NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN

Every action has a reaction. If I could sum up the Coen brothers' films in one sentence, this would be the one I would choose. The Coens love to look at how one action creates a whole chain of events that seem both inevitable and avoidable, if only that one action could be taken back. In Blood Simple, their first and one of their best films, a wife has an affair with another man and has a jealous husband, leading to three deaths. In Miller's Crossing, a mob boss's love for a woman results in a high body count because he refuses to give up her brother to a competing gangster's vendetta. In Fargo, a horribly planned kidnapping for ransom ends up with lives ruined or eliminated. But this film is a little different. We indeed see how a man who picks up drug money after a massacre is chased by others who claim it. But we also see how everyone reacts to something unfathomable. No Country for Old Men is a movie about how our world has become both oblivious and resigned to the true evil that roams the land.

I was sheriff of this county when I was twenty-five years old. Hard to believe. My grandfather was a lawman; father too. Me and him was sheriff's at the same time; him up in Plano and me out here. I think he's pretty proud of that. I know I was. Some of the old time sheriffs never even wore a gun. A lotta folks find that hard to believe. Jim Scarborough'd never carry one; that's the younger Jim. Gaston Borkins wouldn't wear one up in Camanche County. I always liked to hear about the oldtimers. Never missed a chance to do so. You can't help but compare yourself gainst the oldtimers. Can't help but wonder how theyd've operated these times. There was this boy I sent to the 'lectric chair at Huntsville here a while back. My arrest and my testimony. He killt a fourteen-year-old girl. Papers said it was a crime of passion but he told me there wasn't any passion to it. Told me that he'd been planning to kill somebody for about as long as he could remember. Said that if they turned him out he'd do it again. Said he knew he was going to hell. "Be there in about fifteen minutes". I don't know what to make of that. I surely don't. The crime you see now, it's hard to even take its measure. It's not that I'm afraid of it. I always knew you had to be willing to die to even do this job. But, I don't want to push my chips forward and go out and meet something I don't understand. A man would have to put his soul at hazard. He'd have to say, "O.K., I'll be part of this world."

Tommy Lee Jones echoes these lines at the beginning of the film. We see the vast barren lands of west Texas. The movie starts like a western, and feels like it. The scenes feel like they came out of a Sergio Leone picture. It's a hard world, with hard people living in it. Tommy Lee Jones is laying it all out on the table, right from the start. The "oldtimers" rarely carried a gun, but a law enforcement official wouldn't dare now. He wonders how they would respond to living in today's environment. Really, he wonders how he can.

Tommy Lee Jones plays Ed Tom Bell, a sheriff in a lonely town in west Texas. The wear is in his eyes. He has seen enough to know he has seen too much. Present-day crime is centered around drugs and the viciousness of the greed surrounding them. Passionless crime that is unrelenting and unforgiving. We sense that Bell has seen the world without crime and now this one. He doesn't belong in this one, and he can't stop thinking about the previous one. These words set the tone for the whole movie. Ed Tom Bell cannot fathom the world of crime he now lives in, and he has no way of fighting it.

There are two players from a younger generation that are Ed Tom Bell's symbols for his current philosophy. There is the merciless killer Anton Chigurh (Javier Bardem) and the youthfully ignorant go-getter Llewelyn Moss (Josh Brolin). Ed Tom Bell doesn't know how to understand or stop either of them. And the other two probably don't either.

Near the beginning of the film, we see Chigurh kill two people quietly and without any emotion. He strangles a police officer, and then uses a compressed air tank and a stungun to kill his next victim immediately. He now has his getaway car. The two scenes are striking in their simplicity and in their efficiency. And both killings serve a purpose. He escapes arrest as a result of the first murder, and he steals a car for the second. For Chigurh, this is a matter of a means to an end. He does not think about what he is doing, but only about the next step.

We then meet Llewelyn, antelope hunting in the vast empty fields. He stumbles upon a scene of mass murder. There are a number of victims in a number of trucks. There is even a dead dog, for which the Coens use as a source of almost satirical humor. Llewelyn finds a badly wounded survivor. He needs water, but Llewelyn has none to give him. He finds a truckload of drugs in the back of one of the vehicles. What's missing is the money.

Llewelyn, like Chigurh, is smart and calculating. Through deduction, he knows where the last survivor escaped and ends up finding him. He is dead near a lone tree, money by his side. Llewelyn is poor, and could definitely use the money. He takes it with him; this, of course, is the event that leads to everything else in the movie, a Coen brothers touch that pervades every one of their films.

What Moss never seems to comprehend is that the massacre is not all-encompassing. There are others interested in the goings-on regarding this drug deal gone macabre. And they want the money back. Chigurh is hired to obtain the money, but we, of course, sense he wants it for himself too. After two of his employers go with him to the site, Chigurh kills them instantly. Again, he has discovered what he needs to, and doesn't want anyone else to know about it. The money is gone, and someone has taken it.

Meanwhile, Moss returns to the site to give the badly wounded man some water. He has died, and now he sees a truck full of interested people chasing him. Again, the Coens use a dog here, this time in a much more menacing, but still eerily humorous manner. The Coens find the strangest ways to bring comedy into a scene, but it is critical -- because it helps to build the uneasy tension that is beginning to develop in each sequence.

The middle half of the film is a cat-and-mouse chase between Chigurh and Moss. Moss, at first, does not realize that there is a beacon in the chest containing the money. Chigurh soon deduces who might have stolen the money and where he may have gone. Ed Tom Bell is a step behind. He is at the crime scene. He intelligently figures out what transpired at the scene, and also deduces who may have come across the site. He goes to Moss's house, just a while after Chigurh was there. We see his silhouette on the TV, just minutes after we see Chigurh's. Ed Tom Bell is chasing a shadow.

Each scene of confrontation between Chigurh and Moss is meticulously crafted. There are great scenes of tension, in which the only sound is a beeping transmitter. We see shadows and can almost hear the breathing of the hunter and the hunted. Tension is especially high when both know the other is there. One particularly potent scene features Moss in a hotel room with Chigurh standing outside the door. The chase that follows is also perfectly developed. Each surprise is extreme, rapid, and realistic. Both are smart enough to escape capture.

Chigurh and Moss are wounded. In equally crafty scenes, we see how each one heals their wounds. Moss goes across the border into Mexico to get medical treatment; Chigurh diverts a drug store's customers and employees to steal supplies.

The Coens are painstaking in their analysis at the men's plans. We are shown several minutes of sequences in which we find out what Moss plans to do to hide the money in one hotel room. We see how Chigurh looks at cell phone calls and mail to find out where Llewelyn and his family lives, or may be going.

Meanwhile, Ed Tom Bell can only observe the aftermath. He never can quite keep up with either of them. But his observations are crucial to the film's impact. It serves as the "state of affairs", maybe even the moral compass. He reads in the paper of a heinous crime in California. His partner nervously chuckles when hearing it. Ed Tom Bell agrees. "Not much else you can do about it, I suppose." Interesting how viewers may find humor out of a dead dog at a site of mass murder.

Another critical methodology behind the film is how each character, major or minor, reacts to Chigurh's presence. There is a scene of masterful dialogue between Chigurh and an old store clerk. The two are dancing off each other's words, one all knowing and the other completely ignorant. We know Chigurh is pondering murdering the clerk. We sense the clerk is eventually aware of the danger he is in, though maybe not in complete understanding. Chigurh flips a coin. The clerk chooses correctly; he survives. Chigurh tells him to save the coin; otherwise, it's just another coin, which it is.

This scene is one of the best in any film. The Coens have a mastery of depicting people. This gas station clerk is such a realistic character. He reminded me of numerous clerks I've come across during my day. And Chigurh -- he is larger than life here, completely evil and clearly insane. His rules of killing and not killing are arbitrary but rigid and identifiable. A character asks him at one point if he has any idea how insane he is. Chigurh responds by asking about the nature of the current conversation. Interesting. He assumes it is not about himself, or maybe he wants to hear it from other people.

He comes across many of these other people. A manager, an accountant, a bounty hunter, and Moss's wife. Their reactions are different but carry many of the same themes. "You don't have to this." Chigurh points out that everyone says that. He's right. And what he means is that he does not understand why those words would have any impact on his decision. And his victims do not understand why they cannot.

There is one character, named Carson Wells, who understands Chigurh. He is played by Woody Harrelson. He is asked by a businessman (Stephen Root), with a vested interest in the drug money, to find him and the money. Chigurh finds Wells first, and their scene is revealing. Chigurh is absolutely insane but never seems physically so. It reminds me of the characters in The Bridge on the River Kwai. All had various forms of madness, but Alec Guinness played a man so insane as to fool himself into helping the enemy while maintaining a militaristic sense of patriotism and duty. Chigurh is sort of the same way. He does everything by a set of rules that he has dictated but outside of which makes absolutely no sense. But it does to him, and so he can't understand why people try to convince him otherwise.

Moss is also the same way. His wife (played by the excellent Kelly Macdonald) tries to convince him of how dangerous his actions were, but he hears nothing of it. Why? Because he thinks he can outrun it. He thinks he has a complete comprehension of the situation. Which makes his inevitable demise all the more interesting. He is gunned down, not by Chigurh, but by other criminals searching for the money. And Ed Tom Bell can only clean up the mess.

The final portion of the film is brilliant. The Coens have finished the cat-and-mouse chase; now they present the ambiguity and the stubborn lack of resolution in a world that seems to have no purpose. The Coens do not tell us if Chigurh murders his victims anymore. Instead, they only leave subtle clues, like the checking of his shoes. When Ed Tom Bell nearly finds Chigurh in a hoel room one night, neither one investigates further. To the sheriff, Chigurh will always be a shadow. To Chigurh, the sheriff will always be close but never quite there.

Chigurh, so far, has been presented as a larger-than-life individual. Many of the Coens' main characters have had this trait. Think of Albert Finney in Miller's Crossing, Dan Hedaya in Blood Simple, and John Goodman in Raising Arizona, Barton Fink, and O Brother, Where Art Thou? But there is one scene in which the Coens make Anton Chigurh a part of a random act of chance himself. After this incident, he asks a boy for a jacket, much like Moss did in a scene long before. They are the same people, in many ways. They strategize, they respond, but they are just as vulnerable as anyone else. But they keep on going because that's all they know how to do.

Ed Tom Bell cannot keep on going anymore. He finds he is increasingly useless in a world he cannot control or prevent. But, as one character reminds him, the world has never been too kind.

I sent Uncle Mac's badge and his old
thumbbuster to the Rangers. For their
museum there. Your daddy ever tell
you how Uncle Mac came to his reward?
...Shot down on his own porch there
in Hudspeth County. There was seven or
eight of 'em come to the house. Wantin
this and wantin that. Mac went in and
got his shotgun but they was way ahead
of him. Shot him down in his own doorway.
Aunt Ella run out and tried to stop the
bleedin. Him tryin to get hold of the
shotgun again. They just set there on
their horses watchin him die. Finally
one of 'em says somethin in Injun and
they all turned and left out. Well Mac
knew the score even if Aunt Ella didn't.
Shot through the left lung and that
was that. As they say.

(Ed Tom Bell) When did he die?

Nineteen zero and nine.

His point, of course, was that the country has never been safe or
even sane.

...What you got ain't nothin new.
This country is hard on people. Hard
and crazy. Got the devil in it yet
folks never seem to hold it to account.

No, it seems, they do not. And maybe Ed Tom Bell never did.

There is a stunning lack of sound in this film. There is virtually
no music, and there are long sequences of silence throughout.
This is appropriate. The silence brings about an unrelenting
sense of vastness, of a harsh and cruel world. It also gives the
moments with sound extra emphasis. But, mostly, it makes
sense given the territory and the material. Every touch is right
here.

The film's closing is a source of consternation for some viewers.
It should not be. It is the only ending that makes sense given
the themes of the film. Ed Tom Bell talks about two of his dreams
to his wife. And listen to what he says:

Alright then. Two of 'em. Both had my father in 'em.
It's peculiar. I'm older now then he ever was by
twenty years. So in a sense he's the younger man.
Anyway, first one I don't remember to well but it was
about meeting him in town somewhere, he's gonna give
me some money. Ithink I lost it. The second one, it
was like we was both back in oldertimes and I was on
horseback goin' through the mountains of a night.
Goin' through this pass in the mountains. It was cold
and there was snow on the ground and he rode past me
and kept on goin'. Never said nothin' goin' by. He
just rode on past... and he had his blanket wrapped
around him and his head down and when he rode past I
seen he was carryin' fire in a horn the way people
used to do and I could see the horn from the light
inside of it. 'Bout the color of the moon. And in the
dream I knew that he was goin' on ahead and he was
fixin' to make a fire somewhere out there in all that
dark and all that cold, and I knew that whenever I got
there he would be there. And then I woke up.

There are three things to observe here. One, his father would
now be younger than Ed Tom Bell by twenty years. Two, he was
going to make a fire in the vast, empty space. Three, he knew his
father would be there when he made it to the fire. The point is
that he woke up before he got there.

PATHS OF GLORY

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

There is no anti-war film like this one. Paths of Glory leaves you angry and bitter. This is a story about a war of inches, a military caste system in which the soldiers are on the bottom of the totem pole, and a debacle solved with a travesty. This is one of Stanley Kubrick's finest films, primarily because he is driven by anger and a desire to let the audience know just what war is and can be if those who drive it are behind a desk.

Paths of Glory has three main acts. The first is the battle. The film is set in the trenches of World War I, where battles last for years with virtually no movement on either side. Countless casualties have wiped out much of the forces from Germany and France. Morale is low, humanity is nearing non-existence, and hope is all but forgotten. The two sides are similarly equipped and manned, and trench warfare has reached a dangerous stalemate.

Two leading French officers are discussing a new attack. One is Corps Commander General Broulard (Adolphe Menjou), a conniving, stubborn, unforgiving officer who is clearly more interested in prestige than in France's welfare. The other is General Mireau (George Macready), an easily persuaded, often misguided subordinate. In one of Kubrick's more masterful sequences, Broulard slyly convinces Mireau to encourage an attack on the 'Ant Hill', a fortified German stronghold along the trenches, a tactical "king of the hill".

Mireau is, at first, extremely skeptical -- aware that the attack would be a suicide mission for his troops. However, Broulard provides subtle compliments, patriotic verbiage, and a potential promotion. Consider how his words change. From "The life of one of those soldiers means more to me than all the stars and decorations and honors in France" to "Nothing is beyond those men once their fighting spirit is aroused...We might just do it!"

After Mireau is convinced to attack, he joins his forces along the trenches. Kubrick employs stunning, long-track shots of the trench. Dead bodies are scattered throughout. Random explosions contribute to a dizzying din of petrified soldiers haunted by the silent-explosive interludes. Mireau interviews a soldier here and there. He orders one away because he may "contaminate" the men with his cowardice (which is actually "shell shock"). A clever viewer will note that Mireau is actually interviewing the three soldiers who will be at the forefront of the latter half of the film.

Mireau then meets Colonel Dax (Kirk Douglas), the leader of the regiment. Mireau informs Dax of the planned assault on Ant Hill, to which Dax is incredulous. "Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel." Dax is, of course, thoroughly aware this is a suicide mission. After bombarding Mireau with resistance, Mireau uses Broulard's techniques of persuasion. Dax, however, is not so quick to jump on board. He stands by his position, but also realizes he has no choice. He must choose between dismissal and being with his men. He decides the latter for the sake of his men.

The attack commences, and the scene is a stunning piece of filmmaking. Kubrick provides laser-sharp imagery of shells, bombs, explosions, the mines and wires of no-man's-land, the haunting stares of soldiers crawling through fields of death. For 1957, this footage is simply extraordinary. Today, it stands up amazingly well. Films such as Saving Private Ryan, Flags of Our Fathers, and Platoon have this film to thank for its remarkable clarity and brutality of battle scenes.

As expected, the battle does not go well. The French soldiers are forced back, taking heavy losses. Mireau is embarrassed at the colossal defeat and soon orders a subordinate to begin opening fire on his own men for their "cowardice". The subordinate refuses, but Mireau does not take the defeat well. "If those little sweethearts won't face German bullets, they'll face French ones!" Mireau plans a court-martial, hoping to execute a number of soldiers for their "cowardice".

Mireau wants a high count, up to one hundred officers. Dax is summoned for a discussion with Broulard and Mireau. The number is eventually reduced to three, but Dax thinks the whole court-martial is a sickening use of power and denial. After Mireau agrees to the number, Broulard gives him control over the proceedings, cunningly staying away from the whole affair.

This leads to part two of the film, the court-martial. The three soldiers chosen, not entirely randomly, are Private Ferol (Timothy Carey), Corporal Paris (Ralph Meeker), and Private Arnaud (Joseph Turkel). All of their performances are exceptional, very convincing in their unique portrayals of men who know their lives are likely to end as a result of this court-martial. Douglas lets us know that Dax feels it, too. His preparatory scenes with the three men are tinged with dread. His advice is simple. Stick to the stories, leave the accusations of other soldiers' ill-doings out, and behave as perfect soldiers.

The court-martial is shown in bitter, matter-of-fact detail. The scenes are short but filled with content. Kubrick is masterfully concise here, making the impact of the testimony and the "stacked cards" feel of the proceedings all the more powerful. Closing arguments nicely convey the two sides in smart dialogue. The prosecutor suggests: "And I submit that attack was a stain on the flag of France, a blot on the honor of every man, woman, and child in the French nation. It is to us that the sad, distressing, repellent duty falls, gentlemen. I ask this court to find the accused guilty." But Dax counteracts:

There are times when I am ashamed to be a member of the human race and this is one such occasion...I protest against being prevented from introducing evidence that I consider vital to the defense, the prosecution presented no witnesses, there has never been a written indictment of charges made against the defendants, and lastly, I protest against the fact that no stenographic record of this trial has been kept. The attack yesterday morning was no stain on the honor of France, but this court-martial is such a stain...Gentlemen of the court, to find these men guilty will be a crime to haunt each of you to the day you die. I can't believe that the noblest impulse in man, his compassion for another, can be completely dead here. Therefore, I humbly beg you to show mercy to these men.

The ruling is, of course, for the execution of the three men. The final act of the film is the execution. The night preceding the execution, the three are kept in enclosed quarters. A priest visits for any counsel he can offer. Arnaud is not willing to hear any of it. He is drinking heavily and begins pushing around the priest and the other two soldiers. Paris strikes him hard; Arnaud is now unconscious and may not survive before the firing squad the next morning. A doctor explains that he may need to be awakened before the execution because the general "wants him to be conscious".

The "ceremony" leading up to the firing squad is shot by Kubrick with a snarling precision. The military scene is full of "in-cadence" marching, percussive instrumentation, and hard faces. The three soldiers, meanwhile, are the only ones who look human. They are shot with a coldness and unity that is at once amazingly precise and profoundly sarcastic. Kubrick's hatred for this travesty is palpable. The scene is cold and calculated, miserable and haunting. No anti-war film since has shown such a powerful display of disgustedness.

Broulard, Mireau, and Dax meet again. Dax, in a last-minute attempt to save the lives of his soldiers the previous evening, presented Broulard with evidence that Mireau wanted to fire on his own men after the failed attack. Broulard coldly denied the verdict's overturning, but confronts Mireau after the execution. "There'll have to be an inquiry," he says. Mireau realizes too late that he is the fourth victim of the court-martial. He exits the room with shame and indignation.

Broulard then congratulates Dax on his rise to power and offers him the promotion. Dax categorically dismisses the promotion:

I apologize for not being entirely honest with you. I apologize for not revealing my true feelings. I apologize, sir, for not telling you sooner that you're a degenerate, sadistic old man. AND YOU CAN GO TO HELL BEFORE I APOLOGIZE TO YOU NOW OR EVER AGAIN.

Kirk Douglas performs like he never has before or since. All of his emotion goes here, in this scene, with such a ferocity that it will knock you off your chairs the first time you see it. It is quite a remarkable piece of acting.

The last scene is a startling reminder of humanity. A frightened German woman is in a bar of French soldiers and is asked to sing a song. She does so with a beauty and grace that silences the taunts, even the talking, of the soldiers in Dax's regiment. Some soldiers begin to cry; others are stricken with grief. They all see again what they are fighting for. All they want is peace, to return to a world driven by the preservation of humanity. The soldiers, even through years of inhumane conditions and conflict, are the only ones seen to have humanity. This is Kubrick's twist of the knife. The generals behind the desks may have done all they could have to prevent the world from seeing the haunting truth and despicable motives of war, but the soldiers -- all they wanted was peace.

Ed. Note: Quotes provided by Tim Dirks.

THE AGE OF INNOCENCE

Edith Wharton called it an age of innocence, a time when social constructs and expectations superseded individual wants and desires. The phrase was ironic because the basic human instincts remained: lust, greed, and selfishness. But they were hidden amongst a strict social code that everyone adhered to but no one read or was taught. Each member of this society learned the code through experience and patience. Hand gestures, facial expressions, choice of clothing, house decor, and dinner menus were all important. The slightest behavioral anomaly was admonished by society. It wasn't simply unacceptable; it was dangerous to the stability of their way of life.

Newland Archer lives in this world. It is the 1870s in growing New York City. We see houses of Victorian splendor, wardrobes of luxury, and facial expressions of precise choice. All spoken words are particular and thought out. Nothing is said or done without a strict interpretation of this society's code. And Archer appears to live comfortably in this world. He has asked May Welland for her hand in marriage. The engagement is accepted and celebrated by both families. There is not love between the two, but there is fondness. Archer and May say they love each other, but there is a sense of family loyalty. The families are marrying, not the couple. Marriage was about keeping the society going, a self-preservation of life hidden under layers of public expectations.

Archer then meets one of May's cousins at an opera. Her name is Ellen Olenska, and she has the most troubling of reputations. She has made two particularly bad choices. She first married a man outside of the society and moved to Europe. She then separated from him and returned to New York City. Her unacceptance was not spoken of but was instead observed through a silent neglect. Invitations to a dinner were ignored. Conversations were even more purposely chosen to glorify a more accepted "member's" successes while quietly scorning her failures.

Archer is taken with the countess. He admires and soon adores her independent thought. Olenska is clearly a deviant of sorts. She remains a member of the society, but she is bold enough to tell Archer of her troubles with it. She is a free thinker and acts upon such thoughts and feelings. He soon begins to peel off the layers of social behavior. Their love is rarely spoken of but immediately observable. Simple stares or choice words are all that is necessary to reveal this mutual love. What is interesting is that this love continues to feature many of the social mannerisms as anything else even though it would be so richly abhorred by the rest of their society.

As their love continues to grow, we begin to see the layers of resentment and horror peel off the others. May, who at first glance appears to be somewhat aloof and ignorant of their love, is instead fully aware of the love between Archer and Olenska. Her actions, premeditated and intelligently crafted, congeal with the other members of her family and her neighbors to separate the two of them. The methods are cold and unflinching. Furthermore, they are never spoken of. Everything is done in secret, behind closed doors. The code is at work here through an instinctive defense. Dinners are prepared, well-timed revelations are spread through the neighborhood, and all Archer and Olenska can do is to react in the interests of their society.

The Age of Innocence is a story about choosing society over individualism. It is a story of unrequited and forbidden love. The most poignant of love stories immerse themselves in selflessness and despair. The most maddening and heartfelt love stories are those that focus on the interdependence, the mutual need, and the dreaded threat of loss. Director Martin Scorsese is aware of these facts and carefully crafts this wonderful film around these constructs.

If After Hours is Scorsese's forgotten masterpiece, The Age of Innocence is Scorsese's neglected one. Countless critics revere the film as one of his most brilliant. But the story never caught on with the public at large. When watching the film, it is not surprising. The society Scorsese presents doesn't equate in any way with the society we now live in, one glorifying the individual desires and passions over the societal needs. Scorsese's sophisticated, careful presentation of each social event and conversation was probably too much for an impatient present public to take. Too bad. This is a film of genius observation and remarkable social commentary.

The Age of Innocence is told with a silent but powerful message. The quiet, rigorous society of facades and empty rituals and expectations is just as brutal as the mean streets of a pathologically "individual" society emanating throughout the globe today. Both social constructs contradict the simple human instincts running our emotions and motives. A society cannot be an exaggeration of itself or of individualism. Because at the heart of each type is the loss of the true human desires of happiness and love.

As May's plans to foil Archer's and Olenska's plans to fall in love and move away are revealed, we see Scorsese's purpose at work. Olenska moves away, back to Europe, only revealed to Archer through a string of social events and gestures that place him in a helpless turmoil. He lives on with May, has children, and lives through the society's strict codes. May dies several years later, long after Olenska has left. Archer's children have grown up. One of his children wants Archer to go to Europe. He wants Archer to see Olenska. Archer has never told his son the story and has not seen Olenska since her departure to Europe the many years before.

And as they wait outside to go up to Olenska, Newland sits on the bench and tells his son to go up without him. His son is incredulous and does not understand the decision. Newland tells his son, "Tell her I'm old-fashioned." So he goes up. The camera sits on Newland, his face full of regret, despair, and resignation. He then gets up and walks away. The scene is a master stroke, one of the greatest in all of film. Never has unfulfilled love seemed so tragic. Newland chose society and not himself, and he lost everything because of it. But even now, he remains tied to his societal norms. He has never escaped it.

The acting in the film is superb. Daniel Day-Lewis plays Newland Archer with reserve, with his character's urges squirming under the surface. Michelle Pfeiffer plays Olenska with a bemused anguish. She gives the countess an air of rebellious scorn of the society she stills clings to. And Winona Ryder plays May at first with one-dimensionalness, only slowly revealing her true intelligence and complexity. These performances must be pitch-perfect because the tone of the movie would fall apart without the nuances the characters require.

And Scorsese's direction is brilliant. His restless camera here has a stubborn patience, with very slow continuous motion in the cinematography. Each scene feels like a curiosity, almost like a person stretching his/her neck in to hear the secret one is telling another. Scorsese also employs theatrical lights, colors, and sounds to emphasize scenes of particular importance, especially when an individual's choice is made in the rigid facade of the social codes the film demands. Scorsese's attention to detail here is astonishing.

I have seen this film many times. I like it more each time. It is perhaps Scorsese's greatest work. Each of his films is a meditation on individual desires in surroundings that do not allow for them. Never has it felt so demanding, so painfully tragic, so excruciatingly poignant as in this film. When I look at Newland walking away from that bench, walking away once again from Olenska and the life he really wanted, I remember a line he uttered earlier in the film: "You gave me my first glimpse of a real life. Then you asked me to go on with the false one. No one can endure that." And I remember that Olenska was the only one who ever had the decency to ask him to.

AFTER HOURS

There is a moment in this film when it is understood that the events of poor Paul Hackett's bad night become both hysterical and nightmarish. Paul returns to Marcy's apartment to find her dead. She dies of an apparent suicide. Paul is astonished. Why did she do it? Maybe he believes he is somehow responsible. After all, he did desert her just hours earlier. And yet, as the great Martin Scorsese illustrates, maybe Paul is responsible in an entirely different way. Perhaps it is his abnormal normalcy in a city of thorough peculiarity that results in this disastrous single night.

This is Martin Scorsese's most underrated film. It is so, I suspect, because it is a stark contrast to his many popular, great features (Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, GoodFellas, The Departed). At least, it appears to be. But if one watches the film closely, there are many striking similarities. For one, Scorsese paints Manhattan as the surface of hell, with the steamy manholes, the wet and worn pavement, the nearly excruciating night. At the center is a character striving for some sort of grandeur, much like Jake La Motta or Travis Bickle.

Paul Hackett is a word processor. He has the most normal job you can think of, and its mundaneness is simply illustrated by an up-and-coming employer (played by Bronson Pinchot). There is such promise in his voice, but Paul Hackett has a reserved sense of indifference. Maybe even failure. He goes to a diner after work. He's alone, reading a book. It is hard not to wonder if this is a ritual to him. Day after day of work and nothing thereafter.

This night is different, though, because he is approached by a woman named Marcy (Rosanna Arquette). They chit-chat about nothing in particular, but there is an uncomfortable spark between the two. She gives him her number and leaves. He returns home after a while and gets the nerve to call her. Well, actually her roommate, who sells a needless product. The roommate gives the phone to Marcy. They again hit it off, and she asks him to come over to her place.

There is a build-up here that at the time is hard to see. There is an expectation of humor or drama that refuses to show itself. This is part of Scorsese's mastery. He refuses to stoop to cheap tricks or predictable plot devices. It's a clever build-up of suspense. There are many times in the film where I go, "Oh, don't do that..." or "Oh, no..." and nothing happens. Well, nothing particularly bad or hilarious happens. Just events that, one by one, begin to build up to one comedic calamity.

Paul takes a cab to Marcy's. Strangely, he only brings a twenty. He didn't really think about it at the time. And he loses it through the open window of the taxi. When the driver stops at Marcy's, Paul tries to explain how he has no money. And what happens? The taxi driver speeds off angrily. No melodramatic violence or spoken spiteful joke. Just a normal reaction.

But there is an exaggeration to the realistic behavior that slowly becomes more and more obvious. Marcy's roommate Kiki (Linda Fiorentino), it appears, has characteristics that suggest she is a masochist with strange sexual desires. Marcy describes a rape to Paul on their first date in a completely subdued, twisted manner. She also appears to have a craving for gross imagery, given her strange books. Paul understandably leaves.

So Paul enters a local bar, where he meets the bartender (John Heard) and a waitress (Teri Garr). Garr is especially terrific in this film; she gives her character a sense of dejection and anguish that makes her character a source of a strange mixture of comedy and terror. Meanwhile, John Heard plays the bartender like a beaten civilian who has probably seen so much that he has become a withdrawn observer. He seems cordial but paranoid, trusting yet cautious.

The waitress hates her job and asks Paul for help. The bartender is worried he left his apartment open for burglars to take advantage. He asks Paul for help. Paul does. But then Paul is accused by his neighbors of being the serial burglar in the neighborhood. Paul tries to help the waitress, but he quickly learns she is a lost cause. He returns to Marcy's only to find her dead. Scorsese is pouring it on now. His subtle beginnings give the film the exact momentum necessary to lead to a series of more outrageous, almost unbelievable events.

After Hours becomes almost operatic thereafter. Scenes involving a posse led by an obsessively paranoid woman with an ice cream truck, a strange artist and architect who literally encases Paul in her latest work, a near razor-balding experience at a party, and a strange cat-and-mouse game with keys lead to the film's ultimate conclusion: dawn. The film ends with a return to normalcy and another day at work, as if the craziness knows when the sun rises.

There are three directorial touches that make this film such a success. The first is casting. Griffin Dunne is wisely cast as the victim of this endless charade. Dunne is not very well known in the acting world. Fans of Frasier will recognize him as the man with the squeaky wheelchair. Dunne plays the part without one eccentricity or oddity; he straight-shoots the role. He emphasizes the normalcy to accentuate everyone else's outlandishness. Scorsese wisely supplies these roles with quirky comedians: Rosanna Arquette, Catherine O'Hara, Teri Garr, etc. And he gives these talented supporting players such unique roles. Each character is an exaggeration in outrageousness, but all are supplied quirks and individual character flaws that make them inexplicably real.

The second is a visual complement to the proceedings. Manhattan seems like a cold, empty hell with scenes of empty streets, run-down buildings, rust and dirt clinging to buildings. Scorsese also gives scenes distinctive monochromatic enhancements: the orange of Marcy's room, the bright yellow shirt Teri Garr's character wears, the bright lights of the ice cream truck. Scorsese also employs his famous constantly moving camera, which at times supplies even more tension to a scene. He is a visual director. Often his vision sustains and amplifies the story's tone. After Hours is one of his best examples of this at work.

The third directorial touch is his sophisticated labyrinthine method of storytelling. The film was written by Joseph Minion, who confidently and assuredly gives the proceedings a voice and a brain. Each character is a complex manifestation; each scene is absolutely necessary. The film is taut and concise. When no dialogue is necessary, none is supplied. Scorsese cleverly emphasizes a particularly important moment with sound, not with dialogue. Consider the hilariously innocent bells of the ice cream truck or the simple ring of the phone. He also connects scenes with sight and sound. I found it interesting that Teri Garr and Catherine O'Hara were wearing the same color of shirt. Note how characters who disappear from the movie at one point are cleverly re-introduced later on. There is a connection to the proceedings, but never does it feel forced. Instead, it feels necessary. Without it, there would be no explanation for the chain of impossibly bad events happening to poor Paul Hackett.

I first watched After Hours with a fellow film buff. He said after watching it that the movie was great because the film was so original for a premise so overused. I agree. The bad luck story has been used many times before and since, but there is no film like After Hours. And there never will be again. No genre fits the classification; no situational piece has ever been so precisely formulated. The familiarity, or perhaps simplicity, of the film's premise is its only unoriginal characteristic. What Scorsese has done is remarkable. He used a simple concept, created a complex world, and controlled it with a simple set of rules. The question and answer to complexity is simplicity. Brilliant.

THE DEER HUNTER

The key to this movie is the noise. In almost every scene, there is the clanking of plates, the back-and-forth of conversation, the singing of song, the whistles, the cheers, the jeers. There is a pervasiveness to it that seems almost intrusive until it becomes clear why the noise is so prominent. The noise is the din of life. In every scene, there is life going on. It clings to this film like spaghetti on a wall. There is an earnestness to the sounds of mayhem and anarchy. It has to be there because without it, we begin to think about the horrors of what really surrounds us.

This is especially true of the Vietnam War era. Michael Cimino directed and co-wrote this haunting look at what the war did to the din of life. In essence, it silenced lives and life itself. The importance of the film's first hour, showing us a group of friends in the labor force in rural Pennsylvania, becomes so clear when we see the horrifying moments of silence that begin to sprout in the film's final two hours. In the film's first phase, we see men working and then drinking. We see a wedding and a joyous reception. We see men together for one last hunt for deer. We see life.

These scenes may be a little disorienting and even somewhat uncomfortable. But then again, life tends to have those qualities too. And it also speaks to the genius of the film's development. We start to see moments of clarity, where the men realize the unknown of what is coming. There is a great scene between Michael (Robert De Niro) and Nick (Christopher Walken) during the wedding reception. Michael is running around naked and drunk in the streets of the town. He finally stops, sits down, and the two chat about their upcoming service in the war. Michael promises Nick that he won't leave him in Vietnam.

The promise is empty and naive. Perhaps it symbolizes the patriotic naivete during the beginning years of the war. Perhaps not. I tend to think it symbolizes the "youth" of the soldiers about to quickly grow up in the horrors of a purposeless, uncivilized bloodbath. Michael and Nick are kids even though their ages may say otherwise. Their lives are simple, and their perceptions lack experience and the wisdom of age. This is one of the few one-on-one conversations heard in the first hour of the movie. And the commotion surrounding these conversations works to amplify them.

There is a scene of uncanny power when several of the men go deer hunting just before Michael, Nick, and newly married Steven (John Savage) go off to war. Stosh (John Cazale) has once again forgotten to bring the proper equipment to the hunt. Michael does not let him off easily. When Stosh complains that Michael is being stubborn, Michael shows him a bullet and says, "This is this. This ain't something else. This is this. From now on, you're on your own." The scene has multiple points, one being that Michael is somewhat of a leader to the group. The most important point, however, is that Michael's viewpoint will become muddied in the bloody macabre of Vietnam.

Sort of how shooting a deer was a victory before the war and meaningless thereafter. Michael has no qualms about killing an animal he respects, cares about, or even just sees before his stint in Vietnam. But after he comes back, he chases, he has a target, but purposely misses the shot. Killing no longer seemed rational or meaningful to Michael. The war changed him, quite dramatically.

There is a scene just before the film transitions to Vietnam of great importance. John (George Dzundza) sings a solo, and everyone around him stands quiet. It is a great passage because it is once again a silent passage. Life has stopped, but we aren't quite sure why. I think John knows, though. I think he realizes the horror of what is about to happen. He knows that nothing will be the same. It's a great use of foreshadow because it completely contradicts the tone of the first hour. And it serves as a great transition to the scenes in Vietnam.

Michael, Nick, and Steven are in battle in Vietnam and are soon captured. What happens next is one of the most horrifying sequences in film, scenes so startlingly poignant that they continue to send shivers up my spine after the many times I have seen the film. Essentially, the captors play a game of Russian roulette and bet on who will die. Of course, they are betting on whether Michael, Nick, or Steven will die. Steven is near the breaking point, and Michael calms him silently. But Michael knows it is up to Nick and himself to get them out of there. The scene is long and completely devastating. It is the effects of this event that are at the heart of the story for the rest of the film.

Nick is rescued by helicopter; Michael and Steven are left behind after Steven's leg becomes severely injured. Soon Michael leaves Vietnam, but not before he sees Nick one last time in a place he shouldn't be. But he loses him and leaves him in Vietnam.

Michael returns to Pennsylvania, lost and disoriented. His actions are not coherent, his thoughts even less so. This is most obvious in relation to a girl he has had feelings for. The girl is played by Meryl Streep, and even then, we see her acting promise. She plays the girl with a ferocious intensity and a natural sense of normalcy. She is the symbol of innocence, of what we remember before the horrors of the war. But Michael can't quite figure out how to deal with her. And he can't shoot a deer either.

But he can still admonish Stosh, this time with a more crazed animosity. When Stosh threatens one of his friends with a gun (although not really), Michael loses it and points a gun at him with an intensity only De Niro can give a scene. Stosh is horrified and silenced. The dynamics of the friends have changed.

Michael soon learns of Steven's fate. He has lost his legs. Michael struggles to see him but eventually does. He brings him home, like the bigger brother he always seemed to be to him. Steven's innocence has changed to a shocked sense of youthful apathy. And it is with these sequences that he returns to Nick in Vietnam.

Nick has joined the professional Russian roulette community. Michael finds his way to one of these "events" and sits opposite Nick, giving him the most horrendous of ultimatums. Horrendous because Nick's sense of reality is completely gone. He is not brainwashed per se, but he is in a sense dead to the world. His craving for the game is yet another aspect of the war that the filmmakers give us. The sanity of the war is completely rooted in its pointlessness. Nick needed the game, the awful game of random death. He lived in the war long enough to forget how to live in his old world. So Russian roulette was his only source of the war's random killings.

"One shot," Nick says, echoing a line Michael said earlier. Indeed. There is one shot at life, sure. There is one bullet in the gun. This bullet. The bullet is not something else. Nick was on his own, and Michael couldn't do a thing about it.

The film ends in one of the most moving passages I have seen in any film. The gang of men, the girl, Steven's wife, and Michael all sit at the bar. John is cooking some eggs and begins to cry. We hear a few clanks of silverware and plates. Life is quieter than it used to be. And John silences it one more time by singing God Bless America. Soon, the whole group begins to sing. It is a passage of remarkable power. The song, I think, is meant to be hopeful but also to be thoughtful, to remind us of the war we took part in, the soldiers who died or were forever changed by it, of a country that allowed its evolution to transpire as it did. They sing it with a strange combination of pride, hope, melancholy, and malevolence. They sing it without the sounds surrounding them. They stopped their lives to remind themselves of what being an American was and is. This is what The Deer Hunter is.

LAWRENCE OF ARABIA

T.E. Lawrence is about to blow out a candle. We sense the significance of the scene. It means something. It feels like a punctuation mark, something added for emphasis and/or closure. When he blows out the candle, the screen immediately turns to a scene of the sun appearing to sit on the peak of a sand dune. It is here we see how great movies are crafted. The best films make every scene significant. They give every passage importance. Whether it is a segue, a short quote, or a majestic view, each small portion of a great film adds to a larger-than-life whole. The light never goes out in Lawrence of Arabia, perhaps the greatest character epic ever made. Instead, there is a constant source of energy, maybe drive, that fuels the actions of T.E. Lawrence.

Lawrence of Arabia is the shortest three-and-a-half hour movie I have ever seen. David Lean was becoming a master of the epic by this point in his career. He knew what scenes to cut, what scenes to leave in, what scenes to experiment with, and what scenes to just let be. Every passage of Lawrence of Arabia is a requirement. It is still shocking to learn that several scenes were cut in later theatrical and television versions of the film. It is redeeming to learn that David Lean took so much time to rebuild his original cut. Moviemakers everywhere should obsessively study this film. They should study it for its diligence and perseverance in cutting the fat, in making the film the perfect length. This is something that is nearly impossible to do for a film of this length. Most epics are ambitious; few are flawless.

Peter O'Toole was new to the big screen when Lawrence of Arabia came out. It turns out that this was an asset to the film. It allowed viewers to focus on T.E. Lawrence and not the actor portraying him. There is so much emphasis on the character that any diversion would have killed the effect. Through a chain of events that seem unlikely but are common in filmmaking, this choice was made. It turned out to be a stroke of genius, if also luck.

Lawrence of Arabia tells the story of T.E. Lawrence, loosely based on some of his own work. Lawrence was a British officer who was ordered to the Middle East to find a prince who allied with the British in the war against the Turks during World War I. The prince is named Feisel and is played by the brilliant Alec Guinness. Guinness brings such an effortless embodiment to his roles. He doesn't portray people. He is the person he is portraying. Guinness was an "everyman" actor. He was not a "common man" actor. Guinness could play and did play anybody. And he was perfect every time. David Lean and Guinness were lifetime collaborators. Much of their best work comes with their interaction, and this film is no exception.

The role of Guinness is small but essential. His crucial work in the final acts of the film leads to one of the film's central points. In war, individuals can change the world. In peace, this is not the case. As Guinness, portraying a wise old man, portrays a prince rising in power, O'Toole's Lawrence seems to dwindle into nothingness. "The vices of treaties are the vices of old men," Prince Feisel says.

When Lawrence first enters the desert, there is a grand sense of hope and heroism. Each shot is a giant, with a grand landscape. The sand feels and looks like the sea. The rock formations feel like frozen ghosts who are in awe of the land they are on. The sky is a perfect blue color. And the men and their camels look like tiny ants on a large ant hill. In a sense, this is a form of foreshadowing. Lawrence looks and acts larger than life during these passages, but the shots surrounding these moments make him look infinitesimal. This dichotomy is one of the many brilliant touches of David Lean, who often used visual splendor to complement or counteract the story of the film's words.

Lawrence's travels to meet Prince Feisel are at the heart of the first half of the first act. The second half of the first act focuses on his plans to take over the important town of Aqaba. We have by this time met one of Lawrence's friends and allies, Sherif Ali. Omar Sharif played the man. He was also a relative unknown at this point. But, much like Guinness, Sharif collaborated with Lean often, and his career catapulted as a result. Sharif's work here is impressive. He makes Sherif Ali an interesting counterpart to Lawrence, more cautious and calculated. Ali and Lawrence grow a silent bond that is explored in the film as well.

David Lean studies how one man, so otherworldly to the Arabs, can provide such an important leadership. Lawrence was a natural reactor. He talked and behaved to feed the personalities of his friends, acquaintances, and even enemies. And his unique and quirky personality were often a source of comfort to the others, a way of easily talking to a man versus being intimidated or disgusted. His friendship with Sherif Ali was one such scenario. It is interesting and important to study how Lawrence develops his friendship with Ali. Lawrence quickly learns Ali's nuances and focuses on them. He quickly emphasizes the very traits that would impress Ali and his friends.

One important sequence that aids in this analysis is Lawrence's back-trekking through the hellish Nefud Desert after one of their beleaguered crew falls off his camel in dehydrated exhaustion. To Ali, it is suicide, but Lawrence begins to feel somewhat mythical. He even acts like a god, especially since he finds the man and returns him to safety. Ali and friends are impressed. Indeed, Lawrence did seem like a god.

There is an important event, though, that foreshadows Lawrence's fall from supremacy. The man he saved kills a man from a separate but somewhat allied group (with obvious past tensions). Lawrence is forced to execute the man he saved. It is here we see that Lawrence has his dark side and is certainly touchable. Lawrence is human, and David Lean is reminding us and warning us of that very fact.

The film's second act shows us the fall of Lawrence. There are three important events that lead to this decline from the heroic graces. The first is his capture and imprisonment in the Turkish camp of Deraa. This capture haunts Lawrence to the core, and he quickly leaves the desert. Soon, vengeance becomes too much for Lawrence, and he returns to the desert with blood in his eyes. This leads to the second event, the bloodbath with the Turks who are approaching Damascus. He tells everyone, "No prisoners!" Indeed, after the slaughtering of the Turkish men, Lawrence is covered in blood. Sherif Ali has grown humbled and wearied by Lawrence's change. At one point, he blatantly tells Lawrence of his seeming hypocrisy in a scene of uncanny power.

The final event is the capture of Damascus and Lawrence's graceless exit from the desert. It is here that Lawrence finds himself helpless and out of place. It is here that Prince Feisel's true power is known. Lawrence is a man of war and not a man of peace. David Lean has made the man a small figure in a giant desert.

Many epics since Lawrence of Arabia have used a similar storyline, if not copied it. But no one has matched the freshness and tautness of David Lean's work here. Lean had a sense of making the image fit the story, even if the image did not match the story at the time. Lean used visual style in a literary sense. When we see Lawrence blow out the candle, Lean masterfully cuts to the next scene, featuring a sun in the candle's place. We see how this matches Lawrence's vision at the time. He is one who can't sleep. His drive is seemingly infinite. He is larger than life.

But then in the second half, we see a bloodstained Lawrence kneeling on the ground, smaller than his camel. He seems pathetic on the vast landscape of the desert. But David Lean warns us of this very thing. Many of his shots show Lawrence, Ali, and the Arab allies as tiny dots in the gigantic landscape. They seem almost insignificant. Even unimportant. As it turns out, this was partially true. Their efforts were impressive in war but negligible in peace.

Lawrence of Arabia features superb acting. O'Toole and Sharif are profoundly terrific in their roles. Guinness steals every scene he is in. Supporting work from Anthony Quinn, Jose Ferrer, Jack Hawkins, and the great Claude Rains is outstanding. It is amazing to note how no Oscars went to acting for this film.

My favorite scene of Lawrence of Arabia is the very first scene. We see T.E. Lawrence riding a motorcycle. At one point, he loses control and crashes. It causes his death. What a fascinating way to start the film. David Lean tells us that the man we later see in flashback as larger than life dies in perhaps one of the least important of ways. Lawrence is not a god. He is a man. A tiny man in a big desert.

SWEET SMELL OF SUCCESS

Each time I see this movie, one of the greatest of all films, I think of a satellite orbiting around the Earth. The satellite is Sidney Falco (Tony Curtis) and the Earth is J.J. Hunsecker (Burt Lancaster). And there's blackness all around them. J.J. and Sidney have a hate-hate relationship, but their mutual need for each other's power is too much for either of them to ignore. In nearly every review I've read of the film, critics have described this relationship in some similar way. But I think it's best described in terms of the satellite and the Earth because it's important to talk about the blackness that surrounds them.

J.J. Hunsecker is a gossip columnist in New York. Sidney Falco is a press agent. Hunsecker is the most powerful columnist in the city, where his words have the power to ruin careers or grandstand no-names. Hunsecker is a successful man and is widely feared by the higher-up public profiles due to his rampant, unapologetic power of his printed word. Falco wants to be Hunsecker, and his plan is to provide Hunsecker the bits and pieces he uses in his columns to make it to the top. We see the different levels of success the two have. Hunsecker sits at the tables of senators; Falco is asked to light Hunsecker's cigarette. Hunsecker has his own private office; Falco's office is also his bedroom.

Recently, Falco has been shunted by Hunsecker. We come to learn that this is because Falco has so far has failed to break up the relationship of Hunsecker's sister Susan (Susan Harrison) and Steve (Marty Milner), a local do-good, make-good musician. The film cleverly paints these two as the wide-eyed lovers, normal in almost every way. There's a sense of naivete with both of them, but it is clear that Susan is aware of J.J.'s malicious influence. We get the impression that Susan has been in similar situations before, though proposed marriage was probably as far as she has ever gotten.

The film is unflinching in its portrayal of the two men. Hunsecker is an ethical zero; he will stop at nothing to separate his sister from her fiance. And Falco will stop at nothing to make sure it happens. Perhaps this is most obvious when he lures a girl to his apartment with the expectation of sex. He then lures another columnist to his apartment, promising him sex with the girl. When the girl (Barbara Nichols) at first harshly refuses, Falco changes her mind when he reminds her of her boy, who is attending military school.

The reason Falco lures the columnist to his apartment is so that the columnist can print an article in his paper the following day smearing Susan's fiance. It is this particular columnist who is of interest since he is as far removed from Hunsecker as possible. Susan is clearly unconvinced, however, that Falco and Hunsecker are not involved. From here, the situation begins to unravel, reminding me eerily of the poor plan that led to most characters' downfalls in the film Fargo.

I often look at films through the eyes of playwrights Shakespeare and Sophocles. Their tragedies were not all that different. Sophocles was more about characters without choice, a "predestined" tragedy if you will. Shakespeare clearly gave his characters choices before the tragedy became inevitable. However, if you think about it, Sophocles focused his tragedies after the choices were made. He was more interested in the repercussions of those choices than the choices themselves. In a way, Shakespeare was similar. While we certainly saw the chain of events that led to Macbeth's downfall, Shakespeare frequently implemented foreshadow in his earlier acts. There's a reason. It's the tragedy that makes the story real. It brings order to the characters desiring anarchy.

I look at Sweet Smell of Success as a Sophocles tragedy with a Shakespearean urge to restore order. Hunsecker and Falco have made their choices, and the film's story is the inevitable result of their choices. When Hunsecker strongly urges Susan to no longer see Steve after a most uncomfortable confrontation that included Steve, Hunsecker, and Falco, Susan agrees. But her agreement is one step toward her actual decision: suicide. Susan is fully aware that J.J. will not let go of his grasp. The noose is only tightening.

When Falco finds Susan just before she attempts suicide, Falco forces her down. His dialogue here is intriguing. He is trying to convince Susan of her immaturity, but I wonder if he's only trying to convince himself of this. He becomes more emphatic as Susan becomes more weary. Tony Curtis is especially convincing in this scene as he shows Falco as a man who is fully aware of his moral vacuum. However, he has become so entrenched in this lifestyle that he cannot convince himself to remove himself from it.

This character-character relationship is no stranger to film. Think of the two main characters in Martin Scorsese's The Departed. Working undercover for one of the two sides, both men become enraptured in the environment they are faking. Soon they seek that side's approval. I can't help but wonder if Falco has suffered the same fate, only much more thoroughly.

The stinging realism of the film's plot is complemented by remarkably noirish dialogue. Nearly every line of the film is memorable for its one-linerish qualities. Hunsecker calls Falco a "cookie full of arsenic". Falco tells the rival columnist, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do. And that gives you a lot of leeway." "Light me, Sidney." The dialogue is brilliant because of its stinging truth under its outlandish surface. Falco's lines are full of truth. "I never thought I'd make a killing on some guy's integrity." "A press agent eats a columnist's dirt and is expected to call it manna." And Hunsecker realizes the filth he is involved with or responsible for: "I love this dirty town." "Well, son, it looks like we have to call this game on account of darkness." "My right hand hasn't seen my left hand in thirty years."

The dialogue is what sets this film apart from other films of its kind. Sweet Smell of Success is obviously a noir, but in a sense it is written like Shakespeare. Full of words and sentences that sound made up as they go along. If words or sentences don't come to mind to describe a situation, they make up new ones. The dialogue is surreal, but it amplifies the harsh realities that the words are describing.

One can't help but wonder the motives behind J.J.'s desire to break up her sister's relationships. When I first saw the film, I was convinced it was J.J.'s desire for power over everything he knew, even his family. However, after reading some reviews and discussing with friends, the idea was planted in my mind that incestuous feelings were involved. When I saw the film the second time, I was completely convinced of this. However, each viewing since has found me less convinced. Now, I think it's more of a sense of control: more like a brother wanting to be a commandeering father. While I still get the small impression of highly repressed incestuous feelings, I get just as strong feelings for maybe even some homosexual tension between Falco and Hunsecker. But I think the bigger themes of the film dictate that the sexual tension is at most a secondary thought. It's the search for power at the cost of everything else that is the focus of this film. I tend to think of most art in the realms of "Keep it simple, stupid."

The film was directed by Alexander Mackendrick and written by Clifford Odets and Ernest Lehman based on Lehman's novel. Mackendrick is a relative unknown (perhaps best otherwise known for The Ladykillers). But his work here is unquestionably masterful. He focuses on the characters at the expense of artistic landscaping. His approach is matter-of-fact, cold, and bold. The dialogue is the artistic element, bringing in that sense of a realistic void only barely masking the true harshness of the story's proceedings.

The film concludes with Susan finally hearing what she always knew, J.J. selling Falco out, and J.J. losing the very thing he hoped to attain. The ending is just as harsh and unflinching as the film's build-up. All ties are cut. It is the unavoidable conclusion from the bond of two things that need each other so much that they become too close in their mutual relish of blood and tears. A satellite eventually falls to the Earth and goes out in one final blaze of glory.

But the blackness is always there. Empty space. Susan lived there, but she finally realized that the space was independent of the Earth and the satellite. As she walks away, I find it quite Shakespearean. Order is restored by showing a new perspective on the same three entities. Susan succeeded because she didn't need either Falco or Hunsecker. The two of them lost because their interdependence was their very mutual weakness.