The Pawnbroker

Sidney Lumet's The Pawnbroker (1964) is an impressive work. A dark chamber drama, its skirting of censorship, striking editing and craft a memorable depressing atmosphere.

Sol Nazerman (Rod Steiger) runs a pawnshop in Harlem. A mentally scarred Holocaust survivor, Sol rejects all human contact, whether from his family, customers or young assistant Rico (Jaime Sanchez). Sol discovers his boss Rodriguez (Brock Peters) is a crooked slumlord, and is puzzled by widow Marilyn's (Geraldine Fitzgerald) efforts to reach out to him. Ultimately things go south when Rodriguez comes to collect his debt - and when Rico tries to rob his store.

The Pawnbroker is Lumet's most technically ambitious work. Editor Ralph Rosenblum provides New Wave-inspired jump cuts, flashing Sol back to the concentration camp with the slightest triggers. Boris Kaufman's dark shadows and brooding camera angles construct a nasty, violent urban jungle. With Quincy Jones' throbbing score and a very early nude scene, Lumet provides a subversive edge which marked his '70s work.

Hollywood rarely addressed the Holocaust: Judgment at Nuremberg's use of Auschwitz newsreels was many Americans' introduction to the topic. European films were no less circumspect: Alain Renais's restrained documentary Night and Fog won plaudits while Gillo Pontecorvo's Kapo was pilloried for "glamorizing" concentration camps. Nowadays of course, the Holocaust is fair game for shoot-'em-up action (Defiance) and grotesque exploitation (Inglourious Basterds). Even good entries like Schindler's List rarely consider its effects on individuals.

The Pawnbroker explicitly compares Harlem's ghetto with Nazi Germany. Sol explicitly equates Thelma Oliver's prostitution with his wife's rape by camp guards. Once a college professor, Sol now toils in a socially-designated role as a money-handling "kike." Rico's attempts to reform came to naught; Sol's testiness pushes him back towards his street gang. Only Rodriguez gets out of the ghetto through managing vice rackets. Undoubtedly a heavy-handed comparison, it nonetheless exhibits palpable rage at social inequity.

The Pawnbroker is principally a character study. With his antisocial attitudes and self-loathing, Sol presages Gene Hackman in The Conversation.  He avoids emotion by shunning human contact, which backfires when his relatives abandon him and Rico returns to crime. Sol seemingly finds a kindred spirit in Marilyn but pushes her away too. His psychological scarring and inability to connect make him a pitiable figure.

Rod Steiger gives a career-best performance. He rejects his habitual hamming (see Waterloo) and gives an intense performance. Steiger gives Sol a demure Yiddish accent and defeated mannerisms, showing a man who'd be happier dead. It's astonishingly credible work from an actor rarely known for restraint. 

Geraldine Fitzgerald is heartbreaking as a lonely woman who (mistakenly) sees Sol as a potential friend. Jaime Sanchez's likeable turn registers more positively than his mannered work in The Wild Bunch. Brock Peters (To Kill a Mockingbird) is cast against-type as a suave villain. Raymond St. Jacques (Glory) plays a street thug and Juano Hernandez (Sergeant Rutledge) has a memorable walk-on.

The Pawnbroker remains a powerful film. Elements of it feel overwrought, especially the finale, but the innovative craftsmanship, dour atmosphere and Rod Steiger's acting register strongly.

* * *

Fear not dreariness, Groggy readers! We have a special holiday post coming up in the next few days. Stay tuned.

Dog Day Afternoon

Sidney Lumet helms another classic with Dog Day Afternoon (1975). A bizarre tale of a bank robbery-turned-media circus, it would be completely outlandish if it weren't so closely based on a true story.

On a sweltering summer day, a pair of crooks, Sonny (Al Pacino) and Sal (John Cazale), hold up an NYC bank. The first stages go off perfectly, but the inept robbers get trapped by an army of police. As reporters and civilians gather, Sonny poses as an anti-Establishment hero, spouting slogans and riling up the crowd. It comes out that Sonny is hoping to steal money for his gay lover's (Chris Sarandon) sex change operation, but Sal is disgusted when *he's* labeled as a homosexual. Things remain at an impasse until the FBI tricks the robbers into a rigged deal.

Dog Day Afternoon is a clockwork thriller. Never the most dynamic director, Lumet's docudrama driection and frantic editing make a perfect fit. Frank Pierson provides a perfecty-structured script, building absurdities into a unique storyline. By focusing closely on his protagonists, Lumet undermines much of his thematic posturing re: the media and social discord. Dramatically though it's the right play, allowing both a claustrophobic thriller and neurotic character study.

Lumet plays the robbery as a ludicrous farce. The bumbling crooks allow themselves to be browbeaten by their hostages, especially Sylvia (Penelope Allen), who resents the thugs menacing "her" girls. And yet Stockholm Syndrome sets in fairly fast, the crooks and hostages getting on swimmingly. Sonny's public performances ("Attica! Attica!") make him an unlikely hero; when the media "outs" him, gay activists show up to offer support. The befuddled cops are checkmated, Sonny's antics nearly sparking a riot by embittered New Yorkers. For all the silliness though, the stakes are deadly seriousness, as evidenced by the finale.

Al Pacino makes Sonny a perfect mixture of confusion, cockiness and hair-trigger temper. Pacino builds his broadly-sketched character into a complex, pitiable loser without ingratiating ham. John Cazale provides solid support, and Chris Sarandon has some choice scenes playing Sonny's befuddled "wife." Charles Durning gets a meaty role as a sympathetic policeman. Carol Kane and Lance Henriksen feature in smaller parts.

Dog Day Afternoon is a top-notch thriller. Perfectly structured and impeccably acted, it's at turns funny and tense, an interesting approach to a played-out genre.

Equus

Sidney Lumet turns Peter Shaffer's strangest play into an equally strange movie. The worst that can be said of Equus (1977) is that the film never quite transcends its stage roots. Regardless, it remains a disturbing psychodrama with a superb cast.

Psychologist Martin Dysart (Richard Burton) is assigned to treat Alan Strang (Peter Firth), a 17 year old boy who mutilated a stable full of horses. Dysart discovers Alan has an odd, sexualized fixation on horses, stemming from several childhood incidents, his mother's (Joan Plowright) strict religious upbringing and his dad's (Colin Blakely) disapproval. As Dysart dives deeper into Alan's case he finds himself tormented by, even envious of, his charge's psychosis.

Equus is a difficult play, from its dark subject to dramatic complexity. Shaffer succeeds in his delicate portrait of the troubled Alan. Conflating childhood experiences of horses with his mother's Puritan religiosity, he re-channels his sexuality into equine idol worship. Alan goes beyond paraphilia, crafting a religion to his obsession, replete with extensive liturgy and rites. Where a portrait of Jesus once hung in his room now hangs an eternally-staring horse. When Alan meets Jill (Jenny Agutter), a flirty stable girl, the religious and sexual further mesh.

Shaffer contrasts Alan's warped theology with the repressed adults around him: Dysart, a childless self-loather who detests his work; Dora, a repressive religious fanatic; Frank, a disgruntled atheist who sheepishly sneaks into porn films. Dysart particularly seems to envy Alan's passion, viewing his psychosis as a sort of transcendence. Shafer makes all of these characters are believably rounded, making their various neuroses potent.

One minor niggle is Sidney Lumet's direction. Lumet retains much of the play's theatricality, especially Dysart's monologues directly to the camera. He stages key set pieces dynamically, especially Alan's nighttime ride and the horrible denouement, but it still doesn't feel very cinematic. However, this viewer found the story and performances powerful enough to overcome its technical shortcomings.

Richard Burton gives his best late-career performance, channeling his hamminess into a believably tormented character. Peter Firth gives a phenomenal turn, effectively warping youthful confusion into mental illness. Colin Blakeley (A Man for All Seasons) and Joan Plowright give sterling turns as Alan's harried parents, and Jenny Agutter (The Avengers) makes a strong impression. Harry Andrews (Charge of the Light Brigade) and Eileen Atkins (Gosford Park) inhabit supporting roles.

Equus is a fascinating film. I give it minor demerits for its stuffy staging, but its baroque story and powerful performances still shine through.

Serpico

Sidney Lumet's best work (12 Angry Men, Dog Day Afternoon) addresses topical issues sans the obnoxious preachments that mar so many "significant" films. Serpico (1973) is a case in point: a powerful depiction of police corruption, it sublimates any grandstanding to a compelling story.

Newly-minted New York cop Frank Serpico (Al Pacino) finds life on the force rough. From his unkempt whiskers to his love of ballet, Serpico is a decidedly unconventional cop - even more so when he's shocked that his colleagues extort and skim money from criminals. At first Serpico turns a blind eye, seeking reassignment to a clean section, but finds every precinct honeycombed with corruption. With the help of a Mayor's aide (Tony Roberts) and an honest cop (Edward Grover) Serpico reports his findings, but his image-minded superiors are reluctant to pursue it. Serpico's peers soon discover his game, and arrange a nasty surprise for him.

Serpico is an extremely angry film, calling out the NYPD's institutional corrutpion. One of Frank's first experiences is seeing his partner beat a rape suspect to a bloody pulp, and it goes downhill from there. Every department has its own con going, reasoning their larceny "won't hurt anyone." The higher-ups, whether through incompetence, complicity or simple face-saving, drag their feet in addressing the issue. Frank's colleagues openly threaten him and take credit for his arrests, even trying to frame him for sodomy. The most pointed scene has several officers getting chummy with a hustler (and cop killer) Frank just arrested.

"Message films" are hard to pull off; it's tricky to make a point without being preachy or sacrificing entertainment value. Lumet keeps the anger at a low boil, sparing the audience any on-the-nose homilies. There are no easy villains to tear down: all the cops are complicit, the rackets a self-perpetuating, universally accepted part of police life. We want Frank to triumph, but it hardly seems worth the effort. Even if Serpico succeeds, his career is ruined and the big fish will likely escape justice.

Lumet's direction is typically strong, mixing some directoral flair (the chaotic opening especially) with docudrama grittiness. Lumet uses Serpico's ever-growing facial hair and pet dog as clever ellipses for gaps in the story, and screenwriter Howard Wexman's dialogue, character interactions and plot development ring absolutely true. The fine music comes from Mikis Theodarkis, who'd previously scored the similarly subversive Z.

Al Pacino hit paydirt with The Godfather a year before, and he's no less impressive here. His Frank Serpico is a truly unique creation, a rough-hewn cop who mixes street smarts with intellectual pursuits. Despite his hippie appearance he's the department's straightest arrow, and possibly the only one interested in justice. Pacino nails his cultivated eccentricities, fierce individuality and righteous anger with remarkable panache.

Barbara Eda-Young and Cornelia Sharpe are effective as the women in Serpico's life. Tony Roberts (The Taking of Pelham 1,2,3) is excellent as Serpico's friend in a high place, perhaps too eager to help. Jack Kehoe (The Untouchables), Judd Hirsch (TV's Taxi) and M. Emmett Walsh (Blade Runner), among others, play crooked cops; John Randolph and Biff McGuire are lugubrious bureaucrats; F. Murray Abraham (Amadeus) helps set Serpico up.

Serpico proves yet again the '70s (almost) had the monopoly on great crime films. Mixing perfect dramaturgy with measured polemics, it's remarkably effective.

RIP Sidney Lumet

Yet another Hollywood legend has gone to the big studio in the sky.

Sidney Lumet directed an interesting variety of "socially conscious" films: Fail-Safe, Serpico and Dog Day Afternoon among them. However, he'll probably be best-remembered for 12 Angry Men (1957), easily the greatest trial drama Hollywood has ever produced.

RIP Mr. Lumet. You'll be missed.