(#WhatThomWatched IV)
The Killing
(Stanley Kubrick, 1956; Criterion spine 575)
The film begins with grainy stock footage of a track; the horses are led from the stables, the starting gate is pulled into position, a flat-voiced announcer (represented by a static shot of the loudspeaker horn on a pole) blares out race information. And then a second, stentorian voice begins to reel off details, times, places, character names. It’s late-era film noir and we are being introduced to the primary players in a heist operation, but something seems strange: with each new character and situation that’s introduced , the time of day given runs backwards. More stock footage sets up locations or can be seen in process shots outside windows of rooms, or integrated behind newly filmed action -- and then we see the gang’s mastermind, Johnny Clay (Sterling Hayden), side-on, talking to his girl and striding stage left through a railway apartment, room after room after room, as the the camera smoothly pans with him for the entire length -- a shot that’s pure Kubrick, used to devastating effect in the trench scenes in the next year’s Paths of Glory. And then, having been introduced to too many characters to follow . . . the horses are led from the stables, the starting gate is pulled into position, and the flat-voiced announcer and stentorian narration start up again as another detail of the plot is revealed. Hayden has a convoluted plan in his head and he’s the only one allowed to know how all the pieces fit together; truthfully, it’s not even clear that the narrator has all his facts straight. As with all the best noirs, the coherence of the plan is less important than the endless doors opening and closing, the locking and unlocking and relocking of lockers and cases, the parcels carried, suit jackets hung, rifles carefully aimed, and, at the epicenter of tension, the ugly misshapen rubber hobo mask pulled down over Hayden’s head. He lines up his temporary hostages in the track’s business office, like the lined-up policeman targets at his rifleman’s makeshift range, and dust motes float through the air of the hideouts and the walkups like leaves in the wind. Or money.
Reminds me of:
Although filmed in California, the portrait-like black-and-white shots of city streets and gaming parlors make me think of the Manhattan of Sweet Smell of Success, or the Greenwich Village of Scarlet Street. Lots of people notice the real-world strip club that advertises their headliner Lenny Bruce (shades of Fosse’s Lenny, or its fictitious beard Stand-Up in All That Jazz). And of course, a defining noir trait is the complexity of the plot; my first in-depth experience with the genre was Hawks’s The Big Sleep, which Raymond Chandler famously said he couldn’t follow even though he wrote it. (I am certain that Chandler is going to come up again in #WTW, since early in my collecting years I set myself the task of acquiring every film depiction of detective Phil(l)ip Marlow(e), and with the sole exception of Robert Mitchum in Farewell, My Lovely, I have.)
(I have one more RMO item which is too crazy to be detailed here but has been relegated to a footnote below.)
But also — the guilt!
This is the final major Kubrick film which I had not seen; I’ll eventually watch his previous Killer’s Kiss (included on the Criterion disc) but unless it really knocks me out, I doubt I’ll document it — it’s just my fetish for completism driving me. Where I really fall down is in the larger noir universe. Despite my aforementioned collection of seven-of-eight major film depictions of Marlowe, there are literally hundreds of important noir films which I haven’t seen, despite the availability of multiple collections from key studios.
And: I will put in my vote that the film’s title is an ironic reference to the big score that the conspirators are expecting as reward — their “killing” — and not a reference to anyone, man woman or horse, who might meet an untimely end. But I could be wrong.
Pitch:
The final scene has such a jarring change of tone — all of the meticulous detail and sense of dread is deflated into rotten luck and cruel slapstick comedy. And yet, upon second thought . . . . it’s a brilliant ending. Hayden is the ultimate control freak, pulling every cord and dribbling out the barest minimum of information, and his plan is wound too tightly to succeed.
*So I am no DVD Savant — his reviews are so well informed by his years in the industry, thousands of viewed films, and army of equally knowledgeable correspondents — and his ability to spot actors in bit parts awes me. And my obsession with Dr. Mabuse, sure to be detailed in future #WTWs, borders on the insane— I am likely remote-controlled by the evil doctor, with no will of my own. That certainly explains my love for German actor Werner Peters, who everyone else thinks of in evil parts but whom I find cuddly, having been introduced to him in Lang's The 1,000 Eyes of Dr. Mabuse as Hieronymus B. Mistelzweig. What is my point? I am convinced that Werner is standing in front center frame talking animatedly to the airport employee with a clipboard in the single, silent shot at the very end of the movie, next to Lady with Small Dog. If you are a fellow Mabusaphile, see if you agree with me. If not, watch this space for future details of my sickness.
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