Dixon Steele (Humphrey Bogart) is a successful screenwriter but
has gone a few years since his list hit. Hired to adapt a plot-boiler he’s so
contemptuous of the synopsis he invites a waitress at his favourite restaurant,
Mildred (Martha Atkinson), to his flat one night to describe the story to him.
Becoming as bored with her as he is with the cliched plot, he sends her home.
When she is murdered later that night, Dixon is number 1 suspect. He’s alibied
by his neighbour, aspiring actress Laurel Gray (Gloria Grahame) and the two
start a relationship. But the pressure from the investigation and his writing
assignments bring Dixon’s barely controlled rage more and more to the surface –
with Laurel slowly fearing that he could be capable of anything if pushed to
it.
It would be expected for a movie of this period – say
something like Suspicion where of course Cary Grant is just misunderstood
not a would-be killer – for all this to simmer and then resolve itself as a
terrible series of errors (mostly of course from the woman). In a Lonely
Place doesn’t do this. Instead, from the start we are given no reason to
doubt Dixon’s capacity for near-murderous rage. Practically the first thing we
see him do is assault a producer – albeit avenging an insult to an alcoholic
actor friend. His first resort is violence. It’s something he’ll resort to time
and time again, his capacity for anger joined with a self-pity that makes
preemptive violence more likely.
It bleeds into the relationship with Laurel, which at first
is all goodness and light. The two of them are well-suited, and an excellent
tonic for each other: she’s a combination of muse and amanuensis, helping Dixon
turn out his script; he opens doors in Hollywood she has spent years pushing
against. But Dixon’s possessiveness, resentment and suspicion become clearer,
accentuated by Laurel’s reserve and caution to emotional commitment. The
relationship becomes tortured as Dixon resents any trace of suspicion against
him, alternating with desperately possessive pleading for love. Any deviation
from his idea of their relationship is seen by him as an act of betrayal.
Then there’s that temper. It’s there all the time, a sadistic
streak that suggests a damaging lack of empathy. Dixon – while vaguely sorry
for Martha’s death – is also perfectly happy discussing her demise with a
clinical academic interest. He’s unphased by crime scene photos. He feels no
guilt about not driving her home. Later, at the house of his friend (one of the
detectives) he theorises how the crime was committed with an animation that
turns into unsettling excitement. After a row with Laurel he drives a car (with
both of them in it) with reckless fury and then nearly beats to death someone
whose car he clips. Dixon follows these moments with futile half-apologies –
anonymous flowers for Martha’s family, anonymous cheques to pay for car
damages. But he never addresses his deep psychological problems.
This relationship becomes one ripe with the unspoken
capacity for violence. Gloria Grahame is excellent as a careful, guarded woman
who opens herself romantically, only to become terrified that the man in her
life could just as easily kill her as kiss her. It’s a tension we feel too.
Making breakfast, Dixon may talk about how they will be together always
– but his vulnerable voice underlines his own doubts, and his furious
insistence that they marry ASAP carries the capacity for fury if denied.
As Dixon, Humphrey Bogart gives one of (if not the) greatest
performances of his career. Playing a character who, with his dark rages,
allegedly had similarities with himself, his Dixon is a bleak figure. Capable
of wit and charm, Bogart also makes him a cruel, seedy and sinister in his
excitement at murder, while never preventing us finding him vulnerable and weak
in his fear at being abandoned. But not sympathetic enough for us to worry he
may end things by murdering Laurel. He’s never sympathetic – his late,
motiveless, slapping around of his decent agent ends our chance of finding him
that for good – but he’s understandable.
And he lives in a dysfunctional town. Where Hollywood
intrudes on the action, Ray makes clear it is dark, unsettling, alien and unfriendly
town – a truly lonely place. There are no confidantes or friends: only
colleagues and potential rivals. You are only as good as your last credit: when
your last few credits are poor, you’re no-one. On the other hand, rage and
misbehaviour will be tolerated if you can produce the goods. It’s not a place
for humanity or goodness.
Ray’s overlooked classic is a beautiful fusion of film noir
and Hollywood insider movie. With superb performances from the two leads, it
also feels way ahead of its time in looking at abusive relationships. Abusive
partners don’t arrive twirling moustaches. They seem decent, loving and
passionate – its only when you start to disappoint them they start to turn
angry, controlling and abusive. By the time the film’s end come – and it’s a
bleak one – you’ll be hard pressed to find some hope in it. But you will
certainly find some great film-making.
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