbroken.
Barnard (Jeff Daniels) is perhaps the stupidest of all Baumbach’s characters. A once acclaimed novelist whose stardom has dimmed, Barnard is an insufferable bastard for most of the film. Haughtily pompous, he speaks with an obnoxious pretension, assuredly telling his teenage son Walt (Jesse Eisenberg) not to bother with A Tale of Two Cities because it’s “minor Dickens.” So self-important is he that at one point he calls Kafka “one of his predecessors.” When he’s not bragging about an alluring woman he could’ve slept with at a George Plimpton party, he’s subtly boasting that one of his scenes was a favorite of Norman Mailer’s. One gets the sense that Barnard drops the names of impressive people and touts sophisticated-sounding opinions to conceal a deep-seated insecurity: though he was once a novelist of some renown, now he can’t get an agent or a book published. Every time Barnard uttered yet another one of his overblown opinions or self-mythologizing stories, I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. Needless to say, my eyes were rarely straight ahead for the brief 80 minutes of the film…is it any wonder his wife Joan (Laura Linney) leaves him?
A literary talent on the rise, Joan is also a writer but— unlike her has been husband— she actually writes. In a revealing scene, Barnard is setting up his bed on the coach, a tattered copy of Saul Bellow’s The Victim daring us to analyze its significance on the night stand, when he hears the clatter of typewriter keys in the kitchen. Curious, he follows the sound to find his wife visited by the muses who’ve so long forsaken him.
“What are you writing?” he asks obviously jealous, “Did you take my note about the ending?”
“Yeah, some of it….” she nods evasively, clearly not wanting to quarrel.
“Does he still die?” Barnard presses.
“Yes,” she finally admits like a child who’s forced to concede to a bully at school.
“Then you didn’t take my note.”
What follows is a sad scene all too familiar to those who grew up in a turbulent home. As Barnard and Joan holler and shriek, their two sons find their own ways to cope: 12-year-old Frank (Owen Kline) tries to ignore their fighting and hide under the covers; older brother Walt (Jesse Eisenberg) leaves his room to check the commotion, looking painfully vulnerable as he sprawls out on the stairs in his underwear. Baumbach’s directorial touch here is beautifully subtle: though he never states it outright, it’s undeniable envy plays a central role in Barnard and Joan’s breakup.
When Barnard and Joan finally break the news of their split, both are startlingly distant; rather than console their sons with loving assurances, all they discuss are the logistics of joint custody. Yes, after some time Joan hugs a tearful Frank but what should be a heartfelt exchange still seems oddly devoid of emotion.
Divorce is traumatic. We hear this over and over. But never before has a movie so faithfully limned the pain and grief that follows marital dissolution. After the disintegration of his 17-year marriage, Barnard becomes more angry and bitter, constantly bad-mouthing Joan to his sons, even tactlessly revealing to Walt that his mother had an affair. Little thought is given as to how such a divulgence will affect the teenager— all Barnard cares about is enlisting recruits on his side of the war.
Joan isn’t entirely innocent either: unhappy in her loveless marriage to a self-absorbed writer, she finds solace in passionate affairs with several men, including her youngest son’s tennis instructor. Rather than divorce Barnard, she remains unfaithful for many years. Much like her ex-husband, in the immediate aftermath of their divorce she behaves selfishly and insensitively, telling Frank when he shows up unexpectedly for a visit that she needs a “break” from him and his brother once in awhile.
While Joan is romping with a sexy tennis instructor and Barnard is lambasting Joan, their sons are finding their own ways of coping with the devastation of a broken home. A masterful storyteller (he was once a novelist, after all), Barnard fashions a narrative in which he’s the irreproachable victim. Walt, who idolizes his father, whole-heartedly believes his versions of events and channels his rage at Joan, at one point accusing her of “running a brothel.” Outraged by her infidelities, he blames his mother for the divorce and relentlessly defends Barnard. Yes, Joan was unfaithful but— as more impartial viewers witnessing these events— we possess the context to understand her affairs were most likely a symptom of an already strained marriage, not their cause.
The stupidest thing Walt does, I think, is side with Barnard. Not only does he unfairly hold his mother responsible for the divorce, he worships an uppity, self-satisfied snob. In the cult of novelist Barnard, Walt is his most devoted follower: he reveres his father’s judgement so much that he trusts his assessments of literature without question, often passing over books simply because his father dismisses them. So ardent is his adoration that he develops the off-putting habit of imitating his father’s elitist opinions, though he’s never actually read the books he so confidently critiques himself. In a hilarious scene, he tells his love interest that Metamorphosis is very “Kafkaesque,” a bookish adjective he’s undoubtedly heard his father spout around the house. “Uh, yeah,” Sophie (Halley Feiffer) replies, “it would have to be. It’s by Franz Kafka.”
In the wake of his parents’ acrimonious break up, the most despicable habit Walt adopts from his father is his misogyny. It is from Barnard that Walt learns women are but a prop for man’s colossal ego— nothing but pretty play things to be assessed by their exteriors alone. Throughout the film, Walt treats Sophie not as a first love to be courted and wooed but as a placeholder until he finds someone better. “What do you mean, better?” his mother asks in disbelief, knowing “better” is code for more attractive. Barnard encourages this detestable attitude toward women, at one point telling him to have sex with Sophie once to see if he “likes” it and on several occasions urging him to “play the field” and “not get tied down.” After Walt wins the school talent show by passing off Pink Floyd’s “Hey You” as his own, Barnard is more adamant in his recommendation to sidestep commitment: “Things are going to change for you after tonight,” he assures him, hinting Walt will attract more tantalizing, desirable prospects after the evening’s show.
Despite their (many) failings, film critic Nick Schager has said, The Squid and the Whale “dares not harshly judge its all-too-human characters.” I would have to agree. Barnard, Walt, Joan: all are but frail, flawed people trying to navigate heartbreak on their own.
Offbeat, dark and at times downright hysterical, Macon Blair’s I Don’t Feel at Home in This World Anymore charts one neurotic woman’s quest to recover justice in an evermore unjust world. The inescapable buzz of grim news blaring through car radios, the bleak reports of protests and mass shootings, the million and one ways men can be thoughtless and utterly inconsiderate of each other: all provide the dreary backdrop to Ruth Kimke’s rather sad life. In the opening scene alone, our central character witnesses an elderly woman die after making a series of despicably vulgar, racist comments, a colossal pickup truck unapologetically guzzle gas and belch a stream of exhaust, and countless other ordinary people be heedless and rude. The cheerful strumming of Jason Newman’s ukuleles renders the scene all the more pitiful. When Ruth arrives home only to find that she’s been robbed, she loses what little faith in humanity she has left and sets out to find the perpetrators on her own.
Our misanthropic protagonist becomes more ruthlessly cynical as she notices the deterioration of graciousness and good manners all around her. So disgusted is she with humanity that she starts sobbing while reading a bedtime story to a five year old. “But everyone’s an asshole!” a hysterical, disillusioned Ruth counters when a friend tries to comfort her with platitudes.
Self-described as a constant portrayer of morose and dispirited types, Melanie Lynskey captures Ruth’s bitter outrage with moving effect. As LA Times film critic Justin Chang has said, Lynskey gives “endearing form to a woman for whom life has become an endless series of dissatisfactions.” But what makes her character relatable and likeable-I think-is her yearning to preserve rectitude in a broken world. In our harrowing era of division and bigotry, many of us can identify with Ruth, a weary woman who wonders what happened to basic courtesy among fellows.
Ruth, however, isn’t an entirely sympathetic character. Is her commitment to goodness noble? Of course. But watching the film, I couldn’t help but find her rants about the decline of human decency unproductively pessimistic. Yes, people are assholes: what’s sitting and complaining for 45 minutes going to do about it? When Ruth embarks on a mission to locate the people who robbed her, I understand her motives: she’s an upstanding citizen who’s tired of contemptible people doing wrong and getting away with it. But the pragmatist in me couldn’t help but wonder: if you find the perpetrators, what are you going to accomplish? You’ll get your grandma’s irreplaceable silver back? You’ll have the satisfaction of reestablishing some kind of moral order where lowlifes are brought to justice? Not to mention her exasperation with the detectives on her case seemed whiny and self-centered. Poor Ruth…the police aren’t paying full attention to your petty robbery case? Did you ever think they have more pressing things to get to like rapists and serial killers?
By the end of the film, the cost of Ruth doing the “right” thing is high. In her pursuit of justice, she becomes quite an asshole herself, smacking an old, innocent pawnshop owner in the face and stealing a wealthy couple’s sculpture from their front lawn, even though they didn’t loot her home, it was their estranged drug addict son. By the time I Don’t Feel at Home in This World Anymore lurches into bloody mayhem, we’ve seen the appalling, atrocious things of which men are capable. In the end, Ruth is right: people are assholes. But the film’s terrifying descent seems to warn against channeling our rage like Ruth.
Revisiting favorite films is one of my most cherished simple pleasures. I delight in analyzing a film’s minute details: the bits of dialogue, the arrangements and sequences of scenes. There’s something incredibly gratifying about breaking down a work of art and seeing how it works.
This week reexamined 1999 drama American Beauty. Director Sam Mendes mercilessly satirizes the Burnhams, a “normal” American family who possesses every middle class luxury but lacks a meaningful sense of themselves and each other. The film opens on Lester, a pathetic advertising executive who describes “jerking off” as the high point of his day. The next 24 hours consist of his much younger and recently promoted boss telling him, in the most pseudo-kindhearted way, that he must fill out a detailed job description so the company (in typical corporatist fashion) can decide “who’s valuable and who’s dispensable.”
Life at home isn’t much better. His high-strung real estate agent wife, Carolyn, uses her job as a convenient excuse to ignore him while their daughter, Jane, couldn’t despise either of them more.
From a Marxist perspective, American Beauty reveals itself an outright condemnation of the American bourgeois. Though the Burnhams have attained all the outward signposts of success-pruning shears with tastefully matching gardening clogs, a gorgeous two-story home with the quintessentially American white picket fence- both Lester and Carolyn find themselves trapped by the hopeless banality of their suburbia. For them, conventional, consumeristic notions of affluence have failed to bring any sort of lasting satisfaction. In fact, the accumulation of more and more things seems to demolish the possibility for genuine happiness and human connection all together. In a poignant scene, we realize that Lester and Carolyn’s marriage is too far gone to be recovered.
“Uh, who’s car is that out front?” Carolyn asks irritated, pristinely manicured fingertips tapping on the door frame.
“Mine. 1970 Pontiac Firebird. It’s the car I always wanted and now I have it. I rule!” Lester replies matter-of-factly.
“Where’s the Camry?”
“I traded it in.”
“Shouldn’t you have consulted me first?”
“Hm, let me think. No, you never drove it.”
Soon the marital bickering becomes an invitation to intimacy: “Where’s Jane?” Carolyn asks, her distracted tone implying she’s only asking out of a sense of parental obligation rather than genuine concern.
“Jane not home,” Lester replies in a caveman manner indicative of his return to a baser, more visceral need for sexual attention. Carolyn looks confused, alarmed even (clearly they haven’t had any kind of physical contact, let alone flirtation, in a long time).
“We have the house all to ourselves,” Lester says, alluringly lingering over every word as he moves besides her on the coach. Carolyn, again, looks fearful. “Christ Carolyn. When did you become so…joyless?” (the negation of the suffix rendering the absence of joy, the total lack of delight in their hollow, cardboard cut-out lives, all the more poignant).
Her eyes widen in a sad blend of shock and hurt. “Joyless? I’m not joyless. There happens to be a lot about me that you don’t know, Mr. Smarty Man.” (that she’s fucking the Real Estate King whose cheesy face is plastered on bus stops all over town, for instance.)
“Whatever happened to that girl who used to fake seizures at frat parties when she got bored? Who used to run up to the roof of our first apartment building to flash the traffic helicopters? Have you completely forgotten about her? Because I haven’t…” he leans in seductively.
Recalling these past versions of herself, Carolyn chuckles as she leans against the coach. Lester begins kissing her neck and, for a brief moment, we think there might be hope for this estranged couple. But as Lester slowly caresses her neck, Carolyn turns her head: “Lester, you’re about to spill beer on the coach!”
Always brilliant Annette Bening so precisely captures the complexity of Carolyn’s emotions at this moment: the terror at seeing her $4,000 pin-striped, Italian upholstered silk coach nearly ruined by a drop of beer; the disgust she feels with herself for caring so little for her husband and so much for a coach; and the aching regret she must live with knowing she spoiled their one chance at reconciliation forever.
“It’s just a couch!” Lester screams, outraged at his wife’s acquisitiveness.
The fact that Carolyn is willing to tarnish such a rare moment of intimacy with her husband for something as superficial as a coach proves the distressing extent of her materialism: so completely preoccupied is she with objects that she forgets to contemplate the transcendent and spiritual. All in all, this single exchange calls into question our idolization of the American dream. Though we glorify wealth and stature as the foundational pillars of our national credo, their attainment leaves this couple desperate, unsatisfied, and deeply alone. As professor Roy M. Anker so penetratingly observes, the Burnhams’s single-minded pursuit of material prosperity has kept them from beholding the “exquisite beauty” of the ordinary human world.
Described as the “spiritual sequel” to his 1993 cult classic Dazed and Confused, Linklater’s latest Everybody Wants Some shares much in common with its cinematic predecessor. Both wistfully render adolescence, Dazed and Confused, the final days of high school, Everybody Wants Some, the heady anticipation of coming adulthood. Both burst with the carefree exuberance of youth. And though each film depicts a very specific moment in historical time, both yearn to capture something universal: the magic of the teenage years. So though you might be too young to remember mustaches, hysterically short shorts, or disco, Everybody Wants Some will have you affectionately recalling the simpler days of your youth.
Told in the delightfully meandering way that is his trademark, Linklater doesn’t offer much in the way of plot. The film opens on a goofily cute Jake (played to charming effect by an adorable Blake Jenner) cruising through a one-lane country road. The year, 1980. Linklater establishes the time period from the first frame: his boyish protagonist sports a super 70s baseball tee and drives a brawny Oldsmobile. As the hand-tapping rhythms of “My Sharona” thump in the background, the camera circles to the back seat, revealing a milk crate of albums and an old school record player. Jake, a freshman baseball player on his way to college, is much like the road he travels on: full of possibility. It’s the weekend before school starts and anything can happen (and most things do). In the three days before classes, Jake and his teammates boogie at a disco, line dance at a hoe down, mosh at a punk show, and mingle with geeky theater majors at a psychedelic party in the woods- not to mention get lucky an astonishing number of times for a bunch of inexperienced teenagers. When they’re not chasing girls or finding new ways to fuck with each other, they’re taking bong rips and waxing philosophical about everything from the nature of identity to the meaning of life.
Everybody Wants Some flouts the most basic narrative conventions: there’s no conflict, no climax. The story certainly doesn’t satisfyingly chart any character’s development. But this raunchy, rambunctious college flick is more than just a good time- it’s a bittersweet meditation on the transience of youth. As an adult watching the film, I can’t help but envy Jake: he’s only just beginning college, for the first time tasting the exhilarating independence of adulthood but with very little of the responsibility. In the coming months, his most pressing obligation will probably be turning in his Shakespeare midterm. Most likely, his parents are still footing his bills. But as the unrelenting countdown to the first day of school continually reminds us, time is running out. Jake stands at a pivotal juncture in his maturity, his first day of college symbolic of his monumental entrance into adulthood. For four glorious years, “adulthood” will be all-nighters, girls and booze but before long, adulthood will mean venturing into the last frontier, the “real world.”
This “real world” lingers in the background throughout much of the film. Though Jake and his teammates possess a zeal for baseball that borders on obsession, none of them harbor any delusions about going pro. Up until now, baseball has been the singular passion that’s organized their existence; however, after four years of college, they know they’ll have to get jobs like everyone else. Linklater’s sentimental mix tape hits an elegiac note when we realize growing up often means sacrificing our dreamier goals. Like Jake, we’ve all had to eventually hang up our baseball gloves.
Everybody Wants Some has been called nostalgic in the best sense but we must remember there’s always a sad quality to nostalgia. After all, nostalgia is a yearning for the past which-by its very definition-can never be recovered. So though we fondly reminisce about our first college crush when Jake spends a sweet, romantic evening with Beverley on a lake, we’re heartbreakingly aware that we’ll never again experience anything quite as giddy as those first few days of school.
Never has a trailer offered more insight into a film than in Otto Preminger’s 1944 Laura. Much like the movie itself, the trailer opens-not on the titular Laura (Gene Tierney)-but on her stunning portrait. It is this portrait that will inspire Detective McPherson’s (Dana Andrews) near rabid infatuation. To say Laura was the focal point of the other characters’ obsessions would not be to overstate. “Everybody,” the trailer asserts in bold, curvy typeface, “is talking about Laura.” As in the actual film, the trailer spends the majority of its time depicting various admirers preoccupied with our captivating lead character. “Who is Laura?” it wonders as it displays a ravishing Gene Tierney in an exquisitely sharp-shouldered nightgown, “What is Laura?” This seemingly insignificant shift from “who” to “what” captures the central issue of the film: Who is Laura, really? Is she the sophisticated career woman? the winsome, magnetic socialite? or the stereotypically frail, pathetic victim of men’s mistreatment? Can we ever truly know Laura? or is she more of a conception than an actual person? Laura-I would argue- is not a person but an object, an idol for men to both desecrate and worship.
Of all the male characters, dandy, effeminate journalist Lydecker (Clifton Webb) most clearly objectifies her. As a radio host and newspaper columnist, Lydecker literally devises stories for a living but, figuratively, he narrates the events of Laura’s and, thus, our story. Interestingly, we only learn of the alluring murdered girl through a series of his flashbacks- she never “speaks” for herself. Laura is oddly barred access from her own narrative, a flagrant form of objectification. As the camera pans across Lydecker’s lavish apartment to reveal chic glass vases and an elegant vintage clock, we learn both Laura and McPherson at one time figured as characters in his accounts, McPherson as the “man with a leg full of lead” who apprehends a homicidal gangster at the siege of Babylon, Laura as his star. When perennially calm McPherson begins to fall for the enchanting New York socialite, he isn’t so much enamored of Laura the girl as of Laura the myth. We see this most evidently in the way he longingly gazes at her portrait. Much like a novel which is a fictional rendering of the world, Laura’s portrait is an invention of its painter’s mind, a representation of Laura- not Laura herself. As the film progresses, McPherson finds himself bewitched-it seems-not by Laura but by various male constructions of her, particularly Lydecker’s. In a way, the real woman is like the film’s cinematography: slippery, as hazy and surreal as a dream.
The first time we actually see Laura is during one of Lydecker’s flashbacks. Lydecker and McPherson sit at a cozy table with red-and-white checkered napkins in what appears to be a romantic Italian restaurant. Behind them, a large window opens up to an outdoor patio where couples drink merrily and vines cover the building’s brick walls. Lydecker, we learn, “selected a more attractive hair dress” for Laura and taught her what clothes were “more becoming” to her figure. It was because of him that she was able to gallivant among New York’s elite. He was the Pygmalion to her Galatea, the sensitive artist who sculpted her otherworldly beauty from stone.
From a feminist perspective, Lydecker’s conception of Laura offends on multiple levels. First off, in his retelling of events, Laura’s dazzling rise to adoration is a product of his labor-not her own. Though his connections as a columnist certainly help launch her career, it would be grossly unjust to disregard Laura’s role in her own success. She’s tenacious and career-oriented (qualities I’m willing to wager were uncommon among prim 1940s women). She’s gutsy (after all, how many of us would have the nerve to cold call an acclaimed writer in the middle of a restaurant? how many would be so determined that we would persist-even after being cruelly rebuffed?). Not to mention, she displays astounding initiative: we must not forget it was her idea to seek out Lydecker’s endorsement- not her advertising firm’s. Laura may possess an almost irresistible charisma but her most remarkable quality is her pluck. That Lydecker trivializes her part in her own accomplishments and in fact takes credit for them smacks of a patronizing sort of misogyny: to him, it’s inconceivable Laura alone could have made a name for herself.
Throughout his version of events, Laura figures as little more than an object. At one point, he confesses she became as well-known as his “walking stick,” a telling comparison proving she’s nothing more than a comely accessory to his pin-striped suit. “The way she listened,” he later divulges to McPherson, “was more eloquent than speech.” Though “eloquence” usually refers to the act of speaking, here it describes listening, a profoundly passive, non-participatory activity. Once again, Laura appears as a disempowered object, a mere receptacle for Lydecker’s instruction. While he educates her in the ways of worldly knowledge, she merely gazes dreamily through the smoke from her cigarette. In much the same way she is denied the right to her own story, Laura is consigned to silence, powerless to challenge either men’s portrayal of her or the dominant discourse.
Laura’s story is not just reappropriated by her male courters but by Bessie (Dorothy Adams) her maid, a plain woman whose demeanor is as homely as her name. Bessie seems similarly concerned with maintaining a certain narrative of Ms. Hunt; after the night of the murder, she hides a bottle of wine and scrubs a pair of glasses- irreversibly destroying critical evidence- all because she doesn’t want police to think Laura was anything but a “fine lady.”
Bessie, Lydecker, McPherson: all are obsessed with writing Laura into a particular story. Why is this significant? For starters, when Laura violates the parameters of her male courters’ carefully designed plots, she finds herself (and those she loves) in great peril. Take Lydecker, her most zealous admirer. Lydecker’s narrative rests on the premise that him and Laura are a couple, which they absolutely are not. “Tuesday and Friday nights we stayed home,” he reminisces fondly, “dining quietly.” The image of them “dining quietly” on a Friday evening seems oddly domestic considering their relationship is entirely non-sexual. Laura, however, will eventually defy this prescribed part as love interest, infuriating the besotted Lydecker. As the film goes on, his obsession becomes more menacing. Indeed, he will come to exhibit all the tell-tell signs of a stalker: irrational, murderous jealousy, haughty narcissism, a possessive longing for control. The thing that outrages him most? The object of his idolatry violating her role. Laura may occupy a starring role in his fantasies, but he directs the story- he won’t stand for a nobody actress transgressing his hard-won script. When Laura calls to cancel a dinner date-a deed most would find only mildly disappointing- Lydecker confesses he feels “betrayed”; in fact, he feels so slighted by her “betrayal” that he marches to her apartment during a snowstorm. Seeing the shadow of another man through the window, he waits to glimpse his identity. The fact that he lingers for what must be hours in a blizzard only proves the disturbing extent of his devotion. When her companion reveals himself as the painter Jacoby, Lydecker sets out on a vindictive campaign of defamation: he brutally lambastes the artist in his column, calling into question his aesthetic, “demolishing his affectations” and “exposing his camouflaged imitations of better painters.” Like every controlling man, he claims to sabotage Laura’s chances at happiness because he “loves” her, because the buffoons she chooses to entertain aren’t “worthy” of her attention. But I beg to differ: Lydecker spoils her affairs, I would argue, not because he harbors any kind of real affection toward her, not even because he feels emasculated or vengeful seeing her with another man, but because her dating Jacoby dramatically undermines his glorified image of her. “Yet I knew,” he asserts with the obstinance of a child who insists in Santa, “I knew Laura wouldn’t betray anyone.”
Laura, of course, will go on to painfully betray someone: Lydecker himself. It all begins when she starts dating Shelby (Vincent Price), a hulky Neanderthal of a man with an innocent face and dopey Southern drawl. Mr. Carpenter sees no distinction among women: at one point, he flirtatiously tells Laura he “approves” of her hat- the same stock compliment he will later utter to Ann Treadwell (Judith Anderson). He even brings his mistress, model Diane Redfern, to Laura’s apartment and lends her his fiance’s most intimate belongings, a negligee and mules. Laura, Diane…to him both are little more than decorative baubles: pretty, perhaps, but completely interchangeable.
Though Lydecker envisions Laura as the darling of fashionable society, her relationship to such a philandering fool casts serious doubt on his conception of her as a bright young girl. Laura is bright but-at the same time-she’s stereotypically female: as in many a hackneyed love story, she falls for a deceitful womanizer who in no way deserves her. When Lydecker mentions an unsavory rumor that Shelby stole jewels from his Virginia host, she predictably defends him: “Of course they would say that,” she counters, “he’s not rich.” Later, she retreats even further into the overdone troupe of self-sacrificial, too-forgiving female: “I know his faults,” she rationalizes, “A man can change, can’t he?” Despite a bulky folder of evidence, Laura refuses to believe Lydecker’s accusations, insisting Shelby would “never” lie, “never” steal, “never” two-time her. This exchange reveals two things about Ms. Hunt: 1) she’s optimistic-even naïve- and believes love possesses the power to redeem the irredeemable and 2) her trusting disposition makes her easy to take advantage of. For Lydecker, this encounter brings about a devastating realization: Laura is not Galatea, a flawless goddess carved from stone- she’s a human being, ordinary and fallible.
When Laura doesn’t immediately dump Shelby and instead goes to the country to “clear her head,” she irreparably violates Lydecker’s conception of her. Upon learning of Shelby’s infidelity, she was supposed to break off their engagement, she was supposed to finally realize her buried longing for the desperate best friend who’s in love with her. But instead, she decides to reflect by herself, an outrageous assertion of selfhood which motivates Lydecker to kill her. Sure, he accidentally ends up killing the hapless Ms. Redfern but he’s a writer, not a career criminal.
In the end, Lydecker is more like Mark Chapman, the deranged fan who gunned down John Lennon. “How,” Chapman wondered, “could a man who preached love and peace, a man who condemned materialism and corporate greed, live so extravagantly?” Disgusted by Lennon’s hypocrisy, on December 8, 1980, Chapman strolled up to the Dakota apartments, pulled out a Charter Arms 38 pistol and slayed his favorite Beatle. I imagine Lydecker feels a similar disenchantment when- at the end of the film- he tries (yet again) to kill Laura. By this point, she’s committed a litany of offenses: dated a derivative second-rate painter, almost married a shameless womanizer. Expressing interest in McPherson, a man who tastelessly refers to women as “dolls” and “dames,” is the ace of spades that finally makes the house of cards topple over. McPherson embodies a brawny masculinity Lydecker despises but-again-this isn’t why he tries to kill her. He tries to kill her because-like Chapman-he’s lost an idol.
In Billy Wilder’s magnum opus Sunset Boulevard, the line between dream and delusion is as thin as its leading lady’s eyebrows. Out-of-work screen writer Joe Gillis (William Holden) finds himself ensnared in the delusion of aging has-been Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson) when a car chase leaves him stranded with a flat tire in front of her decaying, Spanish-style mansion. Norma, a forgotten silent film star who believes she’s on the verge of a triumphant return to the screen, enlists Gillis to help her rewrite a script she’s been working on. As the film propels itself toward a shattering climax, we look on in a strange mixture of stupefied horror and disbelief: what lengths will Ms. Desmond go to maintain her illusion of celebrity? A disturbing tale about the obscured line between reality and fantasy, truth and deception, Sunset Boulevard exposes the dangerous— sometimes deadly— consequences of clinging too tightly to a dream.
Sunset Boulevard is predicated on a lie, albeit a little white one. When a couple of slick-talking car repossessors come to impound his 1946 Plymouth convertible, Gillis fibs: “The car isn’t here,” he cocks his head offhandedly, “a friend took it to Palm Springs.” The story seems too convenient to be plausible but— because they can’t prove otherwise— they leave him alone for the time being. Just when we think Gillis might get away with it, the two men spot him driving along Sunset. Though this brief encounter may seem insignificant except for the vital role it plays in driving the film’s plot (after all, there would be no story had Gillis never turned into Norma’s driveway), the fact that Gillis’s lie is eventually exposed reveals a theme critical to Wilder’s noir: lies— no matter how meticulously woven— will always unravel, even if they’re concocted of dreams.
A washed-up actress who deludes herself into believing she can make a come back, Norma epitomizes the sinister side of the Hollywood dream machine. Like the unfortunate Miss Havisham who refuses to take off her wedding dress after her fiance leaves her at the altar, she’s a kind of stopped clock. “Oh, I know you,” Gillis smirks when he stumbles upon her decrepit Sunset estate and finally recognizes her, “you used to be big.” “I am big!” Desmond counters in what has to be one of the cleverest retorts in all of cinema, “It’s the pictures that have gotten small.” But the truth is pictures haven’t gotten small: as the sweetheart of a bygone art form, she’s a monument of another era— obsolete.
Norma’s habitation is a symbol for her stasis. Outwardly, the Desmond estate appears like another 1950s style Beverly Hills home; inwardly, it reeks of the musty, erie castles and gothic noir of Edgar Allan Poe. “The whole place seemed to be stricken with a kind of creeping paralysis,” Gillis observes as he catches the haunting sight of her sagging tennis court and empty pool, “out of beat with the rest of the world, crumbling apart in slow motion.” Norma’s gloomy mansion is less a residence than a mausoleum, a tomb glorifying her former renown: inside, every inch of available surface exhibits a head shot of her at the height of her heyday. But, among the dozen of photos, not a single one depicts her as she is now: there are no pathetic, 50-something Norma Desmonds galavanting in gold frames— only pale, youthful Normas posing in pearls and silk gowns.
Her ego-mania makes Narcissus look modest. But is it really herself she worships? No, Norma reveres not herself so much as the attainment of the dream these pictures represent. In much the same way that Gatsby clings to the fantasy that he’ll procure enough wealth to win his long lost love, Norma subsists on the illusion that she’ll make her comeback. But just as he can never fulfill his ambition of reuniting with Daisy and erasing their interlude of years apart, Norma— we realize— can never revive her former distinction in Hollywood.
Why is her dream so unfeasible? For starters, she’s half a century old; Salome’s nearly half her age. Not to mention it’s practically unheard of for anyone to make a comeback after two decades. But figures and probabilities mean nothing to Norma: she always has a keen eye to the green light across the bay.
That reality will infiltrate Norma’s fortress of delusion is a fear that pervades Sunset Boulevard’s every shot. All the other characters, particularly Max, her devoted butler, work around the clock to safeguard her self-deception. Rather than let Norma face the agonizing truth that she has sunk into obscurity, he forges her dozens of fan letters so she thinks she’s still adored. “I didn’t argue with her,” Gillis admits when Norma refuses to let him cut yet another scene of her awful screen play, “You don’t yell at a sleepwalker.”
Though Norma seems to possess a grandiose belief in her own importance, there are obviously moments when her delusions fail her. Max reveals Norma experiences “moments of melancholy” and that there have been “multiple suicide attempts.” We witness one such attempt on New Year’s Eve when Gillis rejects her. Up to this point, Gillis has been living in a delusion of his own: either he’s somehow oblivious to Norma’s sexual advancements or he suspects her feelings but chooses to ignore them (who wouldn’t if it meant cruising through the Hollywood Hills in a leopard-upholstered Isotta Fraschinis and luxurious camel hair coat?).
But when Norma dreamily envisions the fantastic year they’ll have together, there’s no doubt she believes them a couple: “I’ll fill the pool for you. Or I’ll open my house in Malibu and you can have the whole ocean,” she proffers dazedly, looking gleefully drunk, “When our picture’s finished, I’ll buy you a boat and we’ll sail to Hawaii!”
Just as Norma denies the very glaring fact that she’s no longer a star, she pretends the much younger Gillis is her suave gentleman caller. She’s prancing around in make-believe when an infuriated Gillis rouses her up: “Stop it with this ‘us’ business!” he shouts.
A masterful Swanson renders Norma’s every emotional nuance: her jealousy, her rage, her shock. As Gillis so wisely noted at the beginning of the film, “you don’t wake a sleepwalker…he may fall and break his neck.” The realization that Gillis doesn’t reciprocate her interest jolts Norma from her romantic reverie and forces her to confront a devastating truth: Gillis, this charming man she’s been trying to win with extravagant parties and solid gold cigarette cases, harbors no romantic feelings for her.
The rest of the scene stings with bitter irony: on what should be the most jubilant evening of the year, Norma tries to commit suicide amidst champagne and confetti. Though Gillis leaves rather swiftly after Norma confesses her feelings, he returns frantic when he learns Norma has tried to kill herself. “Happy New Year!” the taxi driver says smiling jovially as he races into the house. When a panicked Gillis rushes through the wrought iron door to see how she’s doing, Max takes him by the arm: “Careful. Don’t race upstairs…the musicians mustn’t know what happened.” Even in the face of mortality, the Desmond household wants to maintain appearances. But Norma can’t sustain the facade of normalcy any longer.
Wilder skillfully composes the scene that follows. Rather than depict Norma in her entirety, he shows her as a fragmented pair of feet and legs— we only see her face as a reflection when the camera turns right to an elegant standing mirror. Though mirrors in films noir traditionally hint at duplicity and often reveal a hidden potential for malevolence, Wilder’s mirrors behave as portals to a character’s inner world. The Norma we see in the mirror— distraught, weeping with bandages on her wrists— drastically conflicts with the image she projects throughout the film. In much the same way that Wilder juxtaposes Norma’s material abundance with her spiritual destitution by displaying her sobbing into a glamorous chiffon gown, he seems to suggest there’s a discrepancy between Norma’s outward and inner self. Despite her apparent vanity, Norma clearly remains unconvinced of her own boastful claims of being a “star.”
Delusion, it turns out, is a vulnerable thing: truth can always slip in through an unlocked door. The first time truth penetrates Norma’s citadel of denial it almost kills her; the second (and final) time, it kills her lover. Norma slays Gillis, I would argue, not because he breaks her heart, but because his desertion ruptures any illusion she has about her celebrity: “No one leaves a star,” she whispers in the foreboding silence, “that’s what makes one a star.” If the fundamental requirement of being a star is a horde of idolizing, reverent viewers, Norma doesn’t fit the bill: after all, her one “fan” has just stormed out. Would a Beatles fanatic really walk out on the Fab Four? For almost a quarter century, Norma has believed in the reality of a mirage but when Gillis leaves her, she awakens to the bleakest of deserts. There’s no movie with DeMille. There are no movie goers anxiously awaiting her return to the screen. “The audience left 20 years ago,” Gillis tells her out of equal parts compassion and spite, “You’d be killing yourself to an empty house!” Before his untimely (and rather undignified) demise, Gillis embodies an intimate relationship with truth Norma would rather avoid. In the end, murdering him stands as her most aggressive act of denial.
This is where Sunset Boulevard seems to pose a contradiction. On one hand, I have argued lies will always be found out. Gillis’s lie to the repossessors, Norma’s lies to herself: at one point or another, all these fabrications are exposed as false. But, in the end, doesn’t the lie prevail? Yes, the dream Norma had “clung to so closely” eventually enfolds her but at a serious cost. Besides a dead man in her pool, preserving her delusion costs Norma her sanity. So unflinching is her devotion to her dream that her denial explodes as full-blown psychosis. After shooting Gillis, Norma sits— deranged and disoriented— in a state of complete shock as police officers try to question her. The only thing she responds to is the mention of cameras. “Cameras?” she asks with crazed, wide-eyed excitement, “Excuse me gentleman, I must get ready for my scene.” Having suffered a total break from reality, Ms. Desmond believes she’s filming a scene for Salome when she’s actually making her way to police. There’s no audience, only a throng of reporters eager to cover the scandal. There’s no DeMille, only Max dutifully resuming his former role as director. And there’s no cameras, unless you count the ones filming the macabre scene for the 5 o’ clock news.
As she descends the grand spiral staircase in a dramatic finish, her “audience” appears transfixed, horrified by her total detachment from what she’s done. Franz Waxman’s mounting score only serves to escalate the scene’s terror. In a twisted, demented way, Norma captures the green light that’s eluded her. “What happens to a dream deferred?” poet Langston Hughes wondered, “Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.” Or, as in Norma’s case, perhaps it “explodes.”
Often hailed as the “master of darkness,” Fritz Lang made such immeasurable contributions to the film noir genre he almost goes without introduction. Born in 1890, Lang was of the German expressionist school and during the Weimar era made such stunning cinematic masterpieces as Metropolis. In interviews, he has confessed the film was inspired by his first sight of a New York skyscraper in 1924: “The buildings seemed to be a vertical sail, scintillating and very light, a luxurious backdrop, suspended in the dark sky to dazzle, distract and hypnotize.” This cynical attitude toward modern notions of progress, both social and technological, would inform much of his later work as an American director. Though not as openly political or visually extravagant, his American films noir would interrogate many of the same issues: repression, technology, and the unfortunate plight of the individual in a corrupt and severely mechanized world.
His 1953 The Blue Gardenia is no different, fitting nicely into his impressive repertoire of remorselessly satirical films. Anne Baxter plays the pretty and charming Norah, whose impulsive decision to go out with Prebble, an infamous womanizer, lands her at the heart of a murder plot. Convinced she killed Prebble in a drunken stupor and unable to recall the events of the night, Norah spends the course of the film isolated and alone, unsure if she should turn herself in or even if she is guilty of the murder. She eventually turns herself in to Mayo, a journalist who has made a sensation out of her, hoping he and his powerful newspaper can help to reduce her sentence. Upon meeting her, however, Mayo is convinced of her innocence and sets out to find the true murderess, who he finds rather easily: she is yet another woman betrayed and misled by the wolfish Prebble. After confessing that she murdered him in a fit of jealous rage, Rose is apprehended by the police, Norah is freed and the conventional happy ending can commence as Mayo and Norah fall in love and (we assume) walk off into the sunset.
Lang and his production team shot The Blue Gardenia in an unheard of twenty days, and many of its critics would dismiss the film as a rushed studio blockbuster. Initial reception of the film was lukewarm at best, and most other reviews were unduly harsh. Variety Movie Reviews claimed that “a stock story and handling keep it from being anything more than a regulation mystery melodrama” while film critic Dennis Schwartz famously called it “a film that never has the chance to bloom because of its dull script.” Lang detested the film himself, admitting the project was simply a job-for-hire. Certainly when compared to other films in the Lang canon, The Blue Gardenia can appear uncharacteristically pedestrian: the plot is predictable and there are none of the ornate, expressionistic touches that made Lang a legend early in his career. Upon release, the film inspired modest scholarly discussion and today there is but little criticism on the subject so why, when critics and scholars alike disregard the film as a critical failure, should we examine it any further?
Lang’s genius attention to forms of mass media keeps The Blue Gardenia from falling victim to the melodrama of its rather formulaic plot and, in my opinion, deserves serious consideration. The mass media-from the newspaper column to the dime store novel-informs (if not entirely controls) the lives of his misfortunate characters: Norah buys a dress because it is advertised as “fashionable,” Crystal and Sally believe the Blue Gardenia is a wanton streetwalker because Mayo’s column imagines her as one, and so on and so forth. The director’s intimate friendship with fellow German émigré and groundbreaking social theorist Theodor Adorno undoubtedly influenced this scathing portrayal of the press. Sociologist, musicologist and philosopher, Adorno is perhaps best known for his theory of the culture industry outlined in The Dialectic of Enlightenment. As he was writing, Lang acted as his primary informant in Hollywood. Though there’s no historical evidence on the matter, it is likely Lang had access to “The Culture Industry: Enlightenment as Mass Deception” as Adorno was writing it. Both men shared an interest in each other’s work and regularly corresponded from 1949 to 1967. Adorno’s theory of the culture industry, thus, is a lens through which we can better understand this subtly provocative but tragically underrated masterpiece. For both men, mass culture would make real a dystopic vision of the future, a future where media conditions the consumer until he can no longer think for himself, the human becomes inessential, and men become numbers. Lang explores the many impersonal faces of mass media to warn us against these present and potentially dangerous processes of reification at work in modern pop culture, which I feel redeems The Blue Gardenia from its critical obscurity and initial dismissal.
From the film’s very opening scene, people appear virtually interchangeable. When Mayo visits the West Coast Telephone company, the telephone operators look eerily similar: they all sport the latest coiffed hairdo and they all appear sitting, seemingly dominated by the mass circuit boards they spend their days operating. The resemblance between Norah and her two roommates, Crystal and Sally, seems particularly striking; all pretty and blonde, it is difficult at first to even tell them apart. Ultimately, their LA world is a reified one where men are quantified and the individual is of little consequence to the whole: Crystal is known chiefly as G1466, Norah claims her boyfriend abroad is not just any guy but “1 out of 100,000” while the rest of the film obsessively preoccupies itself with various types of numbers. Lang’s preference for counting operates to fully undermine the individuality of his characters. This substitutability of persons becomes significant later when Norah pretends to be Crystal after Prebble calls with a dinner invitation. Rather than appear disappointed at seeing the wrong girl, Prebble warmly welcomes her to his table for dinner and drinks as if the particular girl never mattered so long as there was one.
For Lang, mass media is responsible for this total obliteration of the individual. Mayo knows the masses lust for a classic who-done-it murder mystery and, with just the right dose of sex and intrigue, he is certain such a story will make headlines and yield him significant profit. “Everyone wants to read about murder,” he assuredly tells his assistant, “even when an unknown doll kills a guy no one’s ever heard of before.” As star journalist for the Chronicle and our central male protagonist, Mayo becomes a figure for mass media itself. Under the reign of mass culture, art- which was once dictated by its own set of internal laws- enters the sphere of consumption and must become like any other commodity: vulnerable to the laws of supply and demand. Necessarily, art becomes an industry and information outlets like newspapers find themselves more concerned with their monthly revenues than the quality of their news. For the Chronicle to be financially successful, Mayo must tailor his discourse to projected ideas of supply and demand. It is because he concludes the public has a morbid taste for murder that he investigates the Blue Gardenia case in the first place. Like all journalists, he must ask himself: Is this how journalists write? Is this how journalism sounds and, more importantly, will it sell papers? Mayo transforms a gruesome instance of violence into a consumable product for the masses, thus he renders the individual- both perpetrator, Norah and victim, Prebble- disturbingly insignificant. His bold headline, “PAINTER OF CALENDAR GIRLS MURDERED IN STUDIO MYSTERY,” identifies Prebble, not as a concrete, particular person, but as a generalized universal, which only serves to further abstract him and his awful murder. The terse, punchy headline may metamorphose an “unknown doll” and anonymous “artist” into a story, but there was no story to begin with: he simply invents one.
Mayo understands his subjective (and perhaps faulty) perception of the Blue Gardenia as objective truth; as Adorno cleverly observed: “There is the agreement- or at least the determination- of all executive authorities [of mass media] not to produce or sanction anything that in any way differs from their own rules, their own ideas about consumers, or above all themselves.”1 Mayo invents Norah by relying on his own misinformed notions of feminine archetypes, especially that of the beautiful but duplicitous ‘‘bad girl.” His portrayal of her as a “flashy blonde” merely posing as a lady undoubtedly reflects his own ideas about femininity and women; so as he presumes to know all there is to know about the consumer, so does he imagine his depiction of Norah’s ‘‘kind’’ of girl as fair and accurate. This boastful confidence in his own assessment of the murderess has chilling implications when he is asked how, exactly, he knows the Blue Gardenia is beautiful: “They’re always beautiful,” he replies with a smirk. By reducing people to hollow statistics and sweeping generalities, mass media neglects what makes an individual human and, therefore, essential: his particularity. Mayo’s continual preference for the plural pronoun “they” as opposed to the singular “she” reveals the reification process complete. Norah is no longer an individual with a specific set of circumstances or justifiable reasons for murder, but a repetitious, hopelessly banal convention: the femme fatale.
Though his labeling of individuals as “sorts” of people seems a rather harmless quality of trash journalism, it has frighteningly serious consequences for the consumer. As they read the morning paper, Sally and Crystal replicate mass media’s unsettling brand of either/or thinking perfectly: “Black?” Crystal asks skeptically, “it was probably bright red…that kind of girl never wears black.” Here, color takes on social significance as it distinguishes one class of consumers from another. The black taffeta dress sets off a chain of associations for the women, both of whom have been conditioned to identify people by the clothes they wear. Just as we might judge a woman with a tramp stamp as-well-trampy, Sally and Crystal believe a woman wearing black must be like the dress she purchases: chic, elegant…certainly not a cold-blooded killer. By systematically grouping consumers into types, mass media mechanizes people (who are infinitely complex and manifold) into a series of algorithms. If propaganda is a deliberate and methodical attempt to sway audience opinion, Mayo’s form of sensational propaganda has worked: Crystal assumes the murderess was wearing bright red- the racy, tempestuous uniform of a “femme fatale”- because the stories she reads disseminate women’s rigid classification: her ideas are no longer her own.
Adorno called this phenomenon regression, or the “debilitating relapse and reflective re-appropriation of regressive modes of knowledge and conduct.” In simpler terms, regression is a developmental moving back: an irreversible infantilization of the consumer. Naive and not yet grown to maturity, children often understand the world in terms of overly simplistic black/white categories; by militantly insisting on universal typologies, mass media promises our return to an infantile mode of spectator engagement where we can no longer appreciate the nuances, the complexities, the inconsistencies, or the particulars. Crystal’s failure to conceive of a woman other than the “femme fatale,” then, signifies a total loss of her imaginative powers. Because newspapers (especially of Mayo’s variety) unendingly recapitulate the same, tired characters and formulaic story lines, the consumer becomes versed in the traditions of a genre and thus wants the same thing perpetually until he regards anything novel with mistrust. Indeed, to even suggest a woman other than the classless whore Crystal visualizes would be to critically upset her view of the world as clear-cut and intelligible.
Spellbound by the Blue Gardenia mystery and a self-proclaimed crime novel fanatic, Sally also seems arrested in a desperately infantile way of thinking. As the women continue pouring over Mayo’s coverage of the Blue Gardenia murder, Sally pleads: “Listen to this, he’s almost as good as Mickey Mallet. And I know a few other facts that will be of special interest to the girl who done the who-done-it. Her voice was quiet and friendly as she drank half a dozen Polynesian pearl divers…” What is harrowing, here, is the intrusion of fictional drama into non-fiction discourse. Mickey Mallet, a writer Sally adores and whose books she loyally buys, writes murder mysteries: a dime-store genre mass produced and almost exclusively turned out for profit. For most, the true crime novel offers gratification by the sheer fact of its predictability. After Norah asks how she knows what his new release is about before having read it, Sally replies, in a comic but revealing moment, “That’s what they’re all about.” So just as a good mystery writer needs an exceptional sense of pacing, so must he strictly adhere to the conventions of his genre: usually blood and betrayal. Sally compares Mallet, a writer of fiction, to Mayo, a journalist of supposedly impartial fact, which indicates she is confusing art for real life- a devastatingly tragic mistake. Why is this so troubling? Well, if the spectator Sally views homicide, an awful and senseless act of violence, as the romanticized stuff of novels, murder becomes romantic and we begin to believe the world is like a detective story: a foreboding landscape where murderers potentially lurk around every corner but can be easily detected (and apprehended) by type. Sally continuously permits mass media to infiltrate her thinking and dictate her behavior in real life: at various moments, she manipulates her voice to sound like a sultry femme fatale when she believes a male courter is calling and later, after this scene, she curiously holds a knife to her chest as if she were in a slasher movie. These disconcerting instances signify a playacting that is no longer innocent make-believe; rather, Sally’s simulating the stuff of dime store novels suggests the consumer, much like herself, will enact art upon life until he no longer has free will.
Unlike Sally and Crystal, Norah hysterically resists being written into mass media’s discourse, proposing alternate explanations as to why a respectable woman might go out with a notorious playboy like Prebble: “Maybe she was defending her honor; maybe she was lonely and bewildered; maybe she wanted some excitement.” Here, Norah inhabits the rhetorical realm of “maybe” while her two roommates obstinately cling to mass culture’s artless and unrefined vocabulary of universals. A more sophisticated space of thinking, “maybe” refuses to be limited to definite, inflexible categories and considers the possibility of multiple answers. Though Norah did agree to a date with Prebble, she is not the trashy, promiscuous woman her roommates imagine- their belief in “types” of people neglects that humans are naturally spontaneous and particular.
In the beginning of the film, Norah will revolt against being treated as a universal when she is in fact a particular. While reading a dear john letter from her boyfriend abroad, the camera transitions to narrative first person as if Norah were finally writing her own discourse. “Best wishes for your future,” she cries infuriated, “and yours very sincerely.” His nauseatingly clichéd sign off- “yours sincerely”- regards Norah as if she were a casual acquaintance rather than an intimate lover and sets off a tailspin of emotion and anger. Visually, first person narration restores her free will and human agency. So though she is powerless to control her boyfriend’s abandonment and deception, she can still command her own narrative, or what these events mean to her. By giving Norah rare access to visual subjectivity, Lang implies she remains empowered in this moment because she has not yet faded into the anonymity of universals.
Norah, however, will eventually consent to the media image of her as she becomes less and less certain of her own innocence. Throughout the course of the film, Lang parallels Norah’s unfaithful boyfriend to Mayo, the journalist responsible for naming her a murderess: both write letters, both use insincere forms of address (“best wishes for your future”/ “yours very sincerely”/ “yours very earnestly”), both betray her trust, and both will inform her of a story she was unaware of. Though the letter is an intensely private, intimate form of communication, Mayo imitates its closeness and friendly informality in his public address to the Blue Gardenia, hoping to bait her and get his story. Mayo’s desire to recreate Norah, the living, breathing woman, into a flat, two-dimensional discourse is a particularly male fantasy as it quite literally objectifies her. By casting Norah into the role of alluring and lethal femme fatale, Mayo robs her of agency, or the power to identify herself. And because his narrative holds infinitely more influence than hers, Norah’s view of herself goes totally ignored while his inflated, dramatized scandal goes on to captivate millions: he is a master of public discourse, and she, only of private. Norah will ultimately submit to the male fantasy of her as a “bad” girl because mass media unrelentingly imposes its version of her narrative until she has no other choice. This pivotal shift is made evident when Norah begins dressing like a femme fatale, appearing in suits throughout the course of the film when we think she is indeed the killer. Considering the importance narrative holds for Lang and this film, the role of alcohol and intoxication becomes thematically significant. Norah cannot vouch for her own innocence because she was in a drunken stupor at the time of the murder; rather, she can only recollect her story after Mayo calls for a further investigation. Like a drunkard who can’t recall last night’s shenanigans because he was blacked out hammered, we, the film suggests, can’t author our own stories-mass media must fill them in for us.
Though The Blue Gardenia spends the majority of its time portraying Norah as a bad girl who committed murder, its ending will reveal she was actually a good girl all along. As was convention in many films noir, Lang momentarily affords his femme fatale power but is “not content to leave the viewer with the notion that such a girl was a possibility in real life…in the film’s closing reel it would be revealed that she was not responsible for the criminal machinations. There has been a case of mistaken identity throughout. At the end of the film, the viewer is assured that the girl is “good” after all.”2 When Norah reveals herself as the Blue Gardenia in the diner, Mayo cannot believe it: the woman before him- pretty, blonde, well-mannered- is a perfect portrait of a “good” girl and fails to resemble his preconceived image of her. “I hadn’t expected you’d be the girl,” he says, frustrated and disappointed. Moments later, the police rush in and Norah is convicted for Prebble’s murder, but Mayo remains unconvinced. Norah, the simple, charming girl he’d just met, could never brutally kill a man: she wasn’t the “type.” This dissatisfaction leads him to further investigate and eventually apprehend the real killer. Though we watch films to momentarily experience our repressed, forbidden desires, there is a sense of relief and affirmation when everything returns back to normal. In this sense, Norah’s release is cathartic in that it restores our faith in the dominant modes of mass media’s type-based thinking. The Blue Gardenia flirts with defying our expectations, only to confirm what we knew all along: Norah’s “kind” of girl- the sweet, girl next door type- could never be capable of such a heinous thing as murder. Mayo’s initial instinct- that Norah was innocent- turns out to be correct and from there the film is tidily resolved. Norah is “no longer the spider woman, but her opposite, the nurturing woman, the redeemed who saves the male hero from the corrupted world in which he lives.”3 Both Norah, the virtuous woman, and Mayo, the notorious bad boy figure, recede into the safe conventions of their genre; because she proves romantic love is possible, he can reform his womanizing ways and rejoin the proper hetero-normative institutions of marriage and family.
Though the ending represents a sort of reinstatement of universal thinking, Norah’s final identification with Rose, the true murderess, suggests the rigid distinction of “femme fatale” from “good girl” is more precarious than the film once thought. According to the guidelines of character types, Rose, the murderous bad girl, and Norah, the pretty, naïve good girl, should be nothing alike; however, they have many things in common: more than just their physical similarities, both wore a black taffeta dress on the night of the murder, both have been betrayed by cheating and deceitful men, and both feel devastated at having lost the one they loved. So while the film proves only a certain kind of woman commits murder, it equally suggests Norah could have very well been in Rose’s place. In the end, The Blue Gardenia leaves us with an unsettling question: if Norah, a supposed good girl, can relate to a brutal crime of passion, could the repressed urge for transgression no longer be reserved to a criminal class, but be potentially existent in us all?
1. Adorno, Theodor. Dialectic of Enlightenment. Stanford University Press, 2002.
2. Smedley, Nick. A Divided World: Hollywood Cinema and Emigre Directors in the Era of Roosevelt and Hitler, 1933-1948. Intellect, 2011.
3. Murlanch, Isabel. “What’s in a Name? Construction of Female Images in Film Noir: The Case of Fritz Lang’s The Blue Gardenia.” Atlantis Journal, vol. 18, no. 1-2, 1996, 111.
Called his smartest and most shocking masterpiece, In a Lonely Place poetically renders director Nicholas Ray’s lifelong fascination with the misunderstood outsider. Made in 1950, the picture is essentially about movies and movie people: Dix, our protagonist, is a washed up screenwriter who finds himself at the heart of a murder plot when a girl he was with turns up dead. When his alluring neighbor Laurel sashays into the police station with his alibi, a passionate love affair ensues and the two become inseparable. Alternating between the suspense and anxious paranoia of noir and the overpowering intensity of melodrama, In A Lonely Place is a devastating film.
“Art makes life,” Henry James once said. In a Lonely Place represents a chilling refashioning of this old adage. The English-American novelist may have meant that art imbues life with meaning and purpose, but Ray makes this sentiment terrifyingly literal. With the rise of Hollywood film, cinema increasingly dictated how Americans viewed the world. A brilliant work of meta-fiction, In a Lonely Place meditates on film as an industry bent on manufacturing (and perpetuating) certain cultural narratives. Though film is meant to represent reality and, thus, be mimetic, the Hollywood picture, Ray argues, often deceptively manipulates or exaggerates it. In a Lonely Place represents an exercise in demystification as it dispels some of Tinseltown’s most enduring and prevalent myths, particularly that of the criminal, the hero, and- our most beloved-the happy ending.
The Myth of the Criminal
As In A Lonely Place progresses, Hollywood’s prevailing stories will indeed influence how Lochner and police locate possible suspects for investigation. In detective fiction and horror movies, the murderer often outwardly looks like a deranged lunatic, a maniac who gains sick pleasure from inflicting pain on his victims; however, it is often the most ruthless killers who, in real life, appear the most normal. This powerful myth of the “criminal” as a certain type of person infiltrates legal proceedings when Dix is accused of Mildred’s murder. Dix, a screenwriter who admits to having killed dozens of people in “pictures,” finds himself ensnared by a fiction of his own creation: the language of murder mystery. He can certainly be cast the part of a killer; Lochner initially suspects him because his long history of violence and run-ins with the law. The police further investigate him, rather than Mildred’s boyfriend (the more logical suspect), for the central reason that Dix looks like a killer: he suffers from severe post-traumatic stress disorder after serving in the war and is infamous around Hollywood for his volatile, ill-temper.
Lochner’s logic for pursuing Dix as a prime suspect, then, rests on the fallacious premise of a universal “type” of criminal. During questioning at the station, he vocalizes his astonishment at Dix’s lack of emotional response: “You’re told that the girl you were with last night was found in Benedict Canyon murdered, dumped from a moving car and what’s your reaction? Shock? Horror? Sympathy? No, just petulance at being questioned, a couple of feeble jokes. It’s puzzling, Mr. Steele.” Tall and upright, Lochner menacingly hovers over Dix, who appears disinterested as he casually lays back in his chair. Lochner may personify justice as a detective but he interrogates Dix for no other reason than that Dix suits the profile and was coincidentally with Mildred around the time of her murder. His choice of nouns- shock, horror, sympathy-characterize a range of appropriate human reactions, none of which Dix displays at hearing the news. This introduces an ideal (and ultimately false) portrait of normalcy which supposes all “normal” people will cope with grief in the exact same way. Dix’s apparent indifference immediately implicates him because, according to Lochner, only a sick man, a cold-blooded killer, could appear so dispassionate and composed after being told a young woman was slaughtered. The dramatic irony, of course, is that we know Dix can be a rather sensitive and vulnerable man despite his inclination for violence; soon after he leaves the office, he sends his condolences to Mildred’s family by mailing an anonymous bouquet of flowers.
Troubled and complex, Dix illuminates Ray’s lifelong interest in the outsider:
“If there is a single image that sums up Nicholas Ray’s view of the human condition, it is that of the hunt…Where other directors have consistently explored the figure of the predator, Ray’s sympathies and interests have been, more often, with the prey. Ray’s people are unstable, insecure, scared by their surroundings, or carrying within themselves the seeds of their own destruction” (Ebert).
If the film industry (here personified by the police and Lochner, who perpetuate its belief in a universal “type” of criminal) acts as hunter, Dix is the hunted. But what is remarkable about In a Lonely Place is the blurring of that once clear distinction: Dix, who disseminates many of Hollywood’s driving myths as a screenwriter, is rendered another helpless viewer, disempowered by a stream of stereotypic description. Lochner and law enforcement target him because his unpredictable fits of anger typecast him as a potential killer. Later, his wisecrack response only intensifies their suspicion: “Well I grant you the jokes could’ve been better but I don’t see why the rest should worry you…that is unless you plan to arrest me for lack of emotion.” Dix’s clever reply eerily foreshadows what is to come, considering Lochner will persecute him precisely for a “lack of emotion,” or breach of acceptable, supposedly normal behavior. From the beginning of the interrogation, there exists an ominous sense that things are closing in: with every step, the intimidating and predatory Lochner literally corners Dix while he figuratively traps him in a frame for a crime (we later discover) he did not commit.
Dix as Criminalized for Being Particular
Because Dix violates standard types, his world criminalizes him and will ultimately demonize him as other. Dix defies simple definition, thus he must be articulated through universal abstractions like that of the criminal. While speaking to Lochner, Brub tellingly admits: “It’s hard to tell what Dix feels about anything. None of us could ever figure him out.” This complete and utter inscrutability serves to bring him under law enforcement’s watchful suspicion. His eccentric and rather odd behavior renders him inaccessible to the other characters, who feel uneasy at encountering someone they cannot readily understand. This discomfort results, not from Dix’s actual status as a murderer, but from his outward failure to conform. By being fiercely individual and particular, Dix threatens to dismantle the film industry’s fragile belief in “types” of people, which provides the very foundation of society itself. “How would you feel if some joker like me told you that the girl you took home last night was murdered?” Lochner asks Brub. “I’d come apart at the seams,” he replies. “Yeah,” Lochner confirms, “most innocent men do.” Lochner uses Brub as a reference point, a grounds for comparing Dix to the norm. He, however, finds Dix wanting because, unlike Brub, Dix never shows a glimpse of emotion and is for the most part reserved. Lochner’s hypothetical questioning suggests the criminal can be found by measuring and judging him against others, a strategy which rests on the erroneous assumption that any two individuals will be exactly alike. While the word “most” proves he is gauging Dix against an overly broad idea of majority instances, it equally reveals his reliance on statistics as undependable and logically flawed, seeing as there will always be exceptions to every rule. Lochner accuses Dix of murder and aggressively pursues him simply because he is different from most, which implies that-in much the same way that to have leftist leanings during the McCarthy era made one a traitorous commie-to be individual in the uneasy world of film noir was to be considered a criminal.
Lochner and the other characters continually misunderstand Dix’s peculiar behavior as a sign of his pathological urge to kill. In the hauntingly disturbing scene where Dix reenacts Mildred’s murder, Sylvia argues he is a “sick man” because he seems to enjoy watching Brub almost choke her. While Brub and Sylvia pretend to be the perpetrator and victim, Dix acts as the figurative director: “Now, you’re driving up the canyon, your left hand is on the wheel. She’s telling you she did nothing wrong; you pretend to believe her. You put your right arm around her neck. You get to a lonely place in the road and you begin to squeeze. You’re an ex GI, you know judo, you know how to kill a person without using your hands. You’re driving the car and you’re strangling her. You don’t see her bulging eyes or protruding tongue. You love her and she’s deceived you. You hate her patronizing attitude, she looks down at you. She’s impressed with celebrities, she wants to get rid of you.” Dix’s reconstruction reflects his own insecurities, particularly his fear of abandonment and betrayal. Indeed, these lines foreshadow the concluding scenes between him and Laurel. Nevertheless, his words also reflect his intuitive powers to reveal the motives of the actual murderer, the jealous Kessler, who killed Mildred after she broke a date to spend the evening with Dix. What Sylvia perceives as evidence of his lust to kill is actually proof of a rare gift for perception and exceptional intelligence. In real life, In a Lonely Place argues, the killer isn’t always the anti-social weirdo who eats lunch alone- sometimes he’s the handsome jock who lives next door.
Both an object of fear and source of fascination, Dix’s bizarre antics command the attention of others throughout the film. Brub, Laurel, Sylvia, the police: all his friends and lovers obsessively preoccupy themselves with figuring him out. But as Sylvia’s assessment of Steele demonstrates, their perception of him is often inaccurate. The world’s persistent misreading of Dix and his role in the murder speaks to the limitations of film and, ultimately, of perception. If film is a series of images that reproduce the empirical reality of everyday objects, perception is a kind of film: it processes concrete, material stimuli to construct a comprehensible image of the world. Sylvia creates an “image” of Dix which, because it is shown to be false, serves to expose the natural artifice of all images. Like our own naturally limited perceptions, movies are fabricated and, thus, not real.
The Outsider & the New Hero
Though Hollywood usually portrays its hero as the perfect embodiment of his society’s ideals, In a Lonely Place suggests the new hero is actually an outsider. Dix’s glitzy, status-conscious Los Angeles essentially views him as a threat because he revolts against their materialistic culture. In the very opening scene while Dix and friends dine at an exclusive Hollywood hot spot, Mel tries to persuade him to adapt an inane bestseller for the screen; however, his firm refusal (“I won’t work on something I don’t like”) reveals he will not compromise his artistic vision for commercial success. This poses a stark contrast to other members of the film industry like the director whom Dix disdainfully calls a “popcorn salesman” for shamelessly making and remaking the same picture for twenty years. While most other Hollywood insiders have no integrity or respect for the art form, Dix is unwilling to write any script that does not reflect who he is as an artist and individual. Visual elements confirm his position as outsider. Whereas Mel and Lloyd wear light tan suits, Dix dresses himself in a black blazer and quirky bow tie, which suggests he is but a reluctant member of this Hollywood culture. Dix exists in a merciless and highly competitive world where a person’s value is determined by the number of hits he has at the box office. If someone fails to produce a hit every x-amount of years, the film machine inevitably spits him out: he is “washed-up” or of little consequence to the Hollywood A-list. Dix cares little for these superficial indications of success and is thus rendered a misfit in this glittery world of celebrity and scandal.
Dix’s exclusion from his surroundings reveals more about the state of his culture than it does about his own moral character. Greedy and avaricious, selfish and success-obsessed, the post-war film industry seemed to have lost sight of the higher ideals of the New Deal era:
“In the 1940s Hollywood could no longer invest its male heroes with triumphant New Deals values of self-denial and social responsibility…Instead, male heroes acted as solitary repositories of ideals that appeared to have been lost in society at large. This called forth a new type of male image, the stoic, isolated, often misunderstood male, whose personal code of ethics existed precariously in a corrupt, greedy, and violent world” (Smedley 152).
Dix perfectly fits this profile of the new hero. In the same opening scene, he violently confronts Junior, a major studio head, after he insults Charlie, a dear friend and washed up actor (much like himself). A true champion of the underdog, Dix despises meanness and pettiness and will go to great lengths to protect a friend’s dignity. “What’s the matter with you?” he scowls insulted, “don’t you shake hands with an actor?” The simple act of shaking hands reflects a profound recognition of someone else’s humanity, which suggests Junior’s refusal to shake Charlie’s hand is more than just a rude gesture: it is a smug expression of superiority. Dix will not partake in his peers’ snobbish pretension and treats Charlie warmly and jovially despite his status as a Hollywood nobody. When Dix asks Junior to recall the vital part Charlie had in making him millions, he replies, with an air of condescension, that “pop made a star out of a drunkard.” His malicious attempts at humiliating Charlie send Dix over the edge, provoking him to violence in front of the whole restaurant. This seems a rather normal occurrence as his old flame Fran says, almost unsurprised: “There goes Dix again.” Hot-tempered and uncontrollably confrontational, Dix begins as at odds with his world, which no longer shares in his noble values of integrity and honor.
The Myth of the Happy Ending
In a Lonely Place not only underminesthe misconception of a certain type of man as hero and criminal, it unravels one of our most cherished Hollywood myths- the myth that romantic love is possible. Ray masterfully constructs a romance narrative only to have it collapse on itself. Though Dix truly loves Laurel, his bad temper increases his propensity for violence and, by the end of the film, sentences him eternally to that “lonely place” in the road.
What disintegrates their relationship? Sure, there’s the fact that Dix is suspected of murder for most of the film. But it’s mostly the fact that the investigation surrounding him feeds Laurel’s anxieties about disturbing dimensions of his character. This atmosphere of suspicion infects their once blissful love affair, promising it will end in disaster.
Dix and Laurel’s ill-fated fling suggests Ray has significant doubts about love’s redemptive power. Surely, Laurel loves Dix, but she cannot reform him: he is a tormented soul who’s too outraged, too out of step with his world. Instead, love is depicted as a beautiful but fleeting thing, easily transformable into its opposite: hate, or worse, fear. Laurel seems to recognize long-term love’s impossibility early on: before Dix, she has a reputation for leaving men and repeats, in a sort of symbolic refrain, that it “wouldn’t have worked” when talking about her past relationship to Baker. Though movies generally provide a hopeful, even naive, portrait of romance, Laurel and Dix cannot “work” and never get their giddy happily-ever-after: only irreversible realizations about each other that culminate in a poignant break up.
But the question remains: why end the film this way? I would argue Ray tragically dooms their romance to challenge Hollywood’s claim to a universal “type” of love. Facing unprecedented numbers of divorce, 1950s America could no longer take seriously the belief in the Hollywood happy ending:
“By the end of the 1940s the American public was jaded, and it was getting harder for Hollywood to sustain many of its driving myths, one of the most important of which had had to do with the miracles of love and romance. In the wake of many hasty wartime marriages, there was now a new American phenomenon of divorce. A happy marriage and family were not the only possible outcome for lovers” (McClure).
To the disenchanted post-war audience, the stereotypic myth of love as everlasting now seemed hopelessly unrealistic. Viewers were no longer content with unicorns and lollipops, with gorgeous couples prancing off into the sunset- they wanted to see faithful depictions of their lives as they actually were. In a LonelyPlace resounds as a rallying cry against such fairy tale “happy endings.” Though most Hollywood films, even today, refuse to acknowledge sadness and the staggering reality of divorce, Ray’s masterpiece gives voice to the millions of other “possible outcomes for lovers.”