Wow, that sounds very, very good for the portrayal of mental state.
It's just a treasure. I actually think I took it more for granted the first time I saw it. It wasn't that I couldn't differentiate its understanding of mental health from films like Spellbound (1945) where psychoanalysis might as well be sympathetic magic—and I recognized it at the time as an exemplar of the noir ability to address social issues without solidifying into a message picture—but in 2011 I had seen much less film noir and so I had seen much less of the pulp-psych strain of it, e.g. there I was watching Backfire (1950) and all of a sudden the cute mortician played by Dane Clark turned out to be the alter ego of a maniacally murderous gangster. The October Man is having none of that. It also uses very little psychiatric language, which stands it in good stead seventy-five years later. In their last interview before Jim leaves the hospital, his doctor reminds him to take things slowly at first, cut himself a lot of slack, and not make any major life decisions immediately. "You mean there's a good chance of a relapse," Jim says sharply. "Not necessarily," the doctor responds, not taking the bait. "If you came to me with a broken leg, I'd say don't play football." That kind of neutral comparison is not uncommon now, but in 1947? Good for Dr. Martin. Good for Eric Ambler.
The truth of what you say and the film describes: that you can be functional and even happy and yet still drawn to end things--this I know from people close to me.
And the film understands that healing is not a binary or necessarily even a linear process, when so many narratives treat it like a switch that just needs to be flicked back on. Jim needs support from people, whether it's the unconditional, unsentimental reality checks he gets from Jenny who never doubts him and refuses to collude in his spirals ("You're not the murderer. And you know who is and you've got to stop him") or the diffident kindness of one hotel guest who doesn't entirely agree that being a nervy, antisocial sort makes a man fair game for railroading. He pulls himself together to play last-minute amateur detective with admirable tenacity, carrying off more than one level-headed confrontation and, ironically, some very successful lying when he actually sets his mind to it. He still crashes—more than once and badly—when the internal and external pressures combine to the apparent inescapable truth that he can't be trusted and should be dead. He's the only person who can keep himself alive. The film thinks he's worth it and doesn't pretend it's as simple from his side as being loved or even cleared of all charges. That was important for me to see in 2011. It's still important now.
And the difference between THAT and a person who kills out of aggrieved privilege is so big. I like that this film lifts that up. The people with aggrieved privilege--they're the ones to fear.
Absolutely. I almost certainly find Mr. Peachy scarier these days.
no subject
It's just a treasure. I actually think I took it more for granted the first time I saw it. It wasn't that I couldn't differentiate its understanding of mental health from films like Spellbound (1945) where psychoanalysis might as well be sympathetic magic—and I recognized it at the time as an exemplar of the noir ability to address social issues without solidifying into a message picture—but in 2011 I had seen much less film noir and so I had seen much less of the pulp-psych strain of it, e.g. there I was watching Backfire (1950) and all of a sudden the cute mortician played by Dane Clark turned out to be the alter ego of a maniacally murderous gangster. The October Man is having none of that. It also uses very little psychiatric language, which stands it in good stead seventy-five years later. In their last interview before Jim leaves the hospital, his doctor reminds him to take things slowly at first, cut himself a lot of slack, and not make any major life decisions immediately. "You mean there's a good chance of a relapse," Jim says sharply. "Not necessarily," the doctor responds, not taking the bait. "If you came to me with a broken leg, I'd say don't play football." That kind of neutral comparison is not uncommon now, but in 1947? Good for Dr. Martin. Good for Eric Ambler.
The truth of what you say and the film describes: that you can be functional and even happy and yet still drawn to end things--this I know from people close to me.
And the film understands that healing is not a binary or necessarily even a linear process, when so many narratives treat it like a switch that just needs to be flicked back on. Jim needs support from people, whether it's the unconditional, unsentimental reality checks he gets from Jenny who never doubts him and refuses to collude in his spirals ("You're not the murderer. And you know who is and you've got to stop him") or the diffident kindness of one hotel guest who doesn't entirely agree that being a nervy, antisocial sort makes a man fair game for railroading. He pulls himself together to play last-minute amateur detective with admirable tenacity, carrying off more than one level-headed confrontation and, ironically, some very successful lying when he actually sets his mind to it. He still crashes—more than once and badly—when the internal and external pressures combine to the apparent inescapable truth that he can't be trusted and should be dead. He's the only person who can keep himself alive. The film thinks he's worth it and doesn't pretend it's as simple from his side as being loved or even cleared of all charges. That was important for me to see in 2011. It's still important now.
And the difference between THAT and a person who kills out of aggrieved privilege is so big. I like that this film lifts that up. The people with aggrieved privilege--they're the ones to fear.
Absolutely. I almost certainly find Mr. Peachy scarier these days.