The Stranger (Orson Welles, 1946)
The Stranger is likely going to be my discovery of this Noirvember, which is odd, given that I'd seen it before. But not like this. Watching on Blu-Ray was a complete revelation. Welles and cinematographer Russell Metty (
Story of G.I. Joe, All That Heaven Allows,
Touch of Evil) crafted a gorgeous film, full of fluidly composed, deceptively simple long takes that render beautifully the idea of darkness seeping into a sunny and innocent Connecticut town. (The long takes were Welles' attempt to have say in the film's final cut, limiting the editor's choices, but their worth extends well beyond that practical consideration.) When, after the film, I watched the standard definition trailer, it was easy to see why I wasn't fully appreciative of this film on original viewing; the visuals were dulled to ordinary.
Another delight of the movie is the contrast of acting styles between Welles and Edward G. Robinson, with the former's performance feeling greatly effortful — but engagingly so — and the latter's seeming almost effortless by comparison — but no less engaging. The difference fits the characters well: Franz Kindler (Welles) is the evil mastermind, wheels always turning like the gears in the clocks that so fascinate him; and Mr. Wilson (Robinson) is the dogged, almost faceless, force of justice, as easy and inevitable as the tide. Interestingly, though, the film keeps Mr. Wilson off any pedestals. There's a telling scene where he grabs a gun from Loretta Young's character (who's doing rather well with it) — asserting his role as a professional and a man — only to have the gun click empty. That moment of utter impotence is echoed by another scene where he trips on the stairs as well as by the ending when he refuses (somewhat comically) to climb down the ladder from the clock tower. I don't have a clear handle on how to interpret all that in the context of the whole film, but I definitely find it fascinating. Something to chew over on my next watch.
My favorite character in the film might be the town itself. It's really wonderfully drawn, with a very impressive sense of space and believable community atmosphere. I'd love to visit and see the clock tower in person and make my own coffee at the general store before playing chess with Billy House. He's great here, incidentally, apart from his introductory scene, when he laughs maniacally to the point of annoyance. I was dreading his next appearance after that, but he turned into a great character. Loretta Young and Richard Long also do memorable work, though I neglected to jot down any specifics.
The footage from
Death Mills is sort of shoe-horned into the story, but I love that it's there nonetheless, a reminder of the difference between the cartoonish evil of a Saturday matinee and genuine, real-world evil. And just the physical, tangible presence of those gas chamber horrors in this idyllic New England town is like a slap in the face of contentment, entitlement, and any impulse towards isolationism.
Storywise,
The Stranger goes on one scene too long, jumping through logical hoops to set up the big, final confrontation, but, damn, it's worth it. So visually wonderful and aesthetically and thematically satisfying. But even with that, film struggles to find the perfect final note to end on. These noirs should be taking their cues from the early 1930s Warner Bros. films, but instead so many of them —
The Stranger and
My Name Is Julia Ross included — tack on a sputtering "That's All Folks!" ending that completely belies the tone of the rest of the film.
I've never made the effort to rank the greatest years of cinema, but I've always suspected that 1946 would top my list.
The Stranger is another example of what makes the year so great.
Grade: B+
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