Bryan Ho

Although one certainly cannot say Gentleman's Agreement is not passionate in its aim to uncover the invisible cloak of anti-Semitism in post-war America, the execution of that objective could have used slightly more dramatic tension and immediacy.

Released the same year and touching on the same subject was Edward Dmytryk's Crossfire, which dealt with anti-Semitism at its extremes: murder with anti-Semitism as the motive. Gentleman's Agreement takes a more humanistic and subtle approach--one that is too subtle at times. Where Crossfire dropped the bomb of anti-Semitism into the laps of the audience, Gentleman's Agreement gives it to you in periodic shots in the arm in the form of a sermon, and each one says the exact same thing: anti-Semitism is bad. (But we knew that.) Yes, the message is an important one, but feeding it to the audience in a manner that is literally shoving it down our throats every few minutes doesn't help the digestion any.

Also lacking in Gentleman's Agreement is a three-dimensional protagonist. Peck's crusading writer who masquerades as a Jew is simply too zealous and unswerving for his own good. He has no faults, no inner conflicts and no doubts about himself. Whether he's being shunned by bigots or Dorothy McGuire, he's such a straight-shooter you know what he's going to do before he does: the right thing right away.

There's no real dramatic arc in the story, with the entire weight of the movie resting on the torrid on-again-off-again love affair between Peck and McGuire. She symbolizes the hypocrisy and passiveness of the everyday American on anti-Semitism, and he points it out to her every chance he gets-and that's all. It pretty much rambles on the same dramatic level all throughout the picture, dividing its time between love scenes and sermons, most of which are indistinguishable from one another.

In the end, the important message and the overall entertainment value of the picture suffers from this redundancy.

Rope is an eighty-minute waltz, with the camera dancing cheek-to-cheek with a provocative story of cold-blooded murder. The gimmick of filming the movie in one fluid shot in real-time puts extra burden on the actors and on Hitchcock to tell the story effectively without editing as a narrative device. And they all perform their tasks with resounding success. The lack of cuts takes away from several key reaction shots and such cinematic qualities as pacing and rhythm, but it accentuates the dialogue, which mimics the fluidity of action Hitchcock seemed to be going for.

There is a keen sense of space at work, with the camera slowly bringing us into contact with the various areas of the apartment in which the film is set. The camera frame isolates the characters, making us voyeurs on their intimate conversations. It moves about like a silent accomplice to the murder and the events proceeding it. The characters and situations are placed in front of us, forcing us to deal with them whether we want to or not--the dissolve or fade out won't save us this time.

All of it is executed with the utmost precision and skill of all involved. Although the film isn't necessarily cinematic, it does what many other films fail to do: tell its story effectively. And in that respect, Rope fulfills one of the basic purposes of the medium of film.

If The Maltese Falcon (1941) was the definitive true detective movie, The Big Sleep (1946) the definitive glamourized detective movie, and Chinatown (1974) the definitive allegorical detective movie, then Kiss Me Deadly is the definitive sleazy detective movie.

Mickey Spillane's sadistic private eye Mike Hammer, turned from successful private eye to sleazy bedroom dick, is the quintessential anti-hero, doing just about anything and everything wrong to get a piece of the pie that the characters call "The Big What's-it."

The movie survives by giving the usual Spillane buckets-of-blood story and its protagonist new dimensions. Right from the electric opening scene and the audacious opening credit sequence, the audience is drawn into Hammer's seedy world, where morality is suspended, and the credo of the end justifying the means dominates Hammer's actions. His reckless abandonment is almost never questionned and the film seems to understand his brutality as what he must do to get the job done in an equally brutal world.

Director Robert Aldrich observes all of it with an objective eye that neither glorifies nor condemns the action on-screen, letting the audience draw its own conclusions--even where the plot is concerned. The pace is unrelentless and the plot turns are never fully explained, forcing the audience to participate willingly in all that Hammer does to, hopefully, see the story through to its ending.

And what an ending! I'd de damned to a special place in Hell if I elaborated, so I'll just say that it's one of the greatest I've ever seen. That goes same for the movie itself, which is one of the most stylish, jarring and truly entertaining movies of its genre.