(Part I.)
Normally I open each film with an image of its release poster, but I’ve always kind of disliked A Clockwork Orange‘s, while its opening sequence is one of the most memorable and perfect I’ve ever seen, so I decided to go with that. Right now, Wendy Carlos’ spooky Moog-infused rendition of Music for the Funeral of Queen Mary should be playing in your head.
One of the things I love most about Stanley Kubrick is that, while all of his films are distinctly his, no two are alike, each unique in its genre, style, and thematic approach (though there are certainly plenty of recurring motifs throughout his oeuvre). So, in between the neo-realistic docudrama Dr. Strangelove in 1964, and the lush, exquisitely-detailed and -photographed period epic Barry Lyndon in 1975, we get A Clockwork Orange, an (originally) X-rated dystopian satire/fable featuring one of cinema’s great antiheroes.
Jarring in its uniqueness amongst the nominees this year, it’s a world removed from all the rest: eye-poppingly colorful and stylish; more musical in many ways than the actual musical nominee; tackling uncomfortable themes and satirizing timeless demons of human society; and asking (manipulating?) the audience to identify/sympathize with its monstrous protagonist…to paraphrase Kubrick, to allow our subconscious impulses to overrule our rationality.
The film tells the story of Alex, a thuggish “youth” (fifteen in the novel, but played here, albeit brilliantly, by a 27-year-old Malcolm McDowell) who spends his days looting, raping, fighting, and listening to Beethoven until he is imprisoned and undergoes an experimental treatment that may (or may not?) cure him of his deviant, violent nature. And it truly is Alex’s story, and no one else’s: we are in his head the entire film, complete with unreliable narration, and only a handful of scenes are not within his immediate field of vision/earshot. The dystopian, brutalist world is seen entirely though his eyes.
Like the novel upon which it is based, the film flows through three highly-structured acts. The first opens with the striking and often-parodied image of our “vicious young hoodlum”…
…before we follow Alex and his “droogs” out out out into the night, a typical one for them that involves “a bit of the old ultraviolence”, as well as theft, breaking and entering, and rape, all accompanied by Alex’s gleeful, hedonistic narration. Though it’s lifted almost word-for-word from the novel, the film’s Alex tells his story without a shred of his literary counterpart’s reflection or, dare I say, maturity; it’s clear from his tone that he is relishing everything we’re seeing, even removed from it.
Besides our humble narrator, the other constant in this harrowing opening sequence is music. After the synthesizer-drenched opening number, we get an extended performance of “The Thieving Magpie”, to which the droogs’ choreographed battle-cum-ballet with a rival gang is set. Shortly after, their home invasion of a writer and his wife that ends with the former paraplegic and the latter gang-raped is set off by Alex’s tap-dancing rendition of “Singin’ in the Rain” (selected because it was the only song Malcolm McDowell knew the words to offhand).
The jaunty music, stylized cinematography, garish colors, and graceful, dance-like violence gives the entire night a surreal, dreamlike quality. This, combined with McDowell’s relentlessly charming presence, helps the audience get onboard with Alex’s hedonism, even while being appalled by his cruel and sadistic actions. We’re even more on his side the next morning when we see the kind of adults he has in his life: his barely-conscious, drone-like parents–who sleepily accept that when he goes out at night he’s just doing “odd things…helping like, here and there as it might be”–and his creepy, salivating, handsy correctional officer, P.R. Deltoid.
As Alex has no time for politics, government, or really anything beyond his immediate need for pleasure, we are left with hints as to the state of the society in which he lives, and it is not a pretty sight. Though brutalist architecture has recently be re-evaluated (and I’m actually a fan), in 1970 it had fallen out of favor and was viewed as horrible and oppressive…hence, the perfect backdrop for Kubrick’s vision. Much of the film is shot on location in drab, blocky lots, reflecting Alex’s almost post-apocalyptic world. The government is oppressive, the people are gray and unhappy, and it’s clear that there is almost no municipal infrastructure, as garbage piles in the streets and facilities fall into vandalized disrepair.
Alex reveals himself to be quite the dandy in the light of day, when he skips school (again, 27 years old) to try his hand at consensual sex with some teeny-boppers at a record store:
(Quick, but necessary, pedantic digression: a lot of people think that you can see the soundtrack to Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey in this shot, just before Alex starts chatting up the two girls…
…however, that’s not what it is. It is, in fact, a collection of 1960s film songs that featured the title theme of 2001, “Also Sprach Zarathustra”. However, that doesn’t mean the 2001 soundtrack isn’t in the scene…it just comes a little earlier, in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it way:
This wasn’t intentional product placement; Kubrick shot the scene on location at the Chelsea Drugstore, and all the merchandise was simply the store’s stock.
You can also spot Atom Heart Mother, After the Gold Rush, and Magical Mystery Tour in the counter scene. Even in a dystopian nightmare future, Pink Floyd, Neil Young, and the Beatles are still hot sellers. End of pedantic digression.)
Alex’s carefree days come to an end the following night when his droogs rebel against his draconian rule and, after he accidentally murders a woman during another break-in, leave him to be captured by the police. The “sad and weepy” part of the story thus begins, as Alex is given a fourteen-year sentence and imprisoned, and as Alex’s troubles begin, the film takes on a decidedly different tone. This begins with his initial incarceration, where, in a drab, echoey room, he is forced to strip naked and cede his individuality, becoming a number (655321).
Something I noticed, watching the film this time around, is how readily Alex submits to outside influences throughout the film, so long as it means making his own life easier. He doesn’t rebel against the rigid, soul-crushing monotony of prison, nor to the guard’s (Michael Bates) insistence on where to stand or the proper way to place a bar of chocolate on the desk. He even smiles a bit when he says, “Murder, sir.” Alex adopts, adapts, and improves, the better to get out faster and get back to tolchoking and knifing.
This is in marked contrast to the novel’s Alex, who (often futilely, it must be said) often stands up for himself and tries to assert his humanity and worth when others try to take it away. In the book, Alex is chosen for the Ludovico Technique after killing a man in prison who sexually assaults him, and angrily defends himself when the Minister of the Interior brands him as a common criminal; the murder is excised from the film (though Alex does hint that he is the target of “leering criminals and perverts”), and he is chosen for the experiment simply for speaking out of turn, not even knowing who the Minister is when he does so.
Alex, then, is given the Ludovico Treatment, which involves being forced to watch images of sex and violence while drugged, allegedly leading to a Pavlovian response of crippling sickness when exposed to the real thing.
Again, cinema Alex is not as observant as novel Alex. In the book, Alex realizes almost immediately that it is the injections of the scientists that are causing him to feel sick (not that it does him any good, but still). In the film, he never figures it out, nor does he even try to…he never questions the doctors’ explanation that he is only getting vitamin shots. He merely resigns himself to the treatment, saying he will put up with it all for being a free man in just two weeks.
I keep making these observations about Alex’s unexamined, “go with the flow” attitude for a reason: I don’t think the Ludovico Technique works, at least not as it is intended. In the book, it absolutely does…but Alex’s behavior in the film, combined with some other clues that Kubrick seems to drop, suggests that he is just acting the part of the “cured” criminal in order to secure his release. Since this review is getting long, I’ll restrict myself to one example.
In the scene after Alex’s release, he goes home to find that his parents have let out his room to a lodger named Joe, who immediately berates Alex for his selfish, criminal acts that have caused his parents so much pain. Alex tries to take a swing at Joe, only to be stopped in his tracks by the sickness, brought on, so we’re told, by the Ludovico conditioning. But look at this:
That’s Alex and Joe…for a full ten seconds before Alex tries to punch him, he’s standing there with his fist clenched, his rage building and building as Joe prattles on. He’s clearly feeling the violent impulses the Ludovico Treatment has supposedly conditioned him against, yet there’s no hint of sickness…because Alex, in his anger, has forgotten about it. Before that, he throws a pretend punch at his father, which also should have triggered a Ludovico response, yet it doesn’t. When he remembers, he goes into an exaggerated breakdown that ends with him in tears while melancholy music announces that the “sad and weepy” part of the story is only getting worse for poor Alex.
This is followed by a mirroring of the opening scenes, as Alex is confronted by the ghosts of tolchoks past: first, the bum he assaulted recognizes him and subjects him to a beating; then, ex-droogs Dim and Georgie Boy appear as policemen, who drive him to a remote location and proceed to beat and nearly drown him; and finally, he arrives, barely alive, at the home of the writer, who, after the death of his wife, has taken up with Darth Vader:
In contrast to the stylized, balletic violence of Alex’s creation in the first act, the violence inflicted upon him is portrayed realistically and graphically, all the better to garner sympathy for Alex. Once the writer recognizes Alex, he captures him and attempts to drive him to suicide, but Alex survives and is taken under the wing of the very government who sought to condition him (since the bad publicity generated by his predicament has hurt them in the polls).
The film ends with Alex being “cured” and given a cushy job by the Minister; in a bit of classic Kubrickian visual flair, their deal is punctuated by the Minister literally spoon-feeding Alex in his hospital bed.
Again, we see film Alex’s willingness to immediately, and without forethought, submit to whoever and whatever will get him out of trouble in as short a time as possible, and with as little effort on his part. He’ll soon be back on the streets doing what he does best…something Kubrick unsubtly hints at with his choice of music to accompany the closing credits:
Not really surprising that A Clockwork Orange didn’t win Best Picture, but it’s certainly the best film of the year: like almost all of Kubrick’s work, it’s daring, fearless, visually stunning, and thematically deep and challenging. Like Dr. Strangelove before it, it received only four nominations; Malcolm McDowell was unforgivably shunned in the Best Actor race, and the film could have easily been nominated for Art Direction, Cinematography, Scoring, and Costume Design. In addition to Best Picture, it was nominated for its direction, writing, and editing, but lost all of them to the year’s winner:
If you were to try to make a list encompassing every vital element of a ’70s neo-noir police thriller, the end result would be The French Connection: a morally flexible protagonist as the “dark mirror” of the criminal underworld he ruthlessly pursues; a sinister plot slowly revealing itself to be far bigger than anyone first believes (especially the obligatory skeptical captain who repeatedly stymies our rebellious heroes); a heart-pounding, kick-ass car chase; wiretapping; gritty New York location shooting; an atmospheric score; a downbeat ending; and a few stray je ne sais quois for good measure.
Based on a true story about two NYC detectives who uncovered a massive narcotics operation (and who have small roles in the film), The French Connection stars Gene Hackman as Jimmy “Popeye” Doyle and Roy Scheider as his partner Buddy “Cloudy” Rizzo. The film plays as a straight police procedural, with long sequences given to the grinding undercover work the detectives have to put in while building their case, all punctuated by the class noir staple of altercations with their superiors in the department and irritating federal agents.
(Incidentally, the agent, Bill Mulderig, is played by legendary stunt driver and coordinator Bill Hickman, whose work can be seen in this film as well as in Bullitt, and who played Patton’s driver in Patton, which sadly did not include a car chase.)
Classic rule-breaking types that make up 90% of film and TV detective squads, Popeye and Cloudy stumble upon a massive heroin operation when, on a whim, Popeye decides to tail a local hood, Sal Boca (Tony Lo Bianco), after seeing him throwing money around at a nightclub with some mafiosos. After some more tailing and wiretapping, they connect Sal with drug kingpin Joel Weinstock, and their imminent deal with some French importers, referred to throughout the film as “frogs” (including an enforcer named Nicoli, played by Marcel Bozzuffi, a role very similar to, but less chatty than, his turn in Z two years before).
As plots go, that’s about as straightforward as they come. The majority of the film consists of watching Popeye and Cloudy (and their less-gifted subordinates) tail their various marks around the city, which leads to the first of the movie’s two great chases: Popeye trying to keep tabs on “Frog One”, Alain Charnier–played with almost unbearable continental charm by the great Galician actor Fernando Rey, well-known in Europe for his collaborations with Luis Buñuel but virtually unknown at the time in America.
Charnier knows who Popeye is, and so decides to shake him, without success…until they reach the subway, when his patience finally pays off and he escapes, but not before making it personal with one of the most arrogant waves ever captured on film:
The encounter does pay off for the cops in the end, though, as it spooks Charnier into insisting that the deal move forward quickly so he can his associates can return to France, and Nicoli decides to take care of Popeye. Obviously, you’re not doing your job as an authority-fighting ’70s protagonist if your enemies aren’t specifically trying to kill you…plus, it comes at a great time for Popeye and Cloudy, as their captain (Eddie Egan, the real-life inspiration for Popeye) has just taken them off the assignment, due to their lack of progress.
(By the way, this altercation between the detectives and their captain takes place, for some reason, at the sight of a completely unrelated fatal car accident; the scene, and its victims, are filmed in graphic, bloody detail with a handheld camera, again for no reason I can fathom. I’ve seen this film maybe six times, and have yet to figure out why Friedkin decided to do this, aside from his penchant for torturing actors. Anyone?)
Nicoli’s (very haphazard, I must say) attempt on Popeye’s life is, of course, unsuccessful; Popeye gives chase, and Nicoli hijacks a subway train, sparking what is inarguably one of the finest car chases in movie history. Like Bullitt (generally cited as the #1 cinematic car chase, though I give that honor to Roy Scheider’s amazing work in an underseen gem called The Seven-Ups [1973]), it contains no music, though Friedkin says he used Santana’s “Black Magic Woman” in the editing room to get the rhythm down.
What sets apart The French Connection‘s car chase is its commitment to realism, made all the more exciting by the fact that it was filmed without any kind of safety precautions, save for attaching a police siren to the car, and just blasting through Brooklyn in a Pontiac LeMans at 80mph. Thanks to Egan and partner Grosso’s connections on the NYPD, the filmmakers were able to bypass formalities like permits and traffic control.
It all ends, naturally, with Popeye proving beyond a doubt that pissing him off is infinitely worse than simply breaking the law, as he straight-up murders Nicoli by shooting him in the back. Instead of being suspended, though, the French case is reopened, and they track the drugs down in an imported car belonging to hapless actor Henri Devereaux (Frédéric de Pasquale), setting up the final showdown when the deal goes through on Wards Island and the police swoop in to arrest/shoot everyone present.
Everyone, that is, except Charnier, the wily “Frog One”. In the film’s chilling, atmospheric climax, Popeye pursues Charnier into a nearby factory away from the gun battle outside, and, determined to “get the son of a bitch”, stalks him through the muddy, echoey chambers. He ends up accidentally murdering Mulderig instead, finally answering the question of why the fed was such an unrelenting dick throughout the film (so that we, the audience, would kind of want him dead by this point), but, undaunted, he hears a noise and runs out of shot, accompanied by Don Ellis’ eerie score, and we hear a single gunshot. Cut to black.
It’s one of the most perfect endings I’ve ever seen in a film. The creepy, downbeat music continues over title cards explaining, Z-style, the fate of the characters, revealing that the sting was ultimately unable to bring the real criminals to justice; that Popeye and Cloudy were transferred out of the narcotics bureau; and that Charnier was “never caught”. So, what was that final gunshot? We don’t even know who fired it, or why. It’s mysterious as hell…though William Friedkin kind of spoiled it when he said that he simply wanted the film to “end with a bang”.
The French Connection is, not to put to fine a point on it, just about a perfect thriller, and its Best Picture victory cemented what Midnight Cowboy had promised, the arrival of the ’70s and a new breed of American filmmaker. The acting is incredible throughout, with Hackman and Scheider impressively tough and believable as cynical detectives, and Fernando Rey doing his best Frenchman and imbuing Charnier with just the right touch of European charm and arrogance to make him a formidable and memorable foe.
(Funnily enough, perfect as he was, Rey was cast by accident. Friedkin had wanted to cast Francisco Rabal, whom he’d seen in Luis Buñuel’s 1967 film Belle de Jour, but couldn’t remember his name; he just told his casting director that the guy he wanted was Spanish and had worked with Buñuel. So, the casting director thought he meant Rey, who wasn’t even in Belle de Jour, and flew Rey to New York, and no one figured out the error until he and Friedkin met. But in any case, they found that while Rey barely spoke any French or English, Rabal spoke none at all, so Rey was kept, making him probably the only Spanish-accented French villain in movie history.)
The film racked up eight nominations, and won five: Picture, Director, Actor (Hackman), Adapted Screenplay (Ernest Tidyman), and Film Editing (Gerald B. Greenberg); its unsuccessful bids were Best Supporting Actor (Roy Scheider), Best Sound, and Best Cinematography. It certainly should have won Best Sound, but much as I love Roy Scheider, and as angry as I am every day that he never won an Oscar, I’m okay with Ben Johnson’s Supporting win for The Last Picture Show…and that film should have won Cinematography as well over Fiddler on the Roof, too.
To anyone still with me, thanks for sticking around for a pretty long entry (and I think we all know that I could have gone on longer about A Clockwork Orange, so I hope you appreciate my restraint). Next up is another one of the Big Years in Academy history, the epic battle between two of my favorite films of all time, Cabaret and The Godfather. Onward!
Oscars and I 