Criterion Confessions

Sometimes I just can’t find my way into a review.

It’s been five days since I watched In the Heat of the Night, and I’ve spent those days skulking past my computer, afraid to make eye contact with the screen, completely at a loss how to begin writing about Norman Jewison’s 1967 cop drama. A landmark of its time, and a template for many well-meaning race-related pictures to come, In the Heat of the Night is a crackling good film. It reminds me of Otto Preminger’s Anatomy of a Murder [review] in how engrossing it is, how easy to watch, how transcendent of its own genre.


But what perspective do I bring? I can acknowledge it’s a classic. I can graze up against the deeper issues of 1960s race relations and compare it to today, particularly the healthy distrust of law enforcement. I can talk about how Jewison avoids the folly of so many by neither making his black cop a saint nor his white cop a pure devil, how they are flawed men hampered by their own pride, and thus there is no real vindication or redemption for either, they just carry on. Surely all of this has already been said, though. Mayhap I am better served just cracking this process open and getting on with it.

Here’s the easy thing to explain: the plot. A man is found dead face down in the streets of Sparta, a small Mississippi town. The victim is a real estate developer from out of state looking to build a factory in the area. It would change the lives of the unemployed poor, but also disrupt the town’s established economy. In short, there are a few rich white folks that would rather not see the system altered.


Coincidentally, Homicide Detective Virgil Tibbs (Sidney Poitier, A Raisin in the Sun [review]) gets stranded in Sparta on a layover waiting for his train to Pennsylvania. At first he is arrested by an overzealous cop (Warren Oates, Two-Lane Blacktop [review]) who finds an unknown African American with a wallet full of cash suspicious, but once his identity is revealed, Tibbs is asked to participate in solving the murder. Newly appointed Police Chief Gillespie (Rod Steiger, Jubal [review]; On the Waterfront) would prefer not to take Tibbs’ help, fearing it will be more trouble than its worth, but once Tibbs takes the case between his teeth, Gillespie has little say. No one does, not even Sparta’s roving packs of violent racists or the brittle eccentric living in the big house on the outskirts of town. Tibbs won’t stop until the true culprit is in jail.


Poitier and Steiger make a great pair. The former is all forward intensity, and the latter reserved agitation. Gillespie is definitely a racist, but he’s also a pragmatist. One could argue he resents Tibbs as being an interloper from the big city as much as he does his being a black man. It’s a trope now, that the bigoted cop’s saving grace is his adherence to the law, but Steiger avoids caricature. He lives in Gillespie’s skin and isn’t afraid of his bad parts. Likewise, Poitier continues to evolve his own screen presence to keep Tibbs human and not a symbol. He’s the smartest man in the room, but too smart for his own good.


Indeed, the knotted personal drama of the small town is its own education for Tibbs. The murder is almost secondary to the struggles and gossip that informs Sparta’s day to day. Haskell Wexler (Medium Cool [review]) shoots the locales with a gritty vibrancy, never dressing up the shots, letting the people occupy the space. Even Oates’ shit-grinning cop and the petulant ingénue he peeps on (Quentin Dean) have the room to be people. Not very likeable people, but then really, how many of us are? The awesome Lee Grant (Shampoo [review]) also gets a pretty good turn as the dead man’s wife, a determined woman whose sense of personal justice cuts through the petty squabbles.


The only performance that moves close to parody is Larry Gates (Invasion of the Body Snatchers) as Endicott, the fat cat who runs Sparta from afar. Endicott is a riff on the mythological Confederate gentlemen, full of privilege and regretting progress. Jewison and writer Stirling Silliphant (The Poseidon Adventure) choose to stage his lone scene in a green house, symbolizing that he is a rare and wilting thing, no longer viable in the open air. This is a cliché we’ve seen before, most notably in Howard Hawks’ The Big Sleep [review]; here it seems an unnecessary and superfluous brush stroke.


The story of In the Heat of the Night remains every bit as challenging and incisive. The mystery is modern, even if some of the more “scandalous” aspects of it have lost their shock value. You might guess the real bad guy early, but you’ll forget you did amidst all the great character moments that follow. Add to this an ultra cool Quincy Jones score, complete with Ray Charles theme song, and you have a crime classic, its aesthetic perfectly bridging the gap from the squeaky clean studio system and the more grimy 1970s--an in between state that renders In the Heat of the Night truly timeless.

You’re just going to have to indulge outright that there is going to be some self-promotion in this one. It’s bound to happen from time to time. Happened before, will happen again. Sometimes the right paths just cross.

In this case, it’s some fortuitous coincidence that I just now watched the new Blu-ray of Georges Franju’s 1963 pulp homage Judex. This spiritual remake of Louis Feuillade’s 1916 silent cliffhanger features a mysterious, justice-minded magician (Channing Pollock) intent on making an ethically challenged rich man pay for his crimes. Its roots predate comic books, but Feuillade’s film, as well as his serials Fantomas and Les vampires [review], drew from and inspired the pulps, and then also inspired the comics industry as it blossomed to life. This Criterion edition even features a cover by artist Ronald Wimberly, himself channeling a little Eduardo Risso, bringing lurid life to Judex’s stonefaced crimefighter and his masked archnemesis.


This viewing also happens on the eve of Oni Press releasing a comic book of mine called Archer Coe and the Thousand Natural Shocks. It stars a hypnotist in a classic domino mask looking to stop a murder plot involving a wealthy banker and his emotionally distant wife. Created with artist Dan Christensen, Archer Coe and the Thousand Natural Shocks draws on a long tradition of stoic heroes working their tricks in the dark, from the Shadow to the Spirit to Mandrake the Magician. And yes, even to silent French cinema--or, in this case, 1960s French cinema. Even if it is just a startling coincidence. Though I had seen bits of Feuillade’s Judex while working in a video store, I wasn’t even aware of Franju’s until Criterion announced it was on its way. In my lead-up to Archer Coe, I was watching American noir like Edmund Goulding’s Nightmare Alley and Otto Preminger’s Laura; judging by the evidence, it’s almost like I tapped into some Jungian story space to draw directly from the Judex redo, as well.


The plot I’ve hinted at in the above is not much more complicated that what I’ve suggested. An oily banker (Michel Vitold) has started receiving threatening notes demanding he give up his fortune to the people he’s wronged or suffer the consequences. The threats are signed “Judex,” or “judge.” Believing himself untouchable, the banker refuses, only to fall down dead at the time his accuser appointed for him. The victim’s daughter Jacqueline (Edith Scob, also in Franju’s Eyes Without a Face and Assayas’ Summer Hours [review]) inherits his fortune, but when she discovers the less-than-savory ways in which daddy earned it, she rejects the money, giving Judex what he sought all along. Meanwhile, the banker’s would-be mistress Diana (Francine Bergé, Mr. Klein) wants the cash for herself and starts a plot to kill the girl and steal the riches.

Mimicking the serialized nature of the silent original, Franju maintains an episodic narrative, allowing for an ineffectual private detective (Jacques Jouanneau) to wander in and out of the story, and for Diana to try multiple plots that all go wrong As these occur, Judex lingers around, keeping watch over Jacqueline and manipulating other lives in hopes of bringing about justice. In terms of action, he’s far from Batman. Rather, he tends to be too late and not much of a fighter when he arrives on the scene. His only truly effective moment is early on when he first shows up wearing an elaborate bird’s mask at the banker’s party and performs magic tricks with doves. He appears there as a creepy specter bringing death to the condemned. It’s the closest you’ll ever get to having fun with this guy at a party.


Which turns out to be a major drawback for Franju’s film. For a movie that features both a wicked villainess in a black catsuit and a pretty circus acrobat (Sylva Koscina, Juliet of the Spirits) who randomly shows up to help out, Judex is decidedly unsexy. None of the relationships have much sizzle, nor does the action really ever take off. Instead, this is like a drawing room approximation of a lurid murder mystery: perfectly poised, artfully styled, but maybe too self-aware and too smart for its own good.



Luckily all of that stylization means Franju has a lot of good will to burn. He also makes a smart choice in his main villain. Francine Bergé is seductively evil, equally at home in a hipster’s dancehall outfit and a nun’s habit. If only the director had effectively let his femme fatale loose on his stuffed-shirt of a hero, Judex could have been a real hoot! (Imagine it in the hands of Henri-Georges Clouzot....)

Maybe I’ll have to resurrect Diana for one of the future adventures of Archer Coe.


In addition to the sparkling restoration of Judex, Criterion has included a bunch of bonus features on their dual-format release. Amongst those are a recent interview with Bergé, a biographical profile of Franju, and two of the director’s early shorts. One of those, the half-hour Le grand Méliès, pays tribute to the legendary cinematic innovator. Like Feuillade, Méliès was one of Franju’s heroes, and this mini-biopic both tells Méliès’ story and adopts some of his techniques. Featuring the filmmaker’s widow as herself, and their son Andre as his father, Le grand Méliès recreates the post-war years when the artist ran a toy shop in a train station (as seen in Scorsese’s Hugo), one of his magical stage shows, and his journey as an early cinema pioneer, culminating in making A Trip to the Moon. It’s a loving little doff of the cap from one director back through time to another.


This disc was provided by the Criterion Collection for purposes of review.

  

The next time you hear someone grousing about how movies are only supposed to be 90 minutes long and anything over two hours is an affront to their patience, hand them a copy of Otto Preminger's Anatomy of a Murder. After they have sat through the entire 161 minutes, if they start arguing about where the movie allegedly goes long or give a hint that they were ever bored, even for a second, stop talking to them immediately. Leave the room (or kick them out if it's your house), delete their number from your phone, and cut them out of your life immediately. Life's too short for you to need someone like that in your life.

The term "perfect film" shouldn't be bandied around lightly. It's a distinction that should be reserved for a movie like Anatomy of a Murder. The 1959 production is a lot of things: it's a legal drama, a social parable, and a relationship picture. It has humor, menace, and even grisly crimes. It touches on deeper issues of friendship, the bonds between man and wife, and the difficult ethical quandaries that go hand in hand with a complex system of justice. Sure, there are no real fistfights on screen, but we sure hear the details of a lot of off-screen action. About all Anatomy of a Murder really lacks is romance.



Anatomy of a Murder was written by Wendell Mayes (The Stalking Moon [review]) from a novel by Robert Traver. Traver was the pen name of Judge John D. Voelker, who had served as a defense attorney in Michigan in the early 1950s and was counsel on the original murder case that this story was based on. In the movie, the lawyer is called Paul Biegler, and he is played by James Stewart. Paul is a confirmed bachelor and a small-town counselor with passions for jazz music and fishing. In fact, he was out on a lake with rod and reel when Army Lieutenant Frederick Manion (Ben Gazzara, The Strange One [review]) walked into a bar and shot the owner six times. Manion did it because he believed the bartender had raped his wife, Laura (Lee Remick, A Face in the Crowd). He believed it was what any decent man would do. It appears to be an open and shut case; Biegler takes it anyway.

Most of Anatomy of a Murder is given over to the trial, including the investigation on Biegler's part that not only leads up to the start of the proceedings, but is also woven into them. Helping Paul out is his secretary Maida (Eve Arden, Grease) and his best friend Parnell (Arthur O'Connell, Cimarron [review]), an attorney who has stopped practicing as a result of a drinking problem. Brought in to shut down Biegler's defense and aid the local prosecutor is Claude Dancer (George C. Scott, Patton), a state's attorney from the city. These guys make a classic genre duo: rural vs. urban, substance vs. flash. Jimmy Stewart even has a line about being a "simple country lawyer." The two of them go toe to toe in the courtroom, poking holes in the other's version of events. Neither Manion nor his wife are exactly reliable witnesses. He's a hothead and she's a flirt.



Upon release, Anatomy of a Murder caused a scandal for its frank use of words like "sperm" and "panties." Those words have since lost their ability to shock, but the details that come out about the actual attack have not softened over time. Nor has our outrage over how Laura is treated by authorities in order to minimize what was done to her. On the contrary, these days, we are probably more sensitive to it. What makes Anatomy of a Murder amazing, however, is that even as we react to Laura's horrific story, we can't help but wonder if we really believe her. As in any true crime tale, every participant has many reasons to lie. We never really entertain Manion's defense of temporary insanity, and yet, we also somehow collude in this bending of the truth. Our weighing of the case is often not based on whether any of the actions were right or wrong, just which guy was more rotten--the murderer or the one he killed.

To be honest, Ben Gazzara is lucky to have Jimmy Stewart on his side. The former is oily and cocky, whereas the latter, of course, has a certain homespun, trustworthy charm. Both actors always appear to be thinking, but where Gazzara is understandably inscrutable and shifty, Stewart's motivations always seem clear. He is a man solving a puzzle, consistently trying to work out the next move. It's because we like him so much that we root for the case to go his way--which may have been Preminger's point in casting him, to challenge our sense of justice by drawing on our prior allegiance to a movie star and perhaps expose our own prejudices in the process.



Anatomy of a Murder is packed with talent from top to bottom, from the famous credits sequence by Saul Bass and all the way through with every note of Duke Ellington's snazzy score. Preminger's narrative is smart and insightful, and his mis-en-scene is light on its feet. He uses the real environments to capture an accurate image of the average American town, including both the sense of true community and also those who are marginalized from the "mainstream." Paul Biegler serves as a sort of cultural nexus for the time. As Laura Manion puts it, he's a funny kind of lawyer. He employs old-fashioned common sense in how he approaches a trial, and yet he smokes small cigars and plays piano in juke joints. He is progressive about race and sex, and yet a guy of staunch moral fiber. You have a sense that he'd likely get on just fine in the decade that was just to come. He might even grab a drink with Atticus Finch and trade some war stores.

So, too, does Anatomy of a Murder sit in this sweet spot between the old and the new. Its matter-of-fact writing was progressive and daring, and yet this is pure entertainment in the tradition of Hollywood's Golden Age. It's intelligent and strident in purpose, but Anatomy of a Murder never forgets that its primary duty is to hold the audience's interest. It's easy to watch, even if it doesn't go easy on the viewer and resort to simple representations of difficult issues. Every scene advances the narrative, and every shot is constructed to impart the essential information with clarity and style. There is not a hair out of place, and at the same time, not a moment that doesn't feel spontaneous. No matter how many times I see it, it always feels fresh and new, like it's my very first time, and when the credits roll, it's tempting to just skip back to 1 and start the whole thing again.




For a complete rundown on the special features, read the full review at DVD Talk.

Please Note: The images used here are from promotional materials, not from the Blu-Ray.