Noir (pt. V)

Strangers on a Train

The Postman Always Rings Twice

Evening, toots. What brings you to this dark corner of the internet at this time of night? October came and went like a runaway train on a fast track to nowhere. As I mourn the end of another Halloween season and embrace the inconsistent shift from Texas Summer to Texas Winter, it can be quite difficult to adjust. Horror movie-watching may begin to slow down at this time, but the horrors of the real world persist. Even in keeping up with the news daily, and spiraling about the overwhelming rising tides of fascism regularly, I cannot keep track of all of the deep, dark atrocities occurring in our country, and the world, in general. I am of the opinion that horror movies express the ever-evolving troubles in our culture the most eloquently and vividly, but the world of noir is really where darkness, depravity, double-crossing, and general devilry is best-represented. 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. There’s a sleek, chic, effortless coolness to film noir. It’s in the clouds of cigarette smoke, the moan of jazz music, the strategically mysterious use of shadows and scandals and secrets. The stakes are always high, and the men’s pants are even higher, and before the picture wraps up, someone almost always ends up dead. Some noir selections are definitely better than others, but they all have an undeniable charm and memorability that not every genre within cinema can reach. I am slowly but surely familiarizing myself with more noir, and the gargantuan pantheon of hardboiled, fast-talkin’, fatalistic films within this arena, so, on this dark, dark night, let’s explore two more nefarious, notorious noir classics.

Up first is a wildly popular adaptation of a Patricia Highsmith novel that deviates a bit from the original plot, but what it lacks in accuracy it makes up for in homoeroticism, this is Alfred Hitchcock’s 1951 film Strangers on a Train. I read this novel in one of my favorite classes in college—shoutout to sex god Dr. Kilfoyle and his penchant for crime fiction—and in a semester full of startling and salacious stories, this one was my absolute favorite. The horrific way Highsmith describes strangulation in particular, has remained in my memory, and I’ve been eager to watch the film adaptation of it ever since. We open on a bustling train station, where two sets of feet—one in dark shoes, the other in light shoes, one briskly walking, the other casually moving—are headed toward the same train. These feet belong to Guy Haines (Farley Granger), a successful tennis player who has his eyes set on a career in politics, and Bruno Antony (Robert Walker), a rich, shady, slick-talking mama’s boy with a sinister scheme in mind. Guy is just minding his business on his train journey, until Bruno strikes up a conversation. Guy clearly wants to be left alone, but Bruno has the gift of gab, and has been reading all about this attractive and ambitious tennis player in the gossip rags. Bruno is well-aware of the drama in this seemingly quiet man’s life—how Guy is enduring a difficult divorce from his tramp of a wife Miriam, and is now dating a senator’s daughter named Anne. Bruno can tell Guy is agitated by this prying conversation, so he begins to talk about himself—how he was kicked out of three colleges, how he probably smokes and drinks too much, but mostly about how much he despises his cruel father. Bruno talks with the clarity and confidence of a methodical madman, and shortly after meeting on the train, he suggests to Guy that they get rid of each other’s problems. “Wanna hear about the perfect murder I have planned?” Bruno asks, “Two strangers meet, like you and I, and they swap murders. Each fellow does the other. My father, your wife, crisscross.” Guy laughs off this ridiculous notion, but before the two strangers leave each other, Bruno asks, “You like my idea, though, right?” Guy brushes off the whole interaction and goes about his day—trying to reason with his ex Miriam and trying to reassure his new gal Anne. But Miriam, in a classic absurdist display of Hitchcockian mommy-issue misogyny, tells Guy that she doesn’t want a divorce after all, and even though she’s pregnant with another man’s baby, she’d rather stick around and ruin Guy’s life than leave him. Meanwhile at Bruno’s house, he has his nails filed by his mother (Marion Lorne) as he reiterates his disdain for his controlling father. Finally, his mother cuts in, saying, “You have that look, dear. You haven't been doing anything foolish, have you? Like that thing about blowing up the White House?”, to which Bruno casually responds, “Oh mom, that was just a joke.” This underscores the severe delusion and detachment that this Bruno character embodies, and he only becomes more unpredictable and wild as the film goes on. Guy is furious and uncertain, but Bruno is purely determined. And when Guy’s ex wife Miriam winds up dead, Bruno won’t leave Guy alone until he finishes his end of the bargain. The novel Strangers on a Train is much more morbid and morose than the Hollywood studio system would allow, but even though several details were changed and a happier ending was included, this film is still thoroughly tense and at times, terrifying. The climax on the carousel alone may be one of the most thrilling moments I’ve ever seen in a film. This entire film, from its inception to its release, was an out-of-control, off-the-rails experience. After releasing four commercial and critical flops in a row—The Paradine Case, Rope, Under Capricorn, and Stage Fright—Hitchcock took a gamble on Highsmith’s first ever novel. He bought the rights anonymously for the low rate of $7,500—which rightfully pissed off the author once she learned who the wealthy buyer was. Hitchcock wanted a well-known writer to adapt the novel but was turned down by eight writers, including John Steinbeck, Thornton Wilder, and Dashiell Hammett, who didn’t have faith in the woman who would go on to be one of the most influential and illustrious writers of the 20th century. Hitchcock then found Raymond Chandler—the author of The Big Sleep, who’d just been Oscar-nominated for Double Indemnity—but this wound up being the collaboration from hell. Hitchcock was already a tyrant of a director, who had little regard for the emotions or wellbeing of his casts, but Chandler gave him a run for his money. The two disagreed and sparred over just about everything, and as Hitchcock arrived at Chandler’s house to meet once, Chandler allegedly yelled out to the director: “Look at the fat bastard trying to get out of his car!” Additionally, Hitchcock had nothing but contempt for his lead actress Ruth Roman, whom he openly referred to as “bristling” and “lacking sex appeal”, but this rotten, often-sexist dynamic was almost always a certainty on a Hitchcock set. On top of this, Hitchcock’s own daughter was in this film, and even she didn’t escape her father’s trademark artistic abuse, telling an interviewer once, “We never discuss Strangers on a Train at home.” And the cherry on top of this cursed production, was the fact that Robert Walker died just eight months after filming wrapped, due to an allergic reaction to medication. For all of its terror and tumult off-screen, and random, unnecessary changes to the story, Strangers on a Train is a perfectly tight, tense thriller with loads of action, suspense, and drawn-out shots of Farley Granger’s deep, sparkling eyes.

Another film noir that got made by the grace of the movie gods and by no help of the oppressive studio system is tonight’s next film, based off of James M. Cain’s novel of the same name: this is Tay Garnett’s 1946 film The Postman Always Rings Twice. We begin with some classic noir voiceover narration, that offers us some heavy-handed exposition from our protagonist, if you can even call him that. We are introduced to Frank Chambers, a drifter who hitches a ride from San Francisco to San Diego, and finds himself at a shabby, barely-operating diner and gas station called “Twin Oaks.” It’s not til he lands at this establishment that he learns he hitched a ride from the most powerful man in this desert town—District Attorney Kyle Sackett—and it won’t be the last time that these two meet. Frank picks up a sign that simply says “Man Wanted” and approaches the owner, bumbling old drunk Nick Smith, for a job. Frank, a staunch transient, doesn’t have plans to stay long, until Lana-Legs-Turner enters the scene. This blonde-haired, white-bathing-suit-adorned diva is named Cora, and inexplicably, she’s married to the buffoonish owner of this business. Cora is fairly soft-spoken for a femme fatale, but she makes it clear to Frank pretty immediately, she’s a married woman and she won’t be tempted by his vagrant charms. Frank and Cora work alongside one another, comfortably uncomfortable with their growing chemistry, and Nick is too drunk and distracted by greed to notice any budding romance. The scorching Santa Ana winds blow vigorously through the desert, and the sexual tension between our two leads simmers past the point of no return. Eventually, Cora gives in to Frank’s advances, and pretty soon, the two are plotting to get rid of Nick. These two lovers are sloppy but highly-motivated, high on lust but driven to make their dreams a reality by any means necessary, and this results in a chaotic maelstrom of death, despair, and legal troubles. It is all wildly entertaining, but a bit all over the place, as this film takes its time building Frank and Cora’s magnetic connection, then rushes into a rising action and climax in the latter half of the film—as if the writers couldn’t think past the implied hot sex happening off screen. There are some noir films that twist and turn in disjointed ways that can be tediously convoluted, confusing, and as a result, tampers down the sordid excitement that should be a staple of these films. The Postman Always Rings Twice is unfortunately a victim of its time, and a casualty of the stuffy, stifling powers of the Hays Code that refused to let anyone be too sexy or violent or subversive—in a reality and time that was actually pretty sexy and violent and subversive. There is so much sultry, steamy potential in this film, between the stunning outfits Lana Turner wears and the hungry anticipation of John Garfield’s character, it’s practically overflowing with sex appeal and danger. The novel is apparently much more adult and controversial, and includes themes of sadomasochism as well as much more visceral depictions of murder—which is allegedly far-better represented in the 1981 remake of this film. The 1946 version of The Postman Always Rings Twice, however, drifts so far from the material, even someone unfamiliar with the story such as myself could sense that some elements were missing. The titular “postman” doesn’t even get mentioned until the final two minutes of the film, in another rushed, unnecessary monologue from the male lead. It’s not that I disliked this film, it’s just that I constantly kept audibly saying, “what?” after each half-assed attempt at deep, classically-existential noir dialogue. And given that I’ve seen so many similar stories pulled off in much more clear, concise ways, this film just didn’t meet my noir standards. Bad ideas and abysmal vibes are a guarantee of noir, but it seemed as though this whole production was imbued with this negativity. The director, already battling alcoholism, was driven to madness and exhaustion by filming difficulties. He was particularly tormented by a thick fog that seemed to appear every time they tried to film at the beach, then would disturbingly follow the crew around from set to set, making it impossible to capture a clear image on camera. A far less serious but still intriguing hiccup during filming occurred between the two leads, who decided to act upon their off-screen attraction to one another, and learned pretty immediately that their chemistry only worked with a camera and a script. I couldn’t find any other details of this revelation, but I think I can imagine how they came to this conclusion. Disorganized storytelling, prudish censors, and environmental struggles aside, The Postman Always Rings Twice was a compelling film, I just wish it had led to a satisfying ending that made more sense. But who can make sense of anything in this petrifying, polarizing, and largely unjust world? Who can blame these brazen broads and bad boys for engaging in criminality and callousness, when civilized society is anything but civilized? And who can blame me for finding escapism in films that melodramatize the most menacing and melancholy aspects of life? If you’re like me—too lame to actually smoke cigs and commit crimes—then I highly recommending dipping a toe into the dark waters of noir to satisfy these human desires. Well that’s about all the time I have this week, dear reader, but thanks for stopping by my edge of town. Ta ta for now! 🚬