There is evil in the world, but the reason is the corporate state, which is the clock that counts out the hours of our lives. If we can just break away from that big clock, everything will work out. This is Film Noir-light with a big dose of social commentary.
The plot is unclear, but this film isn’t about the destination, but the journey, and it’s one hell of a ride. The film whips along without a slow moment. The dialog is first rate, managing to be meaningful, witty, and funny all in a single sentence. There isn’t a wrong moment.
Forty years of Film Noir and fifty years of Science Fiction met to form a new genre (Cyperpunk). The streets were just as gritty, but those streets were filled with hover-cars. Blade Runner is a film about what it means to live—to be human—and it presents that theme with androids, blasters, chases, fights, and romance.
Resurrecting the genre, Body Heat took Noir style and mood, and brought it up to date. Without the censors, it could express what the earlier films had to hide: sexuality and unpunished immorality. Its rich reds and sickly yellows portrayed corruption better than the silver screen ever managed.
What is often missed about Double Indemnity is that it is a comedy, a dark, twisted, comedy. It’s a parody of Film Noir made while Film Noir was still forming. Just count the number of times the word “baby” is used.
Laura is a stylish, funny, occasionally poignant film that makes little sense. It says a lot but means nothing, which works out just fine.
The Noir world is like ours, except the dialog is wittier, the shadows are deeper, the sins are darker, and the prize, be it treasure or the truth of human nature, is more magnificent. You don’t get more magnificent than the Maltese falcon.
It’s not the mystery, or the emotional impact, or the philosophical theme that make this film a pleasure, as it has none of those. It’s the humor. This is a movie to laugh at (not with), and occasionally just to stare at in disbelief.
There is a rule about corpses not telling stories due to being dead. But all rules can be broken, and only a corpse could recount this gothic tale of a silent star stuck in the past and a man who sells his soul a bit too cheaply.
In 1958, Film Noir was no longer original. Either by design (like Sunset Blvd.) or by mistake (like Touch of Evil) Noirs had been reduced to parodies. And this parody documents the fall of Orson Welles. Few have fallen farther.