Billy Wilder: ‘Nobody Can Portray What the Audience Can Imagine’

Billy Wilder

'If there's anything I hate more than not being taken seriously, it's being taken too seriously.'
Billy Wilder

I recently watched a couple of extended interviews with the legendary film-maker Billy Wilder. (‘Billy, How Did You Do It?’ (1992), Volker Schlondorff; ‘The Writer Speaks: Billy Wilder’ (1995), The Writers Guild Foundation)

'I have ten commandments. The first nine are, thou shalt not bore. The tenth is, thou shalt have right of final cut.'

Born into a Jewish family in a small town in Poland in 1906, Wilder was raised in Vienna and found work as a journalist and screenwriter in Berlin. After the Nazis’ rise to power, he moved briefly to Paris, before relocating to Hollywood in 1934. His mother, grandmother and stepfather were all victims of the Holocaust. 

‘Anyone who doesn't believe in miracles isn't a realist.’

Having learned English from scratch, Wilder co-wrote ‘Ninotchka’ (1939), the film where Garbo laughed, and ‘Ball of Fire’(1941), one of the great screwball comedies. He then took to directing, so that he could better control his vision.

‘People ask me if directors should also be able to write. I say to them: ‘What is important is that he is able to read.’’

Wilder went on to co-write and direct ‘Double Indemnity’ (1944), the prototype film noir; ‘The Lost Weekend’ (1945), the first movie to take alcoholism seriously; and ‘Sunset Boulevard’(1950), the definitive Hollywood expose. He filmed ‘Stalag 17’ (1953), the archetypal prisoner-of-war movie, and ‘Witness for the Prosecution’ (1957), the classic courtroom drama. He shone a spotlight on the cynicism of the press in ‘Ace in the Hole’ (1951). And he made us laugh like drains with ‘Some Like It Hot’ (1959) and ‘The Apartment’ (1960). Over six decades he created more than fifty films and won seven Academy Awards.

'An audience is never wrong. An individual member of it may be an imbecile, but a thousand imbeciles together in the dark - that is critical genius.’

In the interviews the elderly film-maker, still with an Austrian accent, looks back on his extraordinary career with authority, insight and a twinkle in his eye. Let us consider some of the lessons he imparts.

'Shoot a few scenes out of focus. I want to win the foreign film award.’

Wilder on the set of Double Indemnity (1944)

 1. Don’t Bore People

Wilder was at heart a popular entertainer. He wasn’t interested in arthouse credibility.

'Some pictures play wonderfully to a room of eight people. I don't go for that. I go for the masses. I go for the end effect.’

For Wilder the greatest crime was to be tedious.

'The Wilder message is don't bore - don't bore people.’

2. Start with the Architecture

Wilder’s films crossed many genres. They were characterised by tightly woven, intricate plots and dramatic reversals; by sharp dialogue and simple, elegant direction.  

‘Writing a movie is a mixture of architecture and poetry.’

Every twist and turn in the plot is carefully choreographed. Every scene is engineered like a Swiss timepiece.

‘The film has to be very precisely constructed, but the construction must not show.’

In ‘Double Indemnity’ (1944) a perfectly planned crime is undone by a car that fails to start. Expecting a rendezvous with his lover, the murderer is surprised by a visit from his boss. Counter to convention, a door opens onto a corridor, just so as to give Barbara Stanwyck somewhere to hide.
 
‘We have to find the mechanics and then write the scenes hiding the mechanics.’

Wilder was prepared to sacrifice great material if it didn’t serve the overall narrative. ‘Sunset Boulevard’(1950) was originally shot with an opening scene in the city morgue. In previews the audience burst out laughing when an identity tag was attached to a dead William Holden’s toe. Though Wilder loved the sequence, he cut it because it was setting the wrong mood.

3. Create Great Moments that Shake the House

Wilder was always thinking about audience attention.

‘Once you have the audience captured – once they are playing that game with the people on the screen – this is like you’ve got them by the throat, you can’t let it go. You squeeze a little more and more and more. Don’t let them escape. Don’t wake them up. Don’t let them realise this is only a movie that they’re seeing.’

And so he peppered his films with climactic moments. 

‘The strength of a film comes from those great moments that shake the house.’

As illustration of these mini-climaxes, he cites the rotten meat scene in Eisenstein’s ‘Battleship Potemkin’ (1925); the hitchhiker sequence in Capra’s ‘It Happened One Night’ (1934); the four-fingers reveal in Hitchcock’s ’The 39 Steps’ (1935).

'An actor entering through the door, you've got nothing. But if he enters through the window, you've got a situation.'

Wilder on the set of The Apartment (1960) with Shirley MacLaine and Jack Lemmon

4. Laughter Snowballs

Wilder was particularly attuned to the rhythm required for comedy.

‘In order to get laughs, you first have to create an atmosphere…One sporadic laugh and then nothing for 5 minutes is worse than no laughter at all. [Laughter] snowballs.’

For the final scene between Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon in ‘Some Like It Hot’ (1959), Wilder gave Lemmon a pair of maracas and got him to shake them after each gag. He did this to create space for audience laughter before Curtis delivered his next straight line.

The movie ends with Lemmon revealing his secret to his wealthy suitor.

Jerry: But you don't understand, Osgood! [pulls off his wig]… I'm a man!
Osgood: [shrugs] Well, nobody's perfect!

5. The Public Has to Add It Up

Wilder's first significant success in Hollywood came when he collaborated with Ernst Lubitsch on ‘Ninotchka’ (1939). The great German director taught him to let the audience work some things out for themselves.

‘Lubitsch was not afraid that people won’t understand him. Unlike people that say 2 + 2 makes 4, 1 + 3 also makes 4, 1+1+1+1 also makes 4. But Lubitsch says 2+2…That’s it. The public has to add it up.’

And so Wilder relates his stories with subtlety and a light touch. He advises, for instance, never to show a character having an idea.

'It’s too difficult to act and it’s very difficult to believe.’

Similarly, the murder in ‘Double Indemnity’ (1944) is not shown on screen. Rather, it is conveyed by a slight move of Barbara Stanwyck’s head as she drives the car in which it takes place.

'Emotions that are of startling strength, or vehement reactions, are best shot and acted by an actor with the back to the camera. Nobody can portray what the audience can imagine.’

Wilder on set

6. The Best Director Is the One You Don’t See

Wilder was first and foremost a writer, and his filmic style always served the script. 

'How do you make sure they understand what you want to tell them? How do you direct their eyes to that thing? How do you make them remember? The subtler you are, the more elegantly you do it, the better a director you are.’

His complex narratives required simple direction.

‘There are only two kinds of film for the public. The simple story padded out, furnished in rococo. The simple plot allows visual embellishment. Then the complex story filmed simply, in order to make it comprehensible. But if it’s complicated and you also make arabesques, then the audience won’t understand.’

Wilder was no fan of technical tricks and imaginative camera angles.

‘I shot fast with as few camera positions as possible. Good positions, interesting positions. But nothing…tricky. If they notice the camera you’re lost…The best director is the one you don't see… Shoot the son-of-a-bitch and let’s go home’

7. It’s Much Easier to Say ‘Do Less’ than ‘Do Something’

Wilder had a particular talent for getting great performances from his actors. Fourteen of the stars he directed were Oscar-nominated, including Barbara Stanwyck, Audrey Hepburn and Charles Laughton; Jack Lemmon, Shirley MacLaine and Walter Matthau. 

‘A director must be a policeman, a midwife, a psychoanalyst, a sycophant and a bastard.’

He often cast against type, enlisting tough guy James Cagney for a comedy role, and Disney hero William Holden to play a villain. He worked with Marilyn Monroe on two of her best pictures.

'An endless puzzle without any solution.’
 
In ‘Sunset Boulevard’ (1950) Wilder cast Gloria Swanson as a silent era film idol desperate for a return to the spotlight. Swanson, a silent star herself, had virtually given up cinema, and some warned him that her traditional acting style was too expressive. But that’s what Wilder wanted from the role.
 
‘It’s much easier to say ‘do less’ than ‘do something.’’

8. Keep Some Ideas in the Bottom Drawer 

Watching David Lean’s romance ‘Brief Encounter’ (1945), in which a couple conduct a tryst in a friend’s flat, Wilder was prompted to ponder:

‘What about the man who has to crawl back into his warm bed?’

He wrote a 5-page outline and popped it in a drawer filled with assorted first acts, characters and scenes.

Some years later Wilder was so enjoying working with Jack Lemmon on ‘Some Like It Hot’ (1959) that he determined he had to collaborate with him again. But on what? He went to his bottom drawer and pulled out the 5-page outline that would eventually become ‘The Apartment’ (1960).

Wilder with IAL Diamond

9. Approach Creative Collaboration Like Bank Tellers

Wilder’s writing career was marked by two significant partnerships: with Charles Brackett from 1936 to 1950; and with IAL Diamond from 1957 to 1981. 

Here Wilder describes his working routine with Diamond.

‘When you think of two guys writing a screenplay, what comes to mind? You visualise two crazies screaming at each other, or dancing on the furniture when they have come up with what they think is a doozy. Iz and I, we’re more like bank tellers. We open the shop at 9-30. There was a quick exchange of ‘morning’, ‘morning.’ I would sit behind my desk and he would slouch in the black Eames chair, his feet on the ottoman. He would be chewing gum or sucking on a toothpick - anything not to smoke too much. Sometimes the muses would come and whip our brow and we would whip up 10 or 12 pages a day, his on the typewriter and me with the yellow pad. There was no arm twisting, no pulling rank, no shouting, no screams of ecstasy because one came up with an idea that was maybe not too bad. The highest accolade you could get out of Iz was: ‘Why not?’’

10. Don’t Delude Yourself

Wilder was happy to acknowledge that even a talented film-maker gets it wrong sometimes. The key is to make an honest mistake, and to follow it with a hit.

‘Having been at it for a long time, I don’t delude myself. Usually when a picture doesn’t work, you go round and you say it was ahead of its time, the release was too close to Christmas, the release of the picture was too close after Christmas because people had spent their money on presents. The picture was a failure because there was so much sun and people wanted to go to the beach. And then it was a failure because it rained and nobody’s on the streets. All kind of excuses…’
 
Wilder gained his final Academy Award nomination for the screenplay of 'The Fortune Cookie' (1966), the first film pairing Jack Lemmon with Walter Matthau. But as the ‘60s turned into the ‘70s, he felt increasingly uncomfortable with the fashion for technical wizardry and special effects; with the spiralling cost of film production and the consequential conservatism. Most of his movies were made on budgets of between $800 and 900k.

'Most of the pictures they make nowadays are loaded down with special effects. I couldn't do that. I quit smoking because I couldn't reload my Zippo… They don't want to see a picture unless Peter Fonda is running over a dozen people, or unless Clint Eastwood has got a machine gun bigger than 140 penises. It gets bigger all the time, you know. It started out as a pistol, and now it's a machine gun. Something which is warm and funny and gentle and urbane and civilized hasn't got a chance today. There is a lack of patience which is sweeping the nation - or the world, for that matter.’

Wilder’s later films failed to impress critics or the public. In 1976 he remarked:

'They say Wilder is out of touch with his times. Frankly, I regard it as a compliment. Who the hell wants to be in touch with these times?’

He died aged 95 in 2002, leaving a legacy of some of the most entertaining films in Hollywood history. His gravestone reads:

‘I’m a writer. But then nobody’s perfect.’

'Isn't it romantic?
Music in the night, a dream that can be heard.
Isn't it romantic?
Moving shadows write the oldest magic word.
I hear the breezes playing in the trees above,
While all the world is saying you were meant for love.
Isn't it romantic?
Merely to be young on such a night as this?
Isn't it romantic?
Every note that's sung is like a lover's kiss.
Sweet symbols in the moonlight.
Do you mean that I will fall in love perchance?
Isn't it romance?
Sweet symbols in the moonlight.
Do you mean that I will fall in love perchance?
Isn't it romantic?
Isn't it romance?’

Mel Torme, 'Isn’t it Romantic?' (R Rodgers, L Hart)

No. 477

I Know Where I’m Going!…The Best Leaders Listen to Their Hearts

Joan: Please, please, God. You know how important it is for me to get to Kiloran. Please let the gale drop… Or let me get to the island somehow. Please. Please.

‘I Know Where I'm Going!’ is a 1945 romantic drama created by the masterful Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger. 

It’s the story of an ambitious, independent woman who has a fixed view of her future and is determined not to be distracted from her objectives by fate, feelings or circumstance.

Narrator: When Joan was only one, she already knew where she was going… She's 25 now and in one thing she's never changed - she still knows where she's going.

We meet Joan Webster (Wendy Hiller) in a smart Manchester nightclub. Stylishly dressed and confident, she casually takes a puff on her cigarette and orders a gin and Dubonnet. Over dinner with her bank manager father she briskly announces that she is setting off that evening for the Isle of Kiloran in the Hebrides. There she will marry Sir Robert Bellinger, her boss at Consolidated Chemical Industries, a wealthy industrialist.

Father: Bellinger must be nearly as old as I am.
Joan: And what's wrong with you, darling?

In her first class compartment on the night train to Scotland, Joan dreams of her future life of luxury as Lady Bellinger. But her fantasy takes a rather curious turn as she imagines taking her wedding vows.

'Do you, Joan Webster, take Consolidated Chemical Industries to be your lawful wedded husband?’
'I do.'

When dense fog postpones the final leg of her journey, the boat trip to Kiloran, Joan is obliged to sit it out on the Isle of Mull. There she meets Torquil MacNeil (Roger Livesey), a naval officer returning home to Kiloran for his eight days’ shore leave.

The pair kill time together in a land of big skies, tall mountains and turbulent seas; of long-horned cattle, friendly hounds and singing seals. Joan encounters Gaelic-speaking locals, impecunious gentry and an eccentric falconer. She dances to pipers at a joyous ceilidh and is introduced to traditional superstitions and an ancient curse.

Joan: People around here are very poor I suppose.
Torquil:  Not poor, they just haven't got money.

As the fog turns to a gale, Joan becomes ever more impatient.

Joan: How long will the gale last?
Boatman: Oh, just as long as the wind blows, milady. It can last for a day. It can blow for a week.
Joan: It looks so near. In half an hour we could be there.
Boatman: In less than a second you could get from this world into the next.

And so the delay drags on.

Joan learns that the locals are not particularly enamoured of her husband-to-be. Betraying his city origins, he is having a swimming pool built in his grand house and buys his salmon in from the mainland. She also discovers that Torquil - by contrast an enthusiast for country living - is the Laird of Kiloran, beloved of the community.

Gradually Joan finds herself falling for her new acquaintance. And so is all the more determined to stick to her original objective and get away.

Joan: It's very important. I must get across. I'll pay you anything you ask.
Boatman: I will take you to Kiloran as soon as it is humanly possible, milady, and I will not be wanting extra payment for that.

Joan is increasingly torn between realising her long-held goal and losing herself to Torquil. Desperate to salvage her plans, she bribes young Kenny, the Boatman’s son, to attempt the hazardous crossing.

Joan: You think that I'm risking Kenny's life when I could stay safely here. But I'm not safe here. I'm on the brink of losing everything I ever wanted.

We may recognise something of Joan’s obstinacy - her dogged determination to see things through - in our own lives. Too often we ignore evolving context, unwelcome information and our own emotional messaging. We know where we’re going, and we’ll not be deterred or distracted. But our destination has become the wrong one.

In the world of work we celebrate objective setting and long term planning. We admire people who exhibit resolve and conviction; who keep their eyes on the prize. But the best leaders also embrace agility and flexibility. They adapt to changing data, events and circumstances. They listen to their hearts.

The movie culminates in high drama as Torquil joins Joan and Kenny on the perilous boat trip. They must overcome a violent storm, mechanical failure and the legendary Corryvreckan whirlpool. It’s gripping stuff.

I hope you know where you’re going in 2024. And that it’s in the right direction. Happy New Year!

'I know where I'm going,
And I know who's going with me.
I know who I love,
But The Devil knows who I'll marry.

I have stockings of silk,
Shoes of fine green leather,
Combs to buckle my hair,
And a ring for every finger.

Some say he's black.
I say he's bonny.
The fairest of them all,
My handsome winsome Johnny.

I know where I'm going,
And I know who's going with me.
I know who I love,
But the Devil knows who I'll marry.’

The Glasgow Orpheus Choir, 'I Know Where I'm Going’ (Traditional County Antrim song)

No. 450

Lady in the Lake: Distinctive Film Techniques Can Either Enhance or Obstruct

Robert Montgomery and Audrey Totter in Lady in the Lake (1946)

‘MGM presents a revolutionary motion picture. The most amazing since Talkies began! You and Robert Montgomery solve a murder mystery together!’

The 1947 movie ‘Lady in the Lake’ is based on the Raymond Chandler novel of the same name. In many ways it’s a typical film noir, following hard-boiled LA private detective Philip Marlowe as he navigates a world of murder, mystery and a missing woman. There are crooked cops, unreliable witnesses and an enchanting femme fatale; cynical double-crosses, brutal violence and a crisp, caustic script.

'My name is Marlowe, Philip Marlowe. Occupation: private detective. You know, somebody says, ‘Follow that guy’, so I follow him. Somebody says, ‘Find that female’, so I find her. And what do I get out of it? $10 a day and expenses. And if you think that buys a lot of fancy groceries these days, you're crazy.’

What distinguishes ‘Lady in the Lake’ is the decision of lead actor and first-time director Robert Montgomery to use point-of-view cinematography: the viewer experiences the entire drama from Marlowe’s perspective.

‘You’ll see it just as I saw it. You’ll meet the people. You’ll find the clues. And maybe you’ll solve it quick and maybe you won’t.’

The subjective camera tracks along corridors and up staircases. It looks to left and right to review the situation, and then focuses in on the key protagonists, who address us directly. We see a hand on the door handle as Marlowe enters a room; smoke billows before us as he lights a cigarette; and the leading lady even gives us a kiss. On a number of occasions we catch Marlowe’s reflection in the mirror. And when he is punched in the face, we tumble to the floor and everything goes woozy. 

'Perhaps you'd better go home and play with your fingerprint collection.’

It was quite a challenge sustaining the point-of-view approach through the whole picture. To capture Marlowe’s walking movement the production team employed a new kind of dolly, with four independent wheels. A seat for Montgomery was attached at the front, so that the actors could respond to him. And for the fight scenes a camera with a flexible shoulder harness was used.

'I wonder how it would be to discuss this over a couple of ice cubes. Would you care to try?’
'Imagine you needing ice cubes.’

However, the production was problematic. Scenes planned for the lake of the title were cancelled because the technique proved difficult to execute outdoors. MGM studio bosses became frustrated that their expensive leading actor barely appeared on-screen, and insisted on the insertion of a number of awkward explanatory interludes where Marlowe reviews events afterwards in his office. They also demanded a happy ending.

‘Now what am I supposed to do? Reform? Become poor-but-honest? On what street corner would you like me to beat my tambourine?’

Watching the film today, initially the effect is intriguing. The characters seem to be addressing us personally. We feel involved in the action. We encounter the twists and turns of the plot as if we are detectives. We are Philip Marlowe! 

But over the one hour and three quarters running time, the approach becomes a little wearing, somewhat artificial. It is as irritating as it is interesting.

'Please don't be so difficult to get along with. I need help.’
'Like I need four thumbs.'

Robert Montgomery, Audrey Totter in Lady in the Lake (1946)

In the course of my career in advertising we often developed commercials that employed a distinctive technique. We played scenes backwards, slowed them down, re-ordered them and mixed filmic styles. We explored original editing, unusual music, eccentric sound effects, and more besides. 

Sometimes a fresh technique succeeded in prompting involvement; in drawing attention to the core idea. Sometimes it just got in the way. It was always a calculated risk.

Perhaps BBH’s most successful such experiment in my time there also involved point-of-view camerawork: Levi’s 1993 ad ‘Drugstore.’ 

We follow events from the perspective of a young man as he buys condoms from a general retailer and pops them in the watch-pocket of his 501s. He drives to his girlfriend’s house to take her on a date. When he knocks on her door, it is opened by the man who made the sale - her surprised, and concerned, father. The endline reads: 'Watch pocket created in 1873. Abused ever since. Levi’s 501. The Original Jean.’

What sets ‘Drugstore’ apart from other technique-based executions is the sheer quality of the filmmaking. Nick Worthington and John Gorse’s script had at its heart something of a Benny Hill gag. But they chose exceptional director Michel Gondry to shoot it with style and panache – with suggestions of ‘Grapes of Wrath’ and O Winston Link. And they selected a contemporary electronic soundtrack by Biosphere to give it an eerie, haunted quality. And to keep people on their toes, they also filmed a gender-switch version where the young woman buys the condoms.

In the midst of all this inventiveness the point-of-view camera technique enhances rather than obstructs the drama. And maybe that’s the lesson.

‘You stick your nose into my business and you’ll end up in an alley where the cat’s looking at you.’

So what became of ‘Lady in the Lake’?

Well, Chandler, whose own version of the script had been rejected, was unimpressed with the finished product and demanded that his name be removed from the credits. Critics were also largely underwhelmed. And Montgomery, who had been under contract with MGM since 1929, never made a film with them again. 

Despite all this, the movie was a box-office success.  And perhaps this was the biggest mystery of all.

'Put yourself in my place
If only for a day.
See if you can stand
The awful hurt I feel inside.
Put yourself in my place
For just a little while.
Live through the loneliness
The endless emptiness
I go through.
And when you lose a little sleep at night
Cause you ain't been treated right,
Then you know heartaches are sad.
Sitting by the telephone
Being left all alone,
Then you know why I'm feeling bad.
Put yourself in my place.’

The Elgins, 'Put Yourself in My Place’ (Holland–Dozier–Holland)

No. 442

Lumet’s Lessons: Preparing for Lucky Accidents

‘All great work is preparing yourself for the accident to happen.’
Sidney Lumet

Between 1957 and 2007 Sidney Lumet directed some 50 films. He gave us thrilling legal dramas, like ’12 Angry Men’ and ‘The Verdict’; gripping analyses of corrupt institutions, like ‘Serpico’ and ‘Network’; and searing psychological stories, like ‘The Pawnbroker’ and ‘Dog Day Afternoon’. He presented us with moral ambiguity, isolated anti-heroes and prisoners of conscience; flawed individuals struggling to find justice and truth. He was known as ‘the Dickens of New York’, ‘the actor’s director.’ And he taught us a great deal about the creative craft. 

‘If you prayed to inhabit a character, Sidney was the priest who listened to your prayers, helped them come true.'
Al Pacino

1. Start with Empathy

‘All good work is self revelation.’

Lumet was born in Philadelphia in 1924 to Polish immigrant parents who worked in the Yiddish theatre. He grew up on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, studied acting at the Professional Children's School, and, from the age of 5, appeared in several Broadway productions and one movie. After attending Columbia University, he served as a radar repairman in India and Burma during World War II. On his return he enlisted as a member of the inaugural class at New York's Actors Studio. 

Lumet loved drama, but he realised that performing was not for him. So he set up his own theatre workshop and appointed himself director, while also teaching at the High School of Performing Arts.

His early experience gave him a life-long empathy with actors.

‘I understand what they're going through. The self-exposure, which is at the heart of all their work, is done using their own body. It's their sexuality, their strength or weakness, their fear. And that's extremely painful.’

Scene from 12 Angry Men

2. Turn Your Disadvantages into Advantages

In 1950 Yul Brynner, who was directing television dramas at the time, invited Lumet to join him at CBS. When Brynner left to star in ‘The King and I,’ Lumet took over. He shot two live shows a week: murder mysteries, comedies and original plays. His output included the innovative ‘You Are There’, a series that covered historical events – such as the death of Socrates and the Boston Tea Party - with modern news techniques.

In 1957 Lumet was commissioned to produce his first movie, ‘12 Angry Men’ starring Henry Fonda. A taut examination of the US jury system - shot in just 19 days - the drama played out in a claustrophobic jury room one sweltering New York summer.

From the outset Lumet displayed a thoughtful and imaginative approach to his craft.

‘It never occurred to me that that was a difficult thing to do, to do a whole movie in one room. You come in with a certain arrogance when you’re young… I knew that the way to do it was to turn what was seemingly a disadvantage into an advantage. As the movie went on, I made the room smaller:  the lenses got longer and longer, so that walls kept pulling in closer and closer, the camera kept dropping, dropping, dropping, so finally the ceiling was right over their heads. So that actually the whole piece kept contracting. And dramatically that’s what the movie was about.’

3. Be Whatever They Need You to Be

In the early phase of his film career Lumet was often tasked with translating stage plays onto the big screen. Between 1960 and 1962 he adapted classics by Tennessee Williams, Eugene O'Neill and Arthur Miller. 

Lumet’s theatre background clearly impacted his style of movie direction. He rehearsed a minimum of two weeks before filming, and during that time he also blocked the scenes with his cameraman. Consequently, when it came to the actual production, he would usually shoot a scene in one take, two at the most, and he consistently delivered on time and on budget.

Lumet had a natural affinity with actors. He worked with them individually on their parts and he was happy to share ideas. He would often improvise dialogue and had the best exchanges incorporated in the script.

 ‘My job is to be whatever they need me to be. I’m no believer in any particular kind of technique. I’ll work any way they want to work.’

Image from The Hill

4. Trust Your Instinctive First Response

Lumet soon broadened his output beyond stage adaptations. His work tackled serious, psychological themes: the agonies of conscience; guilt and innocence; honesty and truth.

‘The Pawnbroker’ (1964), starring Rod Steiger, reflected on the enduring mental scars of a Holocaust survivor living in Harlem. ‘The Hill’ (1965), with Sean Connery, examined the brutality of a military prison. ‘Fail Safe’ (1964), again featuring Henry Fonda, exposed the ease with which Cold War misunderstandings could escalate into nuclear destruction. 

In selecting a script Lumet always trusted his gut.

‘I respond to a script or an idea completely instinctively, don’t try to analyse it, don’t try to fit it into a preconceived notion of what I want. And then, after a number of years, I can look back and I can say: ’Oh, that’s what I was interested in at that time.’’

5. Plunge in with Faith

Lumet extended this instinctive approach into the production process.

‘Self deception is really necessary to even go to work in the first place. Because the work itself is so hard you’ve got to be prepared to say: ‘I believe in this. I don’t see the problem.’ A kind of plunging in with faith.’

Lumet continued to be fascinated by the technical possibilities available to him in film. In ‘The Pawnbroker’ he used flashbacks to communicate the persistence of memory. In ‘The Hill’ he employed just three lenses: 24, 21 and 18mm. As the drama developed, he distorted the foreground and let the background recede to create the impression of escalating mental pressure.

Lumet compared his process to that of making a mosaic.

'Someone once asked me what making a movie was like. I said it was like making a mosaic. Each setup is like a tiny tile. You color it, shape it, polish it as best you can. You'll do six or seven hundred of these, maybe a thousand. Then you literally paste them together and hope it's what you set out to do. But if you expect the final mosaic to look like anything, you’d better know what you’re going for as you work on each tiny tile.’

Sidney Lumet with Al Pacino on the set of Serpico. Photograph: Everett Collection/Rex Features © Artists Entertainment Complex

6. Set the Mental Juices Flowing

Having grown up in New York during the Depression, Lumet witnessed a good deal of poverty and corruption. His films often focused on malpractice in the system and the fragility of justice.

‘If we are to have faith in justice we need only to believe in ourselves and act with justice. I believe there is justice in our hearts.’

‘Serpico’ (1973) starring Al Pacino, told the story of a whistleblower in the New York City police force, ‘a rebel with a cause.’ ‘Network’ (1976) presented Peter Finch as a news anchor suffering a breakdown, railing against the iniquities of modern media. ‘The Verdict’ (1982) featured Paul Newman as a washed up lawyer taking on a medical negligence case to salvage his career.

'I have always been fascinated by the human cost involved in following passions and commitments, and the cost those passions and commitments inflict on others.'

Lumet consistently aimed for more than entertainment.

‘While the goal of all movies is to entertain, the kind of film in which I believe goes one step further. It compels the spectator to examine one facet or another of his own conscience. It stimulates thought and sets the mental juices flowing.’

7. If It Moves You, It’ll Move Them

For the most part Lumet was a social realist. He insisted on the most natural light and he edited his films so the camera was unobtrusive. He employed camera techniques sparingly and only in service to the core theme of the movie.

‘I hate technique for the sake of technique.’

Conscious that the urban environment provided a vibrant canvas for his work, and sensitive to the particular rhythms of his hometown, Lumet preferred to shoot in New York. 

‘Locations are characters in my movies. The city is capable of portraying a mood a scene requires…. New York is filled with reality; Hollywood is a fantasyland.'

Lumet often worked with true stories. 1975’s ‘Dog Day Afternoon’, based on real events that took place in Brooklyn three years earlier, starred Al Pacino as a small time crook who plans a robbery to pay for his partner's sex reassignment surgery. But the heist goes badly wrong and turns into a hostage situation under the media spotlight.

The film included an emotionally draining scene in which Pacino’s character calls home. Lumet incurred Pacino’s anger by asking him to do a second take. But the director had a reason. 

‘When we’re tired we weep more easily, we laugh more easily. We’re just wide open.’

Lumet didn’t double guess the public’s reactions. His driving principle was that if a shot moved him, it would move them.

‘If I'm moved by a scene, a situation... I have to assume that that's going to work for an audience.’

8. Prepare for Lucky Accidents

Lumet had a strong work ethic, developing more than one movie a year for most of his career.

‘If I don't have a script I adore, I do one I like. If I don't have one I like, I do one that has an actor I like or that presents some technical challenge.’

Inevitably this prolific approach led to as many failures as successes. 

I’m just a great believer in quantity – more chances for the accident to happen…I need one hit, so I can get the money for three more flops.’

Lumet believed that there was a price to pay for ambitious film-making.

‘Great scripts can be screwed up more easily. Because the demand that they make is so much greater. Is there anything more boring than a bad Hamlet?’

Lumet saw his role as maximising the chances of ‘lucky accidents.’

'The truth is that nobody knows what this magic combination is that produces a first-rate of work. I’m not being modest. There’s a reason some directors can make first-rate movies and others never will. But all we can do is prepare the groundwork that allows for the ‘lucky accidents’ that make a first-rate movie happen. Whether or not it will happen is something we never know. There are too many intangibles.'

1976 Sidney Lumet & Faye Dunaway on the set of 'Network'

9. Make Sure Everyone’s Going in the Same Direction

In the course of his career Lumet was nominated four times for a directing Oscar. But he never won. He lost out to some great movies: 'The Bridge on the River Kwai’, 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest' and ‘Gandhi.’ In 1976 the Academy preferred ‘Rocky’ to Lumet’s masterpiece ‘Network.’ 

‘Everyone was saying we were going to take it all. And on the flight out to LA, [screenwriter Paddy Chayefsky] said, 'Rocky's going to take Best Picture.' And I said, 'No, no, it's a dopey little movie.' And he said, 'It's just the sort of sentimental crap they love out there.' And he was right.’

In 2005 Lumet was presented with an Honorary Academy Award. 

‘I wanted one, damn it, and I felt I deserved one.’

Lumet died at the age of 86 in 2011. 

In some ways, with his gritty depictions of the modern city and his concern for individual conscience and social justice, Lumet was a director in the neo-realist tradition. But in his empathetic relationship with his actors and his instinctive judgement, he also looked forward. And he provided us with a compelling definition of contemporary leadership in any field.

 ‘My job is to get the best out of everybody working on [the film]. And make sure we are literally going in the same direction. That’s why I’m called the Director.’

'Accidents will happen,
They only hit and run.
You used to be a victim, now you're not the only one.
Accidents will happen,
They only hit and run.
I don't want to hear it, because I know what I've done.’

Elvis Costello and the Attractions, ‘Accidents Will Happen'

No. 436

The Band Wagon: You Can Teach an Old Dog New Tricks

The Band Wagon, From Left Cyd and Fred Astaire. Photo - Everett

‘The Band Wagon’ is a fine 1953 musical comedy, directed by Vincente Minnelli with songs by Schwartz and Dietz. Starring Fred Astaire and Cyd Charisse, it boasts great tunes and cracking dance routines. And it explores some important themes: the interaction between aging talent, timeless skills and contemporary relevance; between entertainment and art, populism and pretension.

The film begins with the auction of a top hat and cane that once belonged to Tony Hunter (Astaire), the star of now dated dance movies. No one is interested in making a bid. We join Tony on a train from Hollywood to New York where he overhears fellow passengers discuss him as a has-been. At Grand Central he is heartened to see a crowd of reporters, but they are there to greet Ava Gardner. He realises he’s all washed up.

'The party's over, the game is ended,
The dreams I dreamed went up in smoke.
They didn't pan out as I had intended,
I should know how to take a joke.’ 
‘By Myself’ (A Schwartz / H Dietz)

Nonetheless, Tony is welcomed at the station by his friends, songwriting duo Lester and Lily Marton. They have composed a light musical comedy that will make a perfect Broadway comeback for him. And they are excited to have caught the interest of avant garde theatre director Jeffrey Cordova.

When the team meet up with Cordova, he enthuses about the project. He proposes to bring together diverse performance traditions into something startlingly new; to create a radical reinterpretation of the Faust legend. 

To accommodate the director’s vision, the Martons rewrite their play as a dark, cutting edge musical drama. And Cordova signs up youthful ballerina Gaby Gerard (Charisse) as Tony’s partner.

Tony, however, is apprehensive about starring opposite a classically trained ballet dancer, and one so tall. And Gaby is nervous about working with a Hollywood legend. Their initial meeting goes badly.

Gaby: I'm a great admirer of yours too.
Tony: Oh, I didn't think you'd ever even heard of me.
Gaby: Heard of you? I used to see all your pictures when I was a little girl. And I'm still a fan. I recently went to see a revival of them at the museum.

The company embarks on rehearsals. But Tony, feeling he's being patronized by the creative team, storms out. 

'Let's get this straight. I am not Nijinsky. I am not Marlon Brando. I am Mrs Hunter's little boy, Tony, song and dance man.'

When Gaby’s attempt to patch things up with Tony goes awry, she bursts into tears. They decide to clear the air with an evening carriage ride and walk through Central Park.

'Where to?'
'Oh, leave it to the horse.'

Strolling under a full moon, they reach a clearing. They walk slowly, in step, without a word - he in a cream linen jacket with yellow shirt and tie, she in a simple white dress. She spins. He spins. They sway together - he with his hands behind his back, she with her hands by her sides. They rotate, skip, twist and turn. At first gently, thoughtfully. Gradually they become elegantly entwined, and as the swooning string music is punctuated by stabs of brass, the extensions become more dramatic, the embrace more intimate. He lifts her up and they look into each other’s eyes. They flutter gracefully up a set of steps and settle back into the carriage, hand in hand, without a word. 

This famous ‘Dancing in the Dark’ sequence establishes that Gaby and Tony make natural dance partners. They recommit to rehearsals with renewed vigour. 

However, the first out-of-town tryout of the show proves disastrous. It’s a hugely complicated production, with elaborate sets and muddled stage direction, and it degenerates into a farce. 

'You got more scenery in this show than there is in Yellowstone National Park!’

'I should have listened to my mother. She told me only to be in hit shows.’

At Tony’s insistence, the creative team convert the production back into the light comedy that the Martons had originally envisaged. At last it all comes together.

The show's centrepiece is a 12-minute dance tribute to pulp detective novels. ‘Girl Hunt’, a murder mystery in jazz’ relates a private eye’s adventures on the city’s mean streets. There’s a blonde in distress, who’s ‘as scared as a turkey in November,’ and a sinister brunette with ‘more curves than a scenic railway.’ There’s a gunfight in the subway and trilbied villains at a fashion show; an emerald ring, exploding bottles and a murderous trumpet player. And it all climaxes in Dem Bones Café with Charisse in shimmering red dress and black evening gloves, all sensuous strut, long legs and high kicks.

‘She was bad. She was dangerous. I wouldn't trust her any farther than I could throw her. But... she was my kind of woman.’

After the thrillingly successful Broadway opening, Gaby and Tony embrace in front of the entire cast and crew. 

'The show's a big hit, Tony... It's going to run for a long time. As far as I'm concerned, it's going to run forever.'

So what are we to make of the underlying themes of  ‘The Band Wagon’?

There’s no doubt the project had personal resonances for Astaire. He was 54 and had been indelibly associated with high society dance movies. He often worried about taller partners and had previously considered retirement.

At first the film seems to be an assertion of the enduring power of established craft in the face of contemporary trends and pretentious art-house conceits. But Tony’s ultimate success does not reside in him returning to the top-hat-and-tails tropes of yesteryear. Rather he forges a new, more inventive form of popular entertainment, based on a natural partnership with a star from another discipline.

It suggests that traditional skills can remain relevant - not by grafting them onto the latest fad or fashion - but by investing them with new vigour, input and imagination.

As the cast declare in a final reprise of the show’s big hit: ‘That’s entertainment!’

'Everything that happens in life
Can happen in a show.
You can make 'em laugh,
You can make 'em cry,
Anything can go.’
’That’s Entertainment’ (A Schwartz, H Dietz)

No.414

‘Sunset Boulevard’: Beware the Corrosive Effects of Cynicism, Delusion and Deceit

'You're Norma Desmond. You used to be in silent pictures. You used to be big.'
'I am big. It's the pictures that got small.’

‘Sunset Boulevard,’ Billy Wilder’s classic 1950 movie, holds a mirror up to Hollywood – its cruelty, greed and narcissism. It raises questions about the human cost of the creative industries’ relentless drive for progress and profit.

The film stars William Holden as Joe Gillis, a struggling screenwriter who has been worn down by one too many disappointments.

'Audiences don't know somebody sits down and writes a picture. They think the actors make it up as they go along.’

Gillis is cynical and bitter, short of money and considering packing it all in.

'I'd always heard you had some talent.'
'That was last year. This year I'm trying to earn a living.’

While endeavouring to evade his creditors, Gillis stumbles into the mansion of Norma Desmond, a former silent-film star, now long forgotten. The house is all faded grandeur: heavy ornate furnishings, a bed ‘like a gilded rowboat’, an unused tennis court and pool, an organ that whistles in the wind. Everywhere there are portraits of the star in her dazzling youth.

'The whole place seemed to have been stricken with a kind of creeping paralysis... out of beat with the rest of the world... crumbling apart in slow motion.’

Desmond is a sad, delusional figure. She refuses to accept that the arrival of cinematic sound represented an advance; and that her career is long since over.

'There once was a time in this business when I had the eyes of the whole world! But that wasn't good enough for them, oh no! They had to have the ears of the whole world too. So they opened their big mouths and out came talk. Talk! Talk!’

Desmond’s stiff, taciturn butler Max maintains that she is still a legend beloved by the public. And he forges her fan mail to sustain the deceit.

'You don't yell at a sleepwalker. He may fall and break his neck.’

Learning that Gillis is a writer, Desmond hires him to edit a script she has drafted for her planned return to the screen. Though Gillis thinks the work is execrable, he is happy to take the money. 

'What it needs is maybe a little more dialogue.'
'What for? I can say anything I want with my eyes.’

Gillis moves into the mansion, and, accepting clothes and gifts from the besotted actress, he gradually becomes her paid companion. At night they watch old movies together on her private screen – all of them starring the youthful Norma Desmond.

We realise the melancholy runs deep. Desmond has tried to commit suicide on a number of occasions, and so the locks in the house have been removed. Max is in fact Desmond’s former director and first husband, and he remains pathetically devoted to her. 

Ultimately Gillis’ cynicism, Desmond’s denial and Max’s deceit hold the three central characters in a vortex of self-destruction - one from which they cannot escape.

'No one ever leaves a star.'

Director Wilder introduces further resonances through his casting. He gives the role of Desmond to Gloria Swanson who was herself a major silent star in the ‘20s. Max is played by Erich von Stroheim - a famously fastidious director in the silent era, who shot Swanson a number of times. Indeed in 1929 von Stroheim was fired by Swanson from one of her productions, an incident that ended his directing career. And the ‘waxworks’ that visit Desmond’s house to play bridge in the evenings are genuine silent film actors, including the illustrious comedian Buster Keaton.

'We didn't need dialogue. We had faces.'

‘Sunset Boulevard’ is a story of lives blighted by ambition, success and failure; of the relentless drive of progress; of an industry that devours talent, spits it out and moves on. The film has some lessons for anyone working in a creative business. 

'There's nothing tragic about being 50, not unless you try to be 25.' 

Beware the corrosive effects of cynicism - the misanthropy that deprives Gillis of his intuition and flair. With every new setback the bitterness increases, and the chances of making it next time diminish.

Beware denial of change; yearning for past success and former glory. Where Desmond rages against sound, today’s former heroes resent the advances of performance marketing, data analytics, behavioural science and in-housing.

‘Poor devil - still waving proudly to a parade which had long since passed her by.’

And finally, beware the petty deceptions: the everyday falsehoods that sustain the illusion that everything is fine, when it patently isn’t. Don’t, like Max, confirm the biases and prejudices that are holding back advancement. Don’t bury your head in the sand.  

‘Sunset Boulevard’ ends where it began – with tragedy. Desmond descends her grand staircase. She pauses, and then steps towards the cameras, addressing the attendant press and the audience beyond.

'You see, this is my life. It always will be. Nothing else! Just us, and the cameras, and those wonderful people out there in the dark... All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up.’

'Are we really happy here
With this lonely game we play?
Looking for words to say.
Searching, but not finding understanding anywhere.
We're lost in a masquerade.’

The Carpenters, ‘This Masquerade’ (L Russell)

No. 402

‘I Thought You Said You Could Skate’: What Funny Girl Teaches Us About Career Conviction

Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl 1968

‘I'd rather be blue over you
Than be happy with somebody else.'
'I'd Rather Be Blue Over You'  (B Rose / F Fisher)

‘Funny Girl’ is a 1968 musical rom-com loosely based on the life of comedian Fanny Brice. Directed by William Wyler, it stars a luminous Barbra Streisand in her film debut, reprising a role she performed previously on Broadway. 

We are in New York in the early years of the twentieth century. Fanny is a stage-struck young Jewish woman whose mother runs a saloon on the Lower East Side. She gets a part in the chorus line of a vaudeville dance troupe at Keeney’s Oriental Palace. But with her unconventional looks she feels she doesn’t quite fit in.

'I'm a bagel on a plate full of onion rolls.’

What’s more, Fanny can’t dance. Fired by Keeney after a disastrous audition, she is quizzed about her ambition by dance coach Eddie. 

Eddie: You’re no chorus girl. You’re a singer and a comic… So why’d you try out for the chorus?
Fanny: Cos that’s what you were looking for. If you were looking for a juggler, I’d have been a juggler. Just got to get on stage somehow. 

Fanny is bemused by the fact that Eddie gave her a chance in the first place.

Fanny: How come you hired me?
Eddie: Because you wanted it so much.

Eddie conspires with Fanny to try her luck again, this time in a roller skating act.

Eddie: Are you sure you can roller skate?
Fanny: Can I roller skate?

In purple and green velvet-striped shift dress, with matching hat, tights and skates, Fanny takes to the stage. She teeters and totters, and careers out of control - crashing into the scenery, bumping into the other skaters, almost toppling into the orchestra pit. She causes chaos everywhere she rolls. 

Eddie: I thought you said you could skate!
Fanny: I didn’t know I couldn’t.

Fanny’s performance is a disaster. But the audience finds it totally hilarious.

Her comedy act at Keeney’s gets her noticed, and six months later she is offered a role in the Ziegfeld Follies on Broadway. Despite her inexperience, she continues to display the bloody mindedness that earned her her first break. In her debut show, reluctant to perform a romantic song straight, she disobeys management and gives it a comic twist. Subsequently she insists on singing her own songs. Such grit and determination accelerate Fanny’s journey to becoming a top Broadway star.

'Who is the pip with pizzazz?
Who is all ginger and jazz?
Who is as glamorous as?
Who's an American beauty rose,
With an American beauty nose,
And ten American beauty toes?
Eyes on the target and wham
One shot, one gun shot and bam!
Hey Mister Keeney
Here I am.’
'I'm the Greatest Star’ (J Styne / B Merrill)

‘Funny Girl’ became the highest-grossing film at the US box office in 1968, and it received eight Oscar nominations. Streisand won Best Actress, tying with Katharine Hepburn. Though it was her first movie, Streisand took a hands-on interest in how it was shot. At the wrap party Wyler gave her a director's megaphone in mock recognition of her contribution. 

Maybe Streisand was channelling Fanny Brice. Indeed we can all take career lessons from the legendary Broadway star.

Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl. Photo: Columbia.

We may shy away from certain roles and challenges because we’re concerned about our inexperience. We may be constrained by our fear of failure, by our modest estimation of our own abilities. But Fanny suggests that we should overcome our doubts and dithering; that, setting our sights on our ultimate goal, we should seize every opportunity with complete conviction. 

Of course, we may find out that we can’t skate. But perhaps we’ll discover another talent in the process.

Fanny’s ascent to the top is not completely seamless. She becomes attached to a charming but hopeless gambler (played by Omar Sharif). Nonetheless she navigates her romantic dilemmas with the same resolve and tenacity with which she approaches her career.

As Barbra Streisand so compellingly puts it: ‘Don’t rain on my parade!’

'Don't tell me not to fly,
I've simply got to.
If someone takes a spill
It's me and not you.
Who told you you're allowed
To rain on my parade?’
‘Don’t Rain on My Parade’ (J Styne / B Merrill)

No. 392

Chaplin’s City Lights: You Only Know Me When You’re Drunk

‘City Lights’ is a 1931 romantic comedy written, produced, directed by, and starring Charlie Chaplin. 

Chaplin had created his character the Little Tramp in 1914, and by the end of the 1920s he was famous the world over. With his neat toothbrush moustache, curly black hair, bushy eyebrows and awkward waddle, the Tramp was instantly recognisable. His bowler hat and cane, wing collar and waistcoat suggested that he had once been a man of distinction. But now his clothes were tatty, he was homeless and friendless, and all he had to sustain him were his resilience, sharp wits and good humour.

As the opening title card of Chaplin’s 1921 film ‘The Kid’ announced, audiences could expect:

'A picture with a smile - and perhaps, a tear.'

Chaplin started developing the script for ‘City Lights’ in 1928. Since the success of 1927’s ‘The Jazz Singer,’ Hollywood had been investing in ‘talkies,’ and he came under some pressure to make the Tramp speak for the first time. But Chaplin felt that the character’s charm resided in his silence. And so he determined to use just occasional sound effects and also, for the first time, he composed the score. 

Filming started in December 1928, but was not completed until September 1930. The unusually lengthy production was in part down to Chaplin’s fastidiousness. He constructed elaborate sets. He experimented with casting. He re-shot a critical opening scene 342 times. But he also suspended the shoot for substantial periods while he worried about the sound issue. 

'In the past my work had usually stimulated interest among producers. But now they were too preoccupied with the success of the talkies, and as time went on I began to feel outside of things; I guess I had been spoiled.'

‘City Lights’ is full of elegantly choreographed comic set-pieces. The Tramp narrowly escapes falling down a sidewalk elevator. He mistakes a party streamer for spaghetti. He replaces his foreman’s cheese with soap. And when he swallows a whistle, he inadvertently hails a taxi and attracts a pack of stray dogs. 

The movie is also graced with a compelling plot.

As he wanders the busy streets of downtown Los Angeles, the Tramp meets a beautiful blind Flower Seller (Virginia Cherrill – cast because she had very poor eyesight). He is beguiled by her sweet nature and walks away a man in love.

That evening the Tramp saves a drunken Millionaire (Harry Myers) who was intent on committing suicide since his wife has left him. The new friends go back to his mansion for drinks and then hit the town to celebrate. As dawn breaks, the Millionaire takes the Tramp home in his Rolls Royce.

The Tramp: Be careful how you're driving.
Millionaire: Am I driving?

From this point on the Tramp oscillates between pursuing his romance with the Flower Seller and enjoying adventures with the Millionaire. The two plot strands interact with each other, but the Flower Seller and Millionaire never meet.

When, later that same morning, the Tramp chances upon the Flower Seller on the street, he buys her whole basket of blooms with money borrowed from the Millionaire, and he drives her home in his friend’s Rolls. Naturally she assumes the Tramp is wealthy, but she is also quite taken with his charm and gallantry.

Sadly the girl is soon confined to her bed with a fever. She falls behind in the rent and is threatened with eviction. To help her out the Tramp takes a job as a street sweeper and gets himself a slot on a boxing bout for a $50 purse. 

In a classic scene the Tramp prepares for the contest with smelling salts, rabbits’ feet and horseshoes. He endeavours to persuade his opponent to fix the fight - to no avail - and takes to the ring in his bowler hat. Once the bout begins, he hides behind the referee and dances around the Prizefighter. He hugs his opponent, hugs the referee and hugs the corner post. He takes a running jump at the Prizefighter, rings the bell to end the round early and gets himself tied up in the bell rope. Eventually our hero is left sprawled on the canvas and counted out.

The Tramp is incredibly unfortunate and accident-prone. He can be both cowardly and foolhardy. But he is also resourceful, generous and good-natured. And, above all, he has a heart.

A running gag through ‘City Lights,’ and indeed one of the primary plot mechanics, is that the Millionaire only recognises the Tramp when he is drunk. When he wakes up each morning with a hangover, he swears he’s never seen his new friend before and has him ejected.

This resonated with me. I suspect we all have friends and colleagues who seek us out when they need something, or when they’re just looking for company. But the test of true friendship, and indeed fellowship at work, is whether you stick around through the tough times, when there’s nothing you can gain, no purpose to be served, no larks to be had.

At length the drunken Millionaire is persuaded to pay for an operation to cure the Flower Seller’s blindness. But the Tramp is mistakenly thought to have stolen the money and is put in prison.

When, months later, the Tramp is released, he can’t find the Flower Seller at her usual spot and so roams the streets, dishevelled and disconsolate.

In fact the Flower Seller, her sight restored, now runs her own successful shop and has been waiting in hope of one day meeting her benefactor again.

Then, by chance, the Tramp stoops to pick up a flower discarded in the gutter outside the Flower Seller’s shop. He turns and sees her, and breaks into a grin. Not knowing who he is, she is nonetheless amused.

‘I've made a conquest!’

In pity, she offers the Tramp a fresh flower and a coin. He makes to leave, but she insists. And then, when she presses the coin into his hand, she suddenly recognizes his touch. 

‘You?’

 The Tramp nods.

‘You can see now?’
‘Yes, I can see now.’

She continues to hold his hand. The Tramp smiles back. The End.

Despite being released well into the sound era, ‘City Lights’ was the highest-grossing film of 1931. Chaplin invited Albert Einstein to join him at the premier in LA. When the house lights came up, the scientist was in tears. 

Time for a festive break.
Have a restful Christmas. 
Next post will be on Thursday 6 January 2022.
See you on the other side, I hope.

'Maybe I'll sleep real late.
Maybe I'll lose some weight.
Maybe I'll clear my junk.
Maybe I'll just get drunk on apple wine.
Me, I'll be just fine and dandy.
Lord, it's like a hard candy Christmas.
I'm barely getting through tomorrow,
But still I won't let
Sorrow bring me way down.’

Dolly Parton, ‘Hard Candy Christmas’ (C Hall)

No. 351

‘Sweet Smell of Success’: Are We In a Prison of Our Own Making?

'Don't do anything I wouldn't do! That gives you a lot of leeway…'
Sidney Falco, ‘Sweet Smell of Success.’

I recently re-watched one of my favourite films: Alexander Mackendrick’s 1957 reflection on the New York gossip industry, ‘Sweet Smell of Success.’ Based on a short story by Ernest Lehman, caustically scripted by playwright Clifford Odets, shot in moody black and white by James Wong Howe, and set to a swooning jazz score by Elmer Bernstein, it’s a noir classic. 

'Harvey, I often wish I were deaf and wore a hearing aid. With a simple flick of a switch, I could shut out the greedy murmur of little men.’

Burt Lancaster plays J J Hunsecker a tyrannical Broadway columnist for the New York Globe. Bespectacled and elegantly attired, he inhabits the late-night clubs of New York’s Mid-Town, dining with powerful Senators, aspirant stars and unctuous managers. He trades in hearsay and half-truths. He is at once charming and condescending, composed and yet with an air of menace.

'You're dead, son. Get yourself buried.’

Tony Curtis plays Sidney Falco, a Press Agent who earns his modest income by placing stories with columnists like Hunsecker. He is vigorous and smooth talking, with youthful good looks. He’s ‘the boy with the ice cream face.’ But he is also cynical, self-interested and completely lacking in scruples. He will stop at nothing to climb the career ladder. 

'J J Hunsecker is the golden ladder to the place I want to get.’

Falco fawns over Hunsecker, who in turn treats him with disdain. Theirs is a relationship of reluctant dependency. The columnist holds his unlit cigarette towards the agent.

'Match me, Sidney.’

The film focuses on Hunsecker’s endeavours to prevent his beloved sister from marrying a jazz musician. (It’s based on the real life columnist Walter Winchell who was similarly protective of his sister.) Hunsecker has commissioned Falco to put an end to the relationship, by any means necessary - so far without success. The columnist is frustrated.

'Sidney, conjugate me a verb. For instance, "to promise.”’

Hunsecker and Falco emerge from the Twenty One Club into the Manhattan night. It’s a bustling world of crowded sidewalks, teeming traffic, crooked cops and gaudy neon. A drunk is thrown brusquely from a nearby nightspot, crashing into a garbage can.

'I love this dirty town.’

Falco pleads for one last chance. He plans to place a smear of the boyfriend in a rival’s gossip column – that way the young couple won’t trace it back to Hunsecker. The piece will suggest that the jazz musician is a communist and a marijuana user.

'The cat's in the bag and the bag's in the river.’

As the plot thickens and the tension ratchets up, Hunsecker offers Falco a candid character assessment.

‘You’re in jail, Sidney. You’re a prisoner of your own fears, your own greed and ambition.’

‘Sweet Smell of Success’ is indeed a tale of ambition, and the damaging effect it has on people. Occasionally we see suggestions that Falco has the residues of a conscience, that he might once have been a decent human being. But his blinkered drive for personal gain, his unquenchable appetite for advancement, has eradicated any qualms and misgivings, any consideration of others.

'I'd hate to take a bite out of you. You're a cookie full of arsenic.’

Now I’m sure none of us could be accused of being quite so amoral as Sidney Falco. But we are all, to varying degrees, driven by ambition. Today ambition is broadly celebrated and encouraged. It’s the urge to get on, to realise our potential, ‘to be the best that we can be.’ It’s a measure of commitment.

But perhaps it’s worth regarding our ambition with a certain amount of circumspection. In historic times this same quality was considered a sin. Ambition is compulsive, corrosive, all consuming. It can eat away at trust and relationships. While driving us upwards and onwards, it can also isolate us. 

In time, compromised by excuses, half-truths and neglect, our friends fall away and our colleagues keep their distance. We become our own gaolers, constrained by walls and fetters we have created ourselves. We are in a prison of our own making.

'The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping is to make sure he never knows he's in prison.'
Fyodor Dostoevsky

For a brief moment it seems that Falco’s plans will come to fruition. He withdraws to a bar to celebrate.

'I am tasting my favorite new perfume - success!’

But ultimately his plot is defeated by the integrity of others. As dawn breaks we find him out on Times Square being beaten up by the cops. The lieutenant wipes his hands clean, pigeons flock to the scene and the sound of the brass section swells to a climax.

'Here I am, after so many years,
Hounded by hatred and trapped by fear.
I'm in a box. I've got no place to go.
If I follow my mind, I know I'll slaughter my own.
Help me, I'm the prisoner.
Won't you hear my plea?
I need somebody to listen to me
I beg you, brothers and sisters
I'm counting on you.’
Gil Scott-Heron, ’The Prisoner'

No. 348

The 39 Steps: Does Your Brand Have a MacGuffin?

'Have you ever heard of the 39 Steps?
'No. What's that, a pub?’

‘The 39 Steps’ is a classic 1935 British thriller directed by Alfred Hitchcock, loosely based on a novel by John Buchan.

Robert Donat stars as Richard Hannay, a Canadian visitor to London who becomes a murder suspect, goes on the run and endeavours to prevent a spy ring from stealing British military secrets. It’s gripping stuff.

A gun goes off in a music hall and an alluring secret agent seeks sanctuary in Hannay’s flat on Portland Place.

‘There’s a dangerous conspiracy against this island and we’re the only ones who can stop it.’

But the mysterious woman dies with a knife in her back, clutching a map of the Highlands. Hannay escapes disguised as a milkman, hides away on the Flying Scotsman and kisses a fellow passenger to evade arrest. He jumps off at the Forth Bridge, stays the night with a crofter and is chased across the moors by a police gyrocopter. 

'I've been guilty of leading you down the garden path. Or should it be up? I never can remember.'
'It seems to be the wrong garden, all right.’

Next Hannay is shot by an aristocratic villain with a finger missing – but the bullet is stopped by a hymnbook. He is interviewed by an unreliable sheriff and seized by police who may not be police. And he spends the night at a country inn handcuffed to a beautiful blonde who doesn’t quite trust him. 

'There are 20 million women in this island and I've got to be chained to you.'

‘The 39 Steps’ takes us on a breathless chase across the Highlands, along roads blocked by flocks of sheep, through a patrician country house party and a crowded political meeting. We are desperate for our hero to escape his pursuers and foil the villains’ scheme. But, in truth, we are not that concerned about exactly what that scheme is.

This is a classic early use by Hitchcock of a plot technique he called a MacGuffin: a device that drives the narrative and motivates the characters, but is itself unimportant.

'The MacGuffin is the thing that the spies are after, but the audience don't care.’
Alfred Hitchcock

We learn that the 39 Steps refer to a foreign spy organisation that has been scheming to smuggle the design for a silent aircraft engine out of the country. Although we the audience appreciate that silent aircraft engines are hugely important to the key protagonists in the movie - that they are prompting them to risk their lives – silent aircraft engines don’t really matter too much to us, or to our enjoyment of the drama.

Hitchcock was fond of MacGuffins. ‘Foreign Correspondent’, for example, was propelled by a clause in a secret peace treaty; ‘Notorious’ by radioactive uranium; ‘North by Northwest’ by confidential microfilm. 

Indeed you’ll find MacGuffins in many movies, particularly thrillers. There’s the small statuette in 'The Maltese Falcon,’ the stolen transit letters in ‘Casablanca,' the briefcase in ‘Pulp Fiction,' the rug in 'The Big Lebowski.'

I found myself wondering about Brand MacGuffins: particular characteristics that drive a brand narrative, that sustain its core benefits – but that are not of themselves that important to consumers.

Back in the day Cadbury Dairy Milk contained ‘a glass and a half of full-cream milk’; Dove soap was ‘one quarter cleansing cream’; and Boost was ‘slightly rippled with a flat under-side.’ KFC had an ‘Original Recipe of 11 herbs and spices’; Coors was ‘brewed with pure Rocky Mountain spring water’; and Flora margarine had ‘polywassernames’…

Wanting to draw attention to the breadth of his brand’s range, in 1896 Henry J Heinz introduced the slogan ‘57 pickle Varieties.’ In fact he was selling more than 57 varieties, but he just thought the numbers 5 and 7 were lucky.

The 39 Steps (1935) Alfred Hitchcock (second right) directing the handcuffed Madeleine Carroll and Robert Donat on the first day of filming

Brand MacGuffins – Reasons to Believe or Substantiators as we called them back then - were vitally important to the businesses that claimed them. They established difference, explained superiority and justified premium. They were often shrouded in secrecy and guarded with alacrity. As consumers we were glad they existed, but didn’t really care too much about their specifics.

Of course, nowadays Brand MacGuffins are rather thin on the ground. Product differentiators are easy to copy and difficult to extend across sectors. And if you research them, people just shrug their shoulders. Modern brands prefer emotional differentiators and Big Ideas – they’re more pliable, comprehensible, universal. 

It’s a shame. Brand MacGuffins conferred texture, character and credibility. They enabled more engaging, distinctive brand dialogue. They were fun.

Perhaps now, after all this time, it may be pertinent to ask: could your brand benefit from a MacGuffin?

At the end of ‘The 39 Steps’ Hannay realises that the plotters have not actually stolen any secret papers. Rather they intend to smuggle the details of the silent aircraft engine out of the country using the extraordinary recollective powers of a theatre performer. 

We make our way to the London Palladium. Mr Memory, who has been an unwitting accomplice in the scheme, is shot on stage as he reveals the plans. He seems relieved finally to be liberated from his secrets.

‘The first feature of the new engine is its greatly increased ratio of compression represented by R minus over to the power of gamma where R represents the ratio of compression and gamma... Seen in end elevation, the axis of the two lines of cylinders...Angle of degrees… Dimensions of cylinders as follows...This device renders the engine completely silent.’ 
‘Am I right, sir?’
‘Quite right, old chap.’
‘Thank you, sir. Thank you. I'm glad it's off my mind. Glad.’

'I got an X-ray camera hidden in your house
To see what I could see.
That man you was kissing last night
Definitely wasn't me.
And I spy for the FBI.’

Jamo Thomas ‘I Spy (for the FBI)’ (R Wylie / H Kelley)

No. 324