30th
Two by Jules Dassin
Thieves’ Highway (1949) spends 85 minutes screwing up its courage to commit an act of old testament violence - hands hacked off for feet - but chickens out at the critical moment. Whether out of deference to the production code or to the filmmakers’ weak stomachs, the axe that Richard Conte holds above Lee J. Cobb’s shattered hands never finds its way to the poor man’s wrists. The film isn’t sadistic at heart, but like a misguided young punk stealing Camels in the gas station it’s making all the wrong moves in proof of its manhood. Good kid Conte is out to revenge his father’s disfigurement by sticking it to produce baron Cobb; in the last scene he nearly takes his satisfaction out in blood, before the script intervenes (in the form of blacknwhites) and puts him back on the “Johnny Do Right” path. I and the other immoral savages in the audience groaned our collective displeasure at the misfiring ending - why go to a revenge picture if not for revenge? - but once my blood cooled I was relieved for both the film and for my conscience. Jules Dassin is a hard-edged entertainer, not above knocking around his lead actress for a few sharp thrills, but he’s still an entertainer, which means he’s essentially a boy at heart. All he’s really after are a few smiles and some grateful applause. The film’s ending doesn’t match its overall leitmotif, but it beats to the same tempo as its director’s essentially moral heart. Valentina Cortese, the knocked around actress, deserves praise for humanizing this glass-eyed man’s movie, and for delivering the only honestly poignant scene in the film. Recommended, overall, especially to anyone who thinks Tarantino is “one of a kind.”
The Naked City (1948), on the other hand, is all of a piece and hits notes that, while never as “hide your eyes!” shocking as those in Thieves’ blustery passages, are varied, rich and masterful. One of the most famous quotables from American cinematic history comes from this film (“There are eight million stories in the naked city; this has been one of them”) and the coy, seen-it-all tone of that snippet gives you a good read on Dassin’s overall approach. Ostensibly a whodunnit procedural concerning the murder of a young mid-western Manhattan transplant, the film is more interested in ribbing itself than in pursuing the killer. Modern police procedural flicks and television shows keep ripping off this original, but they invariably forget to steal the best part: the appeal of the film isn’t its weight or “realism” (no one likes to feel beholden to a film just because it “honestly” depicts the moral ailments of urban society), but its lightness of touch and its enduring sense of humor. The film flits and floats between well composed scenes of knowing, inviting levity. It plays remarkably well in front of a modern audience; the theater I was in applauded the film afterwards, uncommon even in New York art houses. James Agee called the film “naive,” and you might too if, like the esteemed drunk, your ideal movie is one that quick sets your heart in melodramatic concrete before tossing you into the East River. For those just looking to float, gaily, in the presence of a few other entertaining ducks, The Naked City is for you.
