by
Derek
Smith 11/3/08
Pickup
on South Street, Sam
Fuller’s brutal yet sensual masterpiece, begins on a speeding subway
train,
full of colliding bodies stuffed inside like canned sardines. No one speaks, but everyone glances; some at
the floor or out the window, others at unsuspecting passengers, yet all
attempting in one way or another to not betray what’s truly on their
mind. Every initial glance is revealed to
be
misdirected until our anti-hero, Skip McCoy, bursts onto the scene to
meet the
sultry gaze of Candy, the delivery girl who’s carting around a film
strip
which, unknown to her, contains U.S. government secrets that she’s
passing on
to a Communist agent. Fuller cuts
between angular close-ups of Candy’s lustful visage and Skip’s stoic
response,
eventually revealing, through another extreme close-up, that he is
picking her
pocket, willing her closer to him so he can make off with the dough. An on-looker sees him, but the sea of bodies
prevents him from making it off the train in time.
And in one short minute, Fuller brilliantly sets up
a world of
mistrust, deception and fierce individuality – a world where former
absolutes
like love and honor all have their price.
Post-war malaise
tinged with Cold
War paranoia and the struggles of the enlightened yet suffering “modern
man”
are all efficiently packaged in this rough-edged, no-nonsense noir
where the
area’s always grey. Fuller’s anti-hero
always remains incomplete, never fully aligning himself with either
side. He is a perpetual tweener, not taken
in by
the nationalistic platitudes spouted his way left and right, yet
willing to
rough Candy up when he takes her for a Commie. And
still he stands on no side but his own,
remaining content as a
lonely thief, since in that, at the very least, he can be honest about
his deception. Not only does Skip
initially refuse to turn
the film over to the authorities, instead seeing if he can squeeze the
Commies
for 25 Grand, but even when he does the right thing – giving the
squirmy
Communist agent Joey his comeuppance, accepting Candy’s love as a sign
of his
own personal redemption, and even giving the police everything they
need – he
leaves not with thanks but the stamp of a two-bit crook and a clean
wrap sheet
that comes with a snide guarantee that it won’t stay that way for long. In Fuller’s world, there’s always an angle
and trust is a commodity in short supply. The
Reds are the bad guys, but no one leaves
untainted and in the end,
Candy, in her angelic white dress, is perhaps the only sign of hope and
even
that comes through an uneasy mix of naivety and guts.
Cinematic
Reflections
