Bullitt

The last few 1960s-1970s thrillers I've watched recently have not been what I'd imagined. Marathon Man, The Great Escape, The French Connection all turned out to be much grittier, much less polished than I'd expected from all of the hype. They deserved the praise that preceded them, yes, but it just wasn't what I had prepared myself to see. Each of them was much more present and unpretentious than I'd grown used to movies being. In a way it's great that the accolades accrued over time haven't smoothed their edges or magically updated their contextual charm, but sometimes we (or at least I) forget how impossible it really is for time to do that to a great film.

After experiencing this with countless "timeless" thrillers of yore, thanks to Netflix's ample back catalog, I should have known better than to underestimate Bullitt. It wasn't until a year or two ago that I finally climbed onto the Steve McQueen bandwagon after being introduced through The Great Escape. I'd expected a much more traditional American hero, whatever that means, and I was half pleasantly surprised with McQueen's charm, half wondering what all the fuss was about. The effect was similar as I started watching Bullitt, but it was the film itself that really got me.

The sound was one of the key factors that pulled me in. Music appears out of nowhere as the action ramps up, and then disappears before the climax and the fallout. Much of the film is quiet and dependent on the diegetic sound: breathing, footsteps, live bands, and car engines. I could write a whole thesis on the sound design in this movie, transcribing the notes I couldn't help but jot down throughout, but I'll resist for now. (The fax machine! The car chase! The last sound of the running water!) Needless to say I was little surprised to learn that the film was nominated for an Oscar in sound design.

It successfully won recognition for Best Film Editing, which didn't surprise me either. It wasn't even nominated for cinematography, though, but perhaps the novelty of the camera work is what's most appealing to me — it has aged into recognition, at least in my book. The number of creative angles, especially point of view shots, that punctuate the film (in its silence) were particularly noteworthy. Instead of leaving a scene after the dialogue, the camera often follows important bit players in the drama in its own subtle foreshadowing. What really does it, though, is that the camera is often fixed to one point. Not until eight years later in 1976's Marathon Man would the steadicam change cinematography forever — its fluid movement often taken for granted nowadays — but most films I've seen from before the advent of such equipment skirted around those limitations; they didn't use the fixed camera to the effect I saw in Bullitt. Instead of leaving a cab with our characters, we stay fixed on a bobble-head dog in the back window and accompany it into the car wash, our view of the subject of the scene obstructed by suds, water, and finally hands with buffing towels. At times we stay tight on the rear view mirror during a chase. We ride along inside the car, right beside Bullitt, going up and down the San Francisco hills as the engines hum.

And it was in these moments that I embraced Steve McQueen's character. He doesn't even need Clint Eastwood's steely glare to support his strong, silent maleness. He doesn't yell, he just barely grimaces ( and since he did most of his own stunts, those were probably coming from a very real place). He doesn't tell, he shows in a real way, physically shielding his female companion from harsh realities without a word. Actually, the film itself matches Bullitt's personality closely: a lot of silence, a little bit of a girl, and music only until you need to focus. It's no nonsense just like him. I know it's trite to end an essay with this, but I wish they made movies like this now. The making of this piece of art is so tangible in the result, and it is so well-crafted, yet it's seamless and earnest in its grit like the other movies of its era. Perhaps those palpable feelings can't be recreated today. But we are really missing out.

There is a classic Antonioni dorsal shot at some point in the movie (that also reminds me of On the Waterfront). I couldn't fit it in here, but I got really excited!

ENHANCE

It's interesting that sometimes one viewing of a movie is more than enough, while other movies we strongly desire to see but never do. Still other movies we feel moved to watch multiple times. I recently saw The Conversation (dir. Francis Ford Coppola, 1974) again, a movie I thought was great the first time, but didn't expect to give it multiple viewings.

The movie follows a lonely, paranoid freelance eavesdropper (Gene Hackman) who is hired to record the conversation of an anonymous couple as they walk through a public space. He is to hand over the tapes and get his $15,000 without asking questions, but for some reason he decides to grow a conscience, something he's never had in 20 years as a leader in the industry. As he gets more curious, caring, and interested, he also gets way too close and way too paranoid.

What I found really intriguing about the film the second time through was the similarities I saw with Antonioni's Blow Up (Italy, 1966). Both films focus on a craft and a technology that isn't very common (at least not to the degree on display in the film), and concentrates on those who hone that craft. In The Conversation, the medium is audio tape, and Harry Caul has the proper equipment to know just enough to get involved. In Blow-Up, Thomas works with film -- still images -- and his curiosity keeps him manipulating that image just enough to get sucked in. Both protagonists become obsessed with their technologies, and with the ability to enhance their media with the materials they have, they begin to lose focus.

By now, this is a familiar trope. In every television show with any hint of Science or Technology, we get the "enhance" scene. On each of those shows, though, we assume (and take that assumption for granted) that we're focusing on the right thing. The characters "enhance" the image or the audio, they get the results, and, of course, it's the very key to unraveling the case. The first image points out just how ridiculous that notion is, but these films take the concept to the opposite end of the spectrum: if you continue to enhance, you run the risk of losing perspective.

At the risk of completely over-thinking it (as I'm allowed to do here), I've come up with two ways to read these thrillers. First, in addition to focusing on solitary (possibly obsessive) men in solitary, yet well-honed crafts, both films highlight the thriller-like, voyeuristic aspect of their capabilities as well. The folks on CSI use their tools to fight crime, but I suppose if Harry or Thomas are the stand-ins for you and me, they are the protagonists of cautionary tales about the possibility of getting in over one's head. We'd best leave that stuff up to the professionals who work in groups, the mainstream says. The second interpretation I've come up with is reading the films as part of a sub-genre of the "rise of the machines" concept. There's a danger in both films of knowing too much, and the tools Harry and Thomas have at their disposal were clearly what allowed them to gain that much knowledge. There's so much we couldn't possibly know without new technologies at our disposal, and like so many other stories, from Metropolis to 2001: A Space Odyssey, these films convey the dangerous and lesser-known side of human innovations.

Perhaps these messages are combined into one, big, American "let the PROFESSIONALS handle this OR ELSE" theme running through our popular culture. I'm not quite sure where to go with it, but I guess I have to admit that watching someone get a clearer view of something boring or blowing up an image of something that doesn't help your case at all doesn't really make for interesting (read: lucrative) movies or television... Well, now you've got me thinking about "The Wire"...


EDIT (1/29/11): SM was perusing the Wikipedia page for The Conversation, and he confirmed that Blow-Up actually heavily influenced Coppola while he was writing the script. At least I know I'm not just making this stuff up.