12 Angry Men (1957), dir. Sidney Lumet

12angrymen

Adapted from Reginald Rose’s 1954 teleplay, broadcast on CBS’ Studio One (1948-58) and directed by Franklin J Schaffner, 12 Angry Men has transcended its origins to become a cornerstone. Produced by renowned actor Henry Fonda for $350,000 through the independent Orion-Nova and distributed through United Artists, 12 Angry Men was emblematic of an emerging wave of low-budget independent film, as cinema reconfigured its relationship with television. Nominated for an Academy Award, 12 Angry Men barely had a chance to find an audience, with its New York premiere at Loew’s Flagship only having the first few rows filled, running only a week.

Courtroom dramas extend deeply, across cinema, television, documentary, tabloids and fiction. But 12 Angry Men is unique for its use of the confined space of the jury room, without interruption, an outgrowth of the live television limitations of the teleplay, requiring a balance of staging, blocking and performance. One of Sidney Lumet’s early teleplays (alongside Rose), Tragedy in a Temporary Town (1956), produced for the strand The Alcoa Hour (1955-57) makes this confinement clear, reducing an entire community to the artifice of a set. Neither was 12 Angry Men the first film to utilise limitations of space, from the one-frame narratives of early silent cinema, Hitchcock’s pioneering in Rope (1948) and Rear Window (1954), the confined houses of Saw (2004) and Carnage (2011), and the military-under-fire of Buried (2010). Whereas TV’s confinement is inherent, broadcast to a box in a living room, cinema offers expansion. But as Thane Rosenbaum notes, audiences expected “gunfights in the mountainous Wild West or leading men and women falling in love in exotic places”.

12 Angry Men is intensely visual: small details of law and action are not just narrated, but acted out; characters move around the room, examining details of the knife within evidence, diagrams and staging the movements of a witness across the room. With only a window to the outside world, the pounding summer storm heightens the intensity of the room, reflecting the room’s internal strife. But 12 Angry Men’s space isn’t just the courtroom, but setting: New York City. As Stephen E. Bowles writes in Sidney Lumet: A Guide to References and Resources, Lumet had been “a product of New York’s east side” (1979:4); through his filmmaking, he “helped establish New York City as a major production center long before it became fashionable” (1979:3). Just as the television industry behind CBS had been driven by New York, as Rosenbaum notes, the film was shot in New York, with most of its actors, largely from stage and television, emerging from the New York School of filmmaking that drew attention to “social consciousness” and “realism”.

Rose’s teleplay had been drawn from his own experience from a manslaughter case. Over the summer, I sat on a jury for a couple of weeks. 12 Angry Men quickly became a talking point, some recalling watching it in law class and the concept of “beyond a reasonable doubt”. The social space of the court returns each day with the regularity as school or work. An entire world exists within artificial barriers, concrete and wooden panels remnants of the 70s; the courtroom an odd hybrid of technology, testimony relayed through DVD-Rs and Skype. Phones turned off or left behind in the jury room, every fag break offering interlude. My confinement had been exacerbated through social anxiety: waiting to be assigned for a case whilst reading in excess, unable to bond with an assembly of strangers and a jigsaw puzzle. The outside world offers strange release: a return to nature, a bus back home, a connection to the social internet. The jury is built through the repetition of routine, with its set of customs and expectations, costumes and wigs. I sat, as my thoughts wandered.

12 Angry Men’s main protagonists initially refuse to engage with process, formulating an immediate conclusion, desiring a return to normality as quickly as possible, passing time with charades or tic-tac-toe. 12 Angry Men allows us to doubt certainty, questioning the fallibility of memory and testimony: the question of the last film you watched at what time; the woman across the street, who probably couldn’t see without glasses; the narrative constructed within the case. The suspect, an 18-year-old kid from the slums threatened with death, allows a degree of social consciousness, exploring not only justice but class and ghettoisation. In Tragedy in a Temporary Town, Lumet engaged with similar issues, exploring mob justice among the underprivileged, the rape of a teenage girl and a Puerto-Rican suspect. As Rosenbaum writes, both Lumet and Rose were “children of the Great Depression” who understood the feeling of “the other” whilst believing in the American Dream.

Perhaps the most ludicrous aspect of 12 Angry Men is its length. Lumet relays the film’s narrative in real time throughout the 90-minute narrative. But deliberation was never brief, nor were we seeking to get out of quickly, stretching on days. Each day might pass quickly, living by moving hands of the clock upon the wall, lunch breaks, teas and coffees and mid-afternoon’s close, but time freezes in the deliberation room, words spoken and repeated until the mouth can barely say another word. By day’s end, I sit back on the sofa, drained, unable to do much else, scenes and testimony playing through my mind at night. I still get flashbacks.

The centre of 12 Angry Men is a commitment to truth. The oath, even among non-believers, carries power: truth not only to man’s world and society, family and the law, but the spiritual world. But absolute truth is difficult, if impossible, to formulate: jotting down notes, recording key quotes and details, highlighting written evidence. Weighing evidence is hard: what justifications we conjecture, what should be emphasised, what should be thrown out, what doesn’t make sense? The verdict was some of the deepest tension I’ve ever experienced: anxiety in my stomach rising, sipping water in dread, looking down at my feet. I played a small role in altering the path of a life separate from my own. It’s an uneasy burden to hold.

The opening pan in the courtroom establishes the film’s jurors in equal standing, each with their own part; the suspect sits, unspeaking. But each man has distinguishing characteristics beyond names: hats and ties, the scrawl of their handwriting on each ballots. Each character has individual goals, like a baseball game in the evening, and occupations: a football coach, stockbroker, architect, labourers and advertising executives, from the youth of the dissenting juror 8 (Henry Fonda) to the age of juror 9 (Joseph Sweeney), reprising his role from the television production. Within the jury room, they establish freeform democracy, electing foreman and process. Ballots and hands offer anonymity, beyond the openness as each character mentions private lives. Through the film’s 2 weeks of rehearsals and 19-day shoot, Lumet allows performances to carry through the film’s moral questions, both in interactions and monologues. We root for characters from personalities: bluntness, charisma, ideas. As Drew Casper notes in his audio commentary, the lack of make-up allows realism to carry through. Both cinematographer Boris Kaufman, having refined his style in the avant-garde expressions of Jean Vigo and the documentary observations of John Grierson, and editor Carl Lerner allow rhythm in composition and pace, drawing attention to each character.

The jury is arbitrary: assembled through electoral register, defined by their decision to determine the future of the country as a cross-section of the populous. I expected to be alone amid a sea of adults, but the modern jury is representative beyond the largely white men of 12 Angry Men: young adults, the middle-aged, the retired, each bringing their own experiences from their work, their lives, values and beliefs, women refracting their own perspectives. I barely remember anyone’s names. The anonymity of Lumet’s jury rings true, each juror reduced to nameless archetype defined by face, voice and look. From the courtroom, I construct a film within my mind. The television becomes a frame-within-a-frame. My eye line darts, moving between judge, defence, prosecution and witness. As I leave the room, I keep my head down, still offering a brief look at the face of the accused as I pass. An entire life becomes perception and construct, grounded within what can be revealed over a few days.

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My 2016 in Film: The 1970s

The 1970s as a decade are perhaps most notable for coinciding with my parents’ coming-of-age. My dad’s CD collection has basically ensured that I’m enamoured with any and all progressive rock released in the early 1970s. Whenever I’m watching a film from the 70s, I end up thinking in the back of my mind that my parents have probably watched it at some point.

The Last Detail (1973), dir. Hal Ashby

Released by Indicator later this year, The Last Detail is something to get excited for. Although Hal Ashby is better known for Harold and Maude (1971) and Being There (1979), The Last Detail is one of the greats. Jack Nicholson’s performance as a foul mouthed naval signalman is one of his best, as we see him and Mulhall (Otis Young) moving a teenage sailor (Randy Quaid), through Washington, Philadelphia and Boston over to a naval prison in Portsmouth. Part of the film’s appeal are the locations, giving a fly-by tour of the East Coast of America. But more than that, the film is just genuinely hilarious.

In its evoking of radical new spirituality, and a city populated by brothels, the film might feel somewhat dated, still lingering from the radical late-60s LSD trips of Easy Rider (1969). Yet it never loses any of its interest; its datedness still reveals a timeless narrative about three men in an uneasy situation.

The Taking of Pelham One Two Three (1974), dir. Joseph Sargent

Tony Scott’s 2009 remake may be better known today, and though I’ve not seen it, Sargent’s film feels like the definitive version. There’s something unquestionably claustrophobic about the Subway. The Subway is an icon of New York City. With daily commutes and tourist travel, we may become complacent with it – but it’s still an underground tunnel, cut-off from the outside, descending into the unknown. The Tube is one of my biggest fears – it becomes almost suffocating, though I can just about deal with it. Projecting these anxieties into a fear of the unknown creates a gripping negotiation thriller. Though our focus remains on a contained space, the film never feels slow and never loses any tension, occasionally cutting to other parts of the city as the mayor decides to negotiate, assigning the police to shift the money over at near-fatal speeds.

Within the George W. Bush rhetoric of “we don’t negotiate with terrorists”, the film feels distinctly 1970s. Yet danger is still inherent with the Subway. In the short documentary Man Under (2015), we become aware of how suicides can affect the psychology of drivers working for the MTA.

Rather than merely an everyday space, the Subway is a multidimensional space, connecting people from all walks of life, run by many different people. The film remains thrilling to the very end, as we close on an in media res ending. We never get a truly developed insight into the motivations of the film’s trenchcoat-wearing terrorists, yet as we see their disorder and squabbling, they become far more interesting than what could have been characterised as a caricature of a street thug or a Muslim (or Russian) terrorist.

The Day of the Locust (1975), dir. John Schlesinger

The Day of the Locust‘s biggest problem is that it runs too long. Yet in spite of this, its incredible exploration of life in 1930s Hollywood forgives its overlong length. At times, the film is difficult to get through, but in the end it’s worth it. Adapted from Nathaniel West’s 1939 novel, written on the brink of World War II, the film shifts from contemporary to reflective, approaching the 1930s 35 years later. If told today, the film might feel too romanticised, or detached from the era it’s meant to represent. Yet here, there is still a sense of attachment to a period much of the film’s crew would have lived through.

Donald Sutherland excels in his portrayal of the alcoholic and angry Homer Simpson, whose namesake was reportedly borrowed for The Simpsons (1989-present) itself, becoming far more iconic than West’s character (or Sutherland’s portrayal) ever was. Sutherland is terrifying, and justifies watching the film alone. The film’s most powerful scene is in its final act, as we see a riot break out outside the famed Chinese Theater, and chaos descend in the streets. The film forces the viewer to look away because of the scene’s power. It has the power to make everything feel sinister: even nursery rhymes.

Jeepers creepers,
Where’d you get those peepers?

Deep Red (1975), dir. Dario Argento

Dario Argento is perhaps the greatest example of a filmmaker whose focus is on style over substance. The cinematic image in itself carries primacy to Argento. Mastering the giallo, every frame is seeped in colour. Visuals evoke other visuals, as the nighttime bar in Rome, still lit up in the darkness, alludes back to Nighthawks (1942). The mystery which frames the film may carry with it a narrative, but this is never the focus – Argento prefers the image and the setpiece.

Just as important is Goblin, who, as with Tangerine Dream in American cinema, became soundtrack giants of Italian cinema, scoring Zombi (1978), Beyond the Darkness (1979) and Contamination (1980), among many others. Argento’s film simply would not be the same without Goblin; their progressive rock score becomes so entwined with the film that it never leaves one’s mind.

Deep Red has some theoretical underpinnings – like with Brian De Palma, Argento becomes interested in the psychology of the female killer. Having explored similar themes with The Bird With the Crystal Plumage (1970), Argento examines the notion of femininity through numerous characters, including in how he codes the androgynous drunkard Carlo as queer through feminine conventions.Yet, though the film opens in a lecture theatre, it never aims to be complex – and nor should it.

Network (1976), dir. Sidney Lumet

In my review of Lumet’s Dog Day Afternoon (1975), I wrote about how that film carries a new relevance in 2016 in how it handles transgender issues, in the light of reports of trans women being sent to men’s prisons and Kayden Clarke being shot by police. Since I watched it back in April, Network has been heralded as messianic, predicting the rise of the modern news media, Donald Trump and fake news. I’m always dubious about these sorts of claims, just as I’m dubious about how Marshall McLuhan is heralded as predicting the rise of the internet. All narratives emerge from a particular cultural context.

Network is a film about prophecy masquerading as news; it should not be taken as a prophecy in itself. As with Arthur Hiller’s The Hospital (1971), Paddy Chayefsky’s screenplay for Network frames it as a satire. But Howard Beale’s bullshitting deconstructionist news anchor doesn’t come across as Donald Trump to me, but as Russell Brand, using a platform earned over many years and shifting towards manic outbursts accepted as part of his character, a newfound spirituality (Beale delivers his speeches to large audiences in a studio framed by stained glass church windows) and a rambling, politicised assault on the mainstream media. The irony being, the assault on the mainstream media occurs within its very doors, critiquing itself yet changing nothing, repackaged as entertainment.

Network has its strong moments, yet its focus on secondary and tertiary characters, like network president Max Schumacher (William Holden)’s affair which his colleague Diana (Faye Dunaway), detracts from the film’s focus on Beale and his quotable, still relevant speeches.

Black Sunday (1977), dir. John Frankenheimer

John Frankenheimer is perhaps his most interesting at his most conspiratorial and political. Like the Korean War communist brainwashing of The Manchurian Candidate (1962), the paranoid visions of Seconds (1966) and the political dealings of Seven Days in May (1964), Frankenheimer interests himself in the figure of the political assassin, focusing on Palestinian terrorists planning to create as much damage as possible at an NFL game – a game the President is attending. Though the film is inspired by the 1972 attack on the Munich Olympics by Black September, it isn’t difficult to trace these very same tactics to the same ones employed by ISIS in tragedies like the Bastille Day attack on Nice last year. But the film also has some tissue with the post-Watergate conspiracy thrillers of the mid-70s, as the film implicates the disillusionment of a Vietnam veteran and we move between many layers.

The film is an epic in proportions, shifting between multiple countries in its 143 minute runtime, as we see explosive statues of Holy Marys shipped overseas. John Williams’ score, in the wake of Jaws (1975) and just prior to Star Wars (1977) will never be his most iconic, nor his strongest, yet it is recognisably his and lends some tension to proceedings – though it’s somewhat odd to hear his music played over terrorist attacks.

The film is at its most iconic as we shift towards the attack on the Superbowl – an event which today seems to have more to do with advertising than sports. The proportions of the attack are immense, and we are given the sense of human culpability within events (the NFL determine they won’t cancel the event even with the possibility of an attack identified), but the scale never really fulfils its potential. Nolan may have realised such an attack better when emulating it in The Dark Knight Rises (2012), juxtaposed by The Star-Spangled Banner (1814) as in this film. In its conclusion, the gravitas (yet sheer joy) of seeing thousands of spectators killed by a rogue blimp is never communicated, resolved too easily by a disappointing conclusion that undermines the terror of the situation.

Dog Day Afternoon (1975), dir. Sidney Lumet

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Dog Day Afternoon is a masterpiece. As my first Lumet film, is it too early to coin it his magnum opus?

The story of the bank heist has been told a billion times; the premise could be told as a five minute montage. In Snatch (2000), bumbling fools enter a bank, find creative ways out of their situation, and end up in jail anyway. But instead of playing the scenario for comedy, this film creates serious drama and an exploration of psychology and sexuality, with the calculating moves of a police procedural. Sequences run for as long as they need to, teeming with moments of silence, yet simultaneously not running for too long. During the editing process, Lumet told his editors to put material back in the film in order to improve the pacing. There’s a sense of breathing room. Because in reality, these events cannot be tied up in five minutes.

The situation is in flux, with no clear outcome. Is a character going to shoot? Will Sonny’s demands be met? Are the civilians going to be alright? Neither the bank clerk nor the cop nor the driver know if they are going to survive that day.

Is there an authenticity to the film? Whilst based on real life events, much of it was fictionalised (including character names). Wojtowicz refused to meet with the screenwriter, and Sonny was instead constructed from other people’s recollections. Yet the narrative is formed around Sonny as the focal character, where the entire film exists because of the situation he is in. The film presents real life events in close to real time, with a documentary-esque camera. It doesn’t need to purport to be a mockumentary, or use the one-shot real time narrative used recently by films such as Victoria (2015); that would feel too constructed and gimmicky, rather than true to life. Manipulation of space is limited: where we leave one location in physical form, we move to a few blocks away, yet it still has a presence within the TV set in Sonny’s family’s home.

There’s a real sense of chaos. The police, the mob, the hostages and the gunmen interact, yet without a notion of black and white. Al Pacino previously played the other side of the law as a cop in Lumet’s Serpico (1973); here, he embodies the criminal as Sonny. Sonny is not a monster. Misguided and mentally ill, perhaps. Through his negotiations and concessions with the bank manager and the police chief, they are able to find common ground: a wife and two kids. He isn’t overtly villainous, he’s complex; a good, Catholic person, venerated Vietnam vet and a pacifist (he raises a white flag and consistently checks for guns), placed within a bad situation. He can have fun with a blank teller, teaching her how to stand with his gun. In every other situation, Sonny could be the hero. He’s kind – and only reacts with fury when provoked by the mob and by the police acting upon their instincts.

A person in the mob raises his middle finger, and the police immediately jump on him. A couple of scenes later, the police arrest a man who fights with Sonny, alongside a handful of other people in the crowd too – the mob mentality. There’s an irony that the unarmed are seen as more dangerous as the armed. Sonny is treated with sympathy; the crowd are treated with suspicion. But the same is true of the ‘gang’ of Sonny and Sal. Grossly unequal: one with the gun and mentally sound, the other the complete opposite. Yet as soon as Sal shoots, they are seen as equals, despite Sonny only ever firing one bullet and hurting no-one.

Sgt. Moretti remains so composed throughout the film I’m impressed, keeping with Sonny’s increasingly ludicrous demands. Why spend the money on hiring the backup, co-ordinating airplanes and taxis when they could just as easily shoot him and save the state millions of dollars? That’s not to justify it, only to frame it. He and Sonny rely on a balancing act, and both characters remain sympathetic.

Were this story told today, Sonny would have been arrested within a minute, caught by automated locks and CCTV, shot dead on the sidewalk whilst every person in the crowd watches the tragic shooting through their phones, sharing the footage on YouTube, ready to be packaged into CNN and NBC’s news programming.

Since the film’s production, a system of glaringly obvious inequalities within the police that have come to light: Ferguson in 2014, and cases like the Hillsborough disaster and the battle of Orgreave, where police anxiety provokes unwanted arrests of comparatively peaceful crowds, or killing far too many, especially amongst racially profiled and class lines. These interactions between the police and the gathering crowd are becoming increasingly relevant. Similarly, these themes of mass media is something Lumet explores in more depth in Network (1976).

I went into this film knowing that it explores trans issues in some way, but without knowing the details – I assumed Pacino’s character might be female. But what the film actually presents us is actually more perfect.

Sonny’s actions to fund his girlfriend’s gender reassignment surgery are honourable. From trans friends, I know that two of the major issues when it comes to transitioning is a) waiting lists and b) money. Even with the NHS, transitioning isn’t free. Under the commercial, corporatised American system, it’s probably worse. Rather than an act of malice, it is an act of compassion and romance for the woman he loves. Most people probably wouldn’t be willing to rob a bank to fund their loved one’s transition; today, we have Indiegogo and other sites to deal with that. But it’s the same notion of do you allow a person in poverty to steal bread where they are starving?

The films is still problematic, reinforcing the consistent stereotype of ‘LGBT person with a mental illness’. But Sonny is so well realised, and Leon is presented as outside of it, not wanting Sonny to steal the money. She is empowered as a victim and a person in herself.

Leon is consistently misgendered, but never as part of her own identification. Sonny’s mom even uses the right pronouns for her. The cops laugh at her when she tells her story. When talking about her to other characters, they refer to her wrongly. Where the press catch wind of her compelling backstory, the headlines shift from “BANK ROBBERY” to “TWO HOMOSEXUALS IN BANK ROBBERY”. Sal asks Sonny if he can ask the press to change their headline; but he is powerless to do so in the face of a powerful media built upon stereotypes and simplified stories reduced to headlines, iconic images and pull quotes.

Sal doesn’t want to be seen as a homosexual, because he isn’t. Sonny isn’t gay, he’s married to a woman and dating a woman. It’s depressingly still relevant today, if not more relevant. Recently, there have been several instances of trans women in the UK sent to men’s prisons, misgendered by the very institutions that are supposed to protect them. In the US, Kayden Clarke was shot by police, yet major news networks, including reputable sources such as The Independent, misgendered him and focused on narratives outside the trans narrative. When Miley Cyrus came out as pansexual last year, the Daily Mail and The Mirror labelled her as bisexual, silencing her power to self-identify.

As the film progressed, I was pleasantly surprised at the strength and sensitivity of this narrative. 40 years on, The Danish Girl (2015) fails to approach the subject manner in an accurate way, but here is a film that succeeds, yet not acknowledged enough, although not without its own issues. In face of its strengths, there is Sonny’s last will and testament. He says the only woman he will ever love is his wife, and speaks of the love a man will have for another man. This raises some major questions: in the face of his support for Leon, does he view her as male? If he was introduced to her as male, does he still view it as a gay relationship?

The credits reinforce a binary distinction between ‘life as a man’ and ‘life as a woman’, talking about how Leon is now “living as a woman”. It’s a misconception that is incredibly common, and only helps to perpetuate this misconception.

Unfortunately, the film’s producers don’t help at all. The making of was a difficult watch; I cringed in pain than every time I heard the words “sex change” in lieu of “gender reassignment surgery”. Martin Bregman talks of it as a gay love story within the first minute; Sidney Lumet and Al Pacino talk about how playing a gay character could destroy Pacino’s career (Cruising (1980) didn’t do that later on either); Chris Sarandon talks about trying to not make Leon look too gay, and the relationship between a “drag queen and a gay man.” When even the film’s own creative team doesn’t understand what trans means, what hope does the audience have of understanding an issue they may not have previously been exposed to?

I’m not going to attack Lumet as a transphobe. It was brave of him to explore these issues. It was 1975, the same year that the American Psychological Association declassified homosexuality as a mental disorder. Today, most countries class being trans as a mental disorder. Whilst ignorance should not be honoured, “sex change” was the common language; it’s only in the past couple of years myself that I’ve come to understand the correct terminology through actually knowing trans people. But it doesn’t make it any less frustrating to have gender identity and sexual identity once again conflated.

Arguably, the situation has improved, with Caitlyn Jenner making the trans identity more acceptable and mainstreamed, although far from the best spokesperson; yet people like Germaine Greer remain on podiums able to reject another person’s identity. Films like About Ray (2015) continue to present the issue in the wrong light, with a cisgender creative team. Things still need to change.