Blog #8 - Presentation Outline

Zero Effect (1998), directed by Jake Kasdan. It is a film that blends classic and modern sensibilities, noir and neo-noir. The film focuses on Daryl Zero, a private investigator who is hired by a wealthy businessman, Gregory Stark, to uncover the identity of the person blackmailing him. However, this through-line is merely a skin-deep machination. As the unfolding plot reveals, the real mystery is of Zero’s duality of self.

Classic noir.

Private investigator.  The character of Daryl Zero, played by Bill Pullman in one of his best performances, portrays one of noir’s ubiquitous character types, the private investigator, otherwise known as a P.I. In A Panorama of American Film Noir (1941-1953), Raymond Borde and Etienne Chaumeton inform on this long-standing requisite, noting, “The private [investigator] has been the standard character of the 1940s film noir. Arriving from the novels of Dashiell Hammet and Raymond Chandler, he moved around in a twilight world, on the borderline of legality. Accepting of dubious clients [and] mixed up in suspect affairs” (158). Zero is equal not only in the aspect of profession mentioned by Borde and Chaumeton, but he is also in a “twilight world,” the morally gray area between right and wrong. The character of Stark, played by Ryan O’Neal, is, as the opening of the film conveys, a person of suspicion. It is not known what Stark has done, but a feeling leads to presumption of guilt. Zero is aware of this, but he claims neutrality. As he says in the movie, “There business equals their business. We’re not involved. It has nothing to do with us.”

Mystery, extortion and crime. Stark, played by Ryan O’Neal, solicits the heralded detecting abilities of Zero in an attempt to procure the identity of his blackmailer. Blackmail, a form of extortion and a crime within itself, is also a necessity of noir. However, that is not the only crime. Murder, also a charge of noir, is linked to the decade’s old crime committed by Stark, that crime being the cause of the blackmail. He must continue to pay the blackmailer or risk being exposed. Passion motivates the blackmailer, as Zero says, “All crime is passionate. It’s passion that moves the criminal to act that disrupts the static inertia of morality.”

Neo-noir.

Zero’s split identity. Zero, who refers to himself unabashedly as, “The greatest private investigator in the world” is committed to his profession to the point of isolation. During the film, he narrates, “My work relies on my ability to remain absolutely, purely objective. Detached. I have mastered the fine art of detachment. And while it comes at some cost, this supreme objectivity is what makes me, dare I say, the greatest observer the world has ever known.” Clearly, he is a skilled investigator, however he lacks interpersonal connections and social graces and therein lies the split. His employee and intermediary, Steve Arlo, played by Ben Stiller, speaks about Zero at an early point in the film, saying, “I’m telling you he never leaves the house, okay? I mean, he’s like some kind of recluse. A complete freak. No social life. In fact, no social skills. It’s a strange [. . .] thing, when he’s working, the smoothest operator you’ve ever seen. Brave, slick, cunning. . . do anything. Soon as he gets off work, it’s all gone. Afraid to go to the dry cleaners. Literally. Too uncomfortable in his own skin to go out and eat.” Zero, who has obvious difficulty balancing his two-sided persona, therefore lacks a sole identity, a true identity. Added upon this, as a part of his profession, he is a chameleon, presuming many alternate identities which, akin to his aforementioned divide, begs the question, who is Daryl Zero?

Self-reflexive. In Detours and Lost Highways: A Map of Neo-Noir, author Foster Hirsch, explains, “But in this truly new noir, it isn’t the mystery, framed as the ‘other’ text that is the focus, it is the investigator himself. The mystery plot exists only to mirror and reinforce [the main characters] noir vision of the world and of his place in it” (171). As the film progresses, the central preoccupation becomes Zero’s own inwardly focused questions of selfhood. This enigma is thrust to the forefront by his involvement with this film’s femme fatale, Gloria Sullivan (Kim Dickens). Sullivan is discovered rather quickly by Zero to be the elusive blackmailer. However, it is not her identity that consumes Zero but her motive. He becomes entangled with her, literally and figuratively, losing his objectivity for the first time in his career. At this point, it is clear the real resolution lies not in the text but in the subtext, the mystery of Zero and Sullivan. As Richard Gilmore in “The Dark Sublimity of Chinatown” states, “There is something more going on, something of which one cannot quite get a glimpse. It is the sense of the pervasive ambiguities that have not yet made themselves explicit. It emerges with the burgeoning sense of a counternarrative to the narrative” (The Philosophy of Neo-Noir, 130).

Reformed femme fatale. Sullivan, who is a femme fatale quite unlike her past counterparts, as she is not sexually explicit, devious or vindictive, rather, she is a character of good moral standing albeit mysterious, who seeks her own form of actualization. Donald R. D-Aries and Foster Hirsch in The Philosophy of Neo-Noir refer to this new femme fatale, citing, “[She] is a damaged yet sympathetic character who does whatever it takes simply to get by within a world of limited possibilities. A lost soul” (“ ‘Saint’ Sydney: Atonement and Moral Inversion in Hard Eight” 93). Her blackmail of Stark was never about greed, rather, it was of vengeance. By film’s end, she has the opportunity to commit this sin yet she is not like classic femme fatales, she is reformed, not narcissistic and cold-hearted but is morally bound. She has the chance to take Stark’s life but chooses the moral high ground and, in fact, saves his life.

Blog # 7 - The Gold Coast

The anthology, Los Angeles Noir, presents four subsets of its body, the last division referred to as “The Gold Coast,” which contains the four short stories: “The Girl Who Kissed Barnaby Jones,” “Kinship,” “The Hour When the Ship Comes In,” and “What You See.” These short stories, as with all of the stories within Los Angeles Noir, attempt to fashion a noir-esque sensibility, transmuting the classic styles of narrative and character within a contextual update, that being modern day Los Angeles. The four of note, the aforementioned compositions of “The Gold Coast,” play advocate of noir in disparate and uneven degrees, one with high markings, one  with low, and the remaining two caught in the interim. So perhaps, in deepening examinations of these narrative ambitions, particularly the former two (the high and low), there may exist a constructive breadth, a conceptualization of what does and what does not make noir noir. 

The Girl Who Kissed Barnaby Jones

The first selection within “The Gold Coast,” “The Girl Who Kissed Barnaby Jones,” by Scott Phillips, is the most effective in its advancement of noir. At the onset, the reader is thrust into the mind of Tate, the main character, as he expresses in direct narration a key quality of a noir protagonist, that of solitary, “It’s 2:30 in the morning and I’m all alone,” (287). As described by Tate, even the atmosphere paints a noir picture, “the night air is cool and quiet [...] The shops and restaurants of the village are dark as I pass through” (288). 

Not long after, another trademark of noir surfaces, the femme fatale. Viciously alluring, Tate proceeds to describe her, “Cherie is the ur-cocktail waitress, tall and leggy with her hair dyed blond, hanging straight with an inward flip just below her jawline, and looking at her face and body you wouldn’t take her for more than forty” (288). Cherie, a fellow co-worker and former actress, is a vessel of seductive flurry, fanning the flames of lust, greed, duplicity and murder that comprise the crux of noir and, as a byproduct, a sense of jubilant raw intensity.

Cherie, a product of a bygone era, evokes actions and gestures of the classic femme fatale, although with less grace, “She’s in her uniform, and she sidles up to me and slops her mouth onto mine. Up close she smells like cigarettes and perfume and wine” (290). Wanting nothing more than to satisfy her own desire, she entices and ensnares Tate with sexual favors. Tate, playing off her sly feminine wiles (a requisite of femme fatale instruments), dances to the tune of her orchestration. Abrupt, she quickly seduces him by saying, “You want me to get naked, or are you one of those guys that gets turned on by the uniform?’ she asks, and by way of an answer I jump on her” (291). Tate, driven mostly by lust, is not as rigid and textured as past leads. He carries onward, not as a motivating mechanism, but rather as a reactionary element within the machine, an apparatus with murder in its circuitry.

Tate, euphoric from his encounter with Cherie, quickly loses civility at the sight of a dead man, an acquaintance of both of them. Killed by Cherie, her true motive for seducing him becomes apparent. “He’s not long for this world anyway. Just help me get rid of him, someplace where nobody’ll find him for a long time” (295). Now fragile partners in crime, a fragility noir dictates, both have become trapped in noir’s deathly promise. The end, of life and story, is close at hand. 

As the abrupt ending comes to fruition, the turnabout of conspirators, also indicative of the genre, comes into play. Tate inevitably becomes the victim of Cherie, delivering, in his final moments, a hint of fatalism and the irresistible allure of the femme fatale, “the face behind the wheel bearing down on mine, jaws clenched so tight they’re bulging, and all I can think is how pretty she looks” (298).

What You See

The final selection within the “The Gold Coast,” “What You See,” by Diana Wagman, although compelling and well written, does not serve as an effective base of the noir standard. The story does, however, have an intriguing set of characters mixed with a subtly compelling, yet surprisingly wistful narrative. The protagonist, Gabe, is partially shaded and ambiguous, as noir widely dictates, and somewhat split internally as noir’s update, neo-noir, commands. However, neither aspect is wholly conducive of either style. 

At the onset, Gabe, is in questionable mourning at the passing of his mother, but most of his thoughts are betwixt and between, always flung selfishly inward. He narrates, “Then she died and I stayed in my room and she went to Heaven. At least that’s where she always told me she was going. And I wasn’t. She would be singing in the Heavenly Choir and I would be roasting in the flames of Eternal Damnation” (331). The man, the one alone, is not sharply divided between ethical boundaries, as neo-noir would have it, or austere in personal ethic, as noir would suggest; his edge is not definitive, but rather mutable and dispassionate. Referring to the death of his mother, he espouses apathetically, “The first few days after she passed away I watched a lot of TV and didn’t eat anything. I wanted to see how long I could go without food. It was just something to do” (331). 

As the story progresses, and the elements of Gabe’s approaching conflict are presented, the narrative further skirts noir pathways and seemingly takes on a tone of post adolescent ennui. Gabe is mired in reflection, “I felt so sad. And old. Thirty-three and I felt like I was a hundred years old” (340). He yearns of time passed, a sense of regret buried between the lines, nevertheless, he lives on in persistent triviality.

This state of affairs, although mostly reflective of listlessness and apathy, does contain minutely woven threads of lawlessness and wrongdoing, catering to the aspects of crime and greed that noir often entails. A mysterious briefcase is introduced, an object common to classic and post-modern noir, but nevertheless, it is a mystery that requires delivery. Gabe is asked to deliver it and agrees, somewhat begrudgingly, only because modest payment is offered; a want that is not the height of avarice but rather proportional to Gabe’s newfound infatuation, an attractive young woman named Terrell. As he accepts, he thinks of her, “I shrugged, and then I thought of what fifty bucks would buy me and my pretty brown girl” (338).

Serving as the driver of the third act, the contents of the briefcase have little importance, as does its final destination, as the acts and transpirations of the nefarious become ancillary of Gabe’s reverie. Constantly living in his own mind, he barters reality with fiction. “The glass poodle broke [...] It sounded as if I were walking on potato chips. That made me laugh. I pretended I was an explorer in the Amazon and I was crunching cockroaches the size of hamsters. I imagined I was king of the world and I had jewels strewn before me wherever I might walk” (331-332).

The shadow of death looms early (the death of his mother) and does play a factor in the climax of the story, coalescing to form a slight degree of inevitability. However, this feeling, along with the MacGuffin-like magnetism of the briefcase, are sterile in comparison to Gabe’s own flights of fancy, skewing the story’s through-line and acting as interruptors. In the second act, Terrell’s friend Chara becomes involved, and in a moment of increasing intensity, as the recipient of the briefcase begins to curtail Gabe’s want of a smooth transition, he conjures another fantasy to get things back to the status quo, “Couple of silly females, I’d tell him. Chara just fell out of her goddamn shoes. Marcus and Terrell and I would laugh about Chara later. I’d sit on that creamy Naugahyde with my arm around her and we’d be drinking a beer and laughing about poor Chara and her stupid shoes” (346).

However, all is for naught, as the climax unravels and the established supporting characters, mere innocent bystanders, begin to die. As Gabe’s own death approaches, there is a sense of calm but nothing fatalistic. “I was way up high. I saw it. I saw it all. [...] My house on Orange Street. The coffee table still on the front lawn. I was sorry. I was so sorry” (348). Gabe’s last thoughts are apologetic and longing, not fatalistic. 

Throughout the story, there was never a genuine sense of noir. The woman of desire, although captivating, was not diabolic. The scheme, although promising money, wasn’t followed through by its attainment alone. In the end, the story reflects its main character, listless, full of dreams and not wanting to accept that actions have consequences.

Blog #6 - “Space, Time, and Subjectivity in Neo-Noir Cinema"

Neo-noir, as established by Jerold Abrams in “Space, Time, and Subjectivity in Neo-Noir Cinema,” exists as progeny to the classic noir era, a permeation of the parent body, yet with common identifiers. “This new noir-this ‘neo-noir’-still had all the old trappings of classic noir, like detectives, labyrinths, and femme fatales,” observes Abrams, “but then any new growth always bears the marks of its beginnings.” Observing further, his analysis constructs a bridge connecting methodologies, the old with the new (the neo), bending existentially, exemplifying the traits of the self, with relation to time, to define the latent noir condition. “The character is ‘divided’ against himself,” Abrams notes, “although not so much emotionally, as in Shakespeare, as epistemologically: divided in time as two selves, and one is looking for the other.” An engaging proposition that molds noir traditions with post modern amalgamations and that of the space-time continuum, acting as a demonstration of the genres present state, an evolutionary step with its own set of born derivations.
 
Abrams denotes that as the focal point of society shifted from the heart of the cityscape, societal unity dissolving in the successive generations, so did the centerpiece of noir, the detective. The new center has become the self, “the king of its very own mind,” notes Abrams. However, the traditions of the noir protagonist have not been lost, but rather modified. His search is now largely internal, with his former adversary, the external, an adjunct to his quest for his own identity. The searching man has become split, harboring a divided ego, a refuge of both detective and villain; two disparate factions compete, never reaching reconciliation, but in some degree, understanding.
 
In further deconstruction, this postmodern outlook of noir is being described as having three distinct subsets, of and relating to time, crossed with the self. In reference by Abrams, they are known as past neo-noir, present neo-noir and future neo-noir.
 
The detective, although not explicit to the profession, remains the seeker within the noir maze, theological pathways abounding the past division. Abrams cites several examples of this, Raiders of the Lost Ark (Steven Spielberg, 1981) being one of them. Abrams concedes that the film is hardly considered a noir staple; nevertheless, it has correlating elements. The main character, Indiana Jones, plays a detective-like character in search of the Ark of the Covenant. This material search, however, is secondary for the search for his own faith, or lack thereof.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, or continuum, lies the future. Future neo-noir, or simply future noir, is less theological and more sci-fi. “God and the Devil are replaced by science and technology,” Abrams proclaims, citing Dark City (Alex Proyas, 1998) as an example. The protagonist and man alone, John Murdoch, is pursued by mysterious figures in fedoras and trench coats. Murdoch flees from his pursuers as he attempts to unravel the mystery of the dark city he lives in, as well as attempting to reconstruct his own fragmented memory. Actually, Dark City is referred to by Abrams, in an unnecessary aggrandizing way, as alien noir, a sub section, less future noir than other films such as Blade Runner (Ridley Scott, 1982), but still considered part of the future oeuvre.

In the middle lies the current time period, present noir. A genre piece that is less removed from the present time as its opposites, but “that’s hardly to say that time is not ‘of the essence’--far from it,” say Abrams. He uses The Bourne Identity (Doug Liman, 2002) to highlight the present. Also, like past and future contexts, the searcher is in search of himself. However, there is a twist; the protagonist suffers from memory loss. Of note, the character of John Murdoch in Dark City also suffers from a form of amnesia, as does Leonard Shelby in Memento (Christopher Nolan, 2000). Memory loss is often used as a device in these new noir films, having the characters in search of themselves, constantly asking-who am I?
 
This piece of deconstruction by Abrams, examined between the lines, could suggest that the term noir is being applied far too liberally. This illustrates that the definition of noir is, perhaps, too vague, and at the same time far too dense. Noir, as it was in its first generation, is dead and gone. What exists now, this neo-noir, is dark, yes, but by whose sensibility? The definition is not universal. Neo-noir is being used to darken so much light that the term could be applied to almost anything, projecting an umbra so wide that every film ever projected lies with its kitchen sink.

Blog #5 - "I Love You Too": Sexual Warfare & Homoeroticism in Billy Wilder’s Double Indemnity

“ ‘I Love You Too’: Sexual Warfare & Homoeroticism in Billy Wilder’s Double Indemnity’ ” is an illuminating examination of what scholars and critics alike may refer to as a cinematic masterpiece. Or perhaps as the French would reply, a “pièce de résistance.” The author of the article, Brian Gallagher, treats Wilder’s and Cain’s Double Indemnity as such, and does well to layout details in support of his provocative and indicting interpretations on male-male and male-female relationships, albeit fetishistically.

The gravitas to which Gallagher (and perhaps other analysts) explores the undertones, overtones and subversiveness of Double Indemnity, and their relevance thereof, feels, as a singular opinion, exceedingly over-analytical and overreaching. However, Gallagher is an expert in finding meaning in the minutiae, which aides in the understanding of the hypothesized intentions of James Cain and Billy Wilder, in particular, the layers of the Walter-Phyllis/Walter-Keyes relationship and how it derives its power.

The former relationship, which is at the forefront of the novel and is a slice of the triangle in the film, claims broad insights into the turmoil and the eventual inevitability of mutual destruction present in all heterosexual relationships, which are “...generally noisome and often lethal,” notes Gallagher. Despite this damning vision, the article is apt at pointing out the difference between Cain’s Walter and Wilder’s Walter. Gallagher states of Cain’s Walter, “...[he] is not overly disturbed by Phyllis’s displaced sexuality, for her real importance to him is functional.” Cain’s Walter is attracted to her on a physical level, but his aims are meant to be financially gratifying and not sexual, at least, not completely. On the other hand, Wilder’s Walter is driven nearly exclusively by his submission to sexual desire, “Much of his voice-over commentary implied that he was impelled by a physical desire for Phyllis which he could not control.” These observations by Gallagher contrast the separate incarnations of Walter and accentuate how much the film relies upon the striking looks of Barbara Stanwyck to incite lust within Walter, compelling him to commit nefarious acts, all with the promise of sexual fulfillment.

The contrast between the two variants of Walter seems to imply the male submissiveness to sexual desire, the film being the more culpable agent. The film also suggests, as pointed out by Gallagher, that “women are duplicitous, vulgar, and untrustworthy.” Both of these proposed theories are blasphemous, especially with respect to women, as it reduces them to merely creatures of havoc. In observation, both Cain’s Phyllis and Wilder’s Phyllis are beautiful seductresses bent on achieving their ambitions; however, the portrayal of Phyllis in the novel consists at least of more than one dimension.

The relationship between Keyes and Walter may be in contention; nevertheless, most would probably conclude that Walter and Keyes have a deep sense of trust, one that goes beyond their professional collaboration. Gallagher notes, “Keyes is very much the solicitous ‘father,’ concerned about his ‘son’s’ future and hoping to pass on wisdom, position, and function to him.” The role of fatherhood is apparent in the exchanges between Walter and Keyes, a screen pairing that is given a great degree of focus considering its sporadic and quite limited nature. This was a strong addition by Wilder, highlighting Keyes’ disposition in the novel as possibly equally fastidious but generally unpleasant.

Gallagher then proceeds to theorize on the relationship between Keyes and Walter, the essence of which is a claim of homoeroticism. “The sexual undercurrent in the Walter-Keyes relationship is established in the very first scene between them when a grinning Walter replies mockingly ‘I love you too’...then performs the ritual gesture of lighting Keyes’ large, cheap (and clearly phallic) cigar...” Gallagher applies “sexual” in his definition, a word that is misplaced and egregious in its implications. The Oxford dictionary defines homoeroticism, a phrase used by Gallagher in his title, as “concerning or arousing sexual desire centered on a person of the same sex.” The continued use of this phrase by critics and analysts proposes that some are threatened by the display of same sex affection, the propensity of which is male. In this sense, the use of the phrase homoeroticism conveys that affection and or tenderness of any degree delivered by a man to another man is tantamount to a sexual impulse, as any emotion resembling love is a strike against male bravado.

Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

Blog #4 - Zero Draft Questions

9. A significant change between the novel and the film is the raised prominence of the character of Keyes in the film version. Critics have suggested that the novel is a story of two lovers whereas the film depicts a love triangle and that often Walter is being pulled back and forth between Phyllis and Keyes. What evidence from the film supports these assertions?

Throughout Double Indemnity there are many indicators of the proposed triangle that exists between the characters of Walter Neff, Phyllis Dietrichson and Barton Keys. Walter, being the centerpiece and amplifier, is pulled between physical conceptualizations of love and sex. Barton representing love and Phyllis representing sex.

Within the first few moments of Phyllis’ introduction to Walter, the indication of a explicitly sexual relationship is foreshadowed, evidenced by Walter’s pleasurable change in expression and demeanor at the sight of the partially covered Phyllis. This first encounter is not subtle or innocuous by any means as it blatantly establishes, as a tip off to the audience by the filmmakers, the composition of what their relationship will entail. In each of their subsequent scenes together, unless they are scheming the murder of Phyllis’ husband, physical attraction and sex are the main, albeit deceptively subtle, components.

On the other hand, the relationship between Barton and Walter is built upon mutual respect, trust, and tenderness, derived from years of professional collaboration. This fact is made evident by narration from Walter in which he espouses his feelings for Barton, “You never fooled me with your song and dance, not for a second. I kind of always knew that behind the cigar ashes on your vest, you had a heart as big as a house.” The relationship is also given credence by Walter’s lighting of Barton’s cigars throughout the film. Barton constantly struggles to get them lit only to have Walter step in and light it for him, suggesting care and support. In the end, this gesture is returned by Barton, when he lightsWalter’s cigarette as he nears death, subtly returning affection.

As the plot thickens and Walter becomes further immersed in his wrong doings, he seeks escape from the trappings of the scheme as well as to depart from Phyllis’ growing adversarial nature. Barton becomes a morality check for Walter as he seeks a sort of spiritual guidance. Absolution is sought, not from the duplicitous side of the triangle, but its rather it’s trusting side. Walter lays out the details of the murder plot to Barton as if he is his father confessor. He is asking forgiveness, not just from the law, but more importantly from the man whose trust he betrayed. Therefore, by departing from the novel, the film suggests a stark contrast between the act of sex and the feeling of love, that the two acts are perhaps irreconcilable. 

On a final and more personal note, it is also suggested by film analysts that the relationship between Walter and Barton has a subtext of homoeroticism. This is a completely erroneous supposition. Walter and Barton have an established love, this fact is not in dispute. Rather, the grievance has its roots in the way in which the word love is being used to imply more than its definition. In this case, over analyzation has a produced a theory that has little to no merit. It is well established that love can exist between members of the same sex and be strictly platonic, not romantic or sexual in nature.

5. During the title a sequence, a man on crutches hobbles toward the camera. Explain the significance of this image. Who in the story does this man represent? Why would this be an appropriate image to show at the beginning of the film? How does this sequence anticipate later developments in the film?

At the beginning of the film, the man on crutches is presented to the audience as a silhouette. To the uniformed, this image presents a puzzle to the mind, a mystery, begging to be solved. How does he end up on crutches? Who this man? Why is his he hidden in shadow?  Some of the answers are revealed in the text of the film, pointing to the man on crutches as Walter Neff, masquerading as Mr. Dietrichson, done in hopes of deceiving witness in the plot of his murder. However, this opening faceless visage may have far more reaching implications than simply foreshadowing the events of a murder. 

The image seems to suggest a changing of identity. By taking on the form and clothes of Dietrichson, Walter inevitably becomes him. Dietrichson, the man who was duped and murdered by his wife, lives on in the guise of Walter. And then, as the odds begin to favor a turnabout in the affair, Walter becomes the target of Phyllis‘ diabolic nature. The subtext seems to imply, at least to me, that perhaps all men are weak willed in when it comes to women and their powers of seduction. 

Dietrichson married Phyllis, seduced just as easily as Walter would later be, albeit under different circumstances. As soon as he died, Walter stepped in to replace him, bringing that soul back to life. In the end, perhaps all men are just faceless bodies, awaiting their time of death and rebirth. 

Blog #3 - Noir by Proxy

A scene from Black as Orange...
  I remember this part most of all. Because this was the day when everything that was supposed to be normal became everything that could never be normal again. All because I couldn’t sit back and be a good girl. I couldn’t let nature take its course. I couldn’t just let the bad things come. I had to make them worse. I had to fight. Because real life isn’t like a picture show. In real life, it’s hard luck for the good. Here comes the end. It’s curtains. No applause. Off to the bye and bye, no pie in the sky.
  “You’re shaking,” Olivia said.
  “Maybe it’s just cold in here,” I said.
  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
  Olivia and I were in the dining room. All the guests were outside because Dad was about to give his speech to the investors about the new track being built up near Los Angeles, the so-called city of angels. Most corporate honchos don’t do that kind of thing, giving presentations at home, but my dad wasn’t like the rest of them. He liked to be down to earth and personal and not stuffy with how do you do’s and you look well’s.
  He was good at what he did. Smart. He had a way about him. And everyone knew he knew trains better than anyone else.
  But he’s still just a man. And all men have a fault. I know that now. Olivia made that be more true than anything.
  But where was I? Oh, yes. The cold.
  Olivia was standing there looking at me and I was trying not to shiver. There she was, in her dress as black as a moonless night, showing off the work of God. So perfect.
  She was wearing that smile, too. That smile that is like an invitation after a knock. Always with that smile. So subtle and chaste. But with a touch of evil that only I could see. Everyone else fell for her, just like she wanted them to. But she hadn’t counted on me.
  “What are you doing in here, Joanna?” she asked me. It was then that I noticed something that gave me pause. She had one of her hands behind her back.
This is it. Do it now. Say it now. That was what I thought then. Because I knew then, as I know now, that death was coming no matter what.
“I’m here because I followed you in here.”
She didn’t look at me the way she should have, the way any normal person would. Instead, she moved a little closer to me, crossing at the far end of the dining room table, her hand still behind her back.
It was then that I heard the fire crack from the library across the hall. My heart skipped and I almost jumped. For a moment I thought that hidden hand held a gun. And one of its bullets was for me. But I knew how ridiculous that would be. She wouldn’t have shot me. Not then. Not before I lifted the veil on her.
  She kept moving toward me, gliding like she always did. Each footstep from her high heeled shoes hitting the marbled floor and filling the room with echoes like a drawn out drum, each percussion closer in time.
  The hidden hand.
  “Why would you follow me in here?” she asked, almost playfully.
  “You came in here,” I looked down at her hidden hand again. “What’s in your hand?”
“My hand?”
  “Yes.”
“Oh. You mean this.” She pulled out a small something. Not a gun. But still with its own fatal instinct.
  A cigarette.
“I hope you don’t tell on me. That I slipped away for a cigarette just before things get exciting. Not very proper, I admit.”
“My lips are sealed.” I took a step back to gather my nerve.  “At least on that.”        
  “Not very subtle, Joanna. Am I supposed to guess?”
  I couldn’t let her get the upper hand, not in our game. She’d already beaten the house after all, a royal flush straight to my father’s heart.
  “Do you need a match?”
“You’d be a dear.”
  I wanted her dead right then and there. Endearments laced with venom, not with love. From that angel of avarice.
From her mouth to my father’s ear.
I walked over to one of the cabinets and got a book of matches. When I got back, I gestured for her to sit down and she followed my lead without protest or hesitation. Just like a lady should.
  I sat down next to her. We were close, facing each other. I lit her cigarette and put the matches on the table. I’d never been that close to her before. I’d never been able to see how every sharp curve was perfectly mirrored in suggestiveness.
She was beautiful.
  Truly.
  And it was in the eyes. Green like emeralds. They asked you to dance with every flicker. Even those lips. Red stained, the smoking drifting out. She spoke without speaking.
  That’s something I never wanted to admit, wanting to be like her. Wanting that certain something.
I think of myself in that moment, in my dress, a soft yellow like the new day sun. Olivia next to me in hers, with silk dark as the midnight hour. We were the beginning and the end. And I think anyone who looked at us would have thought the same. But there was part of me that was closer to her than I ever thought possible. Night was falling on me. I know it now. But at that moment it was just a glimmer of a darkness yet to come.
“I’ve never seen you like this, Joanna.”
“How do you mean?”
“So...,” she said with another drag of her cigarette. “So scared. Or are you still going to blame it on the cold? Maybe I should ask Andrew to turn up the heat for you.”
She was right. I couldn’t blame it on the cold. But I wasn’t to be stopped.
  “You think you can do anything, don’t you?”
“Oh, my sweet daughter, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“My father fell in love with you, not me. I’m not going to let you do this to him.”
“Do what?”
  “Use him. You don’t love him. You’re after something. I don’t know what. But I’m going to find out.”
“Let’s just say, for a moment, that I was up to something. How would you go about finding out.”
“I would have you investigated.”
“Investigated? Sounds so unbecoming you. I never would have thought words like that could come out of a mouth so innocent.”
“It’s money. This new deal with the railroads down in Los Angeles. You made sure he went through with it. You pushed.”
  “He has his financial advisors. That’s not the business of a lady.”
  “Does the name John London ring a bell?”
“Doesn’t seem to.”
  “He’s a private investigator. I’ve read about him in the papers. I could have him look into you.”
  “You’d do such a thing?”
  “Yes. I would.”
She leaned in to me. She reached out and put her hand on my wrist, ever so gently. Her expression changed, like a new mask to cover the old one.
“I know you don’t trust me. Taking your father away from you the way I did. I wouldn’t trust me if I were you.”
  Those fingers on my wrist, making sparks up my spine. I was paralyzed, every part of me at the mercy of her touch. And that face, looking like a plea before the mercy of the court.
  And then as easily as she had slipped it on, the mask of appeal was gone. Instead, there was only the piercing daggers of those inviting eyes.
“I could take everything, couldn’t I? It wouldn’t take much. Because I know your father would do anything for me. Men are like that, you know, when they think they’re in love. Has a man ever felt like that about you?”
I was almost breathless. I knew I wasn’t supposed to answer but for some reason I tried.
“I don’t know. . . I think so.”
  “A girl pretending to be a woman.”
She came in closer. And closer. The hairs on my arm feeling the tips of her fingers sliding further up, each tingle like a heartbeat of its own.
  Then her lips were at my ear. She had me.
  “So you have no idea how it feels,” she began to whisper. “If ever a man did, there’s so much that can go wrong if you’re not careful. I wouldn’t want something bad to happen to you.”
  That smile that was supposed to be so innocent, it started to creep wider. I knew that kind of pleasure. It was the kind that reveled in someone else’s fear. She was enjoying this. I could feel her shadow, so deep, pressing down on me as if it had substance.  
  “But it would be so easy for you...”
  I was falling deeper. The light was fading. I could almost feel her cheek on mine. “So easy for me?” I whispered back. 
”To get hurt.” 

Blog #2 - Double Indemnity (3-70)

The novel Double Indemnity by James M. Cain is a work of pure unadulterated literary noir. Within its deceptively brief yet dense pages, tainted by lust, greed and violence, the reader is consumed by the heart of the essentials that necessitate noir. The lead characters of the novel, Walter Huff and Phyllis Nirdlinger, become the triggers of those essentials and the machinations by which they facilitate their plotting and desire become the pieces of tone and mood that make noir the light of fiction that casts itself on the darker aspects of humanity, revealing a cold hard truth.

The article from the website, Filmsite, entitled "Primary Characteristics and Conventions of Film Noir,"  elaborates on the essentials of noir by breaking down some of its composition of mood. The article states, “The primary moods of classic film noir are melancholy, alienation, bleakness, disillusionment, disenchantment, pessimism, ambiguity, moral corruption, evil, guilt and paranoia.” All of these moods are at the forefront, in mind and in hand within Double Indemnity, as the protagonist, Walter Huff, a deceptively bleak insurance agent, finds himself falling deeper and deeper into a nefarious scheme that results in the murder of a man, who is perhaps not entirely virtuous but is, nonetheless, not deserving of death.

In the beginning of the novel, the reader finds Huff to be a man of established enterprise. He works as an insurance agent, knowledgeable and meticulous. However, under the superficial garb of his monotony, he is a character in search of an exit. As he goes about the activities of his profession, he sees the plots and corruption of seemingly ordinary people who are seeking only financial gain. A person on the side of righteousness would default to the action of bringing such deeds to justice. Huff, however, turns a blind eye to the casual disregard of law and ethics and instead lets his cynicism reign in perpetuity. Nevertheless, as with other noted aspects of noir, he lives within the boarders that divide the worlds of right and wrong, of night and day. “The [protagonist] is midway between lawful society and the underworld, walking the brink, sometimes unscrupulous...,” notes Raymond Borde and Etienne Chaumeton in “Towards a Definition of Film Noir.” Huff’s code of ethics may be more personal than societal, but he lives by them with conviction as seen in his pursuits either in the form of an insurance agent or in the form of an artist of murder, “...hitting it for the limit, that’s what I go for. It’s all I go for,” decrees Huff.      

As the story progresses, Huff encounters Phyllis in what some might call a very serendipitous manner. Huff suspects her immediately of duplicity and of not being a woman of much integrity. And yet he is intrigued and attracted to her, riding that line between acceptable and malicious once again. The reader takes note that Phyllis immediately fits the persona of the femme fatale, a key ingredient to any noir narrative. She is mysterious, beautiful, seductive and at the same time willing to commit any act, no mater how unlawful, as long as it fulfills her aims. Huff, being a victim of his own desire, finds himself going along with her.  It’s a felicitous pairing but their fate will most likely be anything but joyful.