Thief

THIEF (Mann, 1981)

Criterion Collection, Blu-ray, Release Date Jan 14, 2014

Review by Christopher S. Long

Let us hark back to an ancient time, a mystical era known as the '80s, when master criminals were manly men with giant tools, the kind of tools that forced their users to grunt and sweat, great hulking tools that spewed giant arcs of flame. Real fire, not firewalls built to be hacked by myopic ectomorphs slouched over increasingly tiny keyboards. You needed hair on your chest, not Red Bull on your desk, if you wanted to move some serious capital back in the golden age.

For director Michael Mann, it was also a time of blue filters and tangerine dreams. “Thief” (1981) was Mann's theatrical debut after an apprenticeship in television that included an episode of “Police Woman” and the rock-solid TV prison movie “The Jericho Mile” (1979), and he intended to flex every stylistic muscle he had toned up. Mann portrays his hometown of Chicago as a sparsely-populated island enveloped by a darkness gashed only by flashing neon lights and slow-burning streetlamps, hemmed in on one side by a sprawling stretch of water that both promises and denies escape. Soft blues, muted reds, and orange sparks reflect off metallic surfaces; the hoods of cars can look like traveling kaleidoscopes, shimmering as they speed through the night. 

It's the perfect milieu for Frank (James Caan), a safecracker and diamond thief who operates as the consummate professional along with his equally efficient team. No need for attention or pizazz; just grab the goods and go. In the opening scene, Frank and partner Barry (James Belushi in his feature debut) pull off a nearly wordless heist that climaxes with Frank boring a gigantic drill through the cold thick steel of a safe door. The nearly ten-minute sequence is prominently accompanied by a pulsing electronic score from Tangerine Dream, a love-'em or detest-'em creative element that defines the movie's cool industrial attitude toward crime and the city.

After business it's time for pleasure, at least to the limited degree that Frank is capable of experiencing such an emotion. Frank is a state lifer, raised in an orphanage and handed over to the prison system where a short sentence for petty burglary morphed into a longer stint after the young man was forced to defend himself from jailhouse predators (or at least that's how Frank tells the story). More than a decade in the joint has chiseled a heart of stone; Frank proudly admits to Jessie (Tuesday Weld), a diner waitress who catches his eye, that he survived in jail only by getting to the point “where nothin' means nothin'.”

If you're looking for chinks in Frank's nihilistic armor, witness the way he eagerly flocks to the aid of his imprisoned mentor Okla (Willie Nelson), but this appears to be the exception. Even Frank's campaign to win Jessie's heart is strictly a business matter; he decided in prison that he wanted to settle down with a nice woman and have a child, and he's the sort of man who always follows through on his plans and by his own rules. When local gang boss Leo (Robert Prosky) tries to enlist the lone wolf in his ranks, Frank (who never uses contractions) means it when he replies, “I am Joe the boss of my own body.” Frank will soon remember what he learned in jail and ever so briefly forgets in the real world; you can only be in charge when you have no other responsibilities.

“Thief” is nominally based on Frank Hohimer's book “The Home Invaders,” though Mann claims he discarded everything but the basic idea. Mann's script is built mostly out of genre cliches: the hardened career criminal looking to make one last big score, the world-weary but loving woman who accepts his shady past, honor among thieves, the corrupt cops and two-bit gangsters who want a piece of the action. “Thief” distinguishes itself in terms of style and also by James Caan's lived-in performance; his hairy swagger and willingness to let actions speak louder than words make Frank entirely believable, even if unsympathetic. He is a bully and a narcissist whose tunnel vision and methodical calculation leave no room for the feelings of others. Knowing the tough upbringing that shaped him adds depth to the character, but still offers little to be fond of. He uses and abuses whenever he has the power to do so: “To hell with me, with you, with everything.” At least he's honest.

Mann's ultra-cool formalism has made him the favorite of many auteurist critics for reasons I've never fully understood. As a result, “Thief” is now often hailed as the precursor of a style-drenched decade, a game-changer, or something similar; as an auteur's first theatrical film, it simply must be historically important in some way. Better to set aside any alleged landmark status, and accept “Thief” as a crisply filmed, well-acted crime move that benefits immensely from the verisimilitude of its heist sequences. Real safes, real tools, real pillars of flame; these jobs are labor intensive, man. Pure sweat equity. It beats the hell out of the gravity-free zone of CGI action. Heck, there are even real pay phones here, and phone calls that can be missed if you're not there to take them. That's when men were men, and Mann was the Mann.

Video:

The film is presented in its original 1.85:1 aspect ratio. Criterion's 1080p transfer is virtually flawless, and I can only assume the vibrant chromatic palette is true to the original. It's easy to get lost in the precisely sculpted, moody imagery and the high-def treatment really brings it to life. There are plenty of nighttime scenes and the detail brought out in the darker shots is often remarkable; I'm sure fans who have only caught it on DVD will see things they've missed before. I can't think of anything to complain about.

Audio:

The DTS-HAD Master Audio 5.1 surround track is equally impeccable. Whether you love them or not, you get Tangerine Dream's score vividly presented in all its abstracted glory. The industrial sounds of men at work and the ambient sounds of the city all come through on this evocative surround track. Optional English subtitles support the English audio.

Extras:

The film is accompanied by a commentary track by Michael Mann and James Caan. It was recorded in 1995, and was included on the long-ago released SD by MGM/UA.

The rest of the extras are all newly recorded interviews. Critic Scott Foundas interviews Mann (2013, 24 min.) who discusses growing up in Chicago and his reliance on real-life thieves as consultants and actors (safecracker James Santucci plays a crooked cop in the film). We also get a new interview with James Caan (2013, 10 min.) who lists “Thief” as one of his proudest accomplishment and a new interview with Johannes Schmoelling, formerly of Tangerine Dream (2013, 16 min.) The disc also includes a Theatrical Trailer (2 min.)

The slim insert book includes an essay by “Sight & Sound” editor Nick James.

Final Thoughts:

I haven't liked a Michael Mann film in quite a while, but his career got off to a fine start with this stylistic crime movie and later peaked with the only true Hannibal Lecter (or Lecktor) movie, “Manhunter” (1986). Criterion's high-def transfer is superb; fans might have hoped for more extras, but the new interviews are certainly worthwhile.

The Friends of Eddie Coyle

THE FRIENDS OF EDDIE COYLE (Yates, 1973)

Criterion Collection, DVD, Release Date 5/19/2009

Review by Christopher S. Long

(Criterion is releasing “The Friends of Eddie Coyle” on Blu-ray this week. I am re-posting my review of the 2009 DVD release of the same title; the Blu-ray does not include any new extras. You might want to look elsewhere if you want to read about, like, the plot. Or other stuff.)

Consider this a tribute to George V. Higgins (1939-1999), author of the 1970 novel “The Friends of Eddie Coyle” on which the 1973 Peter Yates film is based:

The director sat down next to the producer and smiled.

“Robert Mitchum,” the director said.

“Robert Mitchum?” the producer said.

“Robert Mitchum,” the director said. “He’s the only guy who can play Eddie Coyle.”

“That crazy bastard can’t be trusted,” the producer said. “He'll piss all over you. Literally.”

“I can handle him,” the director said. “I think.”

“But Eddie Coyle’s a two-bit nobody. Robert Mitchum’s a big-time somebody,” the producer said.

“Mitchum can do it,” the director said. “Didn’t you see him in ‘Ryan’s Daughter’?”

“OK. I can get him,” the producer said. “I’ll get him for you. I know people. I’ll get him.”

The waiter brought them two beers. The producer sipped his. The director didn’t. He had ordered a gin and tonic, but the waiter didn't like him.

“And I want Peter Boyle as Dillon,” the director said.

“You want Peter Boyle,” the producer said. “The guy that played Joe?”

“This guy’s gonna be big some day,” the director said. “I just know it. He’s just right. Think about it.”

“Yeah, I can totally see that,” the producer said. “But we need to talk about this title. The Friends of Eddie Coyle. It’s not like these guys are his friends.”

“It’s ironic,” the director said. “A guy like Eddie Coyle doesn’t have any friends. Nobody cares about Eddie Coyle.”

“The audience might not either,” the producer said.

“They will if we cast Robert Mitchum,” the director said.

“I see your point,” the producer said. “By the way, I understand the ironic thing already. You think you’re a clever prick, don’t you? But I still don’t like the title. It doesn’t look good on a poster. It’s not sexy.”

“There’s no sex in this movie. Not even a romantic interest,” the director said.

“Yeah, but we don't want the audience to think that,” the producer said.

“Nobody’s going to see this movie anyway, Paul,” the director said.

“That’s not funny, Peter,” the producer said. He wiped the beer suds from his chin. “Fine, the title stays. But this thing’s a bitch to adapt. The book’s almost all dialogue.”

“And movies are all pictures,” the director said, “no matter how bad they are. That’s the beauty of it. There’s stuff that happens in between the words – you just gotta read carefully. And all of that will be in the movie. It has to be because it’s all pictures. Even when it’s dialogue, it’s still pictures. Which is why we need Robert Mitchum because nobody holds a camera like Bob Mitchum.”

“Bob?” the producer said.

“We used to play bridge together,” the director said.

“Then why are you asking me to get him?” the producer said.

“Fine, we never played bridge together,” the director said. “Can you get him?

“Yeah, yeah. I think,” the producer said.

“It really is a great book,” the director said, “You have read it, haven’t you?”

“I’m writing the damn script,” the producer said.

“That doesn’t answer the question,” the director said.

“Stop busting my balls,” the producer said.

“But I like busting your balls,” the director said.

“I bet you do,” the producer said.

The director slammed back his beer in one swift motion. He leaned forward.

“Trust me, it’s gonna be a great movie,” the director said. “It can’t miss.”

“I know. But I worry,” the producer said. “That’s my job.”

“It’s gonna be a great movie,” the director said.

The critic adjusted his chair. He sipped his Diet Mountain Dew.

“It's a great movie,” the critic said. “A really great movie. And Robert Mitchum is the only one who could do it. He really holds the camera.”

Video:
The film is presented in a 1.85:1 aspect ratio. The anamorphic, progressive transfer is crisp with only minimal signs of damage. The film’s color palette is muted and the director approved transfer doesn’t tart it up, giving it just the right look to capture the grimy Boston underworld that provides the film’s setting.

Audio:
The DVD is presented in Dolby Digital Mono. Nothing much to say here – crisp, clean, not too dynamic and not meant to be. Optional English subtitles support the English audio.

Extras:
This is a nearly bare-bones Criterion release. The only extra is an audio commentary by director Peter Yates.

The insert booklet includes an essay by critic Kent Jones and Grover Lewis’s 1973 “Rolling Stone” profile of Robert Mitchum, compiled on the set of “Eddie Coyle.”

Final Thoughts:

Like the George V. Higgins book, “The Friends of Eddie Coyle” is a lean, efficient crime drama, the kind of film that feels like it could only have been made during the '70s. Mitchum’s low-key performance as a total schlemiel is one of his finest. Contrast this with his phenomenal performances in movies like “Night of the Hunter” and “Cape Fear” and you’ll get an idea how much range this great and unique actor had.

Read the book. Watch the movie. You won’t regret either decision.

Pigs, Pimps, and Prostitutes:3 Films by Shohei Imamura

PIGS, PIMPS, and PROSTITUTES (Imamura, 1961-1964)

Criterion Collection, DVD, Release Date May 19, 2009

Review by Christopher S. Long

(On the occasion of the 90th anniversary of director Shohei Imamura's birth, here's a re-post, with substantial revisions, of my review of the 2009 Criterion set "Pigs, Pimps, and Prostitutes." Well, of two-thirds of it anyway. I'll get to "Intentions of Murder" some day, I promise.)

Shohei Imamura was one of the leading figures of what would eventually be called the Japanese New Wave, more a marketing ploy than a film movement, intended to piggy back on the success of the Nouvelle Vague. New Waves were crashing ashore almost everywhere in the '60s even long after the French directors had ceased to be commercial draws.

There is no direct connection between Godard’s “Breathless” (1960) and Imamura’s “Pigs and Battleships” (1961) but it’s hard not to see some similarities between the male protagonists. Just as the stylishly doomed Michel Poiccard fashioned himself a gangster from the classical Hollywood mold, Kinta (Hiroyuki Nagato) is a young man who expects to make it big as a glamorous criminal.

Godard’s film is heavily laden with irony, but still indulges in the fantasy of the American gangster film. Imamura’s movie is the opposite, a jaundiced, de-romanticized study of the world of low-level crooks (chimpira, a notch or two below the yakuza) just barely scraping out a filthy existence in the decrepit port city of Yokosuka, a former fishing village turned U.S. naval base .

There’s nothing pretty about the world of the chimpira, and there’s nothing pretty about Imamura’s portrayal of its people, rendered in stark black-and-white. At first blush, “Pigs and Battleships” might appear to be an anti-American film. The U.S. sailors are universally depicted as huge brutish louts who speak more in semi-coherent grunts than in comprehensible English. They bully the locals and frequent the whorehouses.

But an establishing high crane shot situates all of the town's denizens as cosmically insignificant, and the Japanese citizens don’t come across any better than their American counterparts. Kinta’s road to gangster’s paradise runs right through a pig farm, his gang's primary business. The bosses spend most of their time worrying about how to scrape together enough money to feed the swine herd, and the main drama revolves around an attempt to negotiate a deal for scraps from the naval base. And like the pigs on the farm (and of the title) these small-time hoods all nuzzle up to the same trough, rooting around for the last bit of rancid melon or hardened crust of bread.

The women don’t fare much better with the exception of Kinta’s girlfriend Haruko (Jitsuko Yoshimura) who works in a small bar frequented by the gangsters. Her mother wants nothing but the best for her, or rather for herself. Mom’s plan is for Haruko to become the mistress of an American sailor in exchange for a monthly stipend, and she can’t understand why her stubborn daughter isn’t willing to shoulder her fair share of the family burden.

Haruko ultimately emerges as the true protagonist as Kinta’s delusions of grandeur don’t survive a brush with reality. Haruko’s ability to recognize and react to changing circumstances enables her to break free of this squalid world. The adaptability of women under duress is a theme that connects the first two films in this set.

There are some inspired moments in “Pigs and Battleships,” as Imamura indulges his penchant for off-kilter camera angles and disorienting cross-cutting, but none more so than the climactic shootout which results in an army of pigs stampeding through the town’s crowded, neon-drenched streets. The gangsters run for their lives from the seemingly endless wave of swine, and the metaphor is barely subtle enough to qualify as a metaphor. The film is miserable, depressing, disgusting, and absolutely brilliant.

“Pigs and Battleships” looks like “Mary Poppins” compared to the grotesque world of “The Insect Woman” (1963), Imamura’s follow-up to the modest breakout success of “Pigs.” Tome (Sachiko Hidari) is the “insect woman” of the title (which, in the original, is actually “Japanese Etymology”) though she can better be described as a chameleon. Born a bastard child into a world with no good options, she scrambles as best she can to survive.

Tome won’t grow up with many happy memories of childhood. The older women in her family, including mom, see her as either a burden or a possible wage earner. Papa, meanwhile, sees her as a ready and willing sexual partner, and the film goes to great lengths to detail their relationship, with at least one shocking scene that won't quickly be forgotten.

Tome escapes to the city where she shuttles between various menial jobs, eventually winding up as the madam of a brothel. Once again she finds an older man (who she calls Papa) who takes advantage of her. But now there’s a difference. Tome is strong and willful enough to take advantage in return and she uses her abilities (her sexual attractiveness, her intelligence, her ruthlessness) to secure the best living she can.

Both films are relentlessly grim but both provide an escape for one of the female characters. In “Insect Woman” it’s Tome’s daughter Nobuko (Jitsuko Yoshimura again) who breaks the grim cycle. In a twisted way, the film is a take on the maternal melodrama in which mom sacrifices everything to save her little girl though Tome won't win any Parent of the Year awards.

“The Insect Woman” was Imamura’s major breakthrough hit, presumably because it contained just the right amount of perviness under just enough of an art-house sheen to attract both a commercial audience and international festival crowds. To me, it’s not nearly as interesting as “Pigs and Battleships” but it’s certainly an unforgettable movie and its seemingly arbitrary use of freeze frames is something I’ve never really seen before. It’s also quite innovative (and occasionally irritating) in its disorienting method of skipping rather abruptly ahead in time, cutting off subplots and replacing them with new ones as it spans roughly forty years in Tome’s life.

This boxed set also includes a third film, “Intentions of Murder” (1964) which I have not yet had the opportunity to see, save to skim about ten minutes to check for video and audio quality.

Video:

Finally, I get to write something less than glowing about a Criterion transfer. All three films are presented in their original 2.35:1 aspect ratios. The transfers are strong by most standards, but just so-so on the Criterion scale. All three films are shot in black and white and the contrast isn’t quite as sharp as we’ve become accustomed to from this studio. “Insect Woman” in particular looks slightly dull in some shots. Still, these are all solid efforts.

Audio:

The DVDs are presented in Dolby Digital Mono. The sound mixes are expectedly flat but clean and efficient. Optional English subtitles support the Japanese audio.

Extras:

Each of the three films is housed in its own keep case. All three cases are stored in a cardboard slipcase.

Each disc features a video essay by critic Tony Rayns (from 13-15 min, each).

“Pigs and Battleships” offers the documentary “Imamura: Freethinker” (60 min.) Directed by Paolo Rocha, this originally aired on the French TV series “Cinéma de notre temps” in 1995.

“Insect Woman” and “Intentions of Murder” each include an Imamura interview (21 min. and 24 min, respectively) conducted by critic Tadao Sato.

Each disc has a separate insert booklet with essays by Audie Bock (“Pigs”), Dennis Lim (“Insect Woman”) and James Quandt (“Intentions.”)

Final Thoughts:

Imamura had quite a run in the '60s from “Pigs and Battleships” to his hit “The Pornographers” (1966). His career was a bit more uneven in the '70s but he managed a critical hit with “Vengeance is Mine” in 1979. He came storming back with two Palme d’Or winners at Cannes: “The Ballad Of Narayama” (1983) and “The Eel” (1997) which shared the top award with Abbas Kiarostami’s magisterial “A Taste of Cherry.” Imamura’s last feature film was “Warm Water Under a Red Bridge” (2001.) He died in 2006 of complications from liver cancer.

The Killing

THE KILLING (Kubrick, 1956)

Criterion Collection, Blu-ray, Release Date Aug 16, 2011

Review by Christopher S. Long

(This Criterion release is only marketed as “The Killing” but also includes Kubrick's 1955 film “Killer's Kiss” which can hardly be categorized as a mere extra. The following review covers both films, though only briefly touching on “Killer's Kiss.”)

Stanley Kubrick was both a genre-hopper and a genre-conqueror. You won't have to look too hard to find a critic (Ed. Note: Hi, there!) who credits the versatile director for some or all of the following achievements: best war film, best gladiator film, best black comedy, best science-fiction film, best period/costume film, and best horror film.

Accompanying the always contentious claim of “best” is the notion that Kubrick the iconoclast challenged or redefined the conventions of each genre, a dubious argument that diminishes the genre in question. “Genre” is not an insult, nor is it something that needs to be transcended to achieve greatness. Genres are also constantly in flux, judged in relation to different reference points and shifting with each new entry in the field.

I'm not sure if “The Killing” (1956) qualifies as the best film noir (I'm not sure it isn't, mind you) but it's certainly one of the most accomplished and engrossing examples of the genre, not to mention one hell of a feat for a 28-year-old filmmaker previously accustomed to shooting independently and on micro-budgets. “The Killing,” adapted from the novel “Clean Break” by Lionel White with “additional dialogue” by pulp novelist Jim Thompson, is the tale of a daring heist at a horserace track that, like most noir crimes, goes terribly wrong.

The basic story is fairly standard issue. Johnny Clay (Sterling Hayden), fresh out of a five-year stint in the joint, has decided to shoot for big game in his crime comeback. And why not? “They can put you away just as fast for a ten-dollar heist as they can for a million-dollar job.” Make it a two-million-dollar job. Clay intends to rob the cash room at the Lansdowne Park Track during the feature race and enlists the aid of several accomplices for the big caper: his reliable older friend Marv (well-weathered Jay C. Flippen), betting window clerk George (Elisha Cook Jr.), policeman Randy (Ted DeCorsia), bartender Mike (Joe Sawyer), and psychotic gunman Nikki (Timothy Carey).

Clay's plan is fabulously complicated, part of the reason it's doomed to fail, another part being that it's a crime film made near the tail end of the Production Code era, when crime could never pay. Call it chance, call it fate, blame it on the mental and moral shortcomings of low-down rotten crooks; as “The Killing” hurtles to its denouement, the center falls apart, unraveled by a yapping dog here and an unlucky horseshoe there.

The labyrinthine plot seems all the more complex thanks to the time-hopping narrative. The title sequence begins with documentary-style footage of a horse race accompanied by a booming Gerald Fried score that builds to a crescendo, only to be diffused by the sight of a disheveled Marv shuffling forlornly through the track's betting parlor on his way to order a ginger ale. Then a no-frills, staccato narrator guides us to a scene from “an hour earlier” and then another shortly before that, then the day after that, methodically assembling the various strands, characters, and perspectives who will eventually reconvene with thirsty Marv in that betting parlor.

Kubrick's looping narrative structure attracts a great deal of attention, frequently being described as ground-breaking. While the chronological structure is complex, it's not designed to obfuscate or turn the film into a puzzle-piece movie; the time is almost always clearly indicated and the moving parts of the elaborate heist meticulously detailed. The shifts ironically undercut the dramatic flow of the story, but emphasize the inevitability of everyone's fate rather than straining for ambiguity. In doing so, Kubrick was mostly following White's novel, first brought to his attention by co-producer James B. Harris, and it was precisely the twisted chronology that attracted their attention in the first place.

The attention lavished on the chronological shifts detracts, in some ways, from appreciating “The Killing” as a technically brilliant but fairly traditional take on the film noir with its doomed criminal protagonists, its cynical worldview, its shadowy interiors, and even the obligatory if atypical femme fatale (Marie Windsor). The young director was not afraid to butt heads with veteran cinematographer Lucien Ballard, insisting that the film be shot with a wide-angle lens (25 mm.), enabling the roving camera that would become a Kubrick trademark to transform the sparsely-designed sets into foreboding, confining extensions of ill-fated characters often partly obscured by the harsh, abstract lighting scheme. “The Killing,” of course, can only exist in stark black-and-white.

“The Killing” takes full advantage of its cast of memorable character actors. In a bravura solo sequence, Kubrick veteran Timothy Carey struggles to maintain an unconvincing “normal” smile before unleashing the rampaging beast within. Elisha Cook Jr. is a tiny, twitching bundle of paranoid neuroses begging to be bullied by his boozy, domineering girlfriend (Windsor). Real-life chess teacher/wrestler/Kubrick friend Kola Kwariana gets to show off his hairy barrel chest in a barroom brawl for the ages.

Still, it's star Sterling Hayden who gets the film's signature line. His barely whispered “What's the difference?” provides one of the greatest punctuations in any film and practically serves to break the fourth wall, an acknowledgment that Johnny Clay realizes what genre he's trapped in and understands how it all has to end.

“The Killing” is often described as Kubrick's first fully “mature” feature, but “Killer's Kiss” (1955) shouldn't be dismisses as a mere “student film” as Kubrick sometimes labeled it. His self-financed (i.e. hitting up friends and family for money) second feature is fairly light on story. Davey Gordon (Jamie Smith) is a fair-to-middling boxer who blows his big chance in the ring, but finds love with his willowy neighbor Gloria (Irene Kane), a dance-hall girl trying to fend off the advances of her thuggish boss (Frank Silvera). Davey winds up fighting said boss and his goons in a crisp tale that's over in about 67 minutes.

Kubrick directed, edited, shot, and co-wrote the film on a shoestring budget, and turned out a polished product with a lively, if slightly hokey, final battle in a warehouse filled with mannequins. Some of the best sequences capture the essence of New York street life, and a frenzied rooftop chase also provides a view of the city from up high, all of which is a reminder that Kubrick got his start as a still photographer and documentarian. He also cast his then-wife Ruth Sobotka as a ballerina. “Killer's Kiss” came and went in theaters, but proved that the young maverick could make a studio-quality picture and helped to convince United Artists to invest in “The Killing.”

Video:

The film is presented in a 1.66:1 aspect ratio. If any of you still need to engage in the endless wars over the “correct” ratio for various Kubrick films, please wake me up when you're finished. It was shot 1.33:1, but intended to be matted and shown in wide-screen. What's the “correct” ratio? Ask Stan when you see him.

This 1080p transfer showcases the rich thick-grain structure so essential to appreciating the harsh black-and-white photography from Lucien Ballard. Close-ups show strong image detail- I particularly took note of the detail in the shot where Elisha Cook digs his fingernails into the skin below his eyes while listening to Marie Windsor spin her lies.

“Killer's Kiss” gets a high-def transfer in 1.33:1 ratio. It's not quite as sharp as “The Killing” but a vast improvement over the previous no-frills DVD release by MGM.

Audio:

The LPCM Mono mix is crisp but flat. I feel like I write that an awful lot, but then again there's seldom much to say about audio, after all, except when there's something noticeably wrong, which isn't the case here. Anyway, optional English subtitles support the English audio.

A brief note. The English subtitler was apparently not familiar with the chess term “patzer” which is listed in the subtitles as the mysterious “patsan.”

Extras:

The disc features a 2010 interview with producer James B. Harris (21 min.) who discusses the development of “The Killing” in quite a bit of detail, and also addresses his subsequent partnership with Kubrick.

The Blu-ray also includes excerpts from two episodes of the French TV series “Cinema cinemas” featuring interviews with Sterling Hayden. They aired on April 1 and July 3, 1984. They play as one feature and run 23 minutes total, and feature Hayden in his late sixties reflecting on his career.

Robert Polito discusses (19 min.) the contribution of novelist Jim Thompson, hired by Kubrick and Harris to provide “additional dialogue” though that description understates his involvement in the project. Indeed, Thompson was unhappy with the credit he was given, but still worked with Kubrick on “Paths of Glory.”

As mentioned above, the film “Killer's Kiss” is also included as an extra. Under the menu option for the film, viewers can also select Geoffrey O'Brien's brief visual analysis (9 min.) of “Killer's Kiss” which emphasizes early examples of what would become Kubrick hallmarks.

Trailers for each film are also included.

The 20-page insert booklet includes an essay by Haden Guest, director of the Harvard Film Archive, and a short excerpt from an interview with actress Marie Windsor.

Final Thoughts:

I guess there's no such thing as an underrated Kubrick film. But if there was, this might be it.

Blast of Silence

BLAST OF SILENCE (Baron, 1961)

Criterion Collection, DVD, Release Date Apr 15, 2008

Review by Christopher S. Long

(Looking for something a little different to watch this Christmas season? Try this grim holiday treat from Allen Baron.)

Not too many films begin with a point-of-view shot of the protagonist’s birth, but that’s only one of many unusual things about Allen Baron’s “Blast of Silence” (1961).

The opening shot of Allen Baron's “Blast of Silence” (1961) depicts two births. A distant dot of light hovers in a pool of inky blackness as the narrator speaks: “Remembering out of the black silence, you were born in pain.” A woman screams, a baby cries. The second-person narration, written by Waldo Salt and delivered by an uncredited Lionel Stander (both blacklisted at the time), continues, sharing the soundtrack with the mounting rumble of a train. The distant light grows steadily, tracks become visible, and as the train bursts out of the tunnel, our protagonist is “born”again, entering the story as an adult who now keeps the screams inside.

That protagonist is a plain vanilla hit man named Frankie Bono (played by director Barron) though the narrator, constantly haranguing poor Frankie in that gravelly Lionel Stander voice, probably deserves co-billing. Frankie’s riding the train into New York for his next job, a straightforward hit on a mid-level mobster as unremarkable as Frankie. It's just another job and Frankie has no interest in why he's been asked to do it.

The story, however, is not really about the hit at all, but how Frankie kills time all alone in the big city, where most New Yorkers are busily preparing for Christmas, while waiting for an opportune moment to complete his job. Through the narrator, we can guess that Frankie has a rich and tormented internal life, but he seems sadly unaware of it. For Frankie, life’s just a whole lot of waiting and trying your best not to think about it. “It” being anything at all.

Arriving three years after Orson Welles’s “Touch of Evil,” Baron’s film is either a straggler at the end of the classic film noir period, or one of the earlier neo-noirs. Film noir was a term applied many years after the noir cycle began, so it’s unsurprising that critics can’t agree on the precise timing of each of the noir cycles or even how to define the genre. Like most noirs, the film’s universe is one that is severed from any sense of a higher being (at least a benevolent one), a world covered by only a thin veneer of civilization where even the slightest mistake, a stumble or a wrong turn, leads inevitably to tragedy. Frankie was “born in pain” and he lives in pain, always trying to drown out the scream that heralded his entry into this cruel world.

For Frankie, the wrong turn comes when he picks the wrong place to have dinner; an old friend meets him and insists he attend a Christmas party. At the party, Frankie meets his old flame Lorrie (Molly McCarthy). This unfortunate encounter stirs Frankie from his life-long stupor, and prompts him to wonder, for the first time as an adult, if there’s a way to make meaning out of this meaningless world. Sorry, Frankie, you’re in a film noir.

Allen Baron was a graphic designer (he was a comic book artist for a while) who shot his first feature film entirely on location, then an unusual thing to do though hardly unprecedented. Baron scraped together financing in various stages and shot the film piece-meal over two years. His friend Peter Falk was originally slated for the title role but got a better offer (i.e. one that paid) so Baron was forced to step into the role. Baron appears ill-suited to be in front of the camera, which works just fine since Frankie is ill-suited to be anywhere. Frankie’s very birth was a mistake, and his continued existence only compounds the error. He’s a man out of place in every place he goes.

The film takes great advantage of its New York locations as well as the contrast between Frankie’s isolation and the communal nature of the Christmas season. Frankie walks past brightly lit Christmas trees and wanders through crowds of shoppers, severed from any connection to the people or to the holiday season. No joy to his world. “Blast of Silence” could just as easily have been titled with a different oxymoron, “Alone in a Crowd.”

Another highlight of the film is the performance by Larry Tucker as the sleazy, obese gun dealer Big Ralph. Tucker’s massive enough to have his own gravity well, yet so mousy and insubstantial he could sneak up on you without warning. Tucker later focused on a writing career (he was nominated for an Oscar as the co-writer of “Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice”) but he turned in one more memorable role, as Pagliacci in Sam Fuller’s madhouse flick “Shock Corridor.”

No matter how many noirs you’ve watched, I guarantee you’ve never seen anything quite like this one. 

Video:

The film is presented in its original 1.33:1 full-screen aspect ratio. The image is not picture-boxed. The black-and-white photography looks sharp and beautiful in this restored transfer. Some evidence of wear and tear from the source is still visible, but it’s not even the slightest bit of a distraction.

Audio:

The DVD is presented in Dolby Digital Mono. Optional English subtitles support the English audio. Stander's pervasive narration comes through loud and clear and the sound design has an appropriately hollow quality to it.

Extras:

“Requiem for a Killer” is a 60-minute documentary featuring Baron as he revisits the filming locations of “Blast of Silence.” This feature is a 2006 assemblage by film historian Robert Fischer who uses footage from a 1990 West German TV documentary about Baron combined with new interview material.

“Locations Revisited” is a series of still photos that, well, revisit NYC locations. It’s a bit of a repeat of the material in “Requiem.”

The disc also includes a fairly extensive collection of on-set Polaroids (about 40 in all) with captions from Baron’s own descriptions written on the back of the photos.

The slim eight page insert booklet features an essay by film critic Terrence Rafferty. Criterion has also included an additional insert, a 4-page mini comic book by artist Sean Phillips (artist of the recent smash-hit Marvel mini-series “Marvel Zombies.”)

Final Thoughts:

After a promising film debut, Allen Baron went on to a career in television, directing episodes of a host of well-known 60s and 70s shows, including “Kolchak: The Night Stalker,” “The Dukes of Hazzard,” and even “Charlie’s Angels.” That only makes “Blast of Silence” even more of an anomaly, a bizarre one-off that is quintessentially noir while not particularly resembling many other noirs. It’s not a masterpiece, but it’s damned interesting and even an under-the-radar Christmas film if you're not too wedded to the “Merry” part of “Merry Christmas.”

Silent Ozu: Three Crime Dramas, Eclipse Series 42

Ken the Knife gets tough in Walk Cheerfully

SILENT OZU: THREE CRIME DRAMAS (Ozu x3, 1930 and 1933)

Eclipse Series, DVD, Release Date April 21, 2015

Review by Christopher S. Long

For reasons I don't quite grasp, the gangsters in Yasujiro Ozu's “Walk Cheerfully” (1930) like to perform choreographed dance moves, a group twirl finished with a jaunty “Oh snap, how do you like that?” gesture. They don't care that they're in a silent film; they're going to perform a nifty number for everyone to enjoy. It's a hint that even though our main character is an imposing thug nicknamed Ken the Knife (Minoru Takada) this isn't going to be the most hard-boiled of crime flicks.

That's because Kenji (the Knife) barely qualifies as soft-boiled. He pulls off penny-ante thefts with his faithful henchman Senko (Hisao Yoshitani) but doesn't put up much of a fight when the new woman (Hiroko Kawasaki) he falls for demands that he go straight or else forget all about her.

If you are one of the many viewers familiar exclusively with Ozu's sound films, it is obligatory to warn you that you are about to be shocked, shocked I tell you, at what you will find in this new three film set from Criterion's Eclipse series: elaborate camera movements, shots from high angles and medium angles, and even chase scenes. “Walk Cheerfully” begins with a hectic example of the latter though it ends peacefully enough with Senko and Kenji walking away from an accusing crowd feeling triumphant and relaxed.

Ozu will dial up the tension, though, as the happy hoodlums are forced to question their complacent ways by the arrival of Kenji's new love, who is as much a problem for doting Senko as for Kenji's jealous moll Chieko (Satoko Date), coiffed in vintage Louise Brooks bob. Like all of the films in this set, “Walk Cheerfully” reflects Ozu's love of American cinema; American movie posters adorn the walls, English words feature prominently in the background design and everyone is dressed in stylish Chicago mobster suits and fedoras. Genre cinephilia was not an invention of the Nouvelle Vague.

The real strength of “Walk Cheerfully” is in the characterizations that prove to be more layered than is typical of a gangster film of this (or any) era with sidekick Senko being particular memorable in his eagerness to adapt to whatever lifestyle choices his boss makes. The story, however, proves to be a pretty formulaic redemption tale (with enough intertitles to make this silent seem a bit too talky) which made the film a mildly disappointing way (compared to my sky-high expectations for any Ozu) to kick off the set.

That Night's Wife

That changes with the second film, the efficient, moody and all around spectacular “That Night's Wife” (1930). The film kicks off in the blackness of a city night with police shooing away the homeless; they will burst into more frantic action when they catch report of a brazen robbery that leads to a manhunt that dominates the first half of this short 65-minute film. The target is Shuji (Tokihiko Okada) who, after fleeing his crime scene (punctuated by a dolly in to a bloody handprint on the door!), clings desperately to the shadows, but comes fully into relief in a spectacular scene staged in a phonebooth (oh, cinema has lost so much with the shift to mobile).

His face drenched in sweat, Shuji cowers in the booth while we see the feet of the officers shuffling through the streets a short way away; these close-ups function almost like sound-effects on the comic book page, adding sensory depth to the silent proceedings. He is calling to check on the health of his critically-ill baby girl who is being tended to by his faithful wife Mayumi (Emiko Yagumo). A doctor establishes a classic deadline for him: “You must return home tonight!” Shuji can practically hear his bed-ridden daughter crying for daddy (we get to see it in heartbreaking fashion) and heads home though he knows it will lead to his doom.

The first half of the film is dictated by the rhythms of the chase; the second half is all stasis, and manages to be even tenser. A detective ( Togo Yamamoto) shows up at the family apartment to take Shuji into custody, but the protective mama bear winds up holding two guns on the copper while insisting that her husband be allowed to stay with his sick child through the night. In typical Ozu fashion we soon learn that the detective is a man of great compassion rather than a cardboard cutout. The camera explores every nook of this tiny apartment; one series of shots pans right to left over several still-life compositions of bric-a-brac, then reverses direction to show both the passage of time and a surprising shift in power that has occurred in the interim. This entire film is so very much alive and so very real (I think Ozu and Satyajit Ray created the most authentic characters of all-time) and the ending surely qualifies as “transcendental” by Paul Schrader's definition.

Dragnet Girl

If Ozu doesn't top himself in the next film in this set, he at least comes close. “Dragnet Girl” (1933) is expansive where “That Night's Wife” was more carefully circumscribed. A few years (and many films) later, Ozu's camera work and editing are quite advanced, but the credit for this film's success belongs in no small part to a finely-nuanced script by Tadao Ikeda (from a story by James Maki). Though she is the title character and the first important character we see, young Tokiko (Kinuyo Tanaka) quickly recedes into the background as yet another jealous, small-minded gangster's moll. She's destined to be cut out of the picture when her tough-guy boyfriend Joji (Joji Oka), an ex-boxer turned career crook, falls for the sweet, innocent sister of a new young hoodlum in his gang.

But it's all a clever trick. This will indeed be another story of redemption, but it will play out in a wildly divergent fashion from “Walk Cheerfully.” Tokiko initially seems content to be a stereotype as she confronts the new girl at gunpoint, but an abrupt transformation occurs. Tokiko will be the one to change and she, not little Miss Trueheart, will be the primary agent of Joji's presumptive rehabilitation. In a sincere and deeply moving scene, Tokiko makes herself completely vulnerable to Joji: “Love me more!” It's pitiful in the literal sense of the term and Joji both takes pity on her and on himself. What an amazing way of shifting both the emphasis and the sympathy in the story; this needs to be in a screenwriting textbook somewhere. Admittedly, you might groan when the hackneyed line “We'll do one last job” casts its doomed shadow over the proceedings, but darned if, after a brief period of delusion, the couple doesn't realize just what a rotten idea they've come up with. I guess they had seen as many movies as Ozu.

Auteurists can't help but study these films for the signs of the Ozu that was to come, but perhaps it's better to focus on the Ozu who was, not yet 30 and intoxicated with both American films and the craft of filmmaking. He was certainly refining the techniques that would make him one of cinema's greatest masters, but he was clearly also just having himself one hell of a good time. And just a few years into his career, he wasn't a half-bad little director either.

Video:

All three films are presented in a 1.33:1 aspect ratio. Eclipse is Criterion's no-frills sub-label so these SD transfers have had little, if any, restoration. “Walk Cheerfully” shows considerable deterioration in many scenes, with staining and other debris visible throughout. “That Night's Wife” is slightly-less damaged but still shows advanced degrading in image quality which is most problematic in night-time scenes that look even darker than they were meant to; surely we were meant to see more in scenes where we can just barely pick out the shadow of a tree. Still, the images are intact and show enough detail to provide some striking close-ups and to make out the sometimes elaborate background décor. “Dragnet Girl” is by far the best of the lot. It has its share of dirt and debris but little of the overall deterioration of the other two transfers. In general, these films look their age but they're strong enough to be fully appreciated.

Audio:

These three silent films are all accompanied by new piano scores by Neil Brand which sound quite robust and clean. I'm no music expert, but I enjoyed all three scores quite a bit.

Extras:

Eclipse rarely includes extras but we do get the usual (and always excellent) one-page liner notes by Michael Koresky who has been a marvelous guide through these Eclipse releases for some time now, so three cheers to you, sir!

Each disc is stored in its own slim keepcase with all three cases fitting into the cardboard sleeve with graphics for the Eclipse Series.

Set Value:

Next time your movie-loving friend tells you Ozu always filmed at “tatami level” and hardly ever moved the camera, you can just say “Oh, really?” and point him or her to these three films (or, really, most other Ozu silent films). “Walk Cheerfully” is good but not Ozu at his finest while “That Night's Wife” and “Dragnet Girl” are pretty marvelous. Just sit there and smile while thinking about a young, eager Ozu digging and living out the dream as an up-and-coming talent in an industry he would soon come to define. And a young pre-stardom Chishu Ryu appears as an extra “Policeman” in the last two films, though this partially face-blind reviewer must admit he didn't quite catch him the first time through.

Ride The Pink Horse

RIDE THE PINK HORSE (Montgomery, 1947)

Criterion Collection, Blu-ray, Release Date March 17, 2015

Review by Christopher S. Long

Robert Montgomery gave us so much.

His greatest gift, of course, was daughter Elizabeth, a creation so perfect she could hardly be plausibly cast as a woman of mere mortals born. Later he served his country with honor, commanding a PT boat in the South Pacific and participating in the Normandy invasion; he was awarded the Bronze Star which surely meant a lot more than one of those silly old Oscars anyway. Upon returning from war, he bravely re-enlisted for a second perilous tour of duty as president of the Screen Actors Guild. Now that took guts.

Alas, Montgomery was no saint, and his involvement in Republican politics led to his testimony as a friendly witness in front of the House Un-American Activities Committee. Too bad Samantha Stevens was not yet old enough to steer him away from this witch hunt; we need her to whip up one of her family's “Reverse The Spell” spells (“lleps eht esreveR” in case you need the incantation) to erase this part of daddy's legacy.

At about the same time, Montgomery decided to share his gifts on the other side of the camera, becoming one of the very few Hollywood actors to turn director in the sound era. His debut “Lady in the Lake” (1947) is semi-infamous today as a noble failure. Montgomery directs and stars as private eye Phillip Marlowe though he's only glimpsed in reflections as the camera is situated from his point-of-view in an attempt to simulate Raymond Chandler's first-person narrative. The nifty gimmick quickly comes to feels stiff and forced, yet it's hard not to admire the film for sticking so assiduously to the experiment.

Montgomery's second directorial turn is somewhat more conventional and substantially less well-known. “Ride the Pink Horse” (1947), adapted from the Dorothy B. Hughes novel of the same name, casts Montgomery as Lucky Gagin, a stiff-necked, meathead thug who arrives in the New Mexico border town of San Pablo. In the first shot after the credits, the crane-mounted camera glides along with Gagin as he disembarks his plain Greyhound bus, walks menacingly into the station, surreptitiously removes a gun from his briefcase, stashes something secret in a locker, and walks back out. Over three minutes without a cut and no dialogue until the very end when Gagin asks for directions to a hotel, an indication that Lucky Gagin is a man of few and simple words and also that hall-of-fame cinematographer Russell Metty serves as an indispensable collaborator on the film.

Gagin's indignant sneer seems to be directed at life in general but he saves his most withering condescension for the New Mexicans who commit the crime of being a little too Mexican. How comes youse dopes don't know how to speak English? There's someone else Gagin dislikes even more though, namely one Frank Hugo (Fred Clark), a shady private “businessman” who messed with one of Gagin's old pals. Even though the town is gearing up for fiesta tomorrow, Gagin isn't here on holiday. He's out for revenge. Unfortunately, even though Hugo's a two-but punk he's got just enough bits in his pocket a wield a little power in this little town, so our hero is really going to be up against it.

For reasons hinting at a grace seldom found in film noir settings, Gagin finds himself with a series of unexpected allies. The avuncular FBI agent Retz (Art Smith) offers Gagin multiple chances to handle things by more official channels. Kindly Pancho (Thomas Gomez) opens his humble home and even the rickety carousel he operates (that's where the titular pink horse is stabled) to Gagin; laughing, gentle Pancho contains such an endless supply of bonhomie it can't help but well out of him and wash over even the gloomiest Gus. Most striking of all is young, skinny Pila (Wanda Hendrix), a waifish, wide-eyed Madonna who is so much of a country bumpkin she is floored by the sight of real ice cubes in her fruit cocktail. She wears through Gagin's rhino-thick skin simply by always being present and patient no matter the abuse he heaps upon her. 

From L to R: Hugo, Retz, Gagin, Pila

Everything about this big palooka suggests that he's doomed to failure, but this seemingly boiler-plate crime tale takes an unexpected turn. The script, co-written by veterans Ben Hecht and Charles Lederer (with an uncredited draft by trailblazing producer Joan Harrison), gradually paints additional layers onto stone-jawed, dull-eyed Gagin. He's just back from the war and is clearly alienated by the fact that a glorious win over an indisputable evil doesn't seem to have done much either for his fortunes or for his homeland. If he didn't expect to be hailed as a conquering hero, at least he would have hoped that crumbums like Hugo couldn't continue to get away with all the things they keep getting away with.

Yet despite all his bitterness and disillusionment, Gagin ever so slowly begins to change as he turns his attention from the crumbums to the decent folk he never quite noticed before. He's too dumb to realize he's being rehabilitated by the kindness of Pila and Pancho and Retz, but is he just barely smart enough to take advantage of the opportunities that arise from their intercession? There's more than a glimmer of hope, but then there are also the grim expectations of genre bearing down upon his broad shoulders. Perhaps it's up to Gagin to decide whether he's worth saving or not.

Video:

The film is presented in its original 1.37:1 aspect ratio. According to the Criterion booklet, this “new digital transfer was created in 2K resolution on a Lasergraphics film scanner from a 35 mm nitrate fine-grain and a safety duplicate negative at Metropolis Post in New York.” The transfer isn't quite as grainy as you might hope for a (sort of) noir but the black-and-white contrast is rich and image detail is pretty sharp throughout. This isn't ab absolutely pristine Criterion high-def transfer, but it's very good with little obvious damage from the source material.

Audio:

The linear PCM mono sound track is crisp and efficient. Most music in the film is diegetic and the sound design only gets a real workout during the fiesta celebration. In many scenes the audio is a bit sparer and the clarity of the lossless audio enhances the mood in those scenes. Optional English subtitles support the English audio. Spanish dialogue is not subtitled as Gagin is not supposed to understand it.

Extras:

Criterion probably didn't have a lot of sources to draw on for supplementary material for a relatively obscure film like “Ride The Pink Horse” but they've come up with a few neat extras.

The film is accompanied by a 2014 commentary track by Alain Silver and James Ursini, who literally the book (or three) on film noir. It's a scholarly track that is still quite accessible for all listeners and varied enough in subject matter to maintain interest, ranging from close textual analysis of scenes to more general discussions of genre and the film's production. Very strong as we would expect from Silver and Ursini.

The disc also includes an interview (2014, 20 min.) with Imogen Sara Smith, author of “In Lonely Places: Film Noir Beyond the City.” Smith argues that noir isn't a genre so much as a mood and a combination of themes with an emphasis on character interiority and psychology. Many films noirs take place in urban settings, but she has spent more time studying noirs in rural or suburban areas.

Criterion has also included a Radio Adaptation of the film which aired Dec 8, 1947 on the “Lux Radio Theatre” (59 min.) and stars Montgomery, Hendrix and Gomez.

The fold-out insert booklet features an essay by filmmaker Michael Almereyda.

Final Thoughts:

Whether it's a noir or an anti-noir, Robert Montgomery's second feature film as director is an engrossing study of an unusual crime protagonist. Gorgeous photography by Russell Metty is yet another reason to check this one out.

Insomnia

INSOMNIA (Skjoldbjaerg, 1997)

Criterion Collection, Blu-ray, Release Date July 22, 2014

Review by Christopher S. Long

Arthouse audiences are accustomed to seeing sheaths of white in Scandinavian films, but in Erik Skjoldbjaerg's debut feature “Insomnia” (1997) there are no scenic snow-covered fjords, only waves upon waves of invasive sunlight. The film is set in the director's hometown of Tromsø, Norway, well north of the Arctic Circle where the sun blazes brightly at midnight during the late spring and summer, a natural phenomenon to which locals have adapted but which often provides a crippling impediment to visitors.

Hotshot Swedish police inspector Jonas Engstrom (Stellan Skarsgård) is certainly caught off guard by the spectacle of daytime all the time. Engstrom has been called in to investigate the murder of a 17-year-old girl. He readily assumes control of the city's constabulary who are apparently ill-equipped to deal with murder cases, but cannot control the sun. No matter how much masking tape he applies to the shades in his hotel room, the sun's rays always find a way to seep in, keeping him wide awake and increasingly disoriented and agitated.

Lost in a fog

Engstrom's restlessness stems from more than just the lack of familiar zeitgebers. Though the solution to the murder case more or less falls into his lap, his inability to maintain his bearings causes other matters to spiral rapidly out of control. During a fog-enshrouded chase after the killer, Engstrom accidentally shoots his partner Erik (Sverre Anker Ousdal). For reasons unknown, instead of coming clean he covers up his mistake, first by remaining silent and then by increasingly outrageous methods; he even commits one of the ultimate cinematic no-nos (poor doggie) for a protagonist hoping for at least a smidgeon of audience sympathy. Skjoldbjaerg and co-writer Nikolaj Frobenius delight in establishing the good cop and then dismantling his respectable image piece by piece until it becomes clear the title of the film could just as well be “The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call – Tromsø.”

“Reasons unknown” is a key phrase. In the inevitable American remake, released in 2002 and directed by Christopher Nolan, ample backstory was added to provide plausible motivations and explanations for every occurrence in the narrative, highlighting one of the traditional differences between European arthouse and American commercial cinema. Skjoldbjaerg provides a few hints (a snippet of gossip from the Norwegian cops suggests a disgrace that led to Engstrom's exile from Sweden) but focuses almost exclusively on what instead of why, a wise decision that generates a sense of enigma in an otherwise straightforward mystery in which we learn whodunnit with surprising ease.

Former film student Skjoldbjaerg indulges his cinephilia with abandon, turning veteran cinematographer Erling Thurmann-Andersen loose to sculpt moody, off-kilter compositions for no obvious reason other than that they look really cool; a brief tunnel chase doesn't look particularly convincing, but as one of the few moments of darkness amidst the oppressive brightness it's a welcome counterpoint. If the scene calls to mind the sewers of Carol Reed's “The Third Man” it also serves as a reminder that Orson Welles never let narrative plausibility stand in the way of a really groovy shot.

The final act becomes increasingly incoherent, partly attributable to the sleep-deprived Engstrom's increasing detachment from reality though also perhaps to an inability to come up with a more elegant resolution to a sleek setup. It doesn't matter much, though. This is a movie about bright white light and the eerie blue that sunlight registers as on tungsten film stock. Skjoldbjaerg calls it an inversion of the film noir, a film blanc in which sunlight serves the traditional role of darkness, the encroaching brightness that threatens to overwhelm every scene and inevitably claims its doomed victims. You might call it a gimmick, but it's a good one.

Video:

The film is presented in its original 1.85:1 aspect ratio. “Insomnia” was one of the earlier Criterion Collection releases (it maintains Spine Number 47) at a time when their SD transfers were usually good compared to peers but not up to more recent standards. I don't have the original SD release as a point of comparison but I am not surprised to read other reviews that suggest it looked heavily boosted; the prominence of bright white in many scenes is a challenge for any digital transfer. This high-def transfer shows no evidence of such problems with a clean, sharp image that looks naturalistic and beautifully preserves the most blown-out patches of sunlight in each scene.

This is a dual-format release with a single DVD and a single Blu-ray. The SD transfer has not been reviewed here.

Audio:

The DTS-HD Master Audio 2.0 track is pretty straightforward, crisp but not notably dynamic. Optional English subtitles support the Norwegian and Swedish dialogue. Scandinavian speakers no doubt appreciate the film's interplay between the two languages (the locals cannot understand Engstrom's Swedish) which sound all too similar to American ears (much to the disbelief of my Norwegian friend Sylvi Jane who simply could not believe I couldn't tell the difference).

Extras:

The original SD release only had a Trailer and a TV spot. This 2014 release isn't loaded but at least offers a few more features.

A new conversation (2014, 21 min.) between Skarsgård and Skjoldbjaerg discusses the genesis of the film (the script was developed over about five years) and the director's conception of the film as an inversion of film noir.

Skjoldbjaerg was the first Norwegian student to attend The National Film and Television School in London where he graduated in 1994. The disc includes two of the rather lengthy short film he made there: “Near Winter” (1993, 34 min.) and “Close to Home” (1994, 30 min.) I have not had a chance to watch either of them.

We also get a Trailer (1 min.)

The slim insert booklet features an essay by critic Jonathan Romney.

Final Thoughts:

It's never a good idea to risk the wrath of the Nolanistas, but if you're debating between the two versions of “Insomnia,” I can state with confidence that the original absolutely blows away the American remake. Skjoldbjaerg's unique take on the crime/noir genre can be confusing at times and leaves an awful lot of small questions unanswered, and that's a big part of what makes it so compelling.