Noir (pt. IV)

Elevator to the Gallows

Pale Flower

Well, shit, dear reader. Horror movie season has ended and the horror show that is America has just kicked off another season. Contrary to the latest, fascistic presidential election results, it is 2024 and we are still alive. For now. I’d already planned to kick off November with a double dose of hardboiled noir classics, but now, more than ever, watching some dismally-dark cinema feels extremely appropriate. As I’ve stated in my past noir blog posts, noir is more than just a genre, era, or style of film. I won’t attempt to define noir, though, because I’m already terrified of the incel-side of film nerds, and I’d hate to say the wrong thing. I already lost my basic human rights in this election, I don’t wanna lose whatever modicum of respect I have garnered from the film nerd community lmao. To be perfectly candid, I am completely drained and largely depressed this week, so I suggest you read some of my other Noirvember posts if you’re unaware of this filmic phenomena and want to learn more about its history and nuances. Despite the despair I’m feeling though, I will keep going. I will keep fighting for the rights of women and trans people and people of color in any way that I can, and I will, of course, keep watching movies. Noir can be a bit of a bummer if you’re in an optimistic mood but at this moment in time, I’m more than happy to dabble in some true crime, true grit kind of films. Since I’ve already explored so many American noir films, and since I’m fed the fuck up with America at the moment, I wanted to explore some noir that comes from other countries. Nearly every place on the planet has produced their fair share of noir and neo-noir, but two of the most interesting countries to do so are France and Japan. America wasn’t the only country releasing dark, stormy, broody cinema in our post-WWII world, and both of tonight’s films are mere glimpses into the rich and complex noir that was made overseas in the 50s and 60s. Up first is a film who’s name alone enchanted me, but who’s premise utterly compelled me, and that is Louis Malle’s 1958 French crime thriller Elevator to the Gallows. We open on a breathy, whispered, clandestine phone conversation between lovers, Julien (Maurice Ronet) and Florence (Jeanne Moreau), who anxiously and carefully discuss their plans for the evening. Their plan, as we soon learn, is to eliminate Florence’s husband, who is also Julien’s boss, so that these lovers may be free. How they intend to carry this plan out is cunning and clever, though sloppier in execution. Julien, an ex-Foreign Legion parachutist and veteran of the Indochinese and Algerian wars, works under this clearly evil and enterprising man, who is an arms dealer. In addition to harming Algerian people with his business practices, this big boss is just a grade-A asshole, who Julien is happy to kill. Utilizing his combat skills, Julien uses a rope to climb up the side of the building to his boss’ office, where he shoots him cleanly, then makes it look like a suicide. Julien then repels back down, exits his office, and leaves the building for the evening with his secretary, and the security guard, just as they do everyday. But just as Julien hops in his convertible and glances back at his office building, he notices that he’s left his rope hanging, so he has no choice but to run back up and retrieve it. The only issue is, when Julien re-enters the elevator, the security guard shuts off the main power source, unknowingly trapping Julien in the midst of his clean-up. Julien’s evidence still hangs outside the building, his car on the street still running, and his dame is waiting impatiently for him so they may make their great escape. It’s now a race against time for Julien to escape the dark and terrifying trap he’s found himself in, before anyone discovers what he’s done, and before his broad gives up on him. Elevator to the Gallows is a thrilling, unpredictable, and moody movie, where Miles Davis’ lonely trumpet accompanies every harrowing, heartbreaking, anxiety-inducing moment. Watching a tearful Jeanne Moreau wandering the rainy, smokey streets of Paris, as she becomes more and more concerned for her lover was entertaining enough, but watching Maurice Ronet attempt death-defying stunts in an elevator shaft made it impossible to look away. For as simple as this premise may seem, Elevator to the Gallows is perilously-perfect in its ability to reveal the truth slowly, and throw consequences at every player involved. I hesitate to mention anymore details of this film, because to experience it in its entirety will have you on the edge of your seat. It is one of those films that serves as a frustrating reminder that true crime thrillers just aren’t made like this anymore, and it proves that elements like sound, subtlety, and anxiety can be implemented in the coolest, most effective ways. Because it’s a French film, the dialogue is biting, the humor is pitch-black, and the resolution cares little for satisfying its characters, but rather, its audience. It’s insane to this critic that Louis Malle made this film at just 24 years old, and that Miles Davis improvised the music for this film in the span of just a few hours, but the result is miraculously magical. The same could be said for tonight’s next film, Masahiro Shinoda’s 1964 noir titled Pale Flower. The release of this film was actually delayed, for reasons that vary depending on who you ask. According to the film’s screenwriter, Masaru Baba, the film was delayed after he issued a complaint to the studio that visuals were prioritized over the detailed script he’d written. It’s also said that it was delayed because the local authorities were uncomfortable by the film’s centering of gambling and other Yakuza practices, deeming these depictions as too “glamorizing.” Regardless of the reason, Pale Flower was finally released in 1964, and quickly became a heavy influence in Japanese filmmaking, and beyond. Pale Flower introduces us to Muraki, a cool, cold-hearted Yakuza gangster who’s just been released from prison, after serving three years for killing a rival gang member. As with all good noir, Pale Flower begins with a monologue from its anti-hero, detailing his disdain for the dregs of society, how every human being desperately wants to be alive, though their faces are dead. Muraki has already lived quite the tumultuous existence, but as he reenters society we learn that he’s not the only damaged individual in tough, 1960s Tokyo. Muraki makes his rounds—he sleeps with one of his broads, checks in with his gang, and joins a tense but expert betting game—one that resembled the suspicious simplicity of the gambling in Wake in Fright. On this particular night, at this particular gambling table, Muraki locks his eyes on the one woman in attendance, whose elegance and beauty matches the intensity of her gameplay. No one knows who she is, but she’s a high roller. She always comes in with a ton of cash, regardless of winning or losing in the previous match. But Muraki is so distracted by her that he doesn’t play well, causing her to win big. Muraki finally meets this mysterious and enchanting woman, named Saeko, and the two discuss their love of the game over sushi one night. Saeko explains how she grows tired of this specific gamble, and wishes to play somewhere with real stakes, somewhere where she can play with a lot more money. Muraki promises he can take her to such a place if she’ll meet him at his home, to which she takes a shot of sake, agrees, then exits in a flash. Back at Yakuza business headquarters, Muraki learns that while Tokyo hasn’t changed much in his time away, his gang has. Times have been difficult, so alliances have had to be made, and Muraki’s gang has unexpectedly joined forces with their rivals. Muraki is rightfully hesitant, especially after he is attacked and nearly killed at a bowling alley by a member of one of these newly-allied gangs. As the gangs struggle to band together, Muraki is suddenly laser-focused on Saeko, and giving her everything she wants. He finds a more dangerous game for them to play, and the two get to know each other better as they lay their tortured souls bare. Saeko talks about the thrill of gambling, and Muraki details the strange satisfaction of killing another man—how quickly dread and panic can turn to a sublime feeling of importance and vitality. Muraki feels as if he can no longer exist among normal society, and sweet-looking Saeko is enchanted by his haunting and harrowing stories. These two troubled individuals complement each other well, but both seemingly hold their cards close to their chest, even as their devious behaviors become more clear. Pale Flower is a hypnotizing and twisted film that is teeming with danger and desire. The entire vibe of this film is just effortlessly fucking cool, from its fashion to its cynicism to its sandal-stacked, smoke-filled betting rooms, I felt cooler by just watching it all unfold. Just as I was captivated by Jeanne Moreau’s tragic Parisian lonesomeness, I couldn’t look away from Mariko Kaga as Saeko, in her chic 60s updos and garments, speeding down treacherous Tokyo highways in the dead of night. I fear that there may have been some specific cultural references and easter eggs in this film that I may have missed, due to my unfortunate lack of knowledge of 1960s Japan, but I still enjoyed the ride Pale Flower took me on. It’s almost comical how cool Ryō Ikebe is as Muraki in this film, as we observe every woman who wants to sleep with him, and every man who wants to kill him. There are several attempts made to kill Muraki, but each time he looks relatively unfazed, as he effortlessly dodges knives and throwing swords. I mean, there’s a scene where Muraki is just walking down the street, eating a piece of fruit, and it’s still the coolest and most mysterious any man has ever looked. This film doesn’t end with the bang that Elevator to the Gallows did, but it still has a riveting, romantic, wild story to weave. I enjoyed both of these international noirs so much and I cannot wait to explore more! And as our reality beyond the screen becomes more and more like a true crime horror story, noir will surely never fall out of style, relevance, or relatability. Thank you for reading along, dearest detectives, dames, and devious characters. The dark forces of this world will keep persisting, but so will we.