Consider the business of the call girls who have been “cut” to make them look like movie stars. One of them, Lynn Bracken (Kim Basinger), looks like Veronica Lake, but the truth is, she’s never had plastic surgery. White tracks her down because she’s the friend of a girl who was killed at the Nite Owl. Then he pays a return visit because he is powerfully attracted to her, and they fall into bed without having had six words of personal conversation. Is that typical behavior for a hooker? Does she have another motive? As the Basinger character plays out, her motives and real feelings coil about one another, creating a deep and sympathetic character. Despite Crowe, Pearce, and Spacey, it may be Basinger who gives the film’s best performance. Her speech to Exley, about how she sees Bud White, is a monologue as simple as it is touching.
White has compromised himself by sleeping with a potential witness. He is also in deep with Captain Smith, who uses him as a strong-arm man to beat up “suspects,” including out-of-town mobsters (the message: go home). Vincennes compromises himself by ratting on fellow cops, something he says he would never do—until his job on the TV show is threatened. And the straight-arrow Exley believes he could never bend the official rules of conduct, until he discovers that sometimes they need bending.
It would be unfair for me to even hint at some of the directions the story takes. Let me instead describe superb moments. One of the most famous comes when Vincennes and Exley enter the Formosa Café, a Chinese restaurant close to a Warner Bros. lot, to question the mobster Johnny Stompanato. He’s with a date, who gives them some lip. Exley tells her to shut up: “A hooker cut to look like Lana Turner is still a hooker.” Notice how the camera frames Exley in foreground and holds Vincennes in background, as he confides, “She is Lana Turner.” This line, one of the movie’s most famous, works so well, I think, because of the particular way Spacey delivers it, and the little smile he allows himself, and because Hanson does it in the same shot; a cutaway to Vincennes would have been all wrong.
Vincennes has another emotionally wrenching experience involving a beefcake “actor” named Matt, who he first met during a bust set up by Hush-Hush. Now Hudgens has a scheme to lure the DA into a “sissy” scenario with Matt, and uses Vincennes to help convince the gullible kid this favor could open the door for him on the TV (“Like Badge of Honor is gonna want him after he’s been cover boy for Hush-Hush twice in a year,” Hudgens gloats). How this assignation ends, and how Spacey as Vincennes reacts, amounts to a self-contained scenario on shame.
Consider, too, the choreography after two of the characters burst into the district attorney’s office. The DA tries to put them off with a clever line about “good cop, bad cop,” until he finds out in a horrifying way what “bad cop” can really mean. I’ve seen endless hours of violence in movies over the years, but hardly anything to equal what happens to the DA in a minute or two.
L.A. Confidential is described as film noir, and so it is, but it is more: Unusually for a crime film, it deals with the psychology of the characters, for example in the interplay between the two men who are both in love with Basinger’s hooker. It contains all the elements of police action, but in a sharply clipped, more economical style; the action exists not for itself but to provide an arena for the personalities. The dialogue is lovely; not the semiparody of a lot of film noir, but the words of serious people trying to reveal or conceal themselves. And when all of the threads are pulled together at the end, you really have to marvel at the way there was a plot after all, and it all makes sense, and it was all right there waiting for someone to discover it.
Laura
NO MPAA RATING, 88 m., 1944
Gene Tierney (Laura Hunt), Dana Andrews (Detective Lieutenant Mark McPherson), Clifton Webb (Waldo Lydecker), Vincent Price (Shelby Carpenter), Judith Anderson (Ann Treadwell). Directed and produced by Otto Preminger. Screenplay by Jay Dratler, Samuel Hoffenstein, Ring Lardner, Jr., and Betty Reindhardt.
I’ve seen Otto Preminger’s Laura three or four times, but the identity of the murderer doesn’t spring quickly to mind. That’s not because the guilty person is forgettable but because the identity is so arbitrary: It is not necessary that the murderer be the murderer. Three or four other characters would have done as well, and indeed if it were not for Walter Winchell we would have another ending altogether. More about that later.
Film noir is known for its convoluted plots and arbitrary twists, but even in a genre that gave us The Maltese Falcon, this takes some kind of prize. Laura (1944) has a detective who never goes to the station; a suspect who is invited to tag along as other suspects are interrogated; a heroine who is dead for most of the film; a man insanely jealous of a woman even though he never for a moment seems heterosexual; a romantic lead who is a dull-witted Kentucky bumpkin moving in Manhattan penthouse society, and a murder weapon that is “returned” to its hiding place by the cop, who will “come by for it in the morning.” The only nude scene involves the jealous man and the cop.
That Laura continues to weave a spell—and it does—is a tribute to style over sanity. No doubt the famous musical theme by David Raksin has something to do with it: The music lends a haunted, nostalgic, regretful cast to everything it plays under, and it plays under a lot. There is also Clifton Webb’s narration, measured, precise, a little mad: “I shall never forget the weekend Laura died. A silver sun burned through the sky like a huge magnifying glass. It was the hottest Sunday in my recollection. I felt as if I were the only human being left in New York. For Laura’s horrible death, I was alone. I, Waldo Lydecker, was the only one who really knew her.”
It is Clifton Webb’s performance as Waldo Lydecker that stands at the heart of the film, with Vincent Price, as Laura’s fiancé Shelby Carpenter, nibbling at the edges like an eager spaniel. Both actors, and Judith Anderson as a neurotic friend, create characters who have no reality except their own, which is good enough for them. The hero and heroine, on the other hand, are cardboard. Gene Tierney, as Laura, is gorgeous, has perfect features, looks great in the stills, but never seems emotionally involved; her work in Leave Her to Heaven (1945) is stronger, deeper, more convincing. Dana Andrews, as Detective Lieutenant Mark McPherson, stands straight, chain-smokes, speaks in a monotone, and reminded the studio head Daryl F. Zanuck of “an agreeable schoolboy.” As actors, Tierney and Andrews basically play eyewitnesses to scene-stealing by Webb and Price.
This was Clifton Webb’s first big starring role and his first movie role of any kind since 1930. He was a stage actor who refused the studio’s demand for a screen test; Otto Preminger, who began by producing the film and ended by directing it, in desperation filmed Webb on a Broadway stage and showed that to Zanuck. “He doesn’t walk, he flies,” an underling told Zanuck, but Webb, who had a mannered camp style, impressed Zanuck and got the role. Vincent Price creates an accent somewhere between Kentucky and Transylvania for his character, who is tall and healthy and inspires Waldo Lydecker to complain to Laura: “With you, a lean strong body is the measure of a man.”
Lydecker is lean but not strong. Webb was fifty-five when he played the role, Tierney twenty-four. A similar age difference was no problem for Bogart and Bacall, but between Webb and Tierney it must be said there is not the slightest suggestion of chemistry. He is a bachelor critic and columnist (said to be modeled after Alexander Woollcott), and the first time we see him he is sitting in his bathtub, typing. This is after Laura’s body has been found murdered with shotgun blasts, and the detective comes to question her closest friend.