Mystery Train

“I like playing with things happening at the same time and characters being in the same place, but not interacting and yet being somehow connected by some little threads.” –Jim Jarmusch

Jim Jarmusch followed up his first two films, Stranger Than Paradise and Down By Law, with his first color feature, Mystery Train. Like Stranger and Down By Law, Mystery Train involves nomadic characters that don’t seem to fit in with mainstream society. The film also contains a lot of natural and irrelevant dialogue exchanges many of which involve pop culture. In terms of style, however, Jarmusch seems to be expanding on techniques he employed in his previous films. For example, the tracking shot of Eva walking along the streets of New York in the opening sequence of Stranger becomes a staple cinematographic technique in Mystery Train as it not only illustrates the characters’ relationship to their environment but, through repetition, also helps strengthen the characters’ relationships to one another. The most obvious expansion is Jarmusch’s decision to shoot the film in color. Because Jarmusch has a predilection for black and white cinematography, his decision to use color is important and certainly not trivial or accidental. Its significance is something to be examined in relation to other areas of the film.

Mystery Train is a clear departure from Jarmusch’s first films in that it involves a more complex narrative structure. Jarmusch described his intent for the film as “episodic but simultaneous” which is exactly what Mystery Train is at face value. There are three episodes in the film and through a variety of cues it becomes apparent that the episodes are occurring simultaneously. What is most interesting about Mystery Train is that all three episodes are rich enough to stand on their own, yet the subtle connections between each of them breathe new life into the three storylines as they play out. Through color, mise-en-scene, sound, and editing, Jim Jarmusch is able to create important associations between characters in different episodes while still making certain that each episode maintains its own unique qualities.

Color

Jim Jarmusch often defends his decision to shoot in black and white or in color based on how he envisions the film in his own mind. Because Mystery Train functions on a variety of levels, one could argue that the film would work just as well if it were not in color. While that may be true, color serves a particular purpose that actually enhances the unique relationships the characters share in the film.

The color red is particularly noteworthy in Mystery Train. In making observations, it is impossible not to jot down the variety of red objects that appear throughout the film. The color red can be interpreted in a number of ways especially in the context of this particular narrative. One could argue that red reflects the distinct emotions the characters of each episode evoke. For example, the red lipstick in shot 55 between Mitzuko and Jun suggests a kind of passion and sexuality but it is a subtle suggestion simply because it is difficult to define what kind of relationship Mitzuko and Jun have and how exactly they feel about one another.

The red truck that appears most prominently in shots 197-212 when Johnny, Charlie, and Will drive around Memphis is another example of complicated symbolism. In this case, red seems to symbolize danger and impulsiveness as Johnny has just held up a liquor store and the three of them have proceeded to flee the scene. Just as with the red lipstick, however, perhaps what the red truck symbolizes is not as simple as it appears at face value. While Johnny did act impulsively and he, Charlie and Will did get themselves involved in a dangerous situation, the sequence where the three of them flee the scene of the crime, drive around and drink the liquor is rather comical in its minimalism. They don’t talk to one another, after awhile they seem completely unfazed by what has happened, and there is not the least bit of tension or hostility as they proceed to get more intoxicated and less coherent with every shot. Jarmusch has made a career out of offering his audience an alternative to mainstream Hollywood film devices and his ambiguous and often ironic use of color in Mystery Train is no exception.

Color, like the narrative of the film, also unifies characters. In each episode, one could argue that there is at least one red object that ties the characters together in a unique way. The most obvious example is the red suitcase Mitzuko and Jun carry around Memphis. A bamboo pole is attached to the suitcase which they use to carry the suitcase between them. The suitcase obviously brings them together in this way but it also provides a moment of conflict between them. This moment occurs when Jun wants to pack a few hotel towels but is unable to fit them in because Mitzuko has bought too many t-shirts. They quickly compromise as Mitzuko proceeds to put on several of the shirts to free up some room and Jun agrees to only pack one of the towels. The suitcase again unites them as they both work together to close it before leaving the hotel.

In the second episode, Luisa carries a red purse. While she and Dee Dee are packing up and getting ready to leave the room they shared together, Dee Dee inquires about the money situation. Luisa takes two hundred dollars from her purse which she then gives to Dee Dee freely. This is another instance of a red object representing an act of camaraderie or generosity.

Finally, there is the red truck in the third episode. Johnny, Charlie, and Will have a bonding experience of sorts in the truck after Johnny sticks up the liquor store. At first it seems as though Charlie is on the outside as he refuses to partake in the drinking. However, as the sequence plays out, instead of passing the bottle back and forth Charlie finally takes a drink. Despite Charlie’s best efforts to distance himself from the illegal activities of Johnny and Will, he eventually succumbs and all three men find themselves on a par with one another by the time they reach the hotel. After Charlie is shot, Will and Johnny help him into the back of the truck before fleeing again in the morning. The red truck has not only united these three characters but it also serves as the device that allows them to help one another out.

Mise-en-Scene

A lot of Mystery Train occurs in the Arcade Hotel and several aspects of the mise-en-scene help connect characters and contribute to the general narrative cohesion of the film. What is interesting is how the mise-en-scene repeats itself across the first two episodes but then subtly varies itself in the third episode. In Mitzuko and Jun’s hotel room, there is the radio chained to the nightstand and an Elvis painting on the wall. In Luisa and Dee Dee’s room there is also the radio chained to the nightstand and an Elvis painting on the wall. While this repetition is not surprising because hotel rooms are supposed to look like one another, it becomes comical when Johnny, Charlie and Will enter their room. The night clerk has appropriately given them the rundown “Room 22” as they themselves are bedraggled and falling apart. The painting of Elvis is not hanging but leaning against the nightstand. The frame of the painting is dislodged from the painting itself. On the nightstand there is also a loose chain hanging freely where the radio should be attached. It is as though the radio has been stolen by some previous delinquent guest and never replaced. Because the audience has seen the chained radio in the first two episodes, the sight of the loose chain is not a mysterious one. However, Charlie, drunk and clueless, looks at the chain with total confusion and inquires why it is there. Will responds, “That’s cause you’re in the kinky sex room.” Will’s response is amusing in its randomness, yet it takes on an even more humorous quality because the audience knows something that Will does not and that is due to the knowledge we have gained from earlier episodes.

Another amusing incident relating to the mise-en-scene has to do with the Elvis painting. The figure of Elvis is a recurring theme in Mystery Train as he is either scoffed at or idolized by different characters throughout. To the women, Elvis represents a godlike icon (Mitzuko), an angelic ghost (Luisa), or a foolish lover (Dee Dee). In other words, there is a longing and intrigue that oozes from the female characters when they encounter their own personal version of Elvis. The male characters are just the opposite. Jun is completely unaffected by Elvis and continuously tries to debate how Carl Perkins is in fact the real king of rock and roll. Johnny cannot stand the fact that his friends call him Elvis and ironically asks to be called Carl Perkins, Jr. instead. Relating this particular discrepancy about Elvis back to the mise-en-scene, the reaction Johnny has to the Elvis painting in the hotel room takes on a whole new meaning when compared to how the painting fits into previous scenes. Mitzuko stares up at the painting in her hotel room with awe and admiration and the painting in Luisa and Dee Dee’s room inspires Dee Dee to divulge with some fondness the details of her sordid relationship with a man people called Elvis. That man, who actually turns out to be Johnny, has an altogether different reaction to the painting. He recoils at the sight of it and says with disgust, “I can’t get rid of that fucking guy.” The moment is a hilarious one but more importantly it reduces this mystical and untouchable concept of Elvis established by the women in earlier scenes to exactly what it has become in this scene: an old, crooked, and decaying picture in a dilapidated room of a rundown hotel.

Sound

Sound is undeniably the most powerful unifying device in Mystery Train. Several different elements of sound help the viewer make sense of the narrative structure of the film as characters hear the same sounds from different locations, and this indicates that certain scenes are, in fact, occurring simultaneously. As with other stylistic techniques in the film, Jarmusch establishes a repetition and variation pattern with his sound design. The three main sound devices that connect the three episodes of the film are a radio DJ bit followed by Elvis’s “Blue Moon,” a train passing by near the hotel, and a gunshot. The sounds occur similarly in the first two episodes but they are given new meaning when presented in the third and final episode.

The three sounds occur in a somewhat similar fashion in “Far From Yokohama” and “A Ghost.” Mitzuko and Jun are in bed when “Blue Moon” comes on the radio in their room. (Shot 70) Luisa and Dee Dee are also in bed when “Blue Moon” comes on the radio in their room. (Shot 157) Jun is standing next to the window and talking to Mitzuko who is lying in bed (61) and the sound of a train can be heard off screen. This is followed by an extreme long shot (62) of the train moving along a track just above an empty street. There is also a shot of Dee Dee standing next to the window talking to Luisa who is lying in bed (153) and the train can be heard off screen. This is followed by the same extreme long shot (154) of the train.

“Lost in Space” incorporates these sounds in a different way so that the third episode becomes variation on the sound design established in the first two episodes. Johnny, Charlie, and Will do not hear “Blue Moon” in their hotel but in their truck as they drive around trying to find a hideout. This shot of them listening to “Blue Moon” in the truck actually follows a shot of Will’s truck driving down the street and below the passing train from shots 62 and 154. The sound and subsequent extreme long shot of the train is repeated here but the sound and image of the train become something different because Johnny, Charlie, and Will have now integrated themselves into the shot.

This repetition and variation occur once again with the sound of the gunshot. In both shot 74 and shot 176, the gunshot is heard when the characters are packing and getting ready to leave the hotel. Sound is again expanded upon in the third episode as the source of the gunshot is revealed. In shot 245, after Charlie struggles to wrestle a gun out of Johnny’s hands, the gun accidentally goes off causing the sound of a gunshot.

Editing: Repetition of Shots

Because the narrative of Mystery Train is a complex one, editing plays an integral role. While it eventually becomes evident that each episode is occurring simultaneously, there is very little in the film that is actually repeated. Characters from individual episodes do not run into one another as their scenes are being played out. The only real cues to the simultaneity of the film have to do with sound.

There is, however, one scene that does occur in one form or the other in each of the three episodes. The scene is played out for the first time in its entirety in shot 71 and it involves the bellboy putting on a pair of sunglasses followed by a conversation between him and the night clerk about fashion. The scene ends with the clerk making fun of the bellboy’s hat. It is clear that this scene occurs in real time right after the one in which Mitzuko and Jun are lying together post-coital because the song “Blue Moon” bridges the two scenes. There is a fade-out following shot 71 and then a fade-in precedes the next shot of Mitzuko and Jun waking up in the morning.

This sequence structure repeats itself in shots 171-173. Shot 171 shows Luisa still in awe of the Elvis ghost she has just seen. This is followed by a shot of the bellboy putting on the sunglasses. However, this time the shot is cut off before the bellboy takes off the sunglasses and he and the night clerk have the conversation about fashion. Again there is a fade-out and fade-in from shot 172 to 173 and shot 173 reveals Dee Dee waking up in the morning. If the technique employed in shots 171-173 is a repetition on that employed in shots 70-72, then shots 213-214 are a variation on that technique.

Shot 213 picks up where shot 172 left off. The bellboy takes off the sunglasses and he and the night clerk have the fashion conversation. Instead of having this scene cut off again like in 71, the scene continues to play out as a “Jiffy Squid” commercial comes on the radio following “Blue Moon” causing the clerk to recoil in horror and consequently turn off the radio. Following this shot is one of Will, Charlie, and Johnny arriving at the hotel. Because it has now become evident that the men’s arrival immediately followed the fashion conversation between the bellboy and the night clerk, it also becomes evident why only bits and pieces of the scene were played out in the previous two episodes. Through this technique, Jarmusch has somehow connected all three episodes with one similar shot while simultaneously avoiding having episodes bleed into one another.


With Mystery Train, Jarmusch has created three uniquely brilliant vignettes about relationships and the strange yet beautiful way people communicate with one another. While it is a clear departure both stylistically and narratively from his earlier work, Jarmusch has not abandoned his love of the little things. Mystery Train contains so many tiny details that it would take several viewings of the film to discover all of them and truly appreciate their importance. This quality that Jarmusch’s films possess is an important one because if his films continue to be watched, the characters and the worlds he creates continue to exist as well. Jarmusch has an undeniable ability to instill in his audience a desire to give his films a closer look, and it is precisely this ability that makes Jarmusch one of the most important American independent filmmaker of his time.

Psycho*

Psycho is easily one of my favorite films of all time. Sometimes I even consider it my absolute favorite film, but as a true cinema buff this kind of decision can never be made without some hesitation. So why pick Psycho out of the vast canon of cinematic achievements in history? Why even pick Psycho out of Hitchcock’s own vast canon of cinematic achievements? Most of the time, I don’t like to choose a director’s most famous film as my favorite because it feels similar to rooting for a sports team with a winning record. Making the obvious and easy choice suggests a kind of laziness on the spectator’s part and if there is one thing I am not, especially when it comes to the cinema, it’s lazy. Yet, to cast aside a cinematic gem like Psycho because it just happens to be on everyone’s top 100 list is ridiculous especially considering the relationship I have with the film.

For as long as I can remember, I have not been able to shake the effect Psycho has on me each and every time I sit down to watch it. I first saw Psycho in high school and ever since, it has felt like a part of my soul. To me it is not just a classic horror movie. It’s not even just one of the greatest films ever made. Each moment of Psycho lives in me as any mental habit or emotional tendency. In other words, I have come to know this film as though it were my own name or telephone number. This all might sound strange considering the content of Psycho and the disturbing nature of its narrative. It shouldn’t though because I am not connecting or relating to any specific character or experience within the film. I simply feel a deep admiration and fondness for the way the film is put together. I love the way the shots are so thoroughly assembled, the way each line is scripted and delivered, the strange and alluring movements of the camera, and the way Bernard Hermann’s haunting score breathes disorder, apprehension, and terror into the film.

Every scene in Psycho has its own unique effect on me but one in particular stands out and I’d like to focus on it for this critique. The scene is the one Marion Crane and Norman Bates share in the parlor of the Bates Motel. Anthony Perkins’ eerie yet vulnerable performance coupled with Hitchcock’s meticulous cuts and jarring camera angles provide a sequence that, even when compared to the shower scene that follows it, stands out as one of the most disturbing and flawlessly constructed of the film.

The scene begins with Norman and Marion pleasantly conversing. They engage mainly in small talk and Norman comes across as lonely and self-effacing but not at all threatening. Marion attempts to better understand Norman and his life. The cinematography, like the conversation itself, is rather conventional. Both Norman and Marion are framed head-on in a medium shot, and there is nothing particularly off-putting about the camera angle or shot scale. Suddenly the conversation switches gears when Marion mentions Norman’s mother and the change in topic is accompanied by a change in camera set-up.

Marion expresses her dismay over the way she heard Norman’s mother speak to him when he was making supper. The camera angle has changed considerably and Norman is now seen from the side. The camera has also been placed somewhat below him so that he appears to hover over us much like the stuffed birds on the wall of the parlor. There is no real reason why the angle should change at this point. In other words, there is no dramatic motivation for it. Normally when the drama of the scene is intensified, the camera will move closer to a character but the position and angle will remain the same. The changes in position and angle seem to instead correlate to Norman’s change in mind-set.

Norman’s mother is clearly a disconcerting subject for Norman as is evidenced by the peculiar way Hitchcock has chosen to frame Norman while he describes his relationship with her. Norman tiptoes around an explanation of why his mother is so hostile and possessive almost as though he is afraid she will hear him. He retracts many of his statements and contradicts himself a number of times. It is difficult to grasp why Norman is unable to articulate his feelings about his mother and the unusual way he appears in the frame only heightens our uncertainty. While it is important for him to appear creepy and strange, what is most crucial is that we develop a strong enough curiosity about Norman to truly care about the fate of his character. By presenting him in such an atypical manner, Hitchcock gives Norman an exclusivity that is absolutely essential within the greater context of the film.

After listening attentively to Norman’s admissions, Marion looks at Norman, genuinely concerned. Attempting to express this concern, she says to Norman, “Wouldn’t it be better if you put her…some place?” When we cut to Norman, he is suddenly seen straight on in a near close-up. He occupies the right side of the frame while another stuffed bird hanging on the wall in the background occupies the left side. Norman sits up to fill the center of the frame and is clearly infuriated by Marion’s question. He retorts, “You mean an institution? A madhouse? People always call a madhouse ‘some place,’ don’t they? Put her in ‘some place.’” He expresses to Marion the cruel and hideous nature of asylums and consequently berates her for even suggesting it. When we cut to Marion, she is obviously alarmed by Norman’s change in behavior. Clearly she was not expecting shy, awkward Norman Bates to react so aggressively.

With each change in camera position and shot scale, we see Norman edging closer and closer to complete insanity. But just as easily as he can slip into madness, he can snap back into reality. After lashing out at Marion, Norman suddenly leans back in his chair as if he has just come out of a trance. He says, “Of course I have suggested it myself,” in regards to putting his mother in an institution, and it now seems as though he agrees with Marion. Again we see Norman contradicting himself as though he is trying to regain control of his own thoughts. What is unsettling about Norman’s transformation is not the erratic behavior that it produces but rather how quickly and effortlessly the transformation occurs. The way Norman’s voice, posture, and attitude change in a matter of moments is both terrifying and hypnotic, and Hitchcock, with his impeccable eye for detail, is able to capture all of it without missing a beat.

Upon one’s first viewing of this scene, the sudden changes in camera placement and shot scale appear odd and inexplicable. Only when we discover Norman’s true self do we understand why Hitchcock made such deliberate stylistic choices. Norman Bates’ mind has been fragmented by his mental illness so what better way to illustrate this than to fragment his presentation on screen. While the shot scale and camera positions also change in regards to Marion, these changes are minute and subtle and would likely occur in any conventional dramatic scene. In other words, there is nothing particularly special about them. Marion’s role in this scene is meant to be secondary to Norman’s and thus Hitchcock illustrates this with the cinematography. After Marion is abruptly extracted from the film only a third of the way through and she is no longer the central figure, it becomes necessary for the audience to align itself with another character. Therefore, Hitchcock’s cinematographic emphasis of Norman in the parlor scene becomes especially important because through the scene Hitchcock not only draws our attention to Norman but also instills in us a curiosity that will motivate our allegiance to him.

So whether you have seen Psycho dozens of times or you are watching it for the first time, pay close attention to the scene in the parlor and the way it shapes the character of Norman Bates. Resist any temptation to dismiss all of the subtle nuances that lead up to the shower scene. Pop culture may have taught us that the big payoff of Psycho is seeing Janet Leigh stabbed maniacally to the sound of screeching violins, but I've discovered otherwise. While the shower scene is an enormously important one in cinema history for the way it shattered classical Hollywood conventions, it is not the most frightening one in the film. What is more terrifying than even the gruesome slaughter of Marion Crane is the way we are manipulated into sympathizing with the man responsible for it.

*Nominated for four Academy Awards including Best Supporting Actress, Best Art Direction-Set Decoration (Black-and-White), Best Cinematography (Black-and-White), and Best Director.

Crash*

In the last ten years, there has been a clear correlation between Best Picture nominees and late theatrical releases. With the exception of Erin Brockovich (released in March of 2000) and the occasional summer blockbuster (Moulin Rouge, Gladiator, and Seabiscuit come to mind), the films nominated for Best Picture are usually those that hit theatres in November or December. The reason for this should be obvious. Staying fresh in the minds of the Academy voters is necessary in order to ensure Oscar recognition. That is, unless, the film is absolutely unforgettable. Some stories, characters, and images of a film are so powerful that months, even years can go by and people will still remember what they saw. No film illustrates this better than Paul Haggis’ Crash.

Many small yet controversial movies received Oscar recognition this year but only one carried the dreaded stigma of being released only a few months after last year’s Academy Awards. And that was just the American release. The film had its international premiere in Paul Haggis’ native Canada at the Toronto Film Festival, and that was in September of 2004. Talk about longevity. Knowing that Crash was competing with a plethora of extraordinary films all of which were released in the past few months, I was hoping that the Academy would simply remember Crash and give it at least a screenplay nomination. Yet, the Academy shocked me by rewarding the film with a whopping six nominations including Best Editing, Best Original Song, Best Supporting Actor (Matt Dillon), Best Original Screenplay, Best Director, and Best Picture. For something that’s been out of theaters and out of the news for nearly a year, that’s pretty impressive.

When I sat in the theater back in June watching the closing credits of Crash roll by, I knew that if there was any justice in the world, I would see all of the brilliant individuals responsible for this film inside the Kodak Theatre on Oscar night. It was not the mere fact that Crash shook me to my very core, it was the way it shook me. There were moments when I felt as though something had physically grabbed me and put me through the very same situations the characters were put through. After one scene, my heart would be racing, and after another, I would have to stop and catch my breath. You know you’ve experienced something special when, after the lights come up and it’s time to leave the theater, you feel almost too drained to stand. The film not only produced some of the finest performances in recent history, it was also expertly written and beautifully photographed. Taking advantage of every compelling capacity cinema possesses, Crash is truly filmmaking at its finest. If the Academy should reward anything, it is this kind of motion picture that illustrates why cinema is so magnificent in the first place.

Even though I consider myself a major Oscar buff and have never missed a single ceremony, I realize that to the rest of the country these awards have become sort of passé and hackneyed. This year’s show is even expected to be the lowest rated in history. Yet, I consider there to be one very big reason to watch the Oscars this year and that is to root for Crash. Despite its Spring release, Crash made a strong enough impression to garner nominations for some of the Academy’s most coveted prizes, which suggests that Paul Haggis’ little passion piece might actually be a force to be reckoned with come March. Maybe it doesn’t have the controversial genre-defying characteristics of Ang Lee’s “gay cowboy movie,” but it has proven to possess something even greater: staying power. As hopeful as I am, however, I am not naïve to the system. I have been watching the Academy Awards for a long time and I know that when a film generates the kind of industry buzz Brokeback Mountain has been pumping out for the past two months, it is practically guaranteed to reign supreme on Oscar night. Yet, I was also there on March 23rd of 2003 when a young and fairly unknown actor from Queens beat out the highly favored screen veterans Daniel Day-Lewis and Jack Nicholson to win the coveted Best Actor Academy Award. Most people remember him for laying a big kiss on Halle Berry before accepting his prize, but what I remember is how he defied the odds. Yes, Brokeback Mountain is expected to prevail in most of the categories for which it is nominated, but I’m hoping for a few upsets from the little movie that could.

*2006 Academy Award Winner for Best Editing, Best Original Screenply, and Best Picture

Layer Cake

This week I had the pleasure of viewing Layer Cake, Matthew Vaughn's directorial debut starring Daniel Craig, Sienna Miller and a host of other talented Brits. Prior to this film, Matthew Vaughn was known for producing British indie hits, Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels and Snatch. Layer Cake, adapted from JJ Connolly's novel, was originally going to be directed by Guy Ritchie but Vaughn eventually took over the project himself. What a relief. I think Guy Ritchie is a great director but judging from his work post Lock, Stock and Snatch, I'd be a little concerned with Ritche's handling of Connolly's slick and terrifically smart screenplay. Vaughn has turned the gangster film on its head by giving us a portrait of a young, cocaine dealer intent not on being some head honcho mafia boss known by everyone in the crime underworld but rather a transparent middleman who does his job without being noticed. This man, played by Daniel Craig who breathes incredible intelligence and humor into the role, wishes to end his days as a drug-slinging go-between but unfortunately he is attempting to retire from a profession that doesn't want to retire him. The man, who remains anonymous in both the novel and the film, is like many criminals hoping to call it quits. He agrees to one final job that will set him up for life but instead finds himself dealing with imbeciles, wannabes, creeps, and lunatics who simply will not let him bow out quietly.

There is a small yet significant sub-plot that occurs between Craig's character and Tammy, played by Sienna Miller. Miller's performance in this film is brief but effective as it provides our protaginist with his only avenue of escape. He makes several attempts to connect with her but those attempts are continuously thwarted by occupational hazards. Unfortunately his association with Tammy is not without its own price as Tammy too is involved with people who are rooting against the nameless man's hopes for a quiet departure.

What I love about this film is that it's got all the cool glamour and charisma of a great gangster flick but it differs from its predecessors by showing us how a simple life and a drug dealer's life can never be one in the same no matter how idealistic the drug dealer is. Layer Cake doesn't try to be too clever or too slick which is what makes it so clever and slick. Like Ritchie's films, there is a trendy soundtrack that accompanies all the film's most provocative moments but with Vaughn, I never feel as though I'm watching a music video. The screenplay is rich and highly detailed yet it comes across as literary rather than superfluous which I attribute to JJ Connolly's skills as both a novelist and a screenwriter. Daniel Craig's performance is convincing and sympathetic which makes his character a lot more accessible than your typical anti-hero. Watching him I was reminded of Ray Liotta's Henry Hill in GoodFellas. Hill too finds himself drawn to the mob, seduced and taken over by its rich lifestyle and unique code of behavior until finally collapsing under the weight of its expectations and demands. The lesson in both GoodFellas and Layer Cake is that while crime does pay, and very well at that, it can also make you an employee for life where the only way out of your contract is a bullet through the chest.

Hollywood and World War II

“Escapist fare was the general order of the day, but Hollywood was aware too of the need for films extolling the virtues of democracy and exposing the horrors and savagery or totalitarian regimes. America’s motion picture industry rose to the task of tending the spirit of a nation during a perilous time in its history. Here is how Hollywood went to war…”

The story of Hollywood’s relationship with World War II is an extensive one. There are hundreds of films depicting the war at home and abroad, yet because there are so many war films that cover not only World War II but every other war since then, people today take for granted that it was not always easy to produce and release a film about war. The subject matter Hollywood wanted to tackle in the 1930s was more often than not out of sync with what the government and the censorship boards had in mind. This was particularly true of content relating to the war because the United States had a very tumultuous relationship with the rest of the world, and the American people were extremely wary of how the war was going to affect them. In other words, as tempting as it was for Hollywood studios to project onto the movie screen what was happening overseas, in the late 1930s the obstacles seemed insurmountable. Yet because such a great canon of World War II films exists, we know that Hollywood did overcome these obstacles. Placing side by side the following statements shows the significant shift that occurred from 1938 to 1941 regarding the motion picture’s role in portraying the war. The first is from Will Hays, President of the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America. The second is from Wyoming Senator Joseph C. O’Mahoney.

“[March 28, 1938] The function of the entertainment screen is to entertain by whatever wholesome theme or treatment writers, artists, and dramatists can create. There is no other criterion.”

[June 1943] “We are living in a new age in which the radio and the motion picture have become the most effective means of disseminating news and factual information.”

More important than the shift itself, however, is what factors contributed to the shift. Examining a brief history of censorship, Hollywood foreign markets, pre-war Hollywood filmmaking, the isolationist cause, the relationship between the studios and the government, and finally the relationship between Hollywood and its audience, it is possible to determine how the film industry was able to convince the censors, the isolationists, and the American public that the war picture, like any other motion picture of the day, deserved a place on the movie screen.

Censorship Rears its Ugly Head: Hollywood in the 1930s
The 1930s are often considered the “Golden Age” of Hollywood. Motion pictures still reflected the glamour, decadence, and sexuality of the 1920s, and with the emergence of sound, cinema took on a whole new life. Due to the depression, the industry felt it important to give American audiences escapist fare to help them through the grim reality of the time. “The dominant theme of American movies in the golden age, said critic Parker Tyler, was the ‘success story.’ The movie makers projected their success on the screen to a public that wanted to believe.” Not everyone seemed as eager as Tyler suggests to embrace everything Hollywood was spoon-feeding its audiences. “Worry about the effect movies might have on public morals, particularly those of children…was a recurrent concern.” In 1930, Hollywood agreed to abide by a production code written by Daniel Lord, but the studios tended to ignore the code as is evidenced by the films they released, particularly in 1934. These included Cleopatra, Ecstasy, Murder at the Vanities, I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang, and Scarface. The films depicted—albeit with great subtlety—sexuality, drug-use, the breakdown of law and order, violence, slavery, and social disobedience.

Not surprisingly, Hollywood was attacked from the outside. In 1934, American bishops of the Roman Catholic Church threatened to boycott the industry. Will Hays, head of the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America (Hays Office), and some alarmed movie executives feared that “unless the trend in pictures was curbed, the federal government would step into censor the movies or break up the industry.” Consequently, Hays upgraded the enforcement mechanism, the Production Code Administration and made Joseph Ignatius Breen, a conservative Catholic journalist, the head of the administration. Films had to conform to Breen’s interpretation of the code to get a PCA seal. Without the seal, none of the Big Eight studios would handle a film, which would effectively kill its market. Because of the code, the subject matter Hollywood would undertake from 1934 to the 1950s was sharply limited.

Industry policy was particularly sensitive about films dealing with foreign counties. This proved to be a major hurdle, as Hollywood grew more and more tempted to fictionalize the European crisis. “Although the Hays Office tried to steer the studios away from political subjects, the movie producers, whether for reasons of conscience, profit, or sheer human interest, could not avoid politics and war.” Besides pressure from censorship boards, Hollywood also felt pressure from abroad. The American movie industry was economically dependent on a world market for the success of its products. In Latin America, for example, some 5000 theaters played American films; in Asia, more than 6000. Europe had by far the greatest number of all—more than 35,000 theaters where American movies were shown. Because of this dependence on foreign markets, Hollywood had to be extremely careful in the way they handled world affairs and especially in the way they depicted foreign leaders. “Any movies that dealt realistically with Mussolini and his new Roman Empire, Adolf Hitler and Nazi Germany, or the Spanish Civil War, were likely to be banned from thousands of screens in Europe while at the same time being opposed at home by American isolationists. It was a cruel economic choice the movie makers faced, since forty percent of industry revenues were generated overseas, representing the profit margin for many films.” Eventually, the complete intolerance of American films and film practices sealed Hollywood’s fate in dealing with foreign markets. “The Nuremberg Laws banned films with Jewish actors and actresses, cut the number of American pictures that could be shown in Germany to just twenty per year, and imposed severe restrictions on the repatriation of profits…As the stain of Nazi influence seeped across Europe after 1937, Hollywood’s markets progressively dried up. By 1940 they were insignificant.” Because the film industry no longer had to concern itself with whether or not a film would play in Europe successfully, subject matter became a much less sensitive issue to the studios. In fact, several studios began to make explicitly interventionists films. Joseph Breen was deeply suspicious. Breen knew that many of the studio executives were Jewish and was concerned that they were trying to use the Nazis’ treatment of Jews to make propaganda pictures. The issue of Nazism in Hollywood would become a particularly hot topic when America’s favorite comic star decided to take on Adolf Hitler himself.

How The Great Dictator Found Its Way to the Screen
“The credit for perhaps the most significant antifascist film, both politically and artistically, must go to Charles Chaplin, independent producer, director, writer, and actor extraordinaire, for his 1940 classic, The Great Dictator.”

Although The Great Dictator was released in the fall of 1940, controversy surrounding the film began much earlier. In October 1938, the German council in Los Angeles wrote to Joseph Breen objecting to the proposed picture. In March 1939, Brooke Wilkinson, secretary of the British Board of Film Censors, cautioned Breen that there would be a serious problem if Chaplin made The Great Dictator, because the board enforced a stringent rule that no living personage could be represented on the screen without his or her written consent. Chaplin was thus pressured to cancel the project. He said studio execs at United Artists had told him “they had been advised by the Hays office that ‘I would run into censorship trouble.’” Chaplin was not discouraged and continued with the production. He fully believed that Hitler should be ridiculed. It is fairly certain Chaplin would have done anything to get the film released; however, the outbreak of war in September 1939 relieved the British censor of the need to enforce its censorship rule, which took pressure off Breen to shelve the project. Chaplin completed The Great Dictator over the summer of 1940. Breen, delighted with the film, screened it on September 6. “‘It is superb entertainment,’ Breen wrote, ‘and marks Mr. Chaplin, I think, as our greatest artist.’”

While The Great Dictator was well received, it is important to note why exactly people could handle this kind of “war film” in 1940 and not others. Through 1941, it was required that Hollywood films distinguish between Nazis and the German people. For example, The Great Dictator drove home the point that not all Germans were Jew-hating Nazis. “This approach was both a Hollywood formula and a requirement of the production code. Evil Germans had to be balanced by a few good Germans. The PCA simply took its formula for avoiding controversy—politicians could be corrupt, but not all politicians were—and applied it to Nazi Germany.” The PCA demanded that Hollywood enforce a fairness doctrine, despite how evil Hitler and the Nazi regime were considered to be. Besides The Great Dictator’s “fair” representation of Germans, the film was satirical and Chaplin, the comic genius, was in top form. Chaplin had made a name for himself as a silent screen star and Dictator, being his first sound film, allowed Chaplin to expand even further as a performer. By filtering the idea of Hitler and Nazism through the lens of comedy, Chaplin was able make his own unique political statement.

Even though the critical response of The Great Dictator was generally good, it was that unique political statement that people found to be the weakest element of the film. The general consensus seemed to be that Chaplin succeeded as a comedian, but not as a politician. Critics did not care for the closing speech in which Chaplin makes a passionate plea for tolerance. Breen did not object, perhaps because “the speech expressed a universal longing for peace rather than a specific political course of action.” Critics, however, thought it was inappropriate and superfluous. Bosley Crowther of the New York Times said, “It is as the dictator that Chaplin displays his true genius,” but later added, “The speech with which it ended—the appeal for reason and kindness—is completely out of joint with that which has gone before.” John O’Hara of Newsweek bluntly declared, “No time for comedy? Yes, I say time for comedy. Time for Chaplin comedy. No time ever for Chaplin to preach as he does those last six minutes, no matter how deeply he may feel what he wrote and says.” Regardless of the how some felt about the ending of The Great Dictator, Chaplin turned his political statement into box office gold—“the film grossed $5 million worldwide and earned him a profit of $1.5 million.” Chaplin did not take the criticism lightly, however. When the New York Film Critics awarded him the Best Actor award for The Great Dictator, Chaplin refused it due to the harsh criticism parts of his film received. It is clear that Charlie Chaplin wanted to be taken seriously as an artist, and his intent with The Great Dictator was not solely to humor his audience. Perhaps the American public was not yet ready to have their favorite movie stars remind them about the perils of an impending war. Whether they were ready or not, one maverick director was about to let Americans know that the situation abroad could no longer be ignored.

Foreign Correspondent: Alfred Hitchcock’s Wake-up Call to the American People
“Foreign Correspondent engages its world audience on two coexistent levels. The obvious one is the entertaining chase—the cloak-and-dagger work of the New York crime reporter. The second is the flag-waving propaganda calling for an end of American isolationism in World War II.”

Alfred Hitchcock was already an established filmmaker in his native Great Britain by the time he relocated to the United States in 1939. His decision to move could be attributed to the simple fact that Hitchcock wanted more freedom and he believed American audiences would allow him that freedom. Despite what Americans were and were not willing to see, the issue of creative freedom was much more complicated as the United States was growing more involved in the war. “Strong debate about the reversal of the original Neutrality Act was the political atmosphere in the United States when Foreign Correspondent was released. This propaganda-entertainment film was part of the new vanguard of politically oriented films exposing the Nazi menace while calling for military alertness through rearmament.” So with the war moving closer and closer to the forefront of American life and the growing concern people felt toward propaganda and politics in film, how exactly was Foreign Correspondent able penetrate the market?

While it is true that Hitchcock did not blanket his film with comic relief, Foreign Correspondent appealed as a political thriller that incorporated a lot of exciting action sequences and a romantic storyline. Joel McCrea plays Johnny Jones, a newspaper reporter who is sent to Europe to report on the escalating foreign conflicts of the nations at war. There is an espionage subplot involving a Dutch diplomat who is captured by the Nazis after attempting to deliver a secret treaty back to his country. Laraine Day plays an English girl who gets involved romantically with Johnny as they struggle to rescue the Dutchman. Just as Chaplin was the king of comedy at that time, Hitchcock was the master of suspense. And like Chaplin, Hitchcock had an uncanny ability to create the kind of movie audiences wanted to see despite the subject matter. Although Hitchcock and his writing team took great pains to make the film as socially relevant to the time as possible, they were able to package it in such as way as to not make any blatant or offensive political statements. “The film had no problem getting a seal of approval. All references to Spain were removed, and German policy toward the Jews was not dealt with. The picture did not directly attack the Germans or imply that all Germans were evil…While Breen and Hays might have preferred the film not be made, Foreign Correspondent was mild enough to cause little concern.” Critical response of Foreign Correspondent was also remarkably positive. “Time magazine claimed Foreign Correspondent to be ‘one of the year’s finest pictures; noting that Hitchcock’s camera was the best reporter—being in the right place at the right time.” The New York Herald Tribune concurred. “The ending of the film is as challenging a call to arms as the screen has issued to democracy.” With approval from the PCA and a warm reception by the critics, it would seem that Foreign Correspondent was able to escape controversy altogether. That would prove not to be the case, however, when the isolationists got wind of it.

As with The Great Dictator, it was difficult to ignore the message being communicated by the conclusion of Foreign Correspondent. Hitchcock was British, after all, and it was obvious that he felt some misgivings about how successful his country was going to be against Germany without some kind of American militaristic intervention. “The film ended with McCrea, caught in the London blitz with bombs falling in the background, making a passionate plea via radio for American intervention before the lights went out all over Europe.” While many people considered the film patriotic because of its emphasis on coming together for the common goal of democracy, “the isolationists viewed Foreign Correspondent as propaganda because it attacked non-involvement.” At the 1941 hearings investigating propaganda in Hollywood, the film was referred to several times. The interventionists used it in their defense and argued that motion pictures were simply illustrating the reality of the times. Darryl F. Zanuck, Vice President of Twentieth Century Fox said, “Hollywood didn’t create the underworld, nor did it create Hitler and the Nazis. We have portrayed them no differently than they are pictured daily in newspapers, magazines, books, and all other mediums of expression.”

Foreign Correspondent is an important film in Hitchcock’s career because it marked the beginning of a series of extraordinary films about war, espionage, and foreign affairs for which Hitchcock would ultimately be remembered. The real accomplishment, however, is how Hitchcock was able to make and release a film with such controversial subject matter, and convince the American public that it was exactly what they needed to see.

Hollywood Under the Microscope Again
On September 9, 1941 a subcommittee of the Committee on Interstate Commerce began an investigation of “war propaganda” and motion pictures. The Hollywood studio heads faced serious charges as isolationists accused them of embarking on a “devious campaign to inject its entertainment pictures with propaganda and drag America into the war.” The purpose of the hearings was to determine whether Congress should enact legislation to deal with content in motion pictures. Wendell Willkie, the 1940 Republican presidential nominee who had become a supporter of FDR’s international policies, served as counsel for the industry interventionists. He charged that the real purpose of the hearings was to gain publicity for the isolationist cause. Senator Gerald P. Nye, an extreme isolationist from North Dakota, was the committee’s first witness. He attacked Jewish control of the industry and “claimed to think it was ‘quite natural’ that American Jews would support a foreign policy directed against their oppressors.” Willkie fired back by pointing out that within the industry there were “Nordics and non-Nordics, Jews and gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, [and] native and foreign-born.”

The industry defended itself in several ways. First and foremost, it reverted to its time-worn excuse that it was purely in the business of entertaining. Yet, as it became clear that the hearings were not designed to analyze movies but curtail interventionism, the defense shifted its gears. Isolationists were bent on making connections between FDR’s foreign policy and the motion picture industry, so in effect, they went after Hollywood as a way to protest the government. The industry execs thus took it upon themselves to dispel any kind of connection. Willkie stated, “‘the motion picture industry and its executives are opposed to the Hitler regime…we make no pretense of friendliness to Nazi Germany.” In other words, Hollywood’s anti-Nazi films were not propaganda but accurate portrayals of what was happening overseas. Willkie’s decision to abandon the weak “nothing but entertainment” argument was a brilliant one as he converted the issue from propaganda to a question of fact. He understood that most Americans, although fearful of America’s involvement in the war, detested Hitler and agreed with the way Nazism was represented in the movies. Because Hollywood was handling mildly what the print media had already handled explicitly, Willkie made a convincing argument that movies should be entitled to the same freedom from federal censorship. “By claiming that the industry was producing portrayals of the ‘world as it is,’ he wrapped the studios in the flag of patriotic service. Hollywood emerged as the unlikely hero.” The hearings were adjourned on September 26. On December 8, 1941, D. Worth Clark, the isolationist Democrat who had headed the subcommittee, announced their abandonment. Now that the United States was directly involved in the war, the issue of interventionism was moot. The next big question became how motion pictures would handle the war, and whether or not Hollywood and the government could work together to create the kind of war picture people would be willing to see.

Can Propaganda Be a Good Thing?
Because of what had happened during World War I, many Americans had serious misgivings about the role of propaganda. In 1917-18 the Committee on Public Information, better known as the “Creel Committee,” launched a propaganda campaign unlike any other in U.S. history. The campaign flooded the country with posters, pamphlets, and “four-minute men,” who gave rousing patriotic speeches in theaters and other public places. What stood out more than anything else, however, was the “hate the Hun” campaign that distorted the perceptions and contributed to the persecution of German-Americans. It also heightened the disillusionment already felt by Americans after the war. People also felt wary because of suspicions regarding British propaganda’s role in maneuvering the United States into war in 1917. For these reasons, Hollywood was apprehensive about producing war films because of the propaganda stigma that would inevitably be attached to them.

FDR and his administration were also unsure of how they should handle the propaganda situation. “When the war broke out in Europe on September 1, 1939, the United States was the only major power without a propaganda agency.” FDR did finally create a propaganda agency in late 1939 called the Office of Government Reports (OGR) but this agency was limited to gathering information about the defense program and informing the executive branch about public opinion. In other words, the agency dealt only with accurate and neutral information. The head of OGR was Lowell Mellett, a presidential assistant and former editor of the Washington Daily News. Despite its informational focus, the agency aroused considerable controversy and Congressional conservatives refused to fund it. Roosevelt used his own office funds to operate the agency until Mellett successfully defended his budget request to Congress in 1940, and OGR became a fully funded part of the defense effort.

FDR took another tentative step in March 1941 when he signed an executive order to create a Division of Information within the Office of Emergency Management (OEM). This agency again dealt only with informational propaganda. While trying to avoid backlash from isolationist groups, the government managed to stir up criticism from interventionists who argued for a more “inspirational propaganda agency.” “They argued that conscription, the recently passed Lend-Lease bill, and a military buildup were not enough.” By the fall of 1941, the propaganda issue had a new critic. Army Chief of Staff George C. Marshall complained of low morale among draftees, which he contributed to apathy of the general public. FDR responded by placing the responsibility of morale-boosting functions in a newly formed Office of Facts and Figures (OFF) headed on a part-time basis by Archibald MacLeish, the prominent poet and librarian of Congress. MacLeish claimed that the OFF’s sole purpose was to convey accurate information that would neither be “perverted or colored.” Although OFF did rely on informational methods, its practice of subtly manipulating the facts paved the way for future vehicles of “inspirational propaganda.”

If, up until this point, FDR felt an obligation to handle the propaganda situation with kid gloves, it was Pearl Harbor that allowed him to finally deal with it straightforwardly. His first step was to appoint Lowell Mellett coordinator of government films on December 17, 1941. Mellett was expected to establish cooperation with Hollywood and insure that the studios did their part to help the war effort by inserting morale-boosting themes in its films. Thus began a somewhat unsteady give and take between movie producers and government propagandists. Mellett believed that the studios would cooperate with the propaganda program but only if the government did not interfere with the box office. Yet, the situation was sticky because while the government needed Hollywood, “too much propaganda could wreck the movies’ entertainment appeal—the very thing that made the studios attractive to the propagandists.”

In April 1942, Mellett established a Hollywood office, and heading the branch was Nelson Poynter, publisher of the St. Petersburg Times and close friend of Mellett. Poynter did not follow movies but Mellett thought his political understanding was more important than movie expertise. The office came under the Domestic Branch of the Office of War Information (OWI) when it was created in June 1942. The presidential order instructed OWI to “undertake campaigns to enhance public understanding of the war at home and abroad; to coordinate government information activities, and to handle liaison with the press, radio, and motion pictures.” At first, OWI simply assisted Hollywood in the production of government and war-related shorts to be shown with feature films in theaters. Yet, Poynter downplayed the informational short and felt that the government’s message would be most effective if incorporated into feature films. OWI could thus become most helpful if it got to review scripts before production began.

While Hollywood was perfectly willing to produce “four-to ten-minute information films on victory gardens, rubber conservation, or tank production,” it was not so enthusiastic about releasing entertainment features with explicit propaganda themes. Sensitive to the government censorship that had burned the industry so badly in the 1930s, studio executives continued to fear that by releasing any film that could be interpreted as propaganda, the government would again step in and censor it. OWI attempted to convince the industry why their approach would be successful. “Entertainment pictures presumably could reach a mass audience impervious to carefully reasoned writing. OWI believed this could be accomplished if propaganda messages were ‘casually and naturally introduced into the ordinary dialogue, business, and scenes which constitute the bulk of film footage.’” In the summer of 1942, Poynter and his staff created the “Government Information Manual for the Motion Picture Industry.” The manual asked filmmakers to consider the following questions:

1. Will this picture help win the war?
2. What war information problem does it seek to clarify, dramatize or interpret?
3. If it is an “escape” picture, will it harm the war effort by creating a false picture of America, her allies, or the world we live in?
4. Does it merely use the war as the basis for a profitable picture, contributing nothing of real significance to the war effort and possibly lessening the effect of other pictures of more importance?
5. Does it contribute something new to our understanding of the world conflict and the various forces involved, or has the subject already been adequately covered?
6. When the picture reaches its maximum circulation on the screen, will it reflect conditions as they are and fill a need current at that time, or will it be out-dated?
7. Does the picture tell the truth or will the young people of today have reason to say they were misled by propaganda?

With this manual, the OWI effectively created its own production code. Though not as scrupulous and comprehensive as the Production Code Administration’s standards, the OWI code similarly instructed filmmakers on how to present certain subject matter. Instead of being in the business of cutting out and omitting material from movies, however, OWI felt inclined to insert material that would enhance the quality and effectiveness of movies as vehicles to assist the war effort.

With the help of OWI, Hollywood began producing a steady supply of war films that succeeded in educating the public about the war, while also keeping them entertained. While the government and the movie industry would continue dealing with one another throughout the war years, one thing was clear. The subject of war had infused itself onto the American movie screen. Not only had Hollywood convinced the government that the war film was a necessity. By 1943, it had the American public begging for it.

An Audience Transformed
By 1943 it had become clear that American audiences were beginning to relinquish their paranoia and skepticism regarding war films. Whether it was because OWI’s strategy had worked on them, or Americans simply let their guard down, public opinion over the role of the war in Hollywood film had certainly changed. On January 1, 1943, a memo from “America’s Movie Audience” was sent to a variety of Hollywood and other news sources including Fox Movietone News, News of the Day, Paramount News, Pathe News, The March of Time, and Universal News. The memo listed a number of requests.

1. Give us pictures of our men and women in service…behind the lines and at the fighting fronts!
2. Show us the courage and fortitude of our Allies…Bring home to us their contribution of blood, sweat and tears!
3. Portray to moviegoers in the other United Nations and in neutral lands…how Uncle Sam “keeps ‘em rolling” in the arsenal of democracy!
4. Fight phony Axis propaganda with pictorial facts…on the motion picture screens of America and the world.
5. Give us the truth…in pictures…about the war…We can take it!

How can this reversal in public opinion be accounted for? Perhaps people realized that propaganda did not necessarily have to be a negative instrument. There were plenty of films, Foreign Correspondent for example, that could instill in people a desire to fight for something without having to resort to blatant hatred or condemnation of the enemy. When OWI was formed in June 1942, it anticipated these very ideas and took them to heart when working with Hollywood to produce war films. “OWI officials had…learned that hate propaganda was counterproductive and that something more than flag-waving emotional pitches was necessary.”

Yet, even if there still existed certain skepticism about war movies and propaganda, one thing was certain. People were going to the movies again. “After peaking in the mid-thirties, weekly movie attendance had declined in 1941 to 55 million per week, but in 1944 almost 100 million Americans—two-thirds of the population—attended movies each week, and the studios prospered as never before.” Once the United States officially got involved in World War II, Americans could no longer deny that war was the reality of the time. Hollywood and OWI understood that, although the American public had accepted its country’s involvement in the war, they were wary of it, and consequently the two groups worked together to produce the kind of film that would instill patriotism and morale rather than fear or apprehension. The result was a warm reception by American filmgoers who could once again find comfort and reassurance on the silver screen.

Conclusion
Just as it took some time for the United States to accept its role in the war, it took time for American movie audiences to accept the role of war movies in their lives. Because film was such an influential medium in the 1930s and 40s, everyone from the filmgoers to studio execs to government officials to members of clergy had a stake in what found its way into motion pictures. Combined with the hypersensitive censorship boards of the early 1930s, people’s fears over the United States involving itself in yet another world war severely hindered any chance Hollywood had of releasing films that reflected what was going in the world. With all the backlash and criticism toward propaganda, there was a time when it seemed as though the war picture was destined to remain absent from the Hollywood film canon. Were it not for the bravery and creative genius of several maverick filmmakers, the cooperation of the Hollywood movie industry and United States government, and a sudden desire in the American public for honest and rousing war films, it is quite possible that a great many of the most beloved movies in American cinematic history may never have been produced, distributed, or exhibited to a viewing public. As memories of the war fade and first-hand accounts can no longer be obtained, the stories of hardship, sacrifice, courage, and victory that came to define World War II will not be forgotten as cinema has given those stories eternal life.

Complete essay with endnotes available upon request

Taxi Driver*

So much of cinema has rested on the dichotomy of good versus evil. We root for the success of the “good guy” and the failure of the “bad guy.” Yet, what happens when the good guy and the bad guy are the same guy? Goals and motivation become much more complicated because we are not sure whether we want the main character to succeed or fail. While it may be frustrating to watch a film with this kind of person in the lead role, it certainly makes for some interesting cinema. It is also the reason Martin Scorsese has such an impressive resume. Scorsese has built his career around the idea of the anti-hero and even though his characters are not easily accessible or likable, they are some of the greatest film characters in American cinema history. How is this possible? The protagonists of Scorsese films are thieves, sexual predators, gangsters, and murderers. Yet, somehow we not only let them off the hook but feel sympathy for them as well.

It is Scorsese’s unparalleled ability to frame his characters in a particular context that allows him to gain the sympathy of the audience. In Scorsese’s films, the real enemy is the world. It is a cruel and unforgiving world and people do what they do in order to survive in it. While this world may be an exaggeration of the one in which we actually live, when we watch his films, Scorsese makes us believe his is the only world that matters. That being said, how we judge Scorsese’s characters involves appreciating the relationship each character has with his world so that we may better understand his thoughts and behavior. Scrape away all the layers of violence and corruption in these films, and it is possible to find individuals with the same fears and desires as the rest of us. Scorsese’s films suggest that everyone is connected, not by our good or evil tendencies, but by our common goal to survive in a world fully capable of destroying us if we let it.

In Taxi Driver, we see the world through the eyes of Travis Bickle, a disillusioned New York City cab driver. Through Travis’s eyes the world is bleak and repulsive. He sees almost everyone and everything as filthy and grotesque, and if it were up to him, he'd destroy all the things that disgust him. Yet, Travis is no vigilante. He is rather, as one of the film’s characters describes him, a walking contradiction. Travis frequents porno theatres and watches soap operas and American Bandstand even though sexuality sickens him. He prefers to work at night even though sin and corruption run rampant after dark. He buys a bunch of guns and makes speeches about wiping out the scum of the earth but at the end of the day manages only to point the guns at himself. Travis’s life is filled with inconsistencies because of his tumultuous relationship with the outside world. Even though Travis feels this disdain for the world, it is impossible for him to shut it out because he can’t bear the isolation. Travis has an equal disdain for himself because of his inability to connect to the people and places he encounters. Essentially, Travis wants the impossible: to be accepted by a world he feels has no place for him.

What Travis must do to achieve this goal is not simple and it certainly isn't pretty but that's what makes it the film's most provocative element. Travis takes it upon himself to take out a prostitution ring so that he may save Iris, a young runaway, from Sport, the man who runs the ring and who has also made Iris his concubine. Sport has stolen Iris’s innocence and thus he has committed the worst possible offense. Through his debasing of young girls, Sport is paving the way for a new generation of corruption. Travis sees the extermination as an opportunity to save not only Iris, but also the potential for a better world, and so when Travis enters the whorehouse and guns down every person he encounters inside, he does so unapologetically. The shooting spree is graphic and unrelenting, and it is further intensified by Scorsese’s decision to show it in slow motion. Yet, disguised among the bloody chaos of Travis’s killing frenzy is his ultimate redemption. In giving Iris the chance at a better life, Travis has earned his place in the world.

While it may be difficult to sympathize with the extreme nature of Travis’s behavior, we have all experienced the kind of loneliness and insecurity Travis experiences throughout the film. Everyone, at some time or another, must do what is necessary to give his or her own life meaning. Travis may be cynical about the world but he still wants to be accepted by it. When Betsy enters Travis’s cab at the end of the film and she is much kinder and favorable toward him because of what he has done for Iris, it is as though Travis has truly accomplished something. Betsy represents a world that no longer rejects Travis, but embraces him.

The real moment of triumph in Taxi Driver is not Travis’s success in taking out Sport, Betsy’s changed attitude toward Travis or even the newspaper articles branding him a hero for saving Iris, but rather the simple closing image of Travis’s eyes in the rearview mirror of his taxicab. Scorsese shot the image so that while Travis is making eye contact with Betsy who sits in the backseat, he is also making eye contact with the audience. It is a moment of true connection where the barriers of cinema are broken and we no longer see Travis as just another one of Scorsese’s anti-heroes, but as a human being just like each of us.

*Nominated for four Academy Awards including Best Actor, Best Supporting Actress, Best Original Score, and Best Picture