Dix Steele is a writer who maybe murdered a coat-check girl. He says he didn't; the police don't believe him. His only alibi: a beautiful neighbour, Laurel Gray. She's brought in for questioning. The cop starts with the questions.
"Do you usually give such attention to your neighbors?"
"No."
"Were you interested in Mr. Steele because he's a celebrity?"
"No. I noticed him because he looked interesting—I like his face."
I like his face: probably the most famous line uttered in Nicholas Ray's In a Lonely Place. About a half hour earlier, one of the film's first shots:
Although most critics argue the line highlights the film's exploration of images and surfaces, my reading was more in tune with the characters and narrative. What kind of person sees a face like that and likes it? Clearly, as the film shows in its first act, not many; in fact, most dislike it. Hence, what kind of person is Laurel?
While Ray paints Dix as a man with plenty of psychological problems, his portrayal of Laurel is more nuanced. What that line demonstrates, however—at least to me—is that Laurel is just as broken as Dix. She's not a typical femme fatale, as the film's noir aspects would perhaps like to suggest, because her motives don't seem selfish and entirely calculated, but she is a predator: she does, after all, chase and ensnare Dix.
That the hunt ends with Laurel in an apron and doting like a wife on her tough-guy prey is certainly a twist, but it's not an affirmation of normality—generic or social. The period of domestic peace and happiness is, instead, the necessary set-up to the film's final act, which serves as a protracted knife slash across the wrists. One not meant to kill, but to hurt; self-mutilation, not suicide.
Laurel plays the game. Laurel fixes the game. Laurel loses the game. Laurel wins.
Tears of joy? One of the film's final shots: Laurel watching Dixon walk out of her life forever. In 1950, Hollywood only made happy endings. This is one of them.
Before he met Laural, Dix was apathetic. His mean streak existed, but it had been tolerated and tamed by his few friends. And, with it, went his creativity. Then along came Laurel: re-ignition: both violence and passion.
+
=
Simple but effective mathematics: love conquers everything—including the frames of the screen!—as loved meets lover in a single shot. Incidentally, does this imply that true love can only be whole, encompassing both editing
and mise-en-scene?
More keeping within the story, the extreme angles also suggest something of a dominant/submissive relationship between the characters, as big, strong Dix looks down at puppy-eyed 'lil Laurie with more than a hint of black leather and whips. Whether Laurel is sincere in her submissiveness, or merely playing at it, remains unclear; but, whether she's playing a role or only herself, she is enjoying it. Dixon, on the other hand, certainly
does like to play tough guy.
Careful, or he'll break your jaw! Merely one example of Dixon getting rough. Both Freudians and Feminists would have fun with this film, I think.
But, not to get too carried away. There's a more gentle type of affection between Dix and Laurel, as well. Here, in one of the film's more sensuous shots, Laurel sweetly whispers into Dixon's ear. The love established in the earlier sequence is also carried over, as two lovers share one frame.
Then, almost as if the film in miniature, their lovely moment is interrupted! Laurel notices someone walk into the bar. Why, of all the gin joints in all the world...
And, for added complications, who's the one in control, surveying the world and assessing its dangers? It's not Mr. Tough Guy with his head buried on a soft shoulder!
Now, for some examples of technique.
This is Dix getting scary. Ray dims the lights and then shines another one on Dixon's face. It's an effect from the early days of cinema (I think of
Nosferatu), but used to good effect in this film. Part of the reason it isn't crude is that it's used only twice. Returning to the first section of this article, too: would
you like this face?
These three images are from the same scene: Laurel's first interrogation. Notice how Ray first establishes the spatial relationships between the characters, then plays with point of view. The chief of police and Dixon square off over a girl's murder and over Laurel—whose side will she end up on? If she picks the cops, Dix probably goes to jail. If she picks Dix, she might be helping him get away with murderer. Eventually, the little devil on Laurel's left shoulder knocks out the angel on the right, and she affirms her status as alibi. Throughout, Ray keeps track of who's winning via camera placement. What begins in the control of the police chief ends in the hands, and through the eyes, of Dix Steele. Although, as we'll eventually learn, Laurel's the one doing much of the spinning!
And, speaking of devils on left shoulders, here's Laurel getting a massage from a woman who'll warn her about Dixon's violent past. Physical pleasure to the tune of dirty, dirty deeds.
Burnett Guffey's nighttime car-hood cinematography deserves a mention somewhere, too. Its darkness and dynamism add plenty to the film's bleak tone and otherwise general stillness. This particular shot is from a sequence in which Dix gets real angry and drives real fast and real dangerous.
Now,
here's something that caught me off guard! It already made an appearance in a previous image, but here's a better look. What's that to the right of Dixon's head?
A painting by Diego Rivera!
It's called
The Flower Carrier, and I think it was more than a little
risqué for Ray to include this painting, by an unabashed communist artist, in a film in 1950! As you can probably guess, Ray was something of a Communist, as well.
A few other artworks make appearances, but this was the only one I could identify. I wonder what sorts of political statements and connotations lurk behind the ones I didn't know.
Finally, to end: something sweetly enigmatic. It could be naughty, it could be nice; it probably is both. Have a puff?
