When I first saw this it struck me as another revenge movie of the sort that Fritz Lang seemed attracted to around the time this was made. Just that the cop in this case, Glen Ford, was more hard-boiled than usual.
Now, some years later, it seems a bit more than that. It's still a hard-boiled movie, the story of a cop who is so determined to clean up the organization that runs the town of Kenport that he goes overboard, a little like "Dirty Harry." "The Big Heat" is more conventional, more ambitious, and less an outgrowth of its Zeitgeist than "Dirty Harry." In the latter, Clint Eastwood knocks off urban villains that are heartless and nameless. They're just bodies to be mowed down. Eastwood's only motives are to protect the innocent, whom he appears to hold in contempt, by killing the heavies, whom he despises. He has no other motive. The gunshots are explosive, the dialog cynical, the locations colorful, and the cops are hobbled by the Constitution of the United States. It all reflects the backlash against urban crime that was making all the headlines in 1971. It moved the Manichaean Western to the streets.
But "The Big Heat" is more personal. Glen Ford at least has a strong motive for his relentless pursuit of evildoers. When he pushes too hard against the top gangster Lagana, Alexander Scourby, Ford's wife is accidentally blown up while starting the family car.
Unlike Eastwood, Ford has a family -- a wife, Jocelyn Brando (Marlon's sister), and a lovely kiddie whom he lulls to sleep by telling the story of the three little kittens who lost their mittens. These scenes, backed up by a soapy musical score, are trite beyond belief, but there is a payoff at the climax when he distracts a dying gun moll by telling her, at her request, the story of his own family.
That gun moll is Gloria Grahame in what's arguably her best role. Grahame was never beautiful in a standard Hollywood way, nor was she a bravura actress, but the writer, Sydney Boehm, has given her a splendid part with some sparkling dialog and Grahame does just fine with the character of the good-natured, self-centered whore. "Listen, I've been rich and I've been poor and, BELIEVE me, rich is better." She hops around like a trained circus dog. She looks as sexy as she was supposed to be and is charmingly candid.
Her face is horribly scarred by a pot of boiling coffee that the sadistic Lee Marvin tosses at her because of some minor slight. Marvin was in his thug period -- that horse face with its protruding, plump lower lip, the ugly sneer, the brutal gesture. He's great.
He's the only heavy that isn't in some way humanized -- again, unlike "Dirty Harry." All the others are either fearful of being murdered, for good reason, or in some cases, as in Scourby's, they have families. Scourby beams at his daughter's coming out party. He keeps a portrait of his recently deceased mother prominently hung in his study. He's utterly ruthless in ordering assassinations.
The plot has the aggressive detective embittered by the murder of his wife. He trusts no one and insults everybody, even those who try to comfort and help him. Only gradually does he develop as a character. His conversion back to some simulacrum of humanity is initiated by a lame old woman who, at her own peril, feeds him some information that guides him in his quest.
It has all the usual icons of noir. There is the marginalized moll, the smooth villain, the snarling enforcer, the snub-nosed .38 revolver, the detective with flaws, the night-time streets, the penthouse apartment, the threatened middle-class home, the ex-GIs, the corrupt chief of police.
It's a good job. Maybe I shouldn't qualify these remarks but I'd just finished watching "Laura" and couldn't help noticing the differences in the quality of the cinematography. "Laura", another detective story, was shot by Joseph LaShelle and the photography is magnificent, whereas Charles Lang's photography here is relatively flat or stark. In "Laura", for instance, no simple wall is either light or dark but rather subtly textured with shades of gray. It makes Lang's photography look like an episode of "The Honeymooners" or "I Love Lucy." (It's not that bad; I'm exaggerating to make a point.) Photography isn't often something you think of when watching a film unless it's exceptional. I always thought I could act a little -- and have -- or, with some coaching, even direct a movie. But I can't imagine lighting a film in the expressive way Joseph LaShelle did without years of experience behind me.
Now, some years later, it seems a bit more than that. It's still a hard-boiled movie, the story of a cop who is so determined to clean up the organization that runs the town of Kenport that he goes overboard, a little like "Dirty Harry." "The Big Heat" is more conventional, more ambitious, and less an outgrowth of its Zeitgeist than "Dirty Harry." In the latter, Clint Eastwood knocks off urban villains that are heartless and nameless. They're just bodies to be mowed down. Eastwood's only motives are to protect the innocent, whom he appears to hold in contempt, by killing the heavies, whom he despises. He has no other motive. The gunshots are explosive, the dialog cynical, the locations colorful, and the cops are hobbled by the Constitution of the United States. It all reflects the backlash against urban crime that was making all the headlines in 1971. It moved the Manichaean Western to the streets.
But "The Big Heat" is more personal. Glen Ford at least has a strong motive for his relentless pursuit of evildoers. When he pushes too hard against the top gangster Lagana, Alexander Scourby, Ford's wife is accidentally blown up while starting the family car.
Unlike Eastwood, Ford has a family -- a wife, Jocelyn Brando (Marlon's sister), and a lovely kiddie whom he lulls to sleep by telling the story of the three little kittens who lost their mittens. These scenes, backed up by a soapy musical score, are trite beyond belief, but there is a payoff at the climax when he distracts a dying gun moll by telling her, at her request, the story of his own family.
That gun moll is Gloria Grahame in what's arguably her best role. Grahame was never beautiful in a standard Hollywood way, nor was she a bravura actress, but the writer, Sydney Boehm, has given her a splendid part with some sparkling dialog and Grahame does just fine with the character of the good-natured, self-centered whore. "Listen, I've been rich and I've been poor and, BELIEVE me, rich is better." She hops around like a trained circus dog. She looks as sexy as she was supposed to be and is charmingly candid.
Her face is horribly scarred by a pot of boiling coffee that the sadistic Lee Marvin tosses at her because of some minor slight. Marvin was in his thug period -- that horse face with its protruding, plump lower lip, the ugly sneer, the brutal gesture. He's great.
He's the only heavy that isn't in some way humanized -- again, unlike "Dirty Harry." All the others are either fearful of being murdered, for good reason, or in some cases, as in Scourby's, they have families. Scourby beams at his daughter's coming out party. He keeps a portrait of his recently deceased mother prominently hung in his study. He's utterly ruthless in ordering assassinations.
The plot has the aggressive detective embittered by the murder of his wife. He trusts no one and insults everybody, even those who try to comfort and help him. Only gradually does he develop as a character. His conversion back to some simulacrum of humanity is initiated by a lame old woman who, at her own peril, feeds him some information that guides him in his quest.
It has all the usual icons of noir. There is the marginalized moll, the smooth villain, the snarling enforcer, the snub-nosed .38 revolver, the detective with flaws, the night-time streets, the penthouse apartment, the threatened middle-class home, the ex-GIs, the corrupt chief of police.
It's a good job. Maybe I shouldn't qualify these remarks but I'd just finished watching "Laura" and couldn't help noticing the differences in the quality of the cinematography. "Laura", another detective story, was shot by Joseph LaShelle and the photography is magnificent, whereas Charles Lang's photography here is relatively flat or stark. In "Laura", for instance, no simple wall is either light or dark but rather subtly textured with shades of gray. It makes Lang's photography look like an episode of "The Honeymooners" or "I Love Lucy." (It's not that bad; I'm exaggerating to make a point.) Photography isn't often something you think of when watching a film unless it's exceptional. I always thought I could act a little -- and have -- or, with some coaching, even direct a movie. But I can't imagine lighting a film in the expressive way Joseph LaShelle did without years of experience behind me.