Noir week continues at Mid Century Cinema (and at Cornell’s Adult University) with two classics, The Big Sleep and Gilda. The justly beloved Big Sleep comes with a famous backstory—in the can in 1945, the film was shown to American servicemen overseas, but with distribution schedules juggled by the end of the war, Sleep was held back from general release until 1946. In the interim, Lauren Bacall’s second picture was poorly received (in contrast to her head-turning debut alongside Humphrey Bogart in Howard Hawks’ To Have and Have Not). Warner Brothers, anxious to keep her career on track, called in Hawks, Bogart and Bacall to shoot a few new scenes and tweak the picture a bit here and there, all in an effort to recapture that Bogie-Bacall magic.
A comparison of the two versions confirms the wisdom of the strategy—and the 1946 version is superior. But the 1945 version is no slouch, and the myth of the “career-saving reshoots” might be a bit overstated. What comes across even more plainly is that each version, remarkably, managed to violate the draconian (and normally quite vigilant) censors at the Production Code Administration. (In the 1946 version, Bogie withholds material evidence in a capital crime; in the 1945 film, the District Attorney of Los Angeles Country destroys and falsifies evidence; in both, Carmen is not properly held accountable for her crimes.) One reason Sleep might have been able to slip past the censors is that its convoluted plot is so hard to follow it’s hard to tell who did what to whom—even Raymond Chandler, who wrote the book, was unsure who killed Owen Taylor. (Actually, if you follow along closely, pretty much everything almost makes sense.)
But tying up the loose ends of the plot is not what Sleep is about. And if the Production Code is busted, the code of the Private Eye is upheld, as seen in the long (and otherwise unessential) Harry Jones interlude. Marlowe (Bogart) and Jones (Elisha Cook Jr.) recognize each other as “a couple of right guys.” But each watches passively as the other faces moments of grave danger, and each understands that this is how it must be. Marlowe survives, and Jones doesn’t, and Marlowe doesn’t look back. But it’s also why Bogie’s hand is shaking when he sends Eddie Mars to meet his fate. In the end, he sticks to the code, and doesn’t even lose the girl. A tough, cynical picture with a high body count, it’s as close to a happy ending as might be allowed.
The Big Sleep: Bogie and Bacall
The Big Sleep: Marlowe Watches as Jones Meets his Fate
Gilda, on the other hand, also from 1946, is one wacky, wacky noir. In the classic noir construction, the right-hand man of the head honcho is (transparently) coded as gay, and his bedrock loyalty to the boss is rooted in his pure, unrequited love. (And that’s why he can see through the duplicity of his master’s girl—because he is immune to her feminine wiles.) In Gilda, however, this love is not unrequited—and it reflects the deepest bond in the film. The movie begins with tungsten-cartel-magnet and illicit-casino-owner Ballin Mundson (George Macready) – there is no other way to plausibly describe this – cruising the docks at night. He comes to the rescue of Johnny (Glenn Ford), getting him out of a tight spot by calling on his “little friend” – a sharp steel knife that springs forth from the tip of his cane whenever he needs it. From there, Johnny, a drifting, amoral gambler, jumps at the chance to become Ballin’s man. They agree that the three of them (the little friend makes three) will make a great team, and they seal their arrangement with one especially firm understanding—no women.
Not surprisingly then, Johnny is dismayed, and more than a little surprised, when Ballin subsequently takes a wife, Gilda (Rita Hayworth, never better), who, by only-at-the-movies coincidence is the “rotten wench” who turned Johnny off women forever. And so a new triangle is formed, displacing the all-boys club of the old one. Ballin is happy; as had explained, he makes his own pleasure, would appear to be very broad-minded, and, as the movie makes clear, sees both Johnny and Gilda as his possessions. All he expects in return is loyalty, which he rewards generously.
Gilda, however, is not happy; she might have been up for sale, but loyalty is not her strong suit, and it is obvious she still has feelings for Johnny.
Johnny is the least happy of all, because his thoughts are only . . . for Ballin, and knows Gilda will not be true to him. (And if you don’t believe me, listen to the way he says “Ballin” when caught in a compromising position about seventy-five minutes into the picture.) Johnny’s loyalty towards Ballin extends beyond the (apparent) grave, as Gilda will find out to her dismay in the film’s penultimate act.
Gilda drives straight down the track towards an appropriately desolate conclusion, right up until its preposterous ending, when Rita starts to strip out of her spectacular black dress (you’ve seen the picture), she and Johnny have it out, and everything rushes towards an impossibly happy ending, as if someone announced, “hey, maybe this isn’t a noir after all!” As David Thomson put it, “the plot clears up magically, so that Johnny and Gilda may be left in some semblance of starry union. Except that nobody who treasures Gilda can believe that.” And it is a treasure.
Gilda: Toasting the First Happy Trio
Gilda: New Toast, Less Harmonious Partners