#18: Touch of Evil (Orson Welles, 1958)

Released: May 21, 1958

Director: Orson Welles; Screenplay: Orson Welles based on the novel “Badge of Evil” by Whit Masterson; Cinematography: Russell Metty; Music: Henry Mancini; Producer: Albert Zugsmith; Studio: Universal International

Cast: Charlton Heston (Ramon Miguel Vargas), Janet Leigh (Susan Vargas), Orson Welles (Hank Quinlan), Joseph Calleia (Pete Menzies), Akim Tamiroff (Uncle Joe Grande), Joanna Cook Moore (Marcia Linnekar), Ray Collins (District Attorney Adair), Dennis Weaver (Night Manager), Val de Vargas (Pancho), Mort Mills (Al Schwartz), Victor Millan (Manolo Sanchez), Lalo Rios (Risto), Phil Harvey (Blaine), Joi Lansing (Blonde), Harry Shannon (Gould), Rusty Wescoatt (Casey), Zsa Zsa Gabor (Strip Club Owner), Marlene Dietrich (Tanya), Joseph Cotten (Detective)

Let’s get the bad out of the way right up front – I still cannot believe that Universal decided to cast Charlton Heston in the role of a Mexican detective. It makes no sense to me and seems like a completely unnecessary distraction. Now, with that being said, there was a time, very early in my noir obsession, where Touch of Evil would have contended for the top spot in a list of this sort. After watching it for the first time I came away convinced that not only was this one of the handful of best noirs of all time, but that it was undoubtedly the best film that Orson Welles ever made, above even the more critically-acclaimed Citizen Kane. This initial reaction, at least in terms of placement in Welles’ overall body of work, was probably more a result of responding better to crime thrillers like this than the straight drama of Kane. I’ve since amended my view somewhat – I now conform to the general opinion that Kaneis not only his greatest film, but his best – but in terms of noir rankings, my initial assessment wasn’t far off. It is lower on the list than it once was, but this is due to becoming familiar with other great noirs, not losing my love for Touch of Evil.

The story jumps all over the place, and if it is not as compelling as the actual moviemaking, it is at least entertaining. When an American millionaire is blown up crossing the border back into the United States from Mexico, an immediate full-scale investigation is launched. The American authorities, led by the legendary Hank Quinlan (Orson Welles), are in charge of the investigation, but since the bomb was planted in the car on Mexican soil he is forced to work with Mexican detective Mike Vargas (Charlton Heston). What would normally be routine inter-agency cooperation is complicated due to Quinlan’s unmitigated bigotry, as he detests all things Mexican. Vargas’ concentration is tested by the fact that members of the infamous Grande family, whom he is prosecuting on drug charges, are harassing his wife (Janet Leigh) in hopes of intimidating Vargas to drop the case. Vargas is forced to try and protect his wife from the Grandes on one hand, while at the same time try and keep Quinlan from framing innocent citizens in the bombing case.


Touch of Evil was Welles’ first return to Hollywood filmmaking in a decade, after having spent that time working in Europe. The circumstances concerning how he came to be hired to direct the film have never been completely clarified, but legend has it that he was originally hired just to play the role of Hank Quinlan. Universal had already zeroed in on Charlton Heston to play the lead (again, for some completely unfathomable reason), but he was wary of committing to a project without knowing who would be directing. When he learned that Welles had been hired as an actor, Heston told Universal that he would sign on if they also allowed Orson to direct. Universal complied, agreeing to allow Welles to rework the script and then lead the project. The irony of it all is that Welles returned to Hollywood and ran into the same problems that he experienced during his initial run in Tinseltown. After wrapping production, Welles delivered a cut to Universal that he felt was strong enough to resurrect his career in the States. As happened with almost every film he ever made, though, the studio disagreed. Universal decided – supposedly without the knowledge of Welles himself – to reedit and re-shoot parts of the film, trimming it to just over 90 minutes. When Welles saw the hacked Universal product he was distraught, firing off a 58-page memo to the studio heads in which he outlined the changes he thought needed to be made to the film. Universal ignored nearly all of the suggestions, released the movie in its bastardized form, and it promptly floundered. Thankfully, that memo and a longer cut were rediscovered decades later and were used to produce the “restored version” that is now accepted as the closest to Welles’ vision.

Would it have been too cliché to have begun this review talking about the famed three-minute tracking shot that opens the film? I thought so, so I purposely waiting until now. There is no denying its brilliance. What strikes me about it is the impeccable decision making by Welles and cinematographer Russell Metty. We see the bomb loaded into the trunk of the car and then see it pull out and begin driving toward the border. But the camera does not simply trail the car, watching it the whole way. Welles lets it move like normal, slowing down and speeding up as it moves through traffic. At times, the car goes completely off-screen, as the camera focuses on the Vargas couple walking in the same direction. The car is then picked up and lost a few more times along the way, but it can be identified when it comes into view thanks to the distinctive music coming from the radio. The whole thing is pulled off in such a carefree manner. It is the crowning achievement of an all-around technical masterpiece. Welles and Metty are brilliant throughout, throwing dark (and I mean dark) shadows over everything. They even venture into psychedelic territory with hallucinatory sequences involving Vargas’ wife and the Grandes.


It also features what I view as Welles’ best acting performance. His Hank Quinlan is unforgettable, as is this butchered maseterwork that has thankfully been restored (at least as near as possible) to the original vision of a genius.

#99: Act of Violence (Fred Zinnemann, 1948)

Released: December 21, 1948

Director: Fred Zinnemann; Screenplay: Robert L. Richards based on a story by Collier Young; Cinematography: Robert Surtees; Music: Bronislau Kaper; Producer: William H. Wright; Studio: MGM

Cast: Van Heflin (Frank R. Enley), Robert Ryan (Joe Parkson), Janet Leigh (Edith Enley), Mary Astor (Pat), Phyllis Thaxter (Ann Sturges), Berry Kroeger (Johnny), Taylor Holmes (Gavery), Harry Antrim (Fred Finney), Connie Gilchrist (Martha Finney), Will Wright (Boat Owner)

- "You'd better check with your husband... I don't think he'd like that."

Here is another movie early in this countdown that I rate a bit lower than most other observers, but still an outstanding noir, coming from a director not normally associated with this type of film. It is an obvious precursor to classics like Cape Fear, and for the first thirty minutes or so it is every bit the equal of the later Mitchum-led film. Ultimately, it fails to maintain the tension created in the opening third, but the entire way through it is a feast for the eyes and a textbook in noir cinematography.

Possibly the high point of the entire film comes in the opening, wordless sequence. Cinematographer Robert Surtees employs the traditional darkness and shadows of the noir world to film a man limping past a nearby harbor. The camera follows him as he enters an apartment, methodically retrieves a revolver and picks up a suitcase. He then proceeds to a bus depot and hops a Greyhound for Los Angeles. The man, we come to learn, is Joe Parkson (Robert Ryan), a World War II veteran who survived years in a Nazi POW camp. He is trekking cross-country in order to confront a former WWII comrade who was housed in the camp with him. Joe is convinced that Frank Enley (Van Heflin) was the cause for the massacre of a number of inmates as they tried to escape from the camp. Joe was only wounded in the shootout, but the experience leaves him determined to get even with Enley. So he begins to stalk him like a lion does its prey, terrorizing Enley and his young wife Edith (Janet Leigh). His late-nights visits terrorize the couple, to the point that Enley has to physically retreat from his own home. After years of trying to bury his traitorous act, Enley is clueless as to how to respond to the reappearance of his former pal.


The lead performances are solid enough. I have to be honest that Robert Ryan has never been a personal favorite of mine, so if a movie depends upon him exclusively to carry a film, it’s probably going to fall short for me. Van Heflin fits the role of the ideal husband and businessman craftily hiding a dark secret. But the true stars remain Zinnemann and director of photography Robert Surtees – and in all honesty, I’m going to focus on Surtees, a man whose name should be more well-known than it is. Those that don’t immediately recognize his name will certainly be familiar with his credits – King Solomon’s Mines, Ben-Hur, Mutiny on the Bounty, The Graduate, The Last Picture Show, and The Sting just to name a few. What is the best cinematography that he produced in his career? That’s a highly debatable topic, but I would argue that The Last Picture Show is the only one that might outdo his work in Act of Violence. Surtees and Zinnemann combine to produce some of the most iconic shots in all of film noir. Just look at the screencap below, of Enley running out of a tunnel as if being pursued by some inescapable horror. That, to me, is a perfect summation of this entire style and era of films.


For me, the story at times falters, and there were certain episodes that had me scratching my head. For instance, I understand Enley’s need to just get away from the situation when Joe suddenly appears, but just running off by himself and leaving his wife to fend for herself seemed… bizarre. Little things like that, which probably did not bother others, but that stick with me. Stylistically, though, Act of Violence is top-flight noir, worth viewing if for no other reason than to marvel at the aforementioned opening sequence and the well-paced finale in which Frank makes peace with his past.

1960: Psycho (Alfred Hitchcock)

Released: June 16, 1960

Director: Alfred Hitchcock; Screenplay: Joseph Stephano and Samuel Taylor based on the novel by Robert Bloch; Cinematography: John Russell; Studio: Paramount Pictures; Producer: Alfred Hitchcock; Music: Bernard Herrmann

Cast: Anthony Perkins (Norman Bates), Janet Leigh (Marion Craine), Martin Balsam (Detective Milton Abrogast), John Gavin (Sam Loomis), Vera Miles (Lila Crane), Simon Oakland (Dr. Fred Richmond), John McIntire (Sheriff Al Chambers), Frank Albertson (Tom Cassidy), Patricia Hitchcock (Caroline)

It’s quite easy to look back on this landmark 1960 horror film and acknowledge what a powerful and trendsetting movie that Psycho would become. Try analyzing it as if you were a studio executive in the late 1950s trying to make sense of what Alfred Hitchcock wanted to do. Hitch was on a run of films that was stunning, receiving praise among critics and at the box office as well. His list of achievements over this period – ranging from Strangers on a Train, to Dial M for Murder, Rear Window, To Catch a Thief, The Man Who Knew Too Much, Vertigo, North By Northwest among others – were blockbusters, boasting first-rate stars and massive budgets. Hitchcock was filming in Technicolor, convincing studios to construct unprecedented lavish sets, and shooting on location in exotic locales. And it had all worked, with the English-born director becoming one of the most successful men in Hollywood. He had found a niche in the type of movies he wanted to create, was able to extract the performances he wanted from actors that he obviously felt contempt for, and was prized by studio employers as a result.

So as amazing as it is to think of it today, Paramount Pictures was dead set against Hitchcock even bothering to make Psycho. Although Hitchcock was famous for toying with the fears and insecurities of audiences, the studio felt that the murderous storyline of Psycho would be too much. Hitchcock had to try and finance the film himself and make due with what he had at hand. Rather than the lavish finances he had recently enjoyed, he shot the entire movie on a budget of less than $1 million. The beautiful use of Technicolor in his films was discarded so as to further cut costs and he shot the film in black-and-white. Most of the crew used in filming was plucked from the set of his Alfred Hitchcock Presents television series, reducing expenses even further. The sets used had already been constructed for other films. And in the story itself, defying all conventional wisdom, he deliberately has the most identifiable personality in the entire movie killed less than halfway through.

In retrospect, it’s easy to see why Paramount was leery about distributing such a movie. Looking at it now, of course, the fact that they botched the handling of rights to the film and ultimately lost out on much of the $40 million profits is a decision akin to Decca passing on The Beatles. But at the time, it’s easy to imagine them wanting Hitchcock to simply stick to the playbook that he had put together over the course of his major-studio 50s run. Fortunately for movie fans, Hitch did as he pleased and the result is one of the most influential films ever made.


The film opens with Phoenix secretary Marion Crane (Janet Leigh) at a surreptitious lunchtime rendezvous with her soon-to-be divorced boyfriend Sam Loomis (John Gavin). When she returns to work that day and is asked to make a $40,000 bank deposit for a client, Marion begins scheming. Rather than make the expected deposit, Marion takes off with the money and begins to make plans of meeting up with Sam and going away together. Here is Hitchcock defying conventional wisdom right from the outset, as the biggest star in the film is immediately shown to be a thief. Marion quite clearly shows nervousness and questions what she is doing, but there is no getting around what she has done. She manages to get a new car and is quickly on the run, but in the process becomes caught in a rainstorm and lost on the road. This is how she comes to find the Bates Motel and meets the seemingly normal Norman Bates.

You quickly learn that like Marion, however, Norman also is not as he seems. Soon after Marion retires to her room, Norman scrambles to a hole in the wall that allows him to look into her chalet and spy on her. It is Hitchcock returning to a theme he had explored in the past, the idea of voyeurism and what it could lead to. Soon thereafter, in quite possibly the most famous sequence in the history of cinema, Marion is killed in the famed shower scene. The shock of the brutality of the scene may have lessened over time, but it’s still manages to be chilling in its minimalism.


Just 45 minutes into the film and the leading character, the only person in the film that the audience has been able to identify with, is gone. It’s an audacious movie by any director. For fellow music and classic rock fans, it reminds me of The Band deciding to lead off their debut album Music From Big Pink with a slow, sad song simply because everybody told them that’s something that just can't done. From this point on, the focus of the story quickly shifts to Norman and the demons that he is wrestling with. Hitchcock begins to probe what has made Norman into the socially awkward man he is. Are his homicidal tendencies ones that he was born with or are they the result of other developments? As we follow further investigations into the death of Marion, the answers to these questions slowly begin to be answered. Bernard Herrmann’s contribution to the film also cannot be ignored. His all-strings score is chilling and creates an atmosphere that perfectly matches the dark black-and-white photography. It sounds like a soundtrack to a nightmare.

As a mystery and thriller, Psycho is as good as they come. Watching it purely for the escapist entertainment still makes for an unbelievably wild ride. But as is the case with nearly all of Hitchcock’s masterpieces, there are other striking facets of his characters that are always intriguing. The thing that immediately struck me is how every character that is introduced to the audience has something to hide. Marion is making off with $40,000 of someone else’s money. Sam is having an affair and scrambling to clean up financial problems. Marion’s co-worker Caroline (Patricia Hitchcock) is revealed to have hidden prescription medication. Cassidy (Frank Albertson), the client who asks Marion to make the deposit for him, is concealing income to avoid paying taxes. Norman Bates is hiding secrets that are unthinkable. Everybody has something to suppress. I point this out not to show that every character is shady or a bad guy, as might be the case in many noirs. I bring it up because these are situations one can relate to. _Everybody_ on this planet has a dirty little secret or small detail that they want to keep to themselves. I don’t care who you are, there is some tidbit – however innocuous or serious – that you are not going to want aired to the public. Hitchcock knows this and show people as they scramble to maintain control of such information.


The most fascinating facet of the film for me is how Hitchcock deliberately manipulates who the audience identifies with over the course of the story. For the first third of the movie, the audience witnesses Marion taking part in a clandestine affair and then running off with $40K in stolen money. Still, you identify with Marion and basically reach the point of rooting for her to make a successful escape. Once she is killed, then the only readily available character to identify with is Norman. Hitchcock then deliberately begins to maneuver the viewer to see things as Norman does. Things begin to be shown as Norman sees them, miraculously managing to make a killer somewhat endearing. I don’t know that I would go so far as to say that you root for Norman to get away with murder, but it’s not a stretch to say that you at least hope that no drastic harm comes to him.

Psycho would be the last of Hitchcock’s irrefutable masterpieces. At times, I think it might be my favorite of his films. Even after all of the thrills have been experienced, when you know every twist and turn that is going to come up in the story, it still never disappoints. It is a film that has spawned thousands of imitators and none have come close to matching it.

Rating: 10/10

Other Contenders for 1960: Psycho is another that was never challenged in my mind for the top spot. But Billy Wilder’s The Apartment is a favorite and I would consider it to be Wilder’s best comedy, certainly ahead of Some Like It Hot. Jack Lemmon once again shines. The other films that I want to at least mention as being among my favorites for the year are: The Magnificent Seven (John Sturges), Comanche Station (Budd Boetticher), Rocco and His Brothers (Luchino Visconti), Le Trou (Jacques Becker), and a film that many consider 1959 but I’m staying consistent and counting it as 1960, Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless. Godard is a director I struggle with, but I find this to easily be my favorite of his films that I have seen.

It is no oversight that I did not include Federico Fellini’s lauded La Dolce Vita. I simply did not like it and have not revisited it since. I own it, so I suppose I will at some point, but it’s going to take a proper time and mood to make it through the three hours again. At the end of the film I remember thinking, “so what?” It’s not good to feel like you just wasted three hours after completing a movie. That’s how I felt after La Dolce Vita. I also surprisingly have never been a fan of Truffaut’s Shoot the Piano Player.

The only glaring omission in this year is Antonioni's L'avventura. It is one that I have not seen and so obviously it was not in consideration. It's one I should have seen by now, but haven't. As I said at the beginning, I consider myself pretty well-rounded, but there are some movies that I'm still in the process of getting to. This is one of them.