The Third Man (1949) dir. Carol Reed
“Don’t be so gloomy. After all, it’s not that awful. Like the fella says, in Italy for 30 years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love – they had 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.”
In the jagged, looming shadows of crumbling buildings, and damp cobbled streets of post-war Vienna, the darkest parts of humanity’s souls are laid bare and all any semblance of morality has vanished. This world of deception, bribery and murders – policed by an overworked and generally confused multinational force – is home to suspicious locals, disillusioned veterans, and a thriving black market fit to run anything for the right price. Nothing in this bombed out city, where the orchestras of Strauss have been replaced by the unnerving plucking of a zither, is as it first appears. This is no place for a wide-eyed, idealist American. When pulp western author Holly Martins (Joseph Cotton) disembarks in the harbour, happy as a lark with all the hope in the world, expecting to find a job with his old friend Harry Lime (Orson Welles), he hasn’t a clue the turns his life will take.
The Third Man, Carol Reed’s second film in his trilogy of masterpiece collaborations with author Graham Greene, is a paragon of film-noir. The performances, score, cinematography (by Robert Krasker), and screenplay mesh to form a totally hypnotising 100-minute experience unlike any other. Reed’s films, particularly those from the 40’s, dig into the depths of the human psyche in a way few of his contemporaries attempted, let alone succeeded in. He effortlessly reveals the darkness inside everyone from the smallest child to kindly old man and displays it with some of the most gorgeous images of the twentieth century. Reed interrogates the sins of his stark, and totally realised characters, then sets them loose to wreak havoc on the screen. There are few things scarier than a banal, human evil.
Martins soon discovers Lime is dead, struck by a car and carried away by two unknown men just before his arrival. This trivial death for someone who seemed mythological, and larger than life only emphasises the cold, uncaring world Martins has stepped into. With nothing else to do, he sets off about the city in search of people who knew Lime and for any witnesses to his death. One such witness tells Martins of a mysterious third man at the scene who no one can identify. In his dive into the depths of Lime’s unknown life, Martins meets with the officer in charge of the British segment of Vienna, Major Calloway (Trevor Howard) who bluntly encourages him to pack up, get on the next train out and don’t ask any more questions about the evil Harry Lime.
For his part, Graham Greene called The Third Man far more Reed’s work than his own. While it’s true the most iconic aspects of the film are derived from the visuals, Anton Karas’ haunting zither (which Reed discovered on a trip to Vienna before shooting began), and speeches developed by the actors – Greene’s fingerprints are everywhere. The novelist had a subtly visceral way of developing his characters and propelling the plot and story and it’s very clear here. Without his impeccable framework, all those other elements float in a jumbled void with no real sense of direction or movement.
For Martins, the most important person he meets whose life Lime touched, is Anna (Alida Valli). She is the heart of the movie. She’s hopelessly devoted to Harry Lime and endlessly grateful for everything he gave her, no matter what new darknesses are revealed. This now iconic line from Anna in the latter half of the film can, perhaps, summarise the work’s entire philosophy:
“A person doesn’t change because you find out more.”
Some of the best moments of the film come from small, natural character beats – these undoubtedly come from Greene. Anna mistakenly calls Martins, Harry and moves through Lime’s vacant Viennese apartment as if it were her own; Martins is embarrassed to be a western writer; the pair spend time looking for Lime’s escaped cat.
A rumour floats to Martins’ ear: Harry Lime may yet live. This rumour changes the rhythm of the film. That strumming zither which at once sounded foreign and calming, now sets bones on edge and shivers up your spine. Paranoia, fear, and betrayal envelop everything. Vienna turns to East Germany in a John le Carré novel. Martins struggles to face reality as he learns more about who his childhood friend was/is and falls back into a bottle. When everyone is at their lowest, when it seems as though the web of mysteries will never unravel, Martins finds Lime’s cat. And beside it, in a doorway swallowed by shadow, a pair of shoes. An old woman across the street turns on a light to scold Martins, but he doesn’t notice, because illuminated by the light and standing in those shoes is Harry Lime, with his devilish Orson Welles smirk. The light goes out and Lime bolts into the night. There are no better late character introductions in the history of film.
The Third Man is a film about the scars of war. It takes place in a cold world where life matters less every hour and morality is faded. A child’s concept of good and evil, black and white, like the westerns Martins writes, does not exist here and it is not welcome. Sin is not only accepted in the shelled out buildings of post-war Vienna, it’s rewarded and almost encouraged. Characters act as real people would, with ambition, loyalty, shame, and foolish naivety. They make mistakes, seek redemption, and stand by their convictions. The Third Man is a complex, beautifully realised work composed by artists at the pinnacle of their fields. A towering achievement that has withstood the trials of time and is just as riveting, compelling and urgent as the day it released.
