1958, Orson Welles noir.
As a return to Hollywood, this is undobutedly Welles at his more conventional. Of course we have the canted angles and so on, but it is largely kept in check. There is of course that quite remarkable opening shot, the economy of the crane movements that throw us across the town. Welles is actually able, despite his tactic of cutting to emphasise emotion (he breaks his own rule on close-ups frequently), to at times display a certain modesty, keeping the precise action away from us.
The dark, dirty underworld is here brought out in sweat, expressionist side-angle lighting that enhances every pore of Quinlan's skin. There is a real feeling of a sort of moistness in this film; the money/ dirt of the oil rigs, the alchol.
Again, Welles explores a kind of primal terror, a soiling of idols. It comes to be wondered if it is possible to escape; Quinlan and Vargas do both seem deeply compromised. Vargas' wife's set-up is genuinely disturbing.
An extreme evocation of the noirish universe, with a formally slightly more reined-in Welles.
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