Double Indemnity (1944)
Director: Billy Wilder
Had I seen this before: Yes
I don't know about y'all, but to my mind, this is probably one of the most entertaining films ever named after a semi-obscure insurance policy clause. Director Billy Wilder and novelist Raymond Chandler, who apparently detested working together, nevertheless combined forces to adapt James M. Cain's 1943 crime novella into a crackling, propulsive screenplay with a dynamite cast. My favorite thread running through the trivia for this movie is the open disgust with which Chandler constantly referred to Cain's work--he's quoted as saying that "everything he touches smells like billygoat," not an insult you hear every day--while Cain loved the film adaptation and saw it multiple times. Anyway, I know which guy I would rather chain-smoke in a dramatically-lit room with, discussing how great this movie is even if one of the screenwriters was sort of a jerk.
The opening credits are full of menacing music and a shadowy figure on crutches, inching ominously toward the camera. Already I'm hooked--who is this hobbled man and what does he want with me? Answers come quickly, as Wilder gives us the end of the story at the beginning (a trick he would use again a few years later in one of my all-time favorite movies), opening with insurance agent Walter Neff stumbling into his near-empty office building and sweatily starting to unload a murder confession into his dictaphone. Worth noting that even in this entirely wretched state--we learn up top that this man has done unthinkable things for "money, and a woman...and I didn't get the money and I didn't get the woman"--he still can't help being low-key pleased with himself as he unravels the sordid tale. Walter is another classic 1940s American white man for our cinematic collection, less guileless than Oliver "I Don't Understand The Concept of Unhappiness" Reed, but just as accustomed to things going his way. The difference is, Oliver credits his charmed life to luck, whereas Walter undoubtedly credits his to his own cleverness. This aspect of the character, and the way Fred MacMurray strides through every scene with six feet and three inches worth of pure self-confidence, makes for an excellent noir antihero whose dramatic fall we are instantly excited to see unfold.
This downfall, is of course, precipitated by a dame. And listen--unlike Mary Astor's chilly villainess, Barbara Stanwyck comes in hot as Phyllis Dietrichson. I mean, she literally enters this movie wearing a towel and a mischievous expression (and, it must be said, a real beast of a blonde wig, with which she must spend the entire movie capably and impressively wrestling for control of each scene). Her voice is husky and her flirt game is lightning-quick, and sure she's unhappily married but she's only interested in taking out a great deal of insurance on her oil-industry husband because she's so worried about potential accidents, not that she wants something bad to happen to him, what are you even suggesting, Walter?? I'm not saying this specific performance rises quite to the level of Judy Maxwell please ruin my life for me, but I am saying...I get it. Walter is very clearly outmatched here, and I wouldn't give myself great odds in the ring with this one either.
He might have a better shot at keeping a clear head if he didn't have a classic noir appetite for booze--especially noticeable if you are aware that one of the reasons Wilder did not like collaborating with Chandler was that he was allegedly quite frequently drunk and allegedly inspired Wilder's next film The Lost Weekend. (In comparison, Chandler's complaints about Wilder included that he allegedly spoke too fast and allegedly wore a baseball cap indoors.) When Walter visits Phyllis in the early afternoon, he asks for a beer, settles for an iced tea, then casually muses "Wonder if a little rum would get this up on its feet?" A perfect line in a movie full of perfect lines, and a character trait that perhaps contributes to some slight shoddiness in their intricate scheme.
Rounding out the main cast is Edward G. Robinson, playing Walter's boss Keyes, the man to whom the voice-over murder confession is addressed. Robinson was a pint-sized actor, especially next to the towering MacMurray, but a huge presence on screen--probably best remembered for his singular voice and accent, most familiar to people my age as the inspiration for The Simpsons' Chief Wiggum. In this movie, his character is a pretty straightforward one--just an insurance manager with a strong gut instinct regarding fraud, but everything about him pops in in a very amusing way. He's forever patting down his pockets for a book of matches that aren't there and talking about the "concrete" he gets in his stomach when something isn't right. In some ways Keyes is the main antagonist for our leads, as he's the one closest to the case and closest to sniffing them out. But in a different framing he is, of course, the hero, and the only one with the correct take on our leading man--"You're not smarter, Walter, you're just a little bit taller."
Line I repeated quietly to myself: The dialogue in this movie is so delightfully constructed and delivered that I repeated many, many lines out loud just to hear the sound of them again. I think the one that made me laugh the most was when Walter hands Phyllis a drink in the kitchen and then, for absolutely no reason, says "See if you can carry this as far as the living room."
Is it under two hours: Yes
How fatale is la femme: Can't say enough good things about the bad Mrs. Dietrichson. Seductive, dangerous, plausibly convincing, great legs, amazing wardrobe, killer line delivery. This lady murdered her way into and out of the same relationship, you have to respect it. Slight deduction for failing to get off that second shot at the end. 9/10
Chicken Enchiladas inspired by The El Paseo Inn and Mexican Rice from The Kitchn
You will not be shocked to hear that Walter does not eat, Walter only drinks and smokes, but at one point he does take Phyllis's stepdaughter out to a "Mexican restaurant on Olvera Street." The El Paseo Inn on Olvera Street in Los Angeles has been in operation since 1930, so I figure there's a decent chance that was the spot. I attempted to recreate the Avila Adobe Enchiladas from their menu, and I can't say whether they're accurate, but I can say they garnered enthusiasm from every member of my family, which is not...usually how dinner goes.
Up next: What if there were...a third man?
