On the 21st August 2014 my
friends organised a party to celebrate the fact that I was still alive after
sixty years of drunken debauchery. Part of this celebratory event was a
screening of one of my favourite films, prior to the party getting underway. It
was my friend (and bromance partner) Andy’s idea to choose The Third Man as he had discovered through nefarious means that it
was my favourite British film. About thirty minutes into the screening Andy
leaned over to me and asked, “Are you sure
this is your favourite British film?”
“Yes,” I replied, “why?”
“It’s a bit slow isn’t it,” he
said.
I gave him the kind of look you
give to someone who has just said something momentously stupid and said, with
as much derision as I could muster, “You fucking philistine. This is not an
action movie. If you want an action movie go home and watch The Expendables 3 or Terminator 2. This is The Third Man – it’s written by Graham
Greene for God’s sake!”
Obviously devastated by his
inability to recognise one of cinema’s most brilliant works of art, he bowed
his head in shame and succumbed quietly to my opinionated, but persuasively
subtle argument.
The first time I saw The Third Man was on television and it
knocked me sideways with its imaginative camera angles, its lighting that was
reminiscent of the German expressionist films of the twenties and thirties, its
use of the zither as the sole instrument on the soundtrack, and its flawed but
sympathetic main characters, and its unexpected downbeat ending. Anyone who had
ever read the novels of the great Graham Greene could tell immediately that
they were in Greeneland. The main character, Holly Martins (Joseph Cotton), is
a down-at-heel hack writer of western dime novels, visiting a war-ravaged
Vienna to look for his old friend Harry Lime (Orson Welles). When he gets there
he discovers that Harry Lime is dead, run over by his own car, and buried. But,
as in all of Greene’s work, not everything is as it seems.
The original film poster for The Third Man |
Joseph Cotton and Orson Welles had
worked in partnership before on Citizen
Kane (1941) and The Magnificent
Ambersons (1942) – and it shows in every frame when they share screen time
together. Welles’ spectacular but controversial debut film, Citizen Kane, caused a sensation on its
initial release and has continued to fascinate and astound movie buffs ever
since. His brilliant second feature, The
Magnificent Ambersons, charts the decline of a once wealthy family
destroyed by industrialisation – it’s a film that would have been even better
if RKO executives hadn’t decided to cut out forty minutes (and burn the only
negatives) while Welles was out of the country filming Journey into Fear (1942) because they thought it was too
depressing. By the time he came to The
Third Man in 1949 he was short of money for his next project and instead of
taking a share in the profits he accepted a straight one-off fee, a decision he
later regretted as it turned out to be the highest grossing British film of
that year. He would have a chequered career after that, but one where he
directed and starred in two more genuine classics, playing the bloated, corrupt
cop Hank Quinlan in the superb Touch of
Evil (1958) and Shakespeare’s rambunctious Falstaff in Chimes at Midnight (1966).
Although never becoming the A-list
star he should have become, Joseph Cotton nevertheless carved out a successful
career for himself playing a host of differing and sometimes difficult roles – the
suave serial killer in Hitchcock’s excellent Shadow of a Doubt (1942), the surgeon Dr Vasalius in Robert Fuest’s
delicious black comedy The Abominable Dr
Phibes (1971), the Secretary of State in Robert Aldrich’s brilliant thriller
Twilight’s Last Gleaming (1977), and the
Reverend Doctor in Michael Cimino’s disastrous but highly underrated western Heaven’s Gate (1980).
But it’s as Holly Martins that I
will always remember him. His character is not the traditional hero and he’s out
of his depth in almost everything he gets himself involved in – from his naïve and
bumbling attempts to investigate Harry Lime’s death in a bombed out Vienna that’s
divided by four major powers to his attempt to talk about writing cheap westerns
to an audience of intellectuals – and he breathes life into his character in
every situation, particularly in the three short scenes he shares with his
friend Orson Welles.
It’s over an hour into the film
before Welles makes what surely must be the greatest and most dramatic entrance
of any actor in any film ever, and it’s
one that never fails to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end
whenever I see it. There’s also the brilliant final section in Vienna’s
cavernous sewers and in between there’s the now-famous Ferris Wheel scene,
where Harry Lime, in trying to justify selling his stolen, diluted and now
poisonous penicillin on the black market, tells Martins, “In Italy under the
Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo,
Leonardo DaVinci and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love –
they had five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce?
The cuckoo clock.”
Welles totally dominates the
remaining forty minutes of the film – from the moment we first see him in a
dark doorway, his face briefly illuminated by the light from an apartment
window above, giving his old friend Holly Martins the kind of smile that only
he could give, to his final flight from justice under the streets of Vienna.
His brief but perfect performance of a man with no scruples and even less
remorse for the lives of the children his evil trade has destroyed is nothing
short of astonishing.
The supporting cast are uniformly
superb – Italian actress Alida Valli, is Harry Lime’s loyal girlfriend,
desperately trying to keep herself from being claimed by the Russians; the
great Trevor Howard is the efficient by-the-book British intelligence officer Major
Calloway; Bernard Lee (thirteen years away from being James Bond’s M in Dr No) is his western loving sergeant;
and Wilfred Hyde-White (giving another great performance as Wilfred Hyde-White)
is the dithering cultural attaché who mistakenly thinks that Martins is a ‘proper’
author.
Although Orson Welles received top
billing, the real stars of this film are the director Carol Reed (Oliver Reed’s
uncle) and photographer Robert Krasker. Between them they produced a
masterpiece of noir cinema – odd
camera angles were used to give the audience a sense of disorientation, back
lighting was used to produce lengthened shadows and dark, forbidding passageways,
giving the whole thing a sense of unrelenting menace. It was shot in Vienna – this
was the real bombed-out Vienna and not just a set built on a studio lot, and close-ups
of the faces of actual inhabitants were used to reflect the desperation of the
people living there. And Carol Reed’s choice of using Anton Karas and his zither
for the score was inspired.
Then there was the great novelist Graham
Greene and his excellent screenplay. Greene was one of the 20th
century’s most highly regarded novelists – he called his books ‘entertainments’
and no two were the same. Fans of his novels were never entirely sure what they
were going to get next from him, but they knew one thing – whatever it was it
going to be it would be original and surprising. His body of work – Brighton Rock (1938), The Ministry of Fear (1943), Our Man in Havana (1958), The Comedians (1966) and Doctor Fischer of Geneva (1980), to name
just five – testifies to that.
The final scene of the film is
different to that of Greene’s original novella. Carol Reed disliked what he
felt was an artificially happy ending and changed it to something more downbeat
and believable. Greene argued his corner but lost out to the pressure put on
him by Reed and his producer, David O. Selznick. But upon seeing the final
result Greene said, “One of the few major disputes between Carol Reed and
myself concerned the ending, and he has been proved triumphantly right.”
He was absolutely correct, not just
about the ending but of the film as a whole. Time magazine described it as “being crammed with . . . ingenious
twists and turns of plot, subtle detail, full-bodied bit characters,
atmospheric backgrounds that become an intrinsic part of the story, a deft
comingling of the sinister with the ludicrous, the casual with the bizarre.”
I couldn’t agree more. It’s why this
is my favourite British movie of all time.
Now, Andy, I know you are an
artistic soul and so I therefore urge you to stop watching White House Down immediately and re-watch The Third Man instead – hopefully you will at last be able to
recognise it for the classic that it is, thus making your life both intellectually
and artistically fulfilled.
You know I’m right.