The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. (PG.)
Directed by Martin Ritt. 1965.
Starring Richard Burton, Claire Bloom, Oskar Werner, Cyril Cusack, Sam Wanamaker, Peter Van Eyck, Robert Hardy, Bernard Lee and Michael Hordern. Black and white. Out on Blu-ray from Eureka Masters of Cinema. 108 mins.
I have never read a le Carre novel. A shocking admission no doubt, but I'd suggest that I'm missed out less than with almost any other major author because le Carre is a writer who has been uniquely well served by the big and small screen. I'm not saying every adaptation has been great, but that they have all been faithful to the spirit and tone of the author. From very early on, it was established that this was one writer, probably the only writer, with which the movies did not take liberties. And this being the first film version of his work, this is where that was established.
Ritt's take on his 3rd novel and first international bestseller is an absolute belter and arguably the best non-Alec Guinness le Carre. The opening scene with Richard Burton prowling anxiously around Checkpoint Charlie at the Berlin Wall is archetypal Cold War spy story territory, but after that, we're immersed into the familiar le Carre world of seedy disillusionment and middle-aged men in offices trying to track out elaborate continent-spanning scams and schemes. In the wake of a failed defection, Control (Cusack) engages Leamas (Burton), the station head in Berlin to take part in a long term plan to get back at the East German spymaster Mundt (Van Eyck.) To say more would be to reveal too much, but at one point he ends up working in a library.
It is shot, by Oswald Morris, in stark, no fuss monochrome. There's no call for any expressionistic Third Man shadows here; the film's straightforward, just-the-facts black and white sets the mood perfectly. Ritt isn't a showy director, but the staging maximises every moment. The tension, it is palpable. Probably the standard moves of the Cold War espionage thriller – moles, trust nobody, pawns in a bigger game of double-crosses – had already been set but they are used here to full effect. There's even the surreptitiously rendezvous on a wintry park bench.
The film is packed top to bottom with great performances. People like Cusack, Hardy and Hordern only get a couple of scenes, but in those few minutes, they burrow down deep into their characters, suggest the setbacks and life choices that have brought them to their position as cogs in a machine. They all enjoy asserting their place in the hierarchy. The sequence where Hardy cruelly dismisses Hordern after he is no longer needed, only to then get put in his place by Wanamaker, the next rung up the ladder, a few scenes later, is a lovely microcosm of British society and our desperate need for a clearly asserted pecking order.
It is though the two leads that make the film. Even without reading the book, you suspect that Claire Bloom is miscast as the librarian Nan, even one as forward to initiate a relationship with Burton after only a week working together. I'm not sure if the figure of Nan and her relationship with Burton ever quite becomes fully credible, but Bloom is mesmerising and holds her own opposite Burton, who may never have been better on screen. (This was the fourth of his seven failed Oscar nominations.) Reviewing Equus, I suggested that on the big screen he was still a theatrical performer, relying on that extraordinary voice to convince. This may be true of that film, (because that's what the role required) but he is definitely a film actor in this and does some masterly character work without dialogue. We may argue that he is too strong a character, too charismatic to be a shabby man trying to stay ahead of the game in le Carre's grey world but (possible spoiler) that ultimately works for the film.
Extras.
Quality rather than quantity. Adrian Martin's commentary concentrates on the link between book and film and reassessing the career of director Ritt. An excellent new video essay by David Cairns is packed with insight and behind the scenes anecdotes.
Directed by Martin Ritt. 1965.
Starring Richard Burton, Claire Bloom, Oskar Werner, Cyril Cusack, Sam Wanamaker, Peter Van Eyck, Robert Hardy, Bernard Lee and Michael Hordern. Black and white. Out on Blu-ray from Eureka Masters of Cinema. 108 mins.
I have never read a le Carre novel. A shocking admission no doubt, but I'd suggest that I'm missed out less than with almost any other major author because le Carre is a writer who has been uniquely well served by the big and small screen. I'm not saying every adaptation has been great, but that they have all been faithful to the spirit and tone of the author. From very early on, it was established that this was one writer, probably the only writer, with which the movies did not take liberties. And this being the first film version of his work, this is where that was established.
Ritt's take on his 3rd novel and first international bestseller is an absolute belter and arguably the best non-Alec Guinness le Carre. The opening scene with Richard Burton prowling anxiously around Checkpoint Charlie at the Berlin Wall is archetypal Cold War spy story territory, but after that, we're immersed into the familiar le Carre world of seedy disillusionment and middle-aged men in offices trying to track out elaborate continent-spanning scams and schemes. In the wake of a failed defection, Control (Cusack) engages Leamas (Burton), the station head in Berlin to take part in a long term plan to get back at the East German spymaster Mundt (Van Eyck.) To say more would be to reveal too much, but at one point he ends up working in a library.
It is shot, by Oswald Morris, in stark, no fuss monochrome. There's no call for any expressionistic Third Man shadows here; the film's straightforward, just-the-facts black and white sets the mood perfectly. Ritt isn't a showy director, but the staging maximises every moment. The tension, it is palpable. Probably the standard moves of the Cold War espionage thriller – moles, trust nobody, pawns in a bigger game of double-crosses – had already been set but they are used here to full effect. There's even the surreptitiously rendezvous on a wintry park bench.
The film is packed top to bottom with great performances. People like Cusack, Hardy and Hordern only get a couple of scenes, but in those few minutes, they burrow down deep into their characters, suggest the setbacks and life choices that have brought them to their position as cogs in a machine. They all enjoy asserting their place in the hierarchy. The sequence where Hardy cruelly dismisses Hordern after he is no longer needed, only to then get put in his place by Wanamaker, the next rung up the ladder, a few scenes later, is a lovely microcosm of British society and our desperate need for a clearly asserted pecking order.
It is though the two leads that make the film. Even without reading the book, you suspect that Claire Bloom is miscast as the librarian Nan, even one as forward to initiate a relationship with Burton after only a week working together. I'm not sure if the figure of Nan and her relationship with Burton ever quite becomes fully credible, but Bloom is mesmerising and holds her own opposite Burton, who may never have been better on screen. (This was the fourth of his seven failed Oscar nominations.) Reviewing Equus, I suggested that on the big screen he was still a theatrical performer, relying on that extraordinary voice to convince. This may be true of that film, (because that's what the role required) but he is definitely a film actor in this and does some masterly character work without dialogue. We may argue that he is too strong a character, too charismatic to be a shabby man trying to stay ahead of the game in le Carre's grey world but (possible spoiler) that ultimately works for the film.
Extras.
Quality rather than quantity. Adrian Martin's commentary concentrates on the link between book and film and reassessing the career of director Ritt. An excellent new video essay by David Cairns is packed with insight and behind the scenes anecdotes.
