My late suggestions for Noirvember!
It was my plan to post this much earlier but it took me so long to write that I considered glibly calling it a "Noircember" post and be done with it. I only learned of the existence of Noirvember two weeks ago. Instead, I'll say this: if you for some reason decide to watch your Noirvember films in December, I promise I won't tell anyone!
This post is a bit of a flux of conscience. I have many thoughts about film noir.
Why I watch the classics
I recently learned of Noirvember, a yearly celebration of film-noir that came at a time that I found rather convenient. I watched quite a few noir in the past few months. That resurgence in interest was seemingly unprompted. For years, I haven't watched many movies at all, but my connection with the classics remained strong. My film culture is largely a consequence of my mother's VHS tapes and our 14-inch television. It was my mother who taught me to appreciate Woody Allen, Al Pacino, Scorsese, Fellini, and Jacques Tati. Although my parents may disagree, I don't believe I ever had a rebellious phase. There were rebellious spurts, sure, but they were short in duration and never characterized by a broad rejection of the things associated with them or the past they come from. I was always fond of the past. Still am.
Back in film school, I used to rent five VHS movies a week, which eventually grew to five DVDs a week. All classics and mostly in black and white. They were much cheaper to rent, but I also had a tremendous fascination for what they could teach me. Hitchcock was the king of mathematical precision and fed my neurotic desire for order. In my time to direct, I imitated him the most, but not in style and definitely not in scope. I tried to reproduce his unrelenting dedication to the craft, seeking to control every variable and plan ahead for every contingency. That allowed me to achieve great beauty and sophistication. It also removed any joy and spontaneity from my creative process.
How can noir be defined?
I once learned that, for much of his career, Alfred Hitchcock thought of himself as a film noir director. I found that surprising. There's not an abundance of private eyes and femme-fatales in his movies. That inconsistency reveals a fundamental tension within the genre -- noir feels, at once, highly subjective and rigidly defined, and if you ask ten people for their ideal noir you'll likely end up with ten radically different definitions. In online discourse, there seems to exist a consensus that stylistic aspects are essential to distinguish between "true" noir and mere imposture.
That distinction does not include "neo-noir", as even the slightest similarity or the faintest reference is enough to make a film neo-noir. More than anything, this is about what feels noiresque to each particular viewer. Traditional indicators are chiaroscuro, penumbra, and Dutch angles. So are cigarettes, hats, disillusioned PIs, and duplicitous women. The inclusionist impulse is sometimes irresistible, as it guides the appreciation of a large swath of fictional works into a neat origin story, validating the viewer's knowledge and expectations. I once read a comment expressing that The Matrix was noir.
On a more personal note, as a young adult, when I brought home a torrent of new Hitchcocks, Allens, Chaplins, Bergmans, and Bogarts, the dynamic was reversed. Now, I was the one broadening my mother's film culture. I became obsessed with Humphrey Bogart. As a fan of Clint Eastwood and Bruce Willis, I had a soft spot for performers who specialized in a very specific kind of character that, one would assume, reflected something about the actors themselves. In my imagination, Bogart was an amalgam of all his characters, a real-life vessel of noir tropes, walking around in 1950s California with his impeccable fedora, cigarette in mouth, spreading his own brand of delightful cynicism tempered with the most earnest naivete and the ability to love those who don't deserve it.
What can we learn from noir?
The noir hero can't help but fall for the allure of the femme-fatale. The vamps may be suggestive, but never truly erotic. That is in sharp contrast to neo-noir such as Basic Instinct, Bound, and Body Heat, which rely on sexual tension to motivate the sucker to follow a thread that will inevitably lead to their own doom.
The weakness of erotic neo-noir is that sexual tension is more easily resolved. Back in the 1990s, I was definitely enticed by the proposition of staying up late to catch a glimpse of Sharon Stone's nakedness. In 2024, however, erotica and porn are plentiful and easily available. It's not the same.
In contrast, femme fatales from the 1940s and 1950s never lost their appeal. Their voice is smooth and enticing. They're all about trepidation behind the facade, the emotion on command, deceiving yet oddly genuine. A good femme-fatale shows and says just enough to entangle our tortured heroes in their fantastical narrative.
It is important to highlight that film noir embodies views about women that are incompatible with contemporary values, speaking to the male fears and fantasies in the America of their time. The femme fatale personifies the false notion that women are different creatures entirely, operating on nebulous motivations and through means that are alien to men. Men's infatuation and reckless abandonment of reason make them easy to deceit, often with grave consequences. The noir hero's misfortune reflects a brand of disillusion with women that is not unlike that which afflicts young men these days. Reflecting on those ideals of masculinity and the distortions they introduce in our culture may be a valuable lesson to learn from the genre.
The consideration of noir's sociopolitical aspects should not prevent the viewer from enjoying these movies. While fans of the genre are happy to catalog tropes, it is crucial to understand that these film-noir were not made to be dismembered and analyzed like an insect in a frame. The classics are not archaeological artifacts, and watching a good noir is no different from reading Shakespeare, Cervantes, or Flaubert --- the ancient ghosts are easily awakened, and, in their melancholic dance, they tell us the story of their people.
My suggestions for Noirvember
The Maltese Falcon (John Huston, 1941)
Based on a book by Dashiell Hammet, Bogart shines here. This movie contains many of the tropes referenced in countless neo-noir, comic books, and cartoons. The private eye's office with the shutters drawing a shade on the floor, the elegant and apparently fragile femme-fatale. The cigarettes, the hats, and a way of speaking that feels as harsh as San Francisco's pavement. The plot can be convoluted, producing the sense of disorientation and asphyxiation typical of noir.
Double Indemnity (Billy Wilder, 1944)
That movie contains perhaps the most ideal femme fatale to which all the other should be compared. Barbara Stanwyck's femme fatale is unparalleled, delightfully alternating between viciousness and poise, passion and psychopathy, fragility and aggression. Played by Fred MacMurray, Walter Neff is the fool this time, with a performance punctuated by malice and trickery. Entranced by a dangerous woman who weaponizes her own helplessness, Neff soon realizes the mess he's gotten himself into. MacMurray's performance takes on tones of distrust, withdrawal, and, eventually, despair. That is a gradual decline, rich in poignant moments. If Barbara Stanwyck looked at me with her smooth voice and deep dark eyes, I would fall for her too.
The Night of the Hunter (Charles Laughton, 1955)
That is an odd noir, as it lacks some of its distinguishing elements. It is much darker than most movies from its time, telling the story of a demented and dangerous preacher (Robert Mitchum) as he seduces a widow and takes over her family. Although lacking some core elements associated with the genre, one might say that this story is an inverted noir, as we have a homme-fatale that causes great suffering to whoever falls for his charms. And 1955's Robert Mitchum was as charming as 1950's men could get. On the style front, that is one of the most noiresque films on the list. Its abundance of shadows and high contrast highlights the juxtaposition of a man who talks about God while harboring criminal intent. A haunting masterpiece.
The Lady from Shangai (Orson Welles, 1955)
Unlike Touch of Evil, which is an aesthetic exercise first and a narrative second, The Lady from Shangai doesn't fail to engage the audience's emotions. That's a more balanced noir that manages to impress with its beauty and sophistication while avoiding being academic or needlessly elaborate. I love Welles's performance as an actor here. It is touching and endearing, even if his accent is unlikely to be authentic. His portrayal of Irish sailor Michael O'Hara embodies foolishness and gullibility so pure and uncontested that one cannot fail to root for him.