The Psychology of Noir in “The Departed”

When considering noir elements and ideas that contribute to the classification of a film as a film noir, it is imperative to recognize that these characteristics, in some way or another, all eventually contribute to the “blackness” of the film. What is meant by this blackness is simply that when the viewers watch a film noir, they are unsettled by the egregious fate of certain characters whom which they have spent most of the film sympathizing with. Consequently, viewers feel discomfort. Without question, one of the more personal and unsettling truths witnessed on screen is when viewers have the opportunity to act as voyeurs, looking into the psyche of realistic characters and understanding their motivations for their actions. While most noirs tend to attribute their characters’ demise to harsh, uninhabitable environments which the character has no control of, it is rarely the case that the character’s psyche, rather, has a greater impact. What is particularly interesting about the film, The Departed, is that it exposes the psyches of its main characters to emphasize their thoughts and motivations, eventually leading to various actions detrimental to their fate. Through its reliance on Freudian psychology, the film examines psychological issues that affect the actions of the characters, Sgt. Sullivan, Billy Costigan, and Madolyn. Consequently, the three main characters are imprisoned by their own psychological hindrances, which eventually lead to their dark fates.

What is particularly noteworthy about The Departed is that it is self-conscious of its obsession with Freudian psychoanalysis. In fact, the name “Freud” itself is mentioned four times throughout the film. Fundamentally, the viewer is initially overwhelmed by this primary component, as one of the main characters, Madolyn, plays a psychologist who both reflects and deflects the psyches of Billy and Sullivan. The mere inclusion of Madolyn as a love-interest to both Costigan and Sullivan works to underscore the duality of both characters, who are on complete opposite sides of the Freudian spectrum. When considering Freud’s “psychodynamic approach”’ to his three types of personality structures, the Id, the Ego, and the Superego, it is helpful in understanding the characters to attempt to classify them into one or more of these structures.

The first character, Sullivan, most appropriately represents the Id. The Id essentially is a personality complex in which a character demonstrates no sense of morality and does things for immediate satisfaction and self-gain (Cheng 6). Sullivan’s ruthless commitment to working as a “rat” for the villainous Costello in the Special Investigations Unit (SIU) reveals his indifference to justice or morality in leading his life. And while Sullivan is entirely aware of the dirty operations conducted by Costello’s crew, he utilizes his insider information to advance himself up the police bureau’s ladder. Sullivan is also constantly driven by materialistic and egotistical pursuits. Further, at the end of the film when Sullivan deletes Costigan’s file, thenceforth erasing Costigan’s identity, Sullivan is clearly more concerned with protecting his own reputation rather than worrying about the value of a man’s life. This absence of morality in Costigan’s conscience is indicative of his representation of the Id in the film.

Since the beginning of the film, he has his eyes on the golden statehouse which rests on Beacon Hill, boasting “high ceilings, parquet floors, a massive bedroom, and a great view of the statehouse.” When another officer catches him in his daydream, he reinforces Sullivan’s repressed anxieties: “Forget it. Your father’s a janitor. His son’s only a cop.” As Sullivan advances in the bureau, he maintains his constant desire to increase his status, and eventually inhabits his new home which will make him “upper class by about Tuesday.”

Sullivan’s thoughtless and ruthless self-interest is most evident in scenes with two of his coworkers during which his sexual feelings are exposed. In one scene when his coworker is walking past him, Sullivan shamelessly whistles at her while looking at her behind. Sullivan’s resulting reaction of shame when she looks back in disgust lends credit to the idea that Sullivan was not actually in control of his sexual spirit, and that it was impulsive.

The protagonist of the plot, Billy Costigan, can best be described as moralistic and highly self-critical of his actions. Secretly working as a rat for SIU by joining Costello’s crew, Costigan is in constant search of morality in what he does. While he understands subconsciously that he has a sense of purpose to what he’s doing, Sullivan’s character compromises Costigan’s hopes for morality and justice by sabotaging the bureau’s efforts to snatch Costello. Costigan’s character seems greatly torn between Freud’s concepts of the Ego and the Super Ego.

He embodies characteristics of the Ego in that we realize how Costigan is figuratively stuck between a rock and a hard place, and must therefore follow Freud’s “reality principle” (Cheng 6). This principle simply means that Costigan in certain ways deals with his desires, motivations, and morals in a realistic manner—the Ego serves as a rational, middle-ground between the Id and the Super Ego.

This psychological mentality is initially set up at the onset of the plot when Costigan is given the option of feigning jail time in order to work for the police bureau as an undercover cop. Knowing that his history of being a cop might be detrimental to lying low and being a rat under Costello, Costigan sacrifices his pride and integrity of being a cop as he prepares to erase his identity for the greater good.

However, Costigan also exhibits a Super Ego, as he is in complete opposition to Sullivan’s Id. The Super Ego, which serves as the conscience of Costigan, is where we see the strongest sense of morality. Because Costigan is constantly feeling guilty for living what he perceives to be an empty, purposeless life, we sense how Costigan’s psyche is completely dominated by his inner voice of reason.

An example which truly displays the duality of Costigan’s mind is when he is in the presence of one of Costello’s men. As he describes his internal confusion to Madolyn, his psychologist, he illustrates an instance when feelings of anxiety were met with hopeful self-assurance: “You sit there with a mass murderer. A mass murderer. Your heart rate is jacked. And your hand…steady. That’s one thing I figured out about myself in prison. My hand does not shake. Ever.” Because Costigan’s softer, more sensitive side is challenged by his personal sense of purpose to what he is doing, he is constantly moving in between the Ego and the Super Ego.

Probably the most complex character in the film, Madolyn, seems to be constantly jumping in and out of each, the Id, the Ego and the Super Ego. Pivotal plot points illustrating this diversity of mind include her role as a rationally-thinking psychologist, cheating on Sullivan with Costigan because she impulsively feels like it, feeling morally-obligated to confront Sullivan about his work, and then feeling guilty about Costigan’s death. And while she knows that she has inconsistencies of mind, she refuses to acknowledge wrongdoing. When asked by Costigan why she lies, Madolyn responds, “You know. To keep things on an even keel.”

Madolyn is so rational and self-conscious about her actions that she finds ways of attributing a sense of justice to them. Madolyn can be viewed in this respect as both a reflection and deflection the Sullivan and Costigan’s psyches. On the surface she is more confident and aware of her actions than both characters are of their own. But her naiveté to what their real jobs concern leads to her failure as a psychoanalyst, and the eventual dark fate to which Madolyn succumbs.

Another concentration on Freud’s psychoanalysis emphasized in The Departed is of his famous Oedipus complex. This theory, which suggests the idea that the child experiences “sexual curiosity” with the maternal figure, is evident in Costigan’s character (Wilbern 100). While some viewers may consider this connection to be farfetched, the film incorporates several strategic plot points which constantly hint at this truth. The initial example of Costigan’s Oedipal complex is when he is being treated for wounds to his arm by an attractive nurse. While there are no words in this scene, it is deliberately shot at a high-angle on Costigan to accentuate his vulnerability and need for the maternal. Cositgan looks as if he is about to cry in this scene, and his “double-take” at the nurse in all of her beauty is the first indication of Costigan’s infatuation with sex and the maternal.

Evidence of this theory is also understood on the level that there really exists no maternal figure in the film save Madolyn’s character. Madolyn’s job as a police bureau psychologist requires nurturing and understanding for cops “if they had to use their gun.”.Madolyn fits the profile of the maternal figure in this sense, especially in Costigan’s case, since we see his biological mother die early in the plot. Images throughout the film which hint at this theory include Costigan resting upon Madolyn’s bosom, and Madolyn holding and stroking Costigan’s head. Madolyn listens to Costigan and works with him more seriously than for any other cop, trying to really figure out why Costigan is so disturbed. She nurses and babies Costigan like a child until their relationship spirals into one of sexual infatuation and lust.

Also prevalent in the plot is a Neo-Freudian psychodynamic theory called “Jung’s Analytic Theory.” A theory which concerns the “collective unconscious” of a person and its affect on the psyche is one which negatively impacts both Sullivan and Costigan with tremendous power. It is probably helpful to consider Jung’s theory comparable to the idea of heritable DNA: it is a crucial element which makes up humans that is inescapable and responsible for a lot of personality traits (Cheng 7).

Without question, the best realization of this theory traces back to both Sullivan and Costigan’s past. In the situation of Sullivan, a police officer whose father was nothing more than a janitor, there is constant self-loathing of the past he came from. As he eyes the landscape of Beacon Hill and corruptly moves up the ladder in SIU, Sullivan is constantly reminded of his dependence on Costello for his success. At the beginning of the film we see Sullivan as a little boy receiving pocket change from Costello, who remarks, “If you ever want to earn a little extra money, you come by L Street.”  Sullivan’s downfall greatly concerns the unrealistic feat of success he must earn, an uncharacteristic quality of the type of family he comes from.

Recognizing his own biological hindrance and the collective unconscious effect which challenges his rise on the socioeconomic ladder, Sullivan realizes that the only way he can maintain success is through deception and immorality. This truly is revealing of Sullivan’s pathetic nature in relentlessly pursuing success at the expense of his own integrity.

And in the Freudian sense, it becomes more apparent that Sullivan is troubled by his personal paradox when he wakes up one morning after dreaming he was dead. Because Freud would consider the dream to be a “wish-fulfilling restoration,” Sullivan’s dream is indicative of his inner self-loathing and subconscious realization that he doesn’t deserve life (Willbern 98).

Costigan’s situation is slightly more complex than Sullivan’s since Costigan has less a grasp on who he really is. His meeting with Dignam and Queenan who offer him a job as an undercover cop is pivotal to this concept because the viewers gain an understanding of Costigan’s past. Living with parents who were divorced, it is revealed that Costigan played a “double kid,” living on the North Shore during the weekdays and then in the Southy projects with his father on the weekends. Of course for Costigan to be convincing enough to be undercover for Costello, especially considering his past as a state police detective, it is decided that Costigan must start from scratch by serving a jail sentence before roaming the streets.

“We deal with deception here. What we do not deal with is self-deception,” sternly remarks Queenan, reminding Costigan of where he came from. Costigan struggles to gain insight on his psychological nature the entire film as he considers his past and his double life. Even when he is reminded by Dignam of the duality of his own life, on cultural, moral and socio-economic levels, Costigan never fully understands his role in society or considers choosing one identity (Odajnyk 601).

Although The Departed will certainly not be remembered for being a true film noir, it nevertheless exploits and explores the psychology of noir to its own grim benefit. It focuses on three extraordinarily complex characters to prove the idea that even though surrounding environments of characters have traditionally determined the character’s fate in past noir, greater attention should be focused on the human, whose complex empowerment of mind cannot be underrated.

While the inevitable doom of Sullivan, Costigan, and Madolyn is unfortunate and disturbing, their common inability to alter their psychological perspective for the better is what causes their lives to spiral out of control. Most particularly, it is the fault of the psychologist of the plot, Madolyn, for allowing the hidden lives of Sullivan and Costigan to persist without her ever noticing. Whether or not this proves that the Irish are truly “impervious” to psychoanalysis, or that Madolyn simply is not a talented psychologist can certainly be argued. Because The Departed is extremely self-aware of its penetrating psychological investigations into its characters, the psychologist most likely serves as a plot point used to underscore the idea that the minds of Sullivan and Costello, including their thoughts and motivations, are impenetrable from understanding by other people.

As a result, Sullivan and Costigan end up dead and Madolyn must live with the guilt of not being able to save either one of them from themselves. This is a dark, twisted realization that the audience must live with since it demonstrates that even an expert psychologist may not always be able to unearth the secrets of the human psyche.

Carmen Wexler is a Senior Writer for The Film Crusade.

Works Consulted

• Cheng, Clara. “A Lecture on Freud and the Psychodynamic Approach.” American University. The College of Arts & Sciences. 5 February 2007.

• Odajnyk, Walter. “On Strong’s Psychoanalysis as a Vocation: Freud, Politics, and the Heroic.” Political Theory. Vol. 12, (1984): pgs. 601-603.

• O’Hara, Daniel T. “On Freud’s Femininity.” Boundary 2. Vol. 26, (1999): pgs 193-198.
• The Departed. Dir. Martin Scorsese. Perfs. Leonardo DiCaprio, Matt Damon, Vera Farmiga, Mark Wahlberg, and Martin Sheen. Film. Warner Bros. Pictures, 2006.

• Willbern, David. “Freud and the Inter-Penetration of Dreams.” Diacritics. Vol. 9,   (1979): pgs. 98-110.

Because Hitchcock is an auteur, he treats each scene and character with craft and ensures that everything projected onto the screen is purposeful to the plot and experience shared by viewers. This discussion will focus on the sequence when Scotty Ferguson begins his serious pursuit of Madeleine Elster starting from outside the flower shop and concluding with the museum scene. This sequence paints the growing magnitude of the mystery and Scotty’s complicated psyche involved in uncovering the truth of Madeleine. Throughout this sequence, a number of filmmaking decisions and techniques make an ordinary mystery gradually become grander. As well, Hitchcock’s reliance on subjectivity compels the viewer to get caught up in Scotty’s relentless pursuit of the truth.

The visual contrast in each scene between lightness and darkness works to enhance the notion that while the pursuit of truth is necessary to self-fulfillment, the mind endures a dark and frightening journey for truth and is conflicted and hesitant in pursuing it. Hitchcock represents this in each scene by having Scotty walk through darkness into lightness. During the moments of darkness, Scotty is a figure lurking in the shadows. The shadows represent the viewers and Scotty literally being “kept in the dark” about where Madeleine is going and what she is doing. It also portrays Scotty as voyeuristic and thus leads viewers to question whether his and their motives and pursuit of truth are valid or even ethical.

Hitchcock’s use of music in transitioning between dark and light is consistent with this notion. The music is foreboding and creepy in scenes of darkness and becomes somewhat hopeful yet still prudent in scenes of light. And through each one of Scotty’s trails through darkness into light he learns something new. As he creeps through the shadows behind the door to the flower shop he discovers Madeleine has a sentimental longing for someone or something. When he walks through the dark church towards the graveyard he discovers that Madeleine has an emotional connection to Carlotta Valdes. And as he makes his way through the shadowy hallway of the museum to the showcase room he learns of a visual connection between Madeleine and Carlotta. The visual representation of Scotty’s hesitance in learning of the truth is best shown in this scene when he walks out of the showcase room back towards the shadows. Scotty nearly trips over his feet as he begins walking while still focusing on the painting of Carlotta. To the viewers this says that in Scotty’s mind the truth of the mystery is too much for him to handle and seemingly overwhelming. It is so overwhelming that Scotty must return to the darkness expressed through the hallway shadows of the museum and relieve himself mentally that what he’s seeing is actually true. He even confirms this fear of truth by asking the museum attendant the name of the girl in the painting.

Hitchcock’s juxtaposition of settings also works to make the mystery of Madeleine a mind-boggling and frightening experience for both Scotty and the viewers alike. The mystery transitions from one that is very alive and believable to one that is beyond dead and perhaps in the history books. As Scotty follows Madeleine, we move from a flower shop to a church, and then from a graveyard to a museum. And through this journey Scotty perceives Madeleine differently solely because of her surroundings and the mise en scene used to communicate this. At the flower shop, Madeleine is perceived as an ordinary American consumer and the archetype of a woman simply in love of flowers. At the flower shop Madeleine is surrounded by life in the form of flowers bursting with color and vibrancy. Then as Madeleine walks through a church the mood is transitioned from physical life and becomes spiritual and heavenly. This leads to the graveyard scene which expresses a deathly, decaying atmosphere. And the museum scene concludes this sequence by providing a larger-than-life (or larger-than-death) development in Scotty’s pursuit of truth. Hitchcock utilizes the mise en scene to his advantage here by transcending the mood from one that was ordinary, spiritual and then dead in the former scenes to one that is now hauntingly ancient and historical. The scene starts off with Scotty staring at two centuries-old historical paintings of a king and a group of kids writing on a piece of parchment.

Hitchcock then visually sandwiches Scotty between these paintings as if he is metaphorically stuck in a mystery of historical significance with ancient roots. The music even uses brass to highlight the significance of the mystery’s historical turn. Then when Scotty identifies the similarities between the painting and Madeleine, the mystery officially transcends all physical, tangible expectations for Scotty and viewers alike and is indeed quite shocking.

In Scotty’s pursuit of truth, Hitchcock succeeds in making detectives out of viewers themselves as the camera subjectivity is used so frequently that viewers become as involved with the mystery as Scotty. The nature of this sequence is dependent on what Scotty sees and what Scotty learns. Hitchcock explores this subjectivity and makes viewers just as confused and intrigued by the mystery as Scotty through the use of eye-line matches. Almost every shot in this sequence is either of Scotty staring or what Scotty is staring at.

One instance is when Scotty is driving around following Madeleine’s car. First we see a medium close-up on Scotty staring through the windshield and then always after this shot we get a subjective view through the windshield. The best example of subjective eye-line match is in the museum when Scotty draws the connection between Madeleine’s flowers and the identical flowers in the painting. Right after showing Scotty staring at the flowers, the camera zooms on the flowers and then tilts to reveal the flowers in the painting. Afterwards we see that Scotty too is now looking at the painting. This economical style of filmmaking emphasizes our current connection with the protagonist. We are seeing what he is seeing exactly the way he is seeing it.

This idea of connecting with the protagonist directly influences our idea of truth in the film. When Scotty walks through the shadows of doubt we are there with him. Each clue Scotty learns of the viewer learns at exactly the same time. This sequence has no dramatic irony in that sense. And like Scotty constantly trying to find truth through darkness, Hitchcock conveys a sense of truth through his cinematography and shot selection.

Hitchcock almost always shoots Scotty in medium close-ups or close-ups so that the audience has an easier time identifying with Scotty and is comfortable joining him on his quest for truth. Madeleine is almost always shot in either extreme long-shots or long shots until the scene progresses and we learn something new. Madeleine starts out a foreign character that we cannot trust in each scene. As we become more comfortable with her in terms of discovering clues and learning the truth, Hitchcock shoots her in medium shots and medium close-ups. Therefore the closer the character is in the shot, the more trust the viewer has with the character and the easier it is to connect with that character. Later in the film when Madeleine becomes a major character and is shot in close-ups and medium close-ups, it is easy to understand both our own and Scotty’s disillusionment with the truth. We simply cannot trust this woman because the way she is shot in this particular sequence.

Relative to the rest of the film, the significance of this sequence indicates that Hitchcock’s detached shot selection for Madeleine is a signal to viewers that she is not what she seems to be. With this sequence Hitchcock trains viewers on how to see the film and which characters to identify with. And consequently this sequence is highly influential on how we experience the mystery and prepares us for an extraordinary revelation.

Carmen Wexler is a Senior Writer for The Film Crusade.

The Black Sheep of The Five Families

“The times have changed,” said Barzini, one of the heads of the five families. The war had ended and the families needed to adjust to a changing society and new market. In Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather (1972), the dynamics of mobster negotiation, tact, and power are explored and handled differently by each family. Issues concerning the relationship between business and personal goals, the controversial drug business, the deception of gangsters and the prospect of traitors, and the struggle for greater power and influence all contribute to the new wave of post-war gangsterism. Though the Corleones are presented as the protagonists of the film, in adjusting to the changing conventions of gangsterism they represent the antithesis of how organized crime should be conducted.

Al Pacino, Marlon Brando, James Caan, and John Cazale in "The Godfather" (1972).

The Corleone family generally handles situations in a more violent, unorthodox manner than other mob families. They lose their patience, tolerate hardly anything, and more often solve problems impetuously. Rather than relying on diplomacy and discussion to settle disputes, the Corleone family obeys the unspoken formula that the sword is mightier than the pen. Rarely is it seen in the film that the Corleone family is relying on negotiation over violence, or even that they are the first to pursue diplomacy.

To help prove the volatility of the Corleone family, Coppola includes footage of both the Corleone and Barzini methods for diffusing the media so that the film can emphasize one of the major differences the families have in their approach to a crisis. At Carlo’s wedding, for instance, the Barzinis and the Corleones have opposing methods of dealing with the paparazzi and the FBI. Upon being photographed, the Barzinis cope with the situation in a less extreme manner, allowing the photographer to keep his camera while simply breaking the pieces of film. On the other hand, the Corleones led by Santino shove the photographer against his car, slam the camera against the ground, and throw money for compensation.

Yet even while Santino is considered the hot-headed maverick of the family, the trait of intolerance is also carried out by other family members, namely Michael. Michael’s edginess through the murders of Sollozzo and Captain McCluskey yields the beginning of the full-scale war among the families. Convinced that his actions were unprofessional and that they would leave his family vulnerable, Michael manipulates the press into “sugar-coating” McCluskey’s death by publicly exposing the captain’s involvement in the drug business. Through their demonstration of ruthless impatience in the mob world, the Corleones recklessly reveal a key flaw to the other families.

In exposing this unfavorable trait of impatience, the Corleones prove that they are naïve to their surroundings and their own inadequate political strategies. This naiveté has many repercussions: some mobsters prove unreliable in the family business, the Corleones become more vulnerable, and the direction of the Corleone business strategy becomes unclear. Conducting themselves as they would have before the Second World War, the Corleones maintain a superior façade, though they are ever-so vulnerable. This misguided idea of invulnerability is finally realized by the family half-way into the film, when in the seventh scene Sollozzo asks Tom Hagen, “Ten years ago could I have gotten to him [Vito Corleone]?”

The gradual loss of power and respect by the Corleones is hardly ever realized by the family itself. For instance, when Vito’s bodyguard, Paulie, doesn’t show up to protect Vito in the first half of the film due to a “sickness,” it takes Michael, Tom, Santino, and Vito himself a long time to address the issue. Furthermore, the family’s superiority complex is best noticed when Vito goes out to buy fruit and is almost killed. Acting as his own middleman, Vito himself is shown running errands while Fredo complacently leans against the car door.

As Vito is shopping for fruit, the mise en scene is indicative of the peril that awaits Vito. The entire scene appears as if a large group of hoodlums carrying torches and hockey sticks marched through the street and wreaked havoc—it looks like a war zone. A garbage can blazing with fire alerts the audience of impending danger, signaling that Vito is just as vulnerable as any of the commoners seen walking on-screen. Coppola also utilizes the background music to foreshadow the prospect of danger. Throughout the scene there is an undercurrent of an ominous yet subdued tune being played by a street musician and his trumpet, indicating that danger can exist even during a seemingly harmless chore like shopping for fruit in a city-street. The trumpet notes continuously alter from high to low, changing their dismal tune after each stanza. Then, immediately after Vito senses he is in danger, the music stops playing, leaving the rest of the scene in an uncomfortable silence. This silence works to alarm the viewer who anticipates that something bad is about to happen.

All of these film techniques create an atmosphere of danger and uncertainty, and are designed to provide a hint to the viewer regarding Vito’s vulnerability, before Vito finds out himself. Completely naïve to his own vulnerability, a trait which is a derivative of his “untouchable” mindset, Vito proves incompetent in the post-war neo-gangster world.

The Corleone desire to place personal commitments over business and financial ambitions typifies their deviation from the mobster norm. Personal decisions, whether their influence is moral, sexual, ethnic, or nationally induced, become a distraction in the business of organized crime because they serve as a distraction to the underlying goal of neo-gangsterism: to increase political power and to maximize capital. For instance, in Do the Right Thing, Sal’s decision to retain his personal identity by leaving pictures on the wall of people that link him to his Italian heritage results in a partial boycott of his pizza place, and its eventual destruction. Revealing a similar incompetence in decision-making, the Corleones follow the “personal over business” philosophy upon being offered the deal to receive thirty percent from the narcotics business. The Corleones refuse this offer on the basis of drugs being a “dirty business.” This decision not only keeps the Corleones behind in capital opportunity, but it is incongruous with the demands of most other families.

Though it is true that Vito’s defense of his decision is that the politicians he had in his control would never approve of such a business, his argument remains flawed. He seems to make hollow excuses when he claims, “[Drugs] are not like gambling, liquor, or even women.” Naturally, if corrupt politicians would already allow three laws to be broken, would they logically refuse another law? And even so, politicians make most of their money from the Corleones; a refusal to allow drugs could only be a detriment to themselves.

But on the whole, the Corleone’ refusal to support the family business directly links to the family’s diminishing power, since the other families would not be rewarded any of the political power that the Don had in his pocket. The “personal over business” scenario is also illustrated in Joel Coen’s Miller’s Crossing. When the head mobster Leo makes a decision to spare his mistress’ brother, Bernie, though Bernie is turning bets against a rivaled mobster, Leo eventually finds that he is losing political power and loyalty within. This unprofessional choice only goes to prove that in order for mobs to be at peace with each other, there must be reciprocity in decision-making. The absence of this ability to discern between business and personal in the Corleone agenda is what leads to a full-scale war.

Irrespective of the fault-finding characteristics of the Corleone family, they establish themselves as the smartest and most tactful family in the end of the film. Though Coppola’s portrayal of the victorious Corleones may seem to contradict or overshadow the negative qualities of the Corleone family, Coppola’s point is made. His reason for portraying the gangster world in the eyes of the Corleone family, though their style may not be representative of neo-gangster norms, is to challenge the viewer’s mind and convince people that there are indeed no rules in the mob business.

In challenging the conventional new wave of mobster ideals, the Corleones have erected their own philosophy of organized crime. By abiding by the policy of Realpolitik in a family-style form, doing what is in the best interest of the family, the Corleones truly embody a favorable and rewarding tactic. For these reasons, Coppola daringly portrays the Corleones as the protagonists of the film.

Carmen Wexler is a Senior Writer for The Film Crusade.

How serious can a comedy get if it still seeks to retain its core genre identification as a comedy? Here is a topical issue for discussion which further questions the current state of genre, more specifically the comedy genre.

Trading Places is a film which has shown little to no signs of datedness and ranks high on the 80s-movies-watchability-meter.  It is also a solid case study to examine where comedy came from and where it’s headed. The story is probably timelier now than when it first came out considering that the plot involves a couple of wealthy CEOs plotting to test the nature vs. nurture theory by replacing a well-to-do investment businessman (Dan Aykroyd) with a homeless person (Eddie Murphy) to see if environment truly does dictate merit. CEOs single-handedly altering the lives of normal people. Sound familiar?

Eddie Murphy, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Dan Aykroyd in "Trading Places."

Anyway you look at it, comedy is inherently tragedy (unless of course when the tragedy is cancer!). Movies like Trading Places are made for both the casual movie-goer and also for viewers who like to be intellectually or spiritually challenged. Such a  film which lingers under the guise of a fish-out-of-water comedy while retaining the morbid, cynical roots of its screenplay. Films like Trading Places and Being There aren’t so humorous as they’re framed to be anymore than us viewers allow them to be. But is there a clear-cut way to get people to see these movies without lying to them? Or is the only faithful, honest solution to the comedy genre a high-concept, pain-free laughathon like The Hangover with no moral didacticism?

Carmen Wexler is a Senior Writer for The Film Crusade.

Every film director, no matter how great, has made at least one film that is considered one of their “lesser works.”  These films may not necessarily be bad, just films that do not compare to the director’s more accomplished work.  This is a re-examining of such a film.   A comparison of the overlooked film to the director’s other films, to see why it is not as beloved, where it fits in their film cannon, and maybe give the film a second chance. Here I hope to strike at a chord of redemption for Stanley Kubrick’s Barry Lyndon.

Posters of 2001 adorn bedrooms worldwide. On any Halloween night in any big city you would be hard pressed not to find someone dressed as Alex or one of his droogs from A Clockwork Orange.  The Shining is full of so many iconic images that the film has supplanted the book it is based upon in popularity.  R. Lee Ermey’s dialogue from Full Metal Jacket has become so ingrained in the cultural mindset that even today young men use the insults Ermey hurls at his recruits as putdowns. Even the oft criticized film Eyes Wide Shut has indelible images such as its eerie masks or the procession from a hypnotic orgy scene.  However, Stanley Kubrick’s 1975 film Barry Lyndon is rarely recognized among his greatest achievements and is seen by many as one of his lesser works.  References to the film are often met with blank stares, and many would be hard pressed to recall memorable dialogue from the film.  The film is often written off as a technical achievement.  The film is noted for its use of a lens developed by NASA, allowing Kubrick to shoot in low light, or zoom shots Kubrick uses to flatten the film like a painting.  Aside from these acknowledgments the film receives little recognition compared with other Kubrick films.  A recent Kubrick box set released by Warner Brothers included all of Kubrick’s films since 2001 with the distinct exception of Barry Lyndon.  Barry Lyndon is a film people respect more than love, but why?

The answer to this question is challenging because many of the themes in the film that could alienate viewers are present in other more renowned Kubrick films.  Kubrick makes challenging films that ask a lot from viewers, and he does no different here.  The viewer is asked to identify with an unsympathetic character, an anti-hero, much like Alex in A Clockwork Orange.  The film is often cold and distant, but few, if any of Kubrick’s films warmly embrace the viewer. Kubrick will instead ask the viewers to draw their own conclusions.  One needs only look to Full Metal Jacket to see this.  As a film, Full Metal Jacket is an enigma much like its lead character Pvt. Joker; a man with a peace symbol and “Born to Kill” written on his helmet.  A film which jumps around in style, from a boot camp film to war film, we must derive the meaning of Full Metal Jacket on our own.  We must theorize what Pvt. Joker is thinking at the film’s end when he kills the Vietnamese soldier, with the camera unflinchingly remaining on his face.  What Joker is thinking at this moment we must decide for ourselves.

Perhaps the film’s length and pace put many off?  The film comes in at around three hours, and can be slow and tedious.  Also, the fact that this is a costume drama set during the reign of King George III can make it dull and lifeless for many.  However, other Kubrick films lag and have long running times.  2001, for all its spectacle and beauty can be very slow at times.  In 2001 there are periods where the narrative literally stops to show the spectacle of the surrounding world, a concept Kubrick also uses in Barry Lyndon.  Kubrick specializes in transporting viewers to other worlds and times, or even dreamlike versions of our world, as in Eyes Wide Shut. Sometimes this can cause his films to suffer from pacing issues, but this is also where much of his strength comes from.  His films drip with atmosphere, often this is the element that makes them memorable.  Granted a costume drama in theory may not be as compelling as a film set in space, but the atmosphere in the film is so strong that if the film lingers it is only to draw the viewer farther into the film.

Still the questions remains, why has this film not garnered a place among many of Kubrick’s other works?  The answer seems to be that this is Kubrick’s most challenging film, and may ask too much of viewers.  This is saying a great deal considering this is the man who made 2001.  The film concerns itself with the plight of a social climber, Redmond Barry, a man with no positive traits aside from his devotion to his young son (again an anti-hero is nothing new to Kubrick).  It is how the main character’s story is told that makes it challenging. The viewer must actively watch the film in order to get the most out of it. One cannot simply have Kubrick walk them through this world; they must keep up with him.

Some of what occurs onscreen is completely inconsequential to the story, while other more important events in the life of Redmond Barry occur off-screen, only briefly mentioned by a narrator.  Part way through the film the narrator informs the viewer that Redmond Barry will die alone and penniless, yet this is never shown.  While most films would end on this, Barry Lyndon treats this as a casual occurrence not important enough to show.  Instead the viewer is presented with several small stories that at times play no part in the narrative but only serve to make social commentary, or deepen the viewers understanding of the surrounding world.  Take, for example, the brief affair Barry has with a young woman while abandoning his military duty.  The scene has no further consequence to the story and could be completely removed from the film.  Yet, this standalone story provides strong insight into women during the period, perhaps today.  Kubrick tells the viewer that women who fall for men in uniform must fall in love often or lead a lonely life.  This narrow focus appears to be the point of Barry Lyndon, to look only at specific moments in a great long life and pick out a few interesting stories.

The film treats the life of its main character as it does significant events occurring at the same time in history, such as the Seven Year’s War.  The film’s narrator states, “It would require a great philosopher and historian to explain the causes of the famous Seven Years’ War in which Europe was engaged and in which Barry’s regiment was now on its way to take part. Let it suffice to say, that England and Prussia were allies and at war against the French, the Swedes, the Russians and the Austrians.”  Much like this summarization, the film grazes over details and focuses on a few small battles of little consequence to the war.  Barry Lyndon is not concerned with Redmond Barry’s entire life, instead focusing on small stories that come from it.  The film’s epilogue states that none of what transpired really mattered, “It was in the reign of George the III that the above named personages lived and quarreled; good or bad, handsome or ugly, rich or poor, they are all equal now.” The film’s epilogue makes clear that really none of these events matter in the long run, no matter how important they seemed at the time.  In the end none of what transpired mattered, and all of the social climbing, scheming and backstabbing that came before were inconsequential. What the viewer is left with is a few stories from a man’s life that are humorous, satirical, or tragic.

This view that in the end nothing really matters is not new to Kubrick films. In Dr. Strangelove all the planning and bickering that took place prior are for naught, as the whole world is destroyed in a nuclear onslaught.  Yet, Dr. Strangelove was a black comedy and a satire, short, swift and fun.  Barry Lyndon satire is more subtle and with less humor.  The level of examination Kubrick attempts here is on par with books by Dostoevsky.  This attempt may be too much for any film to cover, no matter how longs its running time is. The magnitude of all that Kubrick tries to cover is enormous and seems something viewers are more accustomed to seeing in a book.  Watching the film can be like reading “Vanity Fair” in one sitting, a book that often takes people a great deal of time to read.

In the end, Kubrick made a brilliant film which breaks boundaries and asks the audience to challenge what a period film is, and what it can mean.  Watching the film is akin to reading a great literary novel, while viewing masterful paintings in an art museum.  While this is a remarkable achievement, it can be hard for a general populace to connect with.  While the film has many ardent supporters, such as Martin Scorsese, it can be a lot to take on in a single viewing.  However, for those willing to put effort into the film, they will find a rich deep film experience that is on par with Kubrick’s most rewarding films.

Brendan Cassidy is a contributing writer for The Film Crusade.

Every film has a different code of ethics for its newspaper, reporter, editor, and even its subjects. The most recent newspaper movie, State of Play, reminded us of just how downright dirty editors and reporters on film can be. And being that newspaper films seem to be headed toward extinction, we thought it would be fun the recall the many newspaper films worth the price of admission.

Case Studies: State of Play, All the President’s Men, Absence of Malice, The Paper, Ace in the Hole.

Honorable Mention: Citizen Kane, Shattered Glass, Sweet Smell of Success, Newsies.

STATE OF PLAY (2009)

Can a newspaper be more powerful if it’s about to tank? Director Kevin MacDonald (The Last King of Scotland) seems to think so. Such is the dramatic tension existing in most newspaper movies. The reporter needs a reason to keep their job and make sure the newspaper can survive. So what often happens in these movies is that reporters end up digging for a story until they strike gold. Some have no moral boundaries while others could care less about legal limits. In State of Play, old-fashioned Washington Globe reporter Cal McAffrey (Russell Crowe) is a moral character with a sound sense of journalism ethics but with absolutely no legal limits. McAffrey breaks the Woodward and Bernstein convention of investigative journalism by instead playing detective, journalist, crime-scene-investigator, and player! Talk about a reporter who likes to stay close to his subjects.

Russell Crowe and Ben Affleck in State of Play (2009)

Similar to a 70’s style political thriller, McAffrey and sidekick Della Frye (Rachel McAdams) organically unravel the complex mystery of the murder linked to Rep. Stephen Collins (Ben Affleck), McAffrey’s old college buddy. Their involvement in the story is often dangerous, and enough to get the police to show up at their headquarters after McAffrey withholds evidence. A memorable line is when the police sergeant reminds McAffrey, “It’s not a story, it’s a case!” Like Michael Keaton’s character in The Paper, McAffrey believes that in the newspaper timing is everything. So he employs illegal tactics such as videotaping his subjects and conducting closed-door interrogations in hotel rooms! Fearing that his partner or other bloggers will impulsively “upchuck online” after hearing a rumor, McAffrey represents a dying breed of reporters who believe that writing for a major newspaper carries a greater sense of accountability and accuracy which cannot be realized in the instantaneous, digital realm. Perhaps he is the last best hope for the papers.

ACE IN THE HOLE (1951)

Arguably the king of the newspaper films (that is unless you consider Citizen Kane to fit in this category), Billy Wilder’s ferociously uncompromising picture takes jabs at both the reporter who writes the story as well as the public who loves to gobble it up. Having been fired from various big-city newspapers, Charles “Chuck” Tatum (Kirk Douglas) finds himself needing to land a big rebound for an Albuquerque newspaper in New Mexico. Upon discovering a man named Leo Minosa (Richard Benedict) trapped in a cavern, Tatum seizes the opportunity to blow the story out of proportion into a national headliner while exploiting the rescue effort.

Tatum directs the entire rescue effort in a manner that will take days on end to complete while endangering the life of Minosa. Meanwhile, Tatum acts as a puppeteer, telling Minosa’s wife that she should pretend to be sad even though she’s thinking of leaving her husband. Tatum also bribes the Sheriff with media exposure if he can keep national reporters in the dark and allow Tatum to doctor the story as much as possible.

Kirk Douglas in "Ace in the Hole" (1951)

To the other big-city papers, Tatum once again appears as a moneymaking commodity to have on staff after he receives national attention as a celebrity. But to the editor of the Albuquerque newspaper who boasts a sign in the office which reads “Tell the Truth,” Tatum represents a cancer to pure and ethical reporting.

Unlike other newspaper films, the reporter cares an awful lot more about business and sales than the editor for Albuquerque’s paper. In Tatum’s utopian mind, smiling faces and happy endings are important requirements for good storytelling. Though he claims he is a “human interest” writer, he hardly has any human interest for his subject whose life is on the line. And yet it’s difficult to crucify Tatum particularly since Wilder’s commentary on the public’s interest in news is both reflexive and somewhat accusatory. The working title for the film, “The Big Carnival,” suggests Wilder wanted to rip on the large crowds that flocked to Albuquerque by making them the focal point of the story’s focus instead of Tatum. To Wilder, the bigger story for the papers is the mere fact that a nation-wide, circus-like event is staged at the scene where a desperate man is fighting for his life.

ABSENCE OF MALICE (1981)

This film focuses on the importance of reporters getting their facts straight, even when their sources seem reliable. In this case, Megan Carter (Sally Field) must cope with a whirlwind of repercussions set in motion by her choice to publish an unconfirmed report found on a desk linking Michael Gallagher (Paul Newman), son of a deceased Mafia boss to the disappearance of a union member. When Carter gets romantically involved with Gallagher, the line of trust erodes as Gallagher questions her loyalty as a friend over her passion for being a reporter. Although she may not come off as such, Carter represents the most selfish and ruthless of news reporters since she allows herself to become quite close with her subjects before backstabbing them for the sake of story. In one instance when Carter is confirming the whereabouts of Gallagher and Gallagher’s friend, Teresa Perrone (Melinda Dillon) at the time the union man disappeared, Teresa is lured into Carter’s trap of admitting Gallagher was with her during her scheduled abortion that very day. A devout Catholic, Teresa is ardently opposed to letting the community know about this even though the news can help absolve Gallagher. But in favor her story at the expense of Teresa, Carter nevertheless publishes the article only to discover the next day that Teresa has slit her wrists in suicide.

Paul Newman and Sally Field in "Absence of Malice" (1981)

This film explores what happens when desirable news stories are doctored by self-interested people who are either naïve about the power of the newspaper or who deliberately use the newspaper as a tool for political power. Less business-oriented than some other films mentioned, Carter’s editor serves as a moral compass instead of a numbers chart. Absence of Malice underscores the outrageous reality of non-existent stories being manufactured by news reporters for simply the sake of a good story. It fully articulates the consequences of such endeavors, on both the side of the subject and source of the story.

The final scene of the film dazzles with irony as Asst. U.S. Attorney James A. Wells (Wilford Brimley) interrogates all responsible parties for the false and illegal reporting. Gallagher, the initial suspect, ends up having the last laugh.

ALL THE PRESIDENT’S MEN (1976):

Dustin Hoffman and Robert Redford in "All the President's Men" (1976)

Two words. Fact-check. Alan J. Pakula’s newsroom in Washington doesn’t mess around with false stories since DC’s power players are always reading the morning edition. Woodward (Robert Redford) and Bernstein (Dustin Hoffman) may not like you, but they’re sure as hell gonna make sure that they’re right before printing a story. These are guys with class and ethics who believe in the investigation and are willing to put themselves on the line even if it means putting their jobs on the line. It isn’t until the end of the film when they print the story they’ve been waiting to print from the get-go, banging away on the typewriter. But it took a couple hours of interrogations, fact-checking, and careful brainstorming in order to get there.

THE PAPER (1994)

Having a field day with the enthusiasm of a solid cast, Ron Howard brings the energy and excitement of the newsroom to the big screen with power and purpose. The Paper reminds us why we favor one paper over another and gives us some insight into the importance of delivering the right story at the right time. As the clock winds down before the printing presses begin rolling, Henry Hackett (Michael Keaton) utilizes every tool and every person within proximity to get what he wants to prove his story before deadline. For Hackett, it’s less about the story itself and more about the timing of the story. He views reporting in such a way that he feels he is a client to the public. If his paper can print a story accurately and stay ahead of the curve in reporting against other papers, even if it’s just by a difference of one day, Hackett proclaims victory.

To the average viewer, the difference in getting a story right should not make too much of a difference in the time frame of just 24-hours. But Keaton brings such a richness and sense of purpose to his character that makes him easy to root for. Once we learn that he has turned down an offer from another paper that would be more money, Hackett has no other motive for wanting to publish the story other than to save the two innocents.

Charlie Wachtel is a Senior Writer for The Film Crusade and Founder of www.filmcrusade.com.

After a patient mysteriously dies in her sleep during dream therapy, gifted psychic Alex Gardner (Dennis Quaid) decides to investigate the man in charge, Dr. Paul Novotny (Max Von Sydow). Gardner later learns that Dr. Novotny is sending assassins into patients’ dreams to have them killed. When the President of the United States (Eddie Albert) is having nightmares of nuclear war, he seeks help from Dr. Novotny who considers the President’s dreams a threat to national security. In order for Gardner to save the President and the patients under experiment, he must figure out a way to terminate the government-funded project altogether.

So let’s get this straight. People who possess psychic powers are getting paid lots of money from the government to enter a person’s dream and fight evil! Talk about a bailout plan–-somebody get Obama on the phone. If only this were real. That’s the thing about eighties movies, they all had great concepts.

For certain high-concept sci-fi/horror flicks from the 80s, scripts were usually not a high priority. And Dreamscape is no exception. A high- concept plot-combo of The Dead Zone (1983) and A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984), Dreamscape is executed in a far less convincing manner than both films and with swiss-cheese-sized plot holes. It also would have made no money at the box office if it hadn’t been released three months before the terrifying A Nightmare on Elm Street. The main issue, the villain in Dreamscape, is David Patrick Kelly. He’s the weaselly Southern guy from Commando. Compare that to Robert Englund.

But Dennis Quaid does abuse his psychic powers and dream-rape Kate Capshaw (yes! that’s right. Steven Spielberg’s wife!). Just about the most whimsically-played, disturbing part of a any film until Paul Verhoeven’s Hollow Man. And Dreamscape does boast those wonderful eighties conventions: intense use of the synthesizer, half-assed CGI, the acceptance of bizarre scientific breakthroughs and theories, a cynical view towards the American government, and, again…Dennis Quaid with a mullet. So if you haven’t seen Dreamscape yet, you may or may not feel obligated to waste your time. But if you haven’t seen an eighties movie yet, Dreamscape’s not a bad place to start.

Charlie Wachtel is a Senior Writer for The Film Crusade and Founder of www.filmcrusade.com.

What was Stanley Kubrick saying?

One of the most intriguing expressions of the sanctity of the human body, Stanley Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut functions as a paranoid, psychosexual mind-warp. Characters are portrayed in absolutes as either prudes or extreme sex-crazy existentialists. The magic of the film can be seen during times wherein characters consciously or subconsciously cross over this sexual spectrum into a world less familiar to them. The consequences of such actions are ultimately personal to the individual character affected. What Kubrick has done is set up a world where the accepted convention and social contract of marriage is compromised by the visually depicted notion of sex-driven humans running amuck in a preverbal state of nature. The acknowledgment of Kubrick’s animalistic interpretation of humans being inherently “made to mate” is the central crisis for main characters, Dr. Bill Harford and Alice Harford. And thus the film portrays the human body as inviolable and at its purest state for two people who agree in contractual marriage.

It is the perversion of this marriage in the form of bodily infidelity which haunts Bill’s psyche and lingers in the form of a poisonous spirit, later corrupting his own mind. The Harfords’ previous desire to remain untouchable from the claws of a sex-obsessed state of nature is challenged as their attitudes of bodily sovereignty shift from comfortable acceptance to skeptical fascination with the prospect of having another lover.

The initial signs of unfaithfulness are first seen in the character of Alice Harford. Alice reveals to Bill her dream-like fantasy of a passing naval officer at a hotel they once stayed at. She mentions that if he had asked her to run away with him that she was prepared to leave everything: her husband, socioeconomic stability, and even her child. Such impetuous decisiveness was all strictly motivated by the sexual longing of a “kept woman” (Kreider 45). From the onset of the film, Kubrick sets up the essence of Alice as serving only superficial purposes to both herself and her environment. The fact that Alice exists solely as eye candy both to herself and others is corroborated as her first line of the film is “How do I look?” From then on she is seen brushing her daughter’s hair, hooking on a bra, applying deodorant in the mirror, and later flirting with Sandor Szavost in the ballroom scene. Kubrick defies the traditional purpose of costume which “harmonizes the mood” and complements or expresses character (Gaines 195). He instead explores the mind of Alice which shows signs of breaking the links of her own superficial bondage.

Additionally, the mise-en-scene of her surroundings particularly in her home further emphasizes the beauty and riches which surround her. Bright lights, Christmas ornaments, and abstract paintings in an upscale apartment indicate that Alice is superficially happy. Along with her gifted daughter, handsome husband, and care-free life, Kubrick has created the perfect embodiment of a human possessing the highest quotient for happiness. The mise-en-scene exhibited is similar to that in How to Marry a Millionaire (1953) which paints its protagonists in a similar light of luxury and comfort. The effect this has is remarkable once we learn of Alice’s consideration for a new kind of lover at the expense of losing this life of grandeur. In order to permeate the ideal life and crossover into a sexual state of nature, a reasonable person would probably consider the motivation partly, if not completely circumstantial.  But because Alice already has everything, her subconscious decision in the form of fantasy dreams to resort to sexual animalism is particularly compelling.

The emphasis of Alice’s psychosexual decision to consent to such a sexual state of nature hearkens back to Last Tango in Paris. Both films communicate a philosophy which “suppresses feeling and ‘civilizes’ the ‘savage’ in us all by repressing bodily needs” (Mellen 10). The characters of Paul and Jeanne in Last Tango are informally consenting to this lifestyle. When the couple grows increasingly skeptical of their raw, animalistic relationship there is paranoia concerning whether a convention-based lifestyle in the realm of the “civilized world” is possible for people of their kind. Eyes Wide Shut presents a diametrically opposite relationship with Bill and Alice who find they are instead gravitating towards the sexual state of nature.

Both films also see a significant requirement of the sexual state of nature as one which requires anonymity. Characters make conscious decisions to sacrifice their identity in order to be unfettered in their sexual endeavors. In Eyes Wide Shut we are introduced to a secret, underground world of naked ritual where disguised members dress in Venetian masks and must possess a secret password for entrance. Upon hearing of his wife’s psychosexual infidelity, Bill consents to this underground world and arrives at a secret meeting. It seems perhaps that Bill’s fascination with this world is largely attributed to his new perspective which gives such a dark, foreign world a chance. He consents to its existence when he initially purchases the costume and mask and asks Nick Nightingale for the password. The mask is of particular importance to the notion of anonymity because it exhibits a cold, impersonal touch with regard to Bill’s journey. This self-deprivation of the human face underscores the idea that the masks represent “the transformation of the wearer into a soulless object” (Kreider 46).

In pinpointing a logical interpretation of the anonymous nature of these secret ritualistic sex meetings it seems the only possible reason for hiding oneself is because of shamefulness for hidden, repressed sexual feelings or perhaps the idea that a perceived visual line must be drawn between the sexual state of nature and the convention-based world. The first reason is practical because it assumes that the characters portrayed are ashamed by their secret lifestyle and seek to remain safeguarded and sheltered in this process. Their shame can be attributed to the fact that they exist in a minority of people brave enough or conscious enough to express the true nature of their existentialist beliefs. The latter reasoning of the need to establish a barrier between both worlds acknowledges that both worlds are separate from each other and should be kept that way. This notion accepts the philosophy that if we fail to discern both worlds as “separate” then there will inevitably be a reciprocal perversion of both worlds. The mere fact that consenters to the sexual state of nature also partake in the normal world compromises the legitimacy of whatever world they partake in at any given time. The idea that consenters must eventually “return to” one world or another requires the repression or expression of their sexuality. What is particularly compelling about the secret organization is the socioeconomic makeup of its members. Almost all members are wealthy and high class. And because a secret password is required for entrance into this organization, the nature of the socioeconomic makeup is perpetuated. Perhaps this says something about the kind of people Kubrick believes have access to such sexually existentialist beliefs.

When Bill’s friend, Victor Ziegler finds out about Bill’s intrusion into the secret organization he defensively accuses Bill of being “out of [his] depth” and qualifies that the members were not “ordinary people.” Upon asking Victor who the names of the members were, Victor continues that “if I told you their names…you might not sleep so well.” This ambiguous hint leads us to believe that the most important politicians, celebrities, or mere power-players who run the world are enlightened with a raw truth which they feel must be protected. The irony of their covert involvement reveals that the people running the world are instinctively sexual animals who possess the ultimate truth of human existence. Like animals in a state of nature, such people “can buy and sell ‘ordinary’ men like Bill…and fuck or kill [anyone]” (Kreider 47). Bill and Alice eventually reconcile that they cannot see themselves in this world but would rather remain protected and kept innocent in their own world.

Though that is not to say that both don’t acknowledge their mutual repression of such sexually animalistic impulses. When Bill decides to end his sexual escapist journey and return to his wife, it is a sign that he thinks he can “make things work” the way they are. What is remarkable about Eyes Wide Shut is that throughout the entire film we never see Bill and Alice having sex. It takes the entire film for Alice to initially propose this to her husband after their intense, psychosexual journey forges a resolution. Perhaps this is an indication that all they need to spice up their relationship is a transformation of their sexual habits or a reliance on sex as an important part of their relationship.

Lest we forget that when Alice asked Bill if he derived any sort of pleasure from feeling his patients’ breasts that she was shocked and disappointed when he admitted the scientific response of “I’m a doctor.” Kubrick’s take on Alice’s sexual obsession and Bill’s fascination with it demonstrates that sex is always on our minds and it is perhaps the most important thing that should be on our minds. While Kubrick presses the obsession with the perversion of the body through infidelity it seems that it is something which he accepts and believes is intrinsic to us all. This final exchange between Alice and Bill seems to even acknowledge this acceptance as the viewers are asked to buy into the idea that the couple “plan[s] to forget all this unpleasantness soon in the blissful oblivion of orgasm” (Kreider 48). Alice’s final request for Bill is “something important” which she says must be done “as soon as possible.” When Bill asks what could be so crucial, Alice responds with just one word: “fuck.” Thus it can be assumed that either Bill must accept this new approach to life or inevitably their relationship is doomed to fail. The ending is enigmatic in this sense because the sexual underworld is something which we are unsure if Bill can really ever accept. It almost seems as if he is frightened by it and so returns to his false sense of stability. We can probably infer that sex will revitalize the marriage of the Harfords. But the ambiguous nature of the ending leaves this open-ended. Though Bill may not change his perspective on his sexual lifestyle, he knows that sexual existentialism is something which is too dangerous and frightening for him to be a part of. And while this film may not provide direct answers to all of these questions, the depth with which it covers the topic is telling since it acknowledges sex as a fundamental, inescapable natural part of life which everyone eventually must come to terms with.

Charlie Wachtel is a Senior Writer for The Film Crusade and Founder of www.filmcrusade.com.

Works Consulted

Castiglia, Christopher. Sex Panics, Sex Publics, Sex Memories. Summer 2000. 2 December 2008.

Eyes Wide Shut. Dir. Stanley Kubrick. Perf. Tom Cruise, Nicole Kidman, Sydney Pollack.

Feldmann, Hans. “Kubrick and His Discontents.” Film Quarterly. 30.1. (1976): pp. 12-19. JSTOR. University of California Press.

Gaines, Jane. “Costume and Narrative: How Dress Tells the Woman’s Story.” Fabrication: Body and Costume in Screen History, Routledge, New York, 1990.

Kreider, Tim. “Review: [Untitled].” Film Quarterly. 53.3 (2000): 7 pgs. 28 November 2008.   JSTOR. University of California Press.

Mellen, Joan. “Sexual Politics and Last Tango in Paris.” Film Quarterly. 26.3 (1973): pp 9-19. 24 November 2008. JSTOR. University of California Press.

Turim, Maureen. “Designing Women: The Emergence of the New Sweetheart Line.” Fabrications: Body and Costume in Screen History, Routledge, NY, 1990