Great movies are not completely timeless. They just last because
they are so wonderful that we overlook the signs of age. The
idiotic romantic subplot. The goofy slang. The casually *ist
comments and situations.
A category above "great", then. Some movies are so
genuine, so naturally constructed and performed, so perfect
that they exist outside of any era. They could have been made
yesterday, and the people seeing them for the first time 20 years
from now will think the same thing. Casablanca. Rear
Window. Chinatown.
And then, every so often, there's one on
the list that stayed under the radar. One of these movies
is The Third Man, which is often described as the
greatest movie you've never heard of. It is hard to
categorize--it fits the bill nicely as film noir, a
mystery, a love story, or a devastatingly accurate commentary on post-war Europe--and
this may be why it has not remained as widely known as other
great movies from the 40s. Happily, it has been refurbished and
rereleased on its 50th anniversary to quite a bit of attention--critics
have been very happy to see its return and have made much fuss.
Holly Martins (Joseph Cotten), a down on his luck pulp novel
writer, has travelled to Berlin at the behest of his friend Harry
Lime, who he's known since grade school. Holly is appalled to
learn that Harry was killed in an automobile accident shortly
before he arrived. After Harry's funeral, where Holly spots a
mysterious, mourning beauty, he is collared by the British police
(Vienna, like Berlin, was zoned after the war). The police major
(Trevor Howard) explains coldly that Harry was a blackmarketer of
the worst sort.
Holly is a credulous soul, the quintessential clueless American,
who is determined to clear his friend's name and solve the
mystery of his death. He finds the mysterious beauty (Alida Valli)
who was, of course, Harry's lover, and with her help slowly
pieces together the last minutes of Harry's life. Without her
help, he soon falls madly in love with her, and becomes more
interested in proving Harry's unworthiness to her than in
determining how her lover and his friend was murdered.
Fortunately, Harry Lime wasn't murdered. He makes what is
generally considered the finest screen entrance in film history,
played by Orson Welles in what is the best performance of his
career. I expect to take some grief for that statement, but I'll
fight for it--Welles as Lime is gorgeous, he is funny, he is
unmannered, he is consistent, and he is brilliant. The man is
probably best in small doses, anyway. His screen time is limited,
yet his presence dominates.
The story can be seen in some sense as the counterpart to Casablanca.
The latter tries to be cynical, but it's a propaganda film at
heart. The blackmarketers pay Sam what he's worth, the corrupt
police officer saves the cynical American hero, who in the end
gives up any pretense at acting out of self-interest and sends
the girl away.
Reed spent the war making documentaries; Green was a spy. They
knew their subject matter intimately. Their Americans aren't
cynical--the very idea of a cynical American probably amused them
no end. Both Americans in the film are romantics, in different
ways (yes, Lime is, too). And each demonstrates, individually,
one other American trademark: Lime is the capitalist who'll do
anything for more money, and Martins is the foolish idealist,
bleeding sentiment and emotionalism.
Leaving it up to the Europeans to show us the true nature of
world-weary pessimism and a decent level of misanthropy--and
underneath all that, a morality that makes the Americans look
cheap in comparison. The major uses Martin's doglike devotion to
Anna to persuade him to sell out his friend; in fact, he probably
sought out a reason to arrest her just to use her in such a
fashion. Yet his anger and outrage at the children who were
destroyed by Lime is the deepest, purest expression of humanity
presented in the movie. Anna is not distressed at the news that
he destroyed thousands of lives for money--what is important to
her is that he made her smile and provided her with forged papers.
Yet she is truly happy to learn that he lives--even if they have
no future together--and her friendship is not cheap, as Martins
discovers.
The Third Man demonstrates, in every frame and every word, all
there is to know about post-WWII Europe. It was shot in entirety
on location in Vienna (Reed damn near fought another war to get
approval for this), and the signs of destruction and chaos are
everywhere. The authenticity of the time, the cynicism, the greed,
the social and economic upheaval--all are captured and displayed
without explanation. They act as a backdrop, informing and
enriching the story.
Robert Krasker's Oscar-winning cinematography--the only Oscar
received, incidentally--is outstanding. The sewer chase, Martins'
race through the rubble-filled streets, the aforementioned first
shot of Harry Lime, the Ferris wheel, the bookending funerals,
and the unforgettable final scene, extended and quietly merciless.
Add Graham Green's screenplay to the short list of the finest
ever written (Chinatown, Sweet Smell of Success are two others
that immediately come to mind). While it is true that the "cuckoo
clock" monologue was written by Welles himself, Green's
dialogue is multi-layered, revealing, and yet economical in
moving his complicated story along. There aren't a number of
quotable lines, but it is consistently witty and incisive.
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All the characters are genuine and
marvellously developed, made uniformly memorable by
another gift that Reed fought for: perfect casting.
Welles I have already mentioned, and although he is only
in the movie for less than 10 minutes, his amused,
untroubled presence permeates the movie so completely that it is small
wonder it is often incorrectly labelled a Welles film.
But this is certainly Joseph Cotten's finest work--the bravest,
too, since Martins is an unattractive individual. Cotten has to
keep Holly on just this side of likeable, while simultaneously
giving up any shred of ego in one humiliating scene after another.
Trevor Howard, a criminally underrated actor, is the moral center
of the movie and manages to pull it off without ever once
appearing anything but cynically detached. Alida Valli made very
few English-speaking films and never made it beyond contract
player status in Hollywood. So many movies from this era were
ruined or damaged by an overwrought actress. She is cool and
plays it beautifully close to the vest.
The supporting characters are all equally well-cast: my favorite
is Bernard Lee as the beefy Sergeant Paine, Calloway's assistant.
Wilfrid Hyde-White as a smarmy English cultural attache, the
homosexual lovers Dr. Winkel and Baron Kurtz, the creepy little
boy, his father the hapless porter, the weird old lady landlord,
the even weirder balloon salesman--all inhabit their roles
completely and naturally.
Then there are the little things: the continual name mistakes,
the fact that Martins is a pulp Western writer, the smarmy way
that Hyde-White chatters on as he maneuvers his mistress out the
door, the way that Anna doesn't look down into the drawer she
opens because she knows what will be there, the marvellous
nonchalance with which Paine gutpunches Martins and then
apologizes--there are countless moments and the film consequently
stands up to repeated viewings very well. You'll always find
something new to enjoy.
Oh, and then there's that zither music.
I saw Third Man at the Castro in San Francisco, with several
hundred other movie buffs. I left the theater absolutely pumped,
high with joy and excitement--for all the many movies I love, I
rarely get that enthused. It ranks very high on my list of
unforgettable cinematic experiences.
I don't know if it's still in the theaters; if it is, don't rob
yourself. Hunt it down, do your best to see it with a large
audience. And take a friend, because you'll probably want to find
a coffee house afterwards and talk about it for three more hours.
