Review of Scarlet Street (1945) by Paul Z — 21 Oct 2008

The fundamental nature of film noir has to do with a disheartened viewpoint of life and reality as much as it does the visual impression, and at the very beginning of this film, we see a quintessential moment subtly culminate after the first scene, an instant that divulges the whole philosophy of film noir: Fritz Lang, in another precision success with a truly intense and emotional dramatic thriller, casts Edward G. Robinson with a gifted perception of his capabilities as Christopher Cross (Chris Cross, get it?), a meek banker and recreational painter, and this careful and resourceful noir opens at a dinner honoring him for his long career at the bank. On his way home, a friend invites Chris to take the train, as per his typical algorithm. Chris has something on his mind however, and chooses to walk instead. And with the snap of the fingers, a match point of the tennis ball on the net, his life changes forever. As soon as he makes that seemingly meaningless, impromptu decision, he helps Joan Bennett, a femme fatale who is evidently being assaulted by a man. Almost immediately, he is captivated by her as his own life at home is controlled by his oppressive who worships her previous husband, a cop who drowned while struggling to rescue a woman.

We care a great deal about Chris because he is a common man. He lets people walk all over him. We hate his wife. We find his job as boring as he does. We can identify with his love of something he never quite got to do as much as he wanted to, which is painting, and as of his remarks concerning his appreciation of it, Bennett misguidedly thinks him a prosperous painter. It happens that the attacker was Bennett's brutish boyfriend, played with Dan Duryea's exceptional ability to be not quite evil and not quite intimidating but just a sniveling jerk, with whom she was quarrelling over money. Duryea encourages her to go in for a relationship with Cross, so as to wring money from him. Kitty entices Cross to rent an apartment for her, one that can also be his art studio. They take a high-priced apartment in earlier times enjoyed by Diego Rivera. One appreciates Edward G. Robinson's character and how the stress and burden of being a living bathmat for everyone else has shaped his actions, and how the world around him is in a sense slowly but surely receiving their just desserts, merely by his uncoiling.

He is thrilled and, as we sense without it necessary for the film to demonstrate, unstoppable, in recapturing the dreams of his younger years that have eluded him. To bankroll this confidential life, Cross embezzles from the bank. In the meantime, Duryea takes a crack at selling some of Cross's paintings, catching the attention of a celebrated art critic. Bennett acts as if she painted them, enchanting the critic, who guarantees her a career. When Cross's wife sees her husband's paintings in a money-making art gallery as the work of someone else, she accuses him of cloning this commercial artist's work. Cross understands that he can sell his paintings under Bennett's name, and with enthusiasm consents to her being the known face of his work.

Though we are aware early on of the deception against Edward G. Robinson's character, we are still stunned by some of the directions the film takes after this point. The script is pitch- perfect as many of its events border on implausible but never seem to slip over that fence, because Scarlet Street is essential a dark story of how twists of fate and lottery wins of chance can be traps in spite of how little one can blame someone like Robinson for taking advantage of them.