Johnny's the smart guy who never gambles – always with the clothes, always with the girls. With a bullet in his gut and fire in his brain, Johnny makes the REAL smart play, and chooses Nancy – and life.
Debutant Director Rossen and Director of Photography Guffey have done something curious with this one. Some scenes are shot with a hand-held camera (revolutionary for the period) and there are some quirky, shaky bits of visual work, especially when the point-of-view shifts. Extreme close-ups of Powell and leading lady Evelyn Keyes have a strange "rocking- boat" movement in the background. Is this a Brechtian alienation technique, constantly reminding us that we're watching a movie, and forcing us to check out of the emotion, or merely the result of a very low budget?
Remember Scorsese's wonderful bird's-eye-view shot of De Niro (Casino, 1995), as "Ace" Rothstein, walking through his gaming tables, like a shark gliding through home waters? Well, here is something remarkably similar, half a century earlier. The wounded Johnny retreats to a back room where rows of roulette wheels are mounted on the walls, symbols of the deception (and hazard) by which he lives, and in which he thrives. And they look like the net which threatens to entrap him.
In a role of which his performance in The Exorcist now seems a parody, Lee J. Cobb is terrific as Johnny's foil and nemesis – the unkempt but mentally astute detective, jousting with the elegant, immaculate crook.
Dick Powell is a grossly underrated film phenomenon. Golden tenor in the 1930s musicals, he segued easily into hardboiled noir hero in the 1940s. It was Powell, slated for the title role in Johnny O'Clock, who campaigned for Robert Rossen to direct his own script – and thereby bequeathed us a noir gem. Snappy suits and a glossy criminal milieu, dripping with an atmosphere of barely-suppressed violence – this is the zeitgeist of the late 40s at its purest.
But it's also something more. Rossen was somehow in touch with European philosophical trends. The German Expressionist sets, giving shape to unruly, destructive emotions, are standard fare, but what is special here is the exploitation of Absurdist concepts through the medium of the American crime genre. In 1942 Albert Camus had published a work of philosophy which depicted human existence as essentially bleak. In this pitiless universe, the intelligent man-hero knows he cannot rely on the comfort of the God-myth. We are alone, and there is no purpose to anything, no meaning. Gide and Sartre quickly followed, and the Atom Bomb seemed to underscore what they were saying. In a world where our artistic, political and philosophical achievements can be snuffed out in one instant by a super-weapon, to look for worth in anything is an act of absurdity. So, when "Greaseball" Guido Marchettis has his gat pointing at Johnny, our hero angrily admonishes Nancy – if death comes, fairly or unfairly, Johnny will not have anyone beg to save him. To look this squalid world in the eye and to take what comes, without whining: that's the way Sisyphus has to play it.
Debutant Director Rossen and Director of Photography Guffey have done something curious with this one. Some scenes are shot with a hand-held camera (revolutionary for the period) and there are some quirky, shaky bits of visual work, especially when the point-of-view shifts. Extreme close-ups of Powell and leading lady Evelyn Keyes have a strange "rocking- boat" movement in the background. Is this a Brechtian alienation technique, constantly reminding us that we're watching a movie, and forcing us to check out of the emotion, or merely the result of a very low budget?
Remember Scorsese's wonderful bird's-eye-view shot of De Niro (Casino, 1995), as "Ace" Rothstein, walking through his gaming tables, like a shark gliding through home waters? Well, here is something remarkably similar, half a century earlier. The wounded Johnny retreats to a back room where rows of roulette wheels are mounted on the walls, symbols of the deception (and hazard) by which he lives, and in which he thrives. And they look like the net which threatens to entrap him.
In a role of which his performance in The Exorcist now seems a parody, Lee J. Cobb is terrific as Johnny's foil and nemesis – the unkempt but mentally astute detective, jousting with the elegant, immaculate crook.
Dick Powell is a grossly underrated film phenomenon. Golden tenor in the 1930s musicals, he segued easily into hardboiled noir hero in the 1940s. It was Powell, slated for the title role in Johnny O'Clock, who campaigned for Robert Rossen to direct his own script – and thereby bequeathed us a noir gem. Snappy suits and a glossy criminal milieu, dripping with an atmosphere of barely-suppressed violence – this is the zeitgeist of the late 40s at its purest.
But it's also something more. Rossen was somehow in touch with European philosophical trends. The German Expressionist sets, giving shape to unruly, destructive emotions, are standard fare, but what is special here is the exploitation of Absurdist concepts through the medium of the American crime genre. In 1942 Albert Camus had published a work of philosophy which depicted human existence as essentially bleak. In this pitiless universe, the intelligent man-hero knows he cannot rely on the comfort of the God-myth. We are alone, and there is no purpose to anything, no meaning. Gide and Sartre quickly followed, and the Atom Bomb seemed to underscore what they were saying. In a world where our artistic, political and philosophical achievements can be snuffed out in one instant by a super-weapon, to look for worth in anything is an act of absurdity. So, when "Greaseball" Guido Marchettis has his gat pointing at Johnny, our hero angrily admonishes Nancy – if death comes, fairly or unfairly, Johnny will not have anyone beg to save him. To look this squalid world in the eye and to take what comes, without whining: that's the way Sisyphus has to play it.
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