Category: 1946

Ivan the Terrible (1944-46)

Sergei Eisenstein | 2 Parts (1hr 40min, 1hr 26min)

So rapturous was the reception that Ivan the Terrible, Part I received from Joseph Stalin, it is hard to blame Sergei Eisenstein for recklessly pushing the boundaries of state censorship in its sequel. Both films are mirrors of each other – the first revealing an idealistic ambition in the young Ivan IV which Part II withers into paranoid cruelty, and together painting a vivid portrait of Eisenstein’s own shifting relationship with the Soviet Union. This was no longer the filmmaker who sought to reflect revolutionary principles in his experimental montage theory, but rather a disillusioned artist simultaneously defying and reluctantly cooperating with Stalin’s regime. It is a little ironic that the Communist dictator should see so much of him himself in the first Tsar of Russia, yet Eisenstein nevertheless took the metaphor as a creative challenge, risking his life and liberty to compose a vision of oppressive tyranny that stands true across centuries.

The casting of Nikolay Cherkasov as the imposing central figure here is particularly fascinating given his previous role in Alexander Nevsky, where he portrayed the titular 13th-century Prince of Novgorod. As a young, newly-coronated Ivan proudly declares Moscow a “Third Rome,” his eyes glisten with tears and hope, sentimentalising a vision of Russia’s future which doesn’t sound so different from Nevsky’s own utopian promise after vanquishing the Teutonic Knights.

Meticulous attention to detail in Eisenstein’s staging – this could very well be one of those images painted on the walls surrounding the young Tsar at his coronation, immortalised in history.

This is the ruler that Stalin admires, yet who is never viewed in such a pure light again after this moment, soon developing a distinctively hunched posture and angular facial features that become living extensions of Eisenstein’s majestic production design. Ivan’s bushy eyebrows, pointed beard, and crooked nose are virtually made for close-ups, and when his distinctive profile is cast in giant shadows upon the walls, he becomes a dark, physical embodiment of 16th century Russia’s formidable spirit.

An extraordinary performance from Nikolay Cherkasov, physically transforming into a hunched, crooked tyrant.
Meticulous framing in Eisenstein’s deep focus, imposing Ivan’s visage upon the Russian people.
An incredibly recognisable profile, cast against walls in darkened shadows.

Only the Kremlin’s lavish interiors can match his awe-inspiring majesty with religious iconography painted across arches and columns, reliefs carved from its stonework, and collectively resting the Tsar’s legacy upon centuries of culture and history. Eisenstein’s rich depth of field especially flourishes here, sinking the masses to the bottom of frames that revel in the overhead architecture, and symmetrically positioning Ivan at their centre. These vast, intricate halls of power may very well mark Eisenstein’s greatest achievement in mise-en-scene, borrowing heavily from F.W. Murnau’s expressionistic imagery to cloak characters in chiaroscuro lighting, and underscoring their constant psychological tension between good and evil.

Remarkable achievements in production design, sinking his actors to the bottom of the frame to bask in the murals painted all across these halls and arches.
Wonderful symmetry through framing, blocking, and production design, projecting power and control.
In the absence of formally innovative editing, Eisenstein turns his focus to composing magnificent shots like these through lighting and staging, marking Ivan the Terrible as his most beautiful work to date.

It is evident here that Eisenstein is far more than just an editor, though he nevertheless showcases those talents as well in the explosive siege of Kazan, where Ivan and his sprawling armies claim a stunning victory against the Khanate. As soldiers wait patiently upon hillsides with their cannons and banners, sappers furiously dig tunnels beneath the walled city to plant gunpowder, and Eisenstein clearly relishes the practical effects granted by his enormous budget when the time comes to blast brick, mortar, and smoke into the air. Rather than wielding his editing for intellectual purposes, here he dedicates it purely to the vast scale of his action, building Ivan’s grand authority upon the conquest of those who dare oppose his rule.

Eisenstein uses the natural terrain to block huge crowds of extras across hills, stretching their formations deep into the background.
Eisenstein proves he still has his knack for action editing, lingering on the burning fuse before unleashing a series of spectacular explosions around the city walls.

For the most part though, the greatest political threats to the Tsar are located within his own ranks, as conspirators plot to install his simple-minded cousin Vladimir as Russia’s true sovereign. The political intrigue carries a Shakespearean gravity to it, modelling Ivan after the likes of Macbeth or Richard III, and watching his games of manipulation unfold with treacherous delight. When he falls deathly ill and names his son Dmitri as heir to the throne, his aunt Yefrosinya is quick to whisper into the embittered Prince Kurbsky’s ear, perniciously encouraging him to announce her son Vladimir as the rightful successor instead. Kurbsky is smart to sniff out Ivan’s test of his loyalty here, as almost immediately after carrying out his wishes, the recovered Tsar emerges from his chambers and rewards his allegiance.

Shakespearean power struggles, treachery, and intrigue – perhaps Eisenstein’s strongest pure narrative to date.

Yefrosinya, on the other hand, is not so restrained. Though she prefers to pull strings from the shadows, she isn’t above getting her hands dirty, going so far as to weaken Ivan’s rule by poisoning his wife Anastasia. Later when he makes an enemy of Metropolitan Philip by overruling his religious authority, Yefrosinya again leaps on the opportunity to stir dissent among his followers, only this time rallying them behind an assassination plot that targets Ivan himself.

The murder is to take place after a banquet and theatrical performance, where Ivan the Terrible suddenly departs from the black-and-white photography which has dominated Eisenstein’s career thus far and catches aflame with hellish red hues. This vibrant burst of colour is a shock to the senses, accompanying Ivan’s final and perhaps most despicable act. Having plied Vladimir with alcohol and extracted the conspiracy from his lips, he mockingly dresses him in his own royal regalia, and lets him lead his entourage to the cathedral in prayer. Black, hooded figures trail behind Vladimir like spectres of death, and from the shadows the killer pounces, sinking his dagger into the flesh of the disguised prince.

An avant-garde eruption of blazing red hues as Ivan prepares to commit his most despicable act yet – a shock to our senses.
Shadows, candles, and hooded figures as Ivan’s plan is seen through to fruition, making for an outstanding visual and dramatic climax.

Yefrosinya’s celebration is critically premature. “The Tsar is dead!” she joyfully proclaims, before recognising the tragic turn of events which has befallen her son. Ivan cares so little for these traitors, he does not even bother to have them executed. After all, they are the ones who killed his worst enemy, and who have effectively destroyed themselves in the process.

With Ivan’s greatest threats in Moscow eradicated, the time has thus come for him to turn his attention to those on the outside – yet it is at this tantalising climax that we are left wondering what a third part to Eisenstein’s Ivan the Terrible trilogy might have looked like. Stalin’s fury at Part II’s tyrannical depiction of the Tsar not only kept the sequel from being released until 1958, but immediately ended production on Part III, destroying all but a single fragment of its footage. Even without completion though, the legacy of this truncated series is nevertheless secured in Eisenstein’s daring ambition. Through bold, inflammatory strokes, waves of Russian despotism are painted out in striking detail, reaching across centuries to impose familiar cruelties on this nation’s long-afflicted people.

Ivan the Terrible is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Beauty and the Beast (1946)

Jean Cocteau | 1hr 36min

It is not just the fantastical designs and living furniture which imbue the enchanted castle of Jean Cocteau’s Beauty and the Beast with an air of otherworldly awe. Time inside this ethereal realm mystically warps in unexpected directions, stretching out in delicate slow-motion when the captive Belle runs down hallways of billowing white curtains, and flipping it around with reverse photography as a collection of loose pearls magically form a necklace. Given that its days and nights are completely out of sync with the village situated just a few miles away, it might as well exist in its own time zone too, consumed in darkness when the sun should be shining.

As a skilled technician of practical effects, Cocteau is fully dedicating his illusory craft to our complete disorientation, further manipulating our own suspended disbelief as spatial dimensions disappear altogether in feats of teleportation and clairvoyance. The Beast’s castle defies logic in more ways than just its eccentric mise-en-scène. The very system of logic it operates on exists entirely outside of our own, making for a world that is as inventively surreal as it is fearsome.

White, translucent curtains billow and slow-motion as Belle runs down the hallway, transporting her to an ethereal realm.
Physical space is warped too in the Beast’s magic mirror, offering clairvoyant glimpses into other people’s lives.
Distance means nothing through the magic teleportation of the tale too, realised with incredible practical effects as Belle seems to burst out from a blank wall.

Especially in contrast to Disney’s animated adaptation of the French fairy tale, Cocteau’s vision possesses a far more whimsical horror. When Belle’s father first enters the Beast’s domain after getting lost in the forest, he is welcome by arms protruding from stone walls and holding candelabras to light his way, while faces carved into the dining hall’s ornate fireplace quietly observe his movements. These are not humans transformed into objects, but rather embodiments of the castle’s own sentience, opening doors and whispering to its inhabitants as if possessed by ghosts.

Phantasmagoric mise-en-scène that works the human body into its production design, lighting the castle entry with arms holding candelabras.
Faces surreally blend into the fireplace’s stonework, silently watching guests dine.

Where Georges Auric’s fabulously lush orchestrations build to grand crescendos outside this estate, the addition of a haunting choir within its dark chambers gives the eerie setting its own non-diegetic voice, effectively breathing life into that which is inanimate. Cocteau’s curious camera underscores the mystery even further too as it moves in dangerous anticipation of what we might find at the end of long corridors, while the cluttered Gothic décor obscures our clear view of what lies submerged in dark voids of negative space.

An obstruction of the frame to make Josef von Sternberg proud, crowding Belle’s father with intricate Gothic decor.
Outside, simple silhouettes set against grey skies create stark, minimalist imagery that could come straight from Carl Theodor Dreyer.

From the doorways encased in ornamental carvings to the grand stone sculptures guarding the castle walls, Beauty and the Beast is a towering landmark of cinematic production design, constructing an architectural marvel as phantasmagorical as its cursed master. The Beast’s anthropomorphic design is beautifully detailed, marking an incredible accomplishment of prosthetic makeup in his realistic fur and fangs, while possessing a low, raspy voice and human eyes which reveal a deep sorrow. It isn’t just that he is ugly, but this Beast also confesses that he is hopelessly dim-witted, and feels that this dehumanises him in Belle’s eyes. “You stroke me like you stroke an animal,” he laments, though it is her thoughtless response that stings even more.

“But you are an animal.”

To further underscore his monstrosity, the curse which was placed on him as a child also causes his hands to smoke whenever he is driven by his primal instinct to slaughter a forest creature, betraying his barbarity and driving him deeper into shame around his civilised guest. Though this version of Beauty and the Beast is far more faithful to the classic fable than Disney, these small, cinematic inventions shape it into its own fantastical character study, examining the thin line that separates virtuous honour from depravity.

Shame is visually depicted in the Beast’s smoking hands whenever he takes a life – truly haunting imagery.
Cocteau’s mise-en-scène is incredibly ornate and crowded, but his black voids of negative space also infuse the castle with an oppressive darkness.

The dual casting of Jean Marais as both the Beast and Belle’s vain suitor Avenant works brilliantly in this formal comparison too, especially as the Beast eventually finds himself becoming human, and Avenant respectively takes on his hideous form. “Love can turn a man into a beast. But love can also make an ugly man handsome,” the newly transformed Prince poetically expounds, before lifting into the air with Belle in a sudden gust of smoke and wind.

A miraculous, poetic reversal of fates as Avenant becomes a monster, and the Beast becomes human, made possible in Cocteau’s inspired dual casting of the roles.

Beyond this anti-hero and villain, Cocteau continues to lay out humanity’s shortcomings in Belle’s jealous sisters who manipulate her into turning down a more prosperous life, as well as her brother Ludovic who decides to help Avenant kill the Beast. Even Belle herself is forced to come to terms with her own selfishness when she realises her actions have led to the Beast’s impending demise, kneeling over his ailing body by a stream and tearfully confessing “I am the monster!”.

Indeed, moral virtue and corruption exist within each character to varying extents, though it is only through the filter of twisted dreamscapes that this sort of nuance becomes visible, allowing us to penetrate their deceptive facades of beauty and ugliness. Just as worlds of the conscious and subconscious collide in the love shared between Belle and the Beast, Cocteau also reconciles contradictions of the body and spirit with poetic justice, embracing a wishful ending that he recognises with whimsical poignancy may only ever exist in the boundless, imaginative possibilities of fairy tales.

Reverse photography and smoke make for a tremendous practical effect as the two lovers lift into the air, reconciling body and spirit.

Beauty and the Beast is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and the DVD is available to purchase on Amazon.

My Darling Clementine (1946)

John Ford | 1hr 37min

Even before directing My Darling Clementine, it was clear that John Ford never had any qualms around twisting historical truth into cinematic reconstructions, especially putting his talents to use as a documentarian and propagandist in the United States military during World War II. When he returned to Hollywood in 1946, the focus of his storytelling shifted, but his intentions did not. In his skilled hands, the famous western shootout at Tombstone’s O.K. Corral between lawman Wyatt Earp and the nefarious Cowboys becomes a tale of heroic courage and sacrifice, departing from the truth in too many ways to count. The fact that the Earp brothers were never cattle drivers, that Doc Holliday actually survived the climactic gunfight, and that our main antagonist Old Man Clanton had been killed several months before is negligible to Ford’s proud mythologising. As James Stewart would be told many years later in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, “When legend becomes fact, print the legend.”

This is the central tenet upon which Ford establishes his belief in America’s tenacious spirit, recognising the necessity of these folktales to revive the cultural identity that was slowly losing relevance in a cynical, post-war nation. Through this lens, the rambunctious rural town of Tombstone becomes a landscape of America in disarray, needing a strong leader to restore order to its chaos. As such, My Darling Clementine does not centre a hot-headed maverick like John Wayne, but rather a stoic, reserved Henry Fonda who faithfully abides by laws greater than himself.

Wyatt Earp is one of Fonda’s greatest characters – a lawman with an unwavering commitment to order, peace, and justice, watering the seeds of civilisation.
Ford uses Monument Valley as a gorgeous backdrop to his drama, imposing rough landscapes on his characters as they try to carve out order from the chaos.

With his Chevron moustache and humourless demeanour, Fonda characterises the famed Wyatt Earp as a quiet, pragmatic introvert, only taking up the position of town marshal when his brother is murdered in cold blood by unknown assailants. His gaze is intensely focused, refusing to make eye contact with local saloon singer Chihuahua when she briefly directs her performance to him, and often surveying the dusty rural plains from his porch as he leans back in a wooden chair. Here, Ford frames him as a guardian of civilisation, drawing a visual divide through the vertical posts separating the rustic town from Monument Valley’s wild landscapes of colossal sandstone buttes.

Civilisation and wilderness in Ford’s blocking, stationing Fonda on the precipice of both as a guardian.
Earp’s relaxed pose leaning back in his chair becomes a repeated character trait, echoing throughout the film.

Wyatt is unyielding in his defence of civil order, holding his neighbours to a rigorously high standard, and regarding those morally ambiguous troublemakers like Doc Holliday with suspicion. Right from their first meeting, tension underlies almost every interaction between these two rivals, with Ford using a row of gaslights in the local saloon to split them right down the middle. Behind them, the town watches on with nervous anticipation, vividly captured in a crisp depth of field while slightly obscured by the thick smoke hanging in the air.

The tension between Earp and Doc Holliday is set up magnificently from the start, dividing them through the framing and blocking of their encounter in the local saloon.

It is the Clanton family who Ford reserves his most daunting staging for though, uniting them as an indomitable force when Wyatt begins pursuing a clue to the identity of his brother’s killer. As Fonda questions the saloon’s owner, five Clanton brothers silently enter the foreground and line up along the bar one-by-one, piercing Wyatt with silent, threatening stares. Ford’s lighting frequently verges on expressionism in compositions like these too, casting characters in shadow to cynically illustrate the dark corruption that thrives in Tombstone’s shady establishments.

Dynamic staging as the Clanton brothers enter the shot one by one, posing a silent threat to Earp in the background.
Tremendous manipulation of light and shadows in Tombstone’s interiors, sinking the town into darkness.

Of course, this is only one dimension of a complex, dynamic town, layered with colourful personalities and cultural traditions. At night Tombstone is rowdy with gamblers and outlaws, but there is also a robust community living here that Ford relishes blocking through every corner of his frame, using its height as flamboyant stage actor Mr Thorndyke recites Shakespeare atop a table, and gathering eager crowds at the base of a tall, scaffolded structure – the town’s first church established by Wyatt himself. Its meagre facade does little to dampen the spirits of its excited parish as they join together in a hymn, celebrating the unity that their new marshal has cultivated.

Strong community in Ford’s use of large crowds, gathering in the local saloon and at the opening of Tombstone’s first church.

Like a gardener reaping the rewards of his own efforts, Wyatt also begins to sprout a mature vulnerability from the same fertile environment he has been tending to, motivated by the arrival of outsider Clementine in town. The significance of their romantic musical motif is instantly apparent. All through the film, instrumental variations of ‘Oh, My Darling Clementine’ are weaved naturally through strings, flutes, and Fonda’s whistling, immortalising his love in a ballad which would spread across America in years to come.

By linking Wyatt to a nostalgic, recognisable piece of Americana, Ford is effectively offsetting the more violent nature of his real legacy. Historically, the gunfight at the O.K. Corral encapsulates the tensions between law enforcement and outlaws during the United States’ formative years, and Ford’s staging of it here certifies Wyatt as an icon of cultural progress. As he strides down the main road of Tombstone towards the location of his great victory, the camera captures him at a low angle that radiates power, though this is not a conflict he gladly embraces. Wyatt gives Old Man Clanton multiple chances to avoid bloodshed, announcing the warrant for his arrest before the inevitable gunfight, and only landing the killing shot when his adversary tries to shoot him in the back.

A climactic showdown that centres Earp in a low angle beneath a vast, cloudy sky, later to be echoed in Kurosawa’s samurai film Yojimbo.

Whether or not this is true to the character of the real Earp is completely irrelevant to Ford. As far as he is concerned, Earp not only brought order to chaos in the Old West, but also originated a romantic folk song that has since become a famous expression of romantic love. The Greeks had Achilles, the Anglo-Saxons had Beowulf, and through Ford’s cinematic storytelling Wyatt Earp becomes a mythical hero of the American frontier, paving the path of moral virtue and honour to our modern civilisation.

My Darling Clementine is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, is available to buy on Apple TV, and the DVD or Blu-ray can be bought on Amazon.

Notorious (1946)

Alfred Hitchcock | 1hr 41min

The most obvious dramatic tension that emerges in Notorious comes from its thickly plotted conflict of romance and thriller conventions, tugging our central lovers between deep passion and cold, methodical pragmatism. This riveting narrative of high-stakes subterfuge could be read through the lens of either genre, especially when the initial honeymoon period between Cary Grant’s U.S. agent and Ingrid Bergman’s German defector is interrupted by official orders for her to seduce and spy on a suspected Nazi affiliate, Alex Sebastian. Their breakup is as clean as can be under these circumstances, with Devlin especially putting up a front of stoic impassivity, but Alfred Hitchcock’s fractured blocking betrays their mutual, wounded sorrow. Even the champagne bottle that Devlin bought to share with Alicia over a romantic dinner is suddenly missing, and thus their evening comes to an abrupt end.

It is in that final detail though that Notorious’ most robust motif begins to manifest, developing a tension through layers of formal symbolism that is far more intricate than its overarching genre clash. It begins with Alicia’s alcoholic lifestyle and reckless drink driving, allowing her an escape from the guilt of her father’s Nazi convictions, but wine bottles are also integral to the conspiracy she investigates for the U.S. government. One of Alex’s associates grows agitated at the sight of one specific bottle during dinner, and later Alicia discovers that her keyring grants access to every room in the house except for the wine cellar, making it apparent that these symbols of upper-class aristocracy hold darker secrets than one might expect. In one lush ball scene, Hitchcock even uses regular cutaways to an ice cooler of bottles to drive up the suspense, placing a time limit on her and Devlin’s investigation of the cellar by tracking the party’s dwindling supply.

Hitchcock’s dissolve transitions set up the romance of the first act between Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman beautifully.
Champagne glasses obstructing the mise-en-scène, visually weaving in Hitchcock’s primary motif.

Indeed, these intoxicating refreshments which promise a few hours of light-hearted fun only ever lead to danger in Notorious, and could potentially even instigate a third World War given the uranium ore contained within them. This is far from the end of Hitchcock’s beverage motif too, as once Alex and his mother discover Alicia’s loyalty to America, innocuous servings of coffee also become deadly weapons. Glasses and bottles are swapped out for teacups in Hitchcock’s mise-en-scène here, dominating and obstructing shots that leave her shrunken in the background, while she remains unaware of the poison hidden in their contents.

We start with alcohol bottles and glasses, and then we move to Alicia’s poisoned teacup, sitting in the foreground of this brilliant composition with a dominant presence.

Even more astounding are the close-up tracking shots which suspensefully trace the movements of these cups across rooms, from the moment Alex’s mother fills them with coffee to their eventual contact with Alicia’s lips. The murderous operations of these scheming Nazis are elegantly lethal, incrementally weakening her health over time, and Hitchcock’s camerawork is every much their equal in precision and sophistication. It reaches an enormous stylistic peak in a crane shot that sweeps us from a wide frame of Alex’s opulent entrance hall into a close-up of Alicia’s hand grasping a stolen key, and often punctuates dramatic beats with subtle push-ins on faces, but even beyond these agile motions his visual storytelling is remarkably dextrous.

One of cinema’s great crane shots, easing down from the chandelier above the party down to the key hidden in Bergman’s hand.

At its most potent, he lands us within Alex’s own silent investigation of the wine cellar, excising dialogue completely as he follows a trail of clues – the lost key mysteriously back where it belongs, the tampered order of bottles, a broken seal, and shards of glass swept under a shelf each point towards Alicia’s guilt. The editing is precise throughout, and the pacing measured, suspensefully building up to Alex’s major turn. His tightly framed face is tilted down in shadow when he finally comes to his mother with this revelation, and as he confesses, he rises it very gently into the light.

“I am married to an American agent.”

Hitchcock never spoon feeds us his narrative – this is visual storytelling at its finest, noting the four keys on the ring rather than the three from the previous night. We can see the puzzle pieces coming together in Alex’s mind.
Superb framing of this close-up, as Claude Rains raises his face to the light and comes to the inevitable conclusion of his wife’s betrayal.

For Alex’s mother who has mistrusted Alicia from the start, it is enormously vindicating for her suspicions to be proven right, yet this development may be even more satisfying for Hitchcock who revels in the Freudian insecurities of their relationship. Her protectiveness over Alex has been simmering with jealous undertones ever since he invited this other woman into his life, so now with her son fully on side, she relishes killing off his lover in a slow, painful manner, effectively becoming a slightly less twisted version of Norman Bates’ mother in Psycho.

More skilfully executed tracking shots as we trace the movement of Alicia’s poisoned coffee, and the subtle reactions of her would-be assassins.

In a strange way, this complex mother-son relationship also reflects the stifled romance between Devlin and Alicia, who correspondingly hold onto an emotional repression keeping them from expressing themselves honestly. It is often much easier for them to deny the existence of impractical feelings altogether so that everyone can move on with their work, yet in Notorious it is also those who deceitfully conform to rigid, impersonal standards that come closest to losing everything.

For our main characters to be saved then, they must allow their truest feelings to break through their cool exteriors, and Hitchcock approaches these arcs with an incredible formal mirroring between Notorious’ first and final acts. Alicia’s hangover early in the film blurs and spins the frame when Devlin comes to her with a job offer, and as he comes to take her away from Alex’s mansion, her vision is once again impaired. The initial meeting between Devlin and Alicia where conversation turns to alcohol and love is similarly echoed here as well, as they discuss her poisoning, and he confesses his feelings.

Brilliant formal mirroring between the first and final acts on multiple levels, starting here with Alicia’s distorted POV shots – one under the effect of alcohol, the other under the effect of poison.

Tentatively, they move downstairs in full view of Alex’s co-conspirators, who now peer suspiciously through a door at their compromised friend. The scene is reminiscent of that which previously saw a judge sentence Alicia’s father to prison, and now frames these Nazis as the judges of Alex’s own fate. Even the night-time drive which saw Devlin use his government position to save a drunken Alicia is inverted at this climax, where he lies about his identity to make a safe getaway in his car. No longer is he just a bureaucrat looking to use her for work, but a man so deep in love that he will put himself in harm’s way to keep her safe.

More reflections emerge between the start and end of the film, first framing three guilty Nazis in a doorway with a judge, and then three Nazis in a doorway casting judgement on their guilty friend.

In Notorious, this is the reward that comes to those who reconcile their subconscious desires with their conscious actions, invigorating its narrative with a muscular formal structure. Grant might be given the meat of this character development, but Bergman shines even brighter for the dazzling highs and profound depths that Alicia reaches, eventually finding sincere happiness as her true self beyond her alcoholic indulgences and deceitful double life.

It is not Devlin and Alicia who Hitchcock sticks us with in the final minute of Notorious though, but Alex, left to face the consequences of his actions and saunter through the large doors of hell. For a few seconds it looks as if the camera might follow him too, until they close in our face with a final clang. Hitchcock does not need to tell us what comes next. It is all there in the subtext of his collaborators’ accusing stares. Even in this den of humanity’s greatest evil, there is no haven for liars – merely a sad, pitiful end to a life of dishonesty.

Alex accepts his fate and walks back inside – an immaculate final shot.

Notorious is currently streaming on Tubi TV.

The Killers (1946)

Robert Siodmak | 1hr 43min

There isn’t a whole lot separating the narrative structures of The Killers and Citizen Kane, with both films seeking to dismantle the mystery of the men who die right at their very start. The friends, colleagues, and lovers they have accumulated throughout their lives each hold a piece of the overall puzzle, and as we trace flashbacks along non-linear paths, unexpected layers of their lives begin to emerge.

Perhaps the biggest difference is that the Swede is almost the inverse of Charles Foster Kane. He does not come from the world of multimillion-dollar corporations and mass media, but boxing and organised crime. He is not smooth and charming in the way a political aspirant might be when speaking to potential voters, but still personable on a much smaller scale when he isn’t losing his temper in fits of paranoia. He stands above virtually everyone else with his broad shoulders and strong physique, exerting a raw, physical energy impressively mustered by Burt Lancaster in his invigorating screen debut.

A resigned acceptance of his own death, suffocating in shadows.

Also unlike Kane, the Swede dies young – assassinated by a pair of hitmen who have tracked him down into a small, rural corner of New Jersey and dispatched him without much struggle. That he so despairingly accepts his fate seems strange to those who knew him, and is even stranger to us when we get to know him ourselves. What ensues is not a search for the truth of a man’s life, but rather an autopsy of his mysterious death, closely studying the circumstances which led him to such a tragic and uncharacteristic end.

Jim Reardon is the insurance investigator we follow through this trail of fragmented clues, played by Edmond O’Brien as a diluted take on Humphrey Bogart’s wise guy screen persona. On paper, Reardon is simply motivated to track down the beneficiary of the Swede’s life insurance, but upon discovering that she is a meek hotel chambermaid who barely even knew him, he is anything but satisfied.

Siodmak borrows the structure of Citizen Kane for The Killers, piecing together the mysterious details of a man’s life through a string of interviews.

Additionally, the Swede is only one of three titles that he goes by, Reardon soon discovers. Pete Lund is what most people in his local community know him as, while Ole Anderson is the birthname he has been running from ever since leaving his mob days behind. This is only the beginning of a thrilling plot layered with treacherous triple crosses and seductive intrigue though, all revolving around one lonely man doomed by his own fatal, obsessive insecurity.

Robert Siodmak was a director well versed in expressionist filmmaking by the time he got behind the camera on The Killers, and that experience is evident in the shadow-drenched mise-en-scène and piercingly deep focus he skilfully displays here. Even before we move into flashbacks, the astounding 12-minute sequence which opens the film in the town of Brentwood is filled with chiaroscuro lighting, cutting silhouettes out of two men in fedoras and trench coats wandering the dark, empty streets. This is where Ole has taken refuge and kept a low profile as a gas station attendant, but for the time being he is little more then a name floating about in conversation between these suspicious outsiders and the owner of the diner they have come across. Siodmak is patient with his tension, slowly turning up the heat as we recognise the inevitability of their mission, and submitting us to the same fatalistic resignation as Ole before shots are even fired.

The opening of The Killers is drenched in noir shadows and deep focus blocking, as these outsiders invade small-town America and slowly ratchet up the suspense.

With the foreknowledge of the Swede’s death accompanying us through the subsequent flashbacks, Siodmak often signposts each step that he takes towards it with some inspired visual flourish. Ava Gardner’s duplicitous femme fatale, Kitty Collins, enters the Swede’s life like a magnet, drawing his eyes from across the party while his girlfriend Lilly stands next to him. The three layers of blocking which positions Kitty in the foreground and staggers the two others into the background immaculately distils this love triangle into a single, poignant shot, though Siodmak isn’t done there. A subtle camera movement following Ole into a new position right behind Kitty cuts Lilly out of the frame altogether, all the while his new love interest croons a slow, romantic ballad.

“The more I know of love,

The less I know it…

The more I give to love,

The more I owe it.”

Siodmak’s camera deftly shifts with the blocking, drawing a love triangle across three layers of the frame, and then cutting Lilly out completely.

Ole’s boxing career being cut short due to a hand injury may have been out of his control, but when presented with a choice to either follow his friend Lubinsky into the police force or Kitty into a life of crime, the blame comes squarely back on him. Similarly, when he willingly takes part in a sensational robbery orchestrated by mob boss Colfax, Siodmak infuses the scene with a Hitchcockian suspense, expertly navigating the industrial factory through a two-minute crane shot. A voiceover reading about the exploit in a newspaper article details the events as we soar over fences, scale buildings, and follow the bandits’ escape, tracing their movements with a precision equal to their own perfectly choreographed plot.

The more we get to know Ole, the more we recognise the fatal flaws which put him on this road to hell. Siodmak formally lays out his weaknesses in smaller scenes as grounding for his more consequential downfall later on, especially revealing an inherent paranoia when he falsely assumes Colfax is cheating in a game of poker and foolishly attacks him. It seems that Kitty is the only person he does have total faith in, but when he willingly takes the rap for her stolen jewellery in a spur of the moment decision, his recklessness gets the better of him again and lands him in jail. The Killers may have been based on an Ernest Hemingway short story, but Siodmak, Lancaster, and screenwriter Anthony Veiller put in a huge amount of work to develop this character even further into a complex man of quick judgements, foolhardy actions, and perhaps beneath it all, a genuinely good soul.

Siodmak’s blocking is consistently excellent all throughout, detailing the manipulative relationships all around Lancaster.

With all of this in mind, we can see how Ole could have gotten out at each step along the way, and simultaneously accept that he was never going to make any other choices than the ones he ultimately commits to. Most significantly, the lie Kitty fabricates that his associates are planning a betrayal sets up the dominoes perfectly, manipulating him into stealing the money from them so that she can run away with it herself. With most of the pieces of Reardon’s puzzle finally in place, the loop that brings the story back to the present day is mostly closed, save for the danger which has moved on from Ole and now attached to our curious investigator.

We are given two big clues that Reardon is in trouble when he eventually meets with Kitty and enters a diner with her. The first is the diner itself, established in the very first scene as a prime spot for hitmen to hunt down targets. The second is Kitty, who has proven herself on numerous occasions to be an untrustworthy figure. Fortunately, Reardon is not fooled so easily by her feigned innocence. Siodmak is skilled with his foreshadowing in this way, but it is also a beautiful piece of bookending he crafts here too, bringing the film back to those two enigmatic assassins who enter these venues of warm hospitality and defile them with violence.

Another diner sets the scene for the titular killers’ second assassination attempt, and Siodmak designs a perfectly shady frame here with the deep focus and the chair’s obstruction in the foreground.

This potent metaphor of corruption pervades Siodmak’s film on every level, as much like the titular killers, Ole too has tainted something pure – his own innocent soul. As we recall those calm final seconds before his demise though, we see a new choice being made. His graceful acceptance of consequences runs in stark contrast to Kitty’s hopeless, desperate begging for Colfax to absolve her of guilt in front of the police. Perhaps his decision was born of a newfound humility, inspired by his time as small-town gas station attendant Pete Lund, or maybe he was simply tired of running. We might get most of the answers we have been looking for in this splintered collection of memories and clues, and yet even after all this, the mystery of the man’s uncharacteristic death remains.

The Killers is not currently available to rent or buy in Australia.

It Rains On Our Love (1946)

Ingmar Bergman | 1hr 35min

Ingmar Bergman screenplays are rarely so blunt as they were during his first few years of filmmaking where character dynamics tilted towards melodrama, and yet his second feature, It Always Rains on Our Love, wraps up its candid message of acceptance in a surprisingly sweet, magical realist fable. Perhaps if it came out even a year later, one might have even been tempted to draw a direct line of influence from It’s a Wonderful Life, so it is somewhat of a coincidence that these two films were both released in 1946 given the formal similarities. Never mind the brief sojourn into a Christmastime setting, or even the guardian angel narrator watching over his troubled protagonists. Just as George Bailey is met with misfortune and failure at every turn leading up to his epiphany, so too does it seem as if the entire world is united in its torment of young couple David and Maggi, keeping them from starting new lives together away from the trauma of their past.

Quite curiously, the only person willing to come to their defence is an elderly man neither know on any personal level, and yet who somehow knows them intimately. In the opening minutes, he stands among a group of street pedestrians huddled beneath umbrellas, and as they escape from the rain onto a bus, he remains standing alone on the sidewalk. His address to the camera arrives as more than just a knowing wink, as he explicitly foreshadows his own place in the story, offers commentary on its sequence of events, and even refers to Maggi as his “leading character.” Later when David hits rock bottom in a bar, the mystery man makes contact with him for the first time to offer words of wisdom, though he makes an even greater impact in the final act when, seemingly out of nowhere, he takes on the mantle of the couple’s defence attorney.

Our narrator’s appearances through the film are sparse though, as Bergman is sure not to rely on him too much through David and Maggi’s navigation of a complicated, judgemental world. The train station where they quite literally run into each other marks a crossroad in both their lives, with both searching for fresh starts. Where David is reintegrating into society after spending time in prison, Maggi has recently fallen pregnant, and neither have any family to fall back on. They are far from perfect people, especially given David’s initial reaction to learning about Maggi’s baby, and yet quarrels are always followed by real remorse and reconciliation between the two.

The true villain in this piece can’t be nailed down to any single character, but it is rather the mounting difficulties of living in a prejudiced society which congeal into a single menace. While they dream of a quiet, stable life, they find neighbours accusing them of theft, welfare services threatening to separate them, and bureaucratic officials evicting them from their own home. The stillbirth of Maggi’s baby adds yet a greater pain to their misery, denying them even a target to aim their anger at. Some odd comedic interludes revolving around their neighbours don’t quite cohere with everything else going on, but Bergman is otherwise confident in his storytelling, building towards a court case that condenses every nasty jab we have witnessed into a barrage of cruel attacks.

It Always Rains on Our Love contains a good deal of handsome photography, especially in its wide range of elegantly composed establishing shots, though it isn’t until we enter the courtroom that its visual style manifests more fully. Minor antagonists from throughout the film step up to the witness stand and deliver their testimony in close-ups to the camera, and Bergman moves through them rapidly in a montage set against the flipping pages of a law book, cornering his protagonists into an inescapable dead end. As such, the return of the guardian angel is timely, making for a nice formal comparison against virtually every other character. He is virtuous and kind, but not without a sense of humour, demonstrating an intangible goodness in the universe existing beyond humanity’s trivial prejudices. The perspective he offers is straightforward but sincere, simply asking the world’s imperfect youths are afforded a little more grace.

“That’s what this whole business is all about. It’s about two people who would say ‘Nothing concerns us’ because they’ve been told ‘You’re no concern of ours.’ On the other hand, we have their love for each other. Their efforts, albeit awkward, to fit into society. We should look upon that with favour.”

The elderly man’s final, parting gift to them marks the film with particularly poetic bookends, as Bergman ties back in the motif of rain from the opening scene, pouring a dour gloom on top of our characters. This time though, they possess their guardian angel’s umbrella. They may never see him again, but he has passed on the wisdom they need to carve out their own place in a bleak world, and persevere through whatever weather it casts down on them. Bergman would go on to write and direct more complex dramas than It Always Rains on Our Love, and yet the touch of fantasy he injects into this fable of abject misery is charming nonetheless, formally rounding out a heartfelt call for compassion towards society’s outcasts.

It Rains On Our Love is not currently available to stream in Australia.

The Big Sleep (1946)

Howard Hawks | 1hr 54min

Too often when a story is accused of convolution, the core issue usually comes back to some mix of overloaded exposition, useless subplots, or a downright messy structure that quickly gets out of control. To wield convolution as a purposeful device that escapes each of these criticisms proves to be a truly impressive feat though in The Big Sleep, where twists and turns are dedicated to the overwhelming, fatalistic forces seeking to overcome Humphrey Bogart’s private detective, Phillip Marlowe. Credit must of course be given to screenwriters William Faulkner, Leigh Brackett, and Jules Furthman, as well as the author of the source material, Raymond Chandler himself, but it is ultimately Howard Hawks who takes artistic ownership of this densely plotted conspiracy, navigating blackmail and murder with gloriously pulpy intrigue.

For those looking to pick apart this opaque plot with charts and diagrams, it is not an impossible task. The Big Sleep’s tightly-wound storytelling leaves very little unresolved by the end, though to focus too much on the winding path of each thread may prove to be unfulfilling. As Roger Ebert puts so succinctly, “the movie is about the process of the criminal investigation, not its results.” In other words, this is meant to be chewed on, but never really swallowed, as it is only while we are savouring the bewildering turmoil of each individual moment that we can appreciate Hawks’ construction of an alluring but perilous world far beyond our comprehension.

Chiaroscuro lighting typical of classic film noir, outlining the silhouettes of Bogart and Bacall.

It all starts when Marlowe is hired by General Sternwood to settle the gambling debts of his flirtatious daughter, Carmen, though enigmatic layers begin to emerge almost immediately when his other daughter, Vivian, pulls him aside, suspecting that this has to do with her father’s disappeared protégé, Sean Regan. From this point on, these affairs become the main through lines of Marlowe’s inquiries, the first of which is tied up by the film’s midpoint, subsequently leaving the second to take over as the primary source of intrigue. That two key players in this mystery are killed before we even get a chance to attach faces to their names only serves to disorientate us further, but such is the nature of the perspective Hawks forces us to adopt. Marlowe is our avatar in this story, meaning that everything is filtered through his eyes, leaving us just as baffled as him each time his discoveries spawn a dozen more questions.

Deep focus photography well-suited to Hawks’ sprawling ensemble, brilliant staging, and convoluted plotting.

This isn’t to suggest that he is anything less than competent though, nor that he ever lets that weakness show. Marlowe is beaten, tied up, and threatened on multiple occasions, and yet the confidence that Bogart carries throughout would convince even his worst enemies that he’s the one in control. All through The Big Sleep, he meets sudden surprises with cool nonchalance, keeping a stoic expression as he playfully delivers dry one-liners to men pointing revolvers at him.

“Such a lot of guns around town and so few brains. You know, you’re the second guy I’ve met today that seems to think a gat in the hand means the world by the tail.”

Darkness eating away at faces and locations like a pervasive corruption.
Hawks is not always a master of mise-en-scène, but he is showing off some impressive noir visuals here with his rain, lighting, and layering of his shots.

That streak of hardened cynicism doesn’t quite disappear when women are around, but it is somewhat comical how often this treacherous world confronts him with unexpected romantic encounters, as if trying to entice and ensnare him in a trap. The primary love interest here is Vivian, Lauren Bacall’s husky-voiced femme fatale, whose entanglement in her sister’s affairs remains curiously vague up until the final minutes. In the meantime, the steamy banter between her and Marlowe is more than enough to keep us hanging onto their coy provocations, ranging from lively jabs to full-blown sexual innuendos.

“Well, speaking of horses, I like to play them myself. But I like to see them work out a little first, see if they’re front-runners or come from behind, find out what their hole-card is. What makes them run.”

“Find out mine?”

One of the great real-life and onscreen romances of Golden Age Hollywood – Bogart and Bacall’s chemistry with their playful innuendos and jabs is magnetic.

This may be a gritty film noir, but Hawks is not directing his actors as a private detective and femme fatale like we see in Double Indemnity. Instead, Bogart and Bacall become a screwball couple engaging in a beguiling battle of wits, sparring like old married spouses trying to get one up over the other, while simultaneously drawing on their real-life passion as lovers. Even outside their interactions though, it seems that instant, sizzling chemistry isn’t uncommon in this world. Carmen’s overt advances towards Marlowe are constant and relentless, while elsewhere a bookseller and taxi driver each express their interest through off-handed quips.

“If you can use me again sometime, call this number.”

“Day or night?”

“Night’s better. I work during the day.”

Romance always seems to be just around the corner for Marlowe, falling into his arms even when uninvited.

In a labyrinthine narrative that just keeps throwing us off its scent, these succulent character dynamics often feel as if they are all we have to orientate ourselves, and fully realising what he’s got in these charming performances, Hawks relishes every second of them. When Marlowe comes across Vivian singing a sultry rendition of ‘And Her Tears Flowed Like Wine’ at a party, she is blocked in the centre of the band accompanying her, dressed in a luminous white gown that seems to shine brighter than anything else in the room. Given how visually dark his world is, it’s no wonder he is so drawn to her, as Hawks often sets her up in stark opposition to his dingy, low-key lighting that almost emanates from his shady characters.

Bacall is luminous in this scene, taking centre-frame in her white dress as Bogart lingers in the background.

It is especially as The Big Sleep hurtles towards its conclusion that Hawks’ mise-en-scène grows progressively dimmer, creeping up to the edges of Marlowe’s face as he hides in gloomy corners and casting shadows of his suspects up on walls as they make quick getaways. In one scene that sees him tail a thug planning to rob Vivian, the camera thrillingly engages in the silent pursuit with tracking shots gliding past cars, and as we cut back to him crouching in the darkness, it is evident that this is where he is most comfortable. Conversely, the presence of light also indicates a clear path forward for him in his investigations, as Hawks cleverly coordinates one shot in a diner that sees the lamp hanging above his head turn on the moment an idea strikes.

Hawks demonstrating his penchant for gripping visual storytelling in his editing, bouncing between Vivian, her stalker, and her stalker’s stalker.
A creatively oppressive frame, obstructing Bogart’s face with the steering wheel.
Shadows of suspects thrown up on windows and walls, keeping us from seeing the whole truth.

By and large though, Hawks is much more a pragmatic filmmaker than he is a stylist, using his expressionistic visuals and suspenseful editing to serve The Big Sleep’s remarkable jigsaw of a narrative. Even as the pieces settle in place, the dizzying spell he has cast over us never quite fades, and it continues to wear away at our desire for rationality right up until the last scene. With Vivian’s motives finally being cleared of suspicion, there is at least some solace to be found in the couple’s final embrace, as it is only when the passionate temptations and perilous exploits of Marlowe’s precarious world are properly untangled that trust between lovers can begin to grow strong, firm roots.

The moment an idea strikes, a light turns on above Bogart’s head. Hawks’ mise-en-scène is playfully interactive with his characters.

The Big Sleep is currently available to rent or buy on iTunes and YouTube.

A Matter of Life and Death (1946)

Michael Powell | 1hr 44min

When it comes to the formal technique of shifting from black-and-white to colour that Michael Powell so effectively uses in A Matter of Life and Death, two other films come to mind – The Wizard of Oz and Stalker. All three movies are masterpieces and use this switch to contrast reality with a metaphysical dream space, and yet Powell’s work is using this device to an entirely different effect. Here, it is the Earth that is flooded with beautiful technicolour, and the surreal afterlife that is shot in black-and-white. Where The Wizard of Oz and Stalker celebrate the magic of other worlds, A Matter of Life and Death is in love with the joys of living.

Brilliant, vivid Technicolor photography on Earth, very distinguished from the monochrome afterlife.

The scenes of the afterlife are gorgeous in their own way though. It is made up of impressive set pieces, the two most notable being the stairway to heaven adorned with statues of historical figures, and the gigantic amphitheatre sitting inside a spiral galaxy. It isn’t exactly surrealist cinema, but there are unique images here that would not look out of place in a Luis Buñuel film, with the metaphor of the stairway entering the frozen operating room especially making powerful and imaginative visual statement.

One of Powell’s greatest set pieces, the stairway to heaven lined with statues of historical icons.
The stairway to heaven meets the operating theatre, one fate being decided in material and immaterial realms. Fantastic surrealism in this gorgeous finale.

In fact, the editing preceding this moment is impressive in itself, foreshadowing the eventual meeting of the afterlife and the real world. Peter’s fate is being decided in both places at once, by both brain surgeons and a jury of deceased men. It is left deliberately vague as to which group holds more power, as the entire afterlife could be all in Peter’s imagination. But the point remains – the metaphysical and physical worlds are inextricably bound to each other.

It is a tricky formal balance that Powell maintains in painting out this relationship, with both always offering counterpoints to each other. If life wins in one moment, then death will later hit back in a similar manner. This isn’t just in Peter’s story, but in Dr Reeves’ own fatal motorbike accident, foreshadowed earlier by a narrowly missed collision. Each of these characters’ lives is positioned on a knifepoint, and it is this fragility that makes them all the more precious.

A precarious balance between life and death in a simple, elegant transition. Powell starts with a close-up on this delicate flower on Earth, and then as his camera pulls back he washes away all colours in his shot, and the scene shifts to the afterlife without so much as a cut.

Peter sinks into the background in the final act which suddenly zooms out and adjusts to a massive scope, giving enormous weight to his life. His agency is taken away, and his fate rests in the hands of both friends and enemies with the power to grant him either life or death. All of history comes to bear witness to the decision, with rows upon rows of deceased people from different periods and cultures watching to see whether he will come and join their ranks.

Epic scope and scale – the people and civilisations of human history come to bear witness to this monumental trial.

The random Midsummer Night’s Dream reference serves to emphasise the afterlife as a relaxed, comedic, pastoral place, and much like the final lines of the play, A Matter of Life and Death essentially tells us in fewer words:

“If we shadows have offended,

Think but this and all is mended,

That you have but slumber’d here,

While these visions did appear.”

In short, everything we might have just watch may or may not be a dream. That will be left up to us.

Most of all though, A Matter of Life and Death is an allegory, manifesting the deciders of our fate in the afterlife. The romance never develops past the initial honeymoon phase, closing the film on the sweet, final words:

“We won.”
“I know, darling.”

And leaving them at that point is absolutely the right choice. Peter and June’s futures are undefined, but as long as they are alive it is in their hands.

Michael Powell’s long dissolves, blending images to create a masterful composition of faces.

A Matter of Life and Death is currently available to stream on SBS On Demand, and available to rent or buy on iTunes.