Style and Theme in Touch of Evil Matt Schley In 1956, Charlton Heston was offered a part in a project titled Badge of Evil. Upon learning Orson Welles was to play the heavy in the picture, Heston suggested to the film’s producers that Welles also direct (Comito, 213). Upon receiving the director’s chair, Welles quickly rewrote the film, moving the film’s location to a small town on the Mexican-American border, changing Heston’s character to a Mexican policeman and his wife to a naïve American girl, and making various other changes to suit the themes he wished to explore (Comito, 183). Thus, Touch of Evil was transformed from a run-of-the-mill gangster film to one of the last and greatest examples of film noir, exploring complex themes about racism, betrayal, and what it means to uphold justice. The complex thematic elements of Touch of Evil are rivaled only by its stylistic ones. From the breathtaking three minute, twenty second unbroken opening shot, today a staple of any introductory film course, Touch of Evil shows Orson Welles at the height of his visual (and aural) power. But the true brilliance of Touch of Evil lies in the combination of the stylistic and the thematic. At all times during the film, they are intertwined and inseparable, feeding off each other and growing more powerful as a result. After Welles completed Touch of Evil, its near-sighted producers found it too confusing and re-edited it, going as far as to shoot new scenes. In 1998, noted editor Walter Murch assembled a new cut of the film based on a 58 page memo Welles wrote after seeing the studio’s version (Ebert). Thanks to Murch’s efforts, we can now examine the stylistic and thematic elements of Touch of Evil with the knowledge that what we are viewing is as close to Welles’ vision as possible. Perhaps no opening scene in the history of film is as memorable as that of Touch of Evil. A dizzying uninterrupted three minute shot which goes from close-ups to wide angles to everything in-between, Welles’ opening shot is not only a stylistic feat, but helps to reveal much about what is to come as the film progresses. Welles wastes no time revealing the device that will serve as the primary source of tension through the shot: the film opens with an extreme close-up of a time bomb, which the audience sees set to three minutes and placed in a car. In a complex crane and dolly shot, the camera follows the car through the streets of the seedy border town to its inevitable destruction. Because there are no cuts, the tension of the scene is increased dramatically: we know the bomb will explode in three minutes, and we experience those three minutes in real time. During the course of the shot, the car disappears from view several times, occasionally speeding ahead or dragging behind the camera. This also serves to increase tension, because the audience is forced to keep track of the car, hoping desperately it will not disappear before the preordained three minutes are over (Comito, 191). The doomed car, however, is not the only subject of this shot. It also serves to introduce two of the film’s main characters, Inspector Vargas (Heston) and his newlywed wife Susan (Janet Leigh). Often, when the camera temporarily strays from the car, it is to follow this couple, but it should be noted the car and the couple are never far from each other. There is some dialogue that explains Vargas is a detective, specializing in narcotics, while the woman in the doomed car complains about a ticking noise. Finally, as the camera swoops in to a close-up of Vargas and his wife kissing, the car explodes, and there is finally a cut. This technique serves to tie the explosion and the Vargases together: the sudden fusion of romance and violence makes clear their honeymoon will be marred by this incident (McBride, 152). It also serves to foreshadow the difficulties the Vargases will face as their different cultures collide. Also note that the vehicle explodes immediately after crossing into the United States. Welles begins making a point here from the get-go: that the U.S. side of the border is as dangerous as the Mexican side, if not more. The border motif is one that Welles continues to use throughout the film as one of the many ways he tackles racism. Finally, there is a bit to be said about the sound design of this shot. When originally released, the studio used it as the film’s credits sequence, placing titles which obstructed key visual elements and using a piece of music by Henry Mancini that, while excellent (as is the case with most of Mancini’s work), defies Welles’ intent for the shot. Welles detailed his plan in his infamous 58 page memo: As the camera moves through the streets of the Mexican border town, the plan was to feature a succession of different and contrasting Latin American musical numbers – the effect, that is, of our passing one cabaret orchestra after another… [this] was planned as a basic device throughout the entire picture. Clearly, Welles thought this musical idea not just important for this particular shot, but to establish a mood for the entire film. The effect of Welles’ idea, now restored to us by Walter Murch, is to contrast American rock’n’roll with Mexican mambo-style music, again hinting at the rift (or border) between the two countries, and, more obliquely, Vargas and Susan. If there is one chief element in Touch of Evil Welles does not introduce in the opening shot, it is perhaps because, as Joseph McBride describes, “Welles the director” was fond of “[delaying] Welles the actor from appearing until we are sufficiently expectant of a grand entrance, an apparition that will transfix our attention” (McBride, 28). Hank Quinlin, the bulbous American “police celebrity” and arguably, the film’s protagonist -- Charlton Heston said, “Touch of Evil is about the decline and fall of Captain Quinlin” (Comito, 215) -- arrives with a certain amount of fanfare. When Vargas states, “I’d like to meet him,” the local coroner (played by longtime Welles associate Joseph Cotton) smirks and replies, “that’s what you think.” In the next shot, Welles as Quinlin emerges from his car, a sweaty, jowly man with a cigar in his mouth. The camera in this shot is very low, emphasizing both Quinlin’s bulk (Welles was padded for the role, his own bulk still in its infancy) and his immense power among those on the U.S. side of the border. This is in sharp contrast to the last shot we saw of Vargas, who occupied only about a quarter of the frame, making clear which police officer is in control of the current situation. Finally, The low-angle shot of Quinlin is significant because he towers over Menzies, his partner, who is both physically shorter than Quinlin and relegated to the corner of the frame. He then calls Menzies a “jackass,” and the film quickly cuts to another scene, leaving Menzies no chance to respond. This cements Quinlin’s domination over Menzies, which comes to play a large role in Menzies’ decision to help Vargas defeat Quinlin later in the film. Though the shot that opens Touch of Evil is its most famous, it is not the longest, nor perhaps the most interesting. The shot in question takes place 36 minutes into the film, when Quinlin and his cronies, with Vargas in tow, show up at the house of Marcia Linnekar to question her and her Mexican boyfriend, Sanchez. Lasting five minutes and twenty-three seconds and covering a multitude of characters and rooms, this shot was considered by Welles “the greatest use of the moving camera in the history of cinema” (McBride, 150). As usual with Welles, this shot is not purely a stylistic achievement, but also helps enhance the thematic content of the scene. First, the long take provides many of the same elements it did in the film’s opening shot; namely, the tension of real-time. Never is the audience freed from Quinlin’s growling racist remarks by a cut or dissolve; they must endure the embarrassing antics of Sanchez at face value, with no tricks of montage to speed up time. This style of shooting, where the audience’s conclusions about a certain character are not forced by editing and they can “give the image the interpretation of [their] choice” (Comito, 249) is that favored by Andre Bazin, noted film critic and admirer of Welles. Welles leaves much interpretation to the audience in this shot; Quinlin, for example, is not captured at the usual low angle that enhances his bulk and power, but is rather put on equal footing with the other characters. Thus, the audience is freed to take Quinlin’s racist statements (“I don’t speak Mexican”) on their own merit, or lack thereof. However, calling the interrogation shot a purely Bazinian artifact, where the audience is not manipulated in any way, would not be accurate. Montage is not the only tool Welles wields to influence the audience’s interpretation. For example, this shot is rife with camera movement: over 60 separate movements, to be precise. These movements, in place of montage, direct the viewer where to look. An obvious example is the moment in which Vargas enters the bathroom. The camera follows him in just as he knocks over a shoebox. It then points to the ground, centered on the box, so that the viewer is quite aware the box is empty. This leads us to instantly know Quinlin has framed Sanchez when Menzies finds dynamite in the box – after Quinlin has been in the bathroom himself. Shortly after Vargas knocks over the box, one of Quinlin’s cronies arrives with coffee. As Quinlin asks, “didn’t you bring me any donuts or sweet rolls?” the camera tracks in, displaying Quinlin in a particularly jowly and obese moment. Aside from camera movement, Welles also employs lighting for manipulative effect. With up to nine characters in frame at one time, the mood of the shot is extremely claustrophobic. Welles increases this claustrophobic effect by lighting “from below eye level” and therefore throwing “shadows on the far wall, in effect, doubling the number of figures in the room” (Comito, 191). Finally, Welles’ use of a wide angle lens, the primary function of which is to “hold a number of figures within the frame at one time” also serves to give characters a slightly disquieting effect, making them “loom” at times, like when Quinlin laments his lack of donuts (Comito, 191). If Welles has so far shown us he is a master of the long take, the scene where he confronts and kills Uncle Joe Grandi shows his mastery of montage. At this point, the plot has advanced to a stage where Vargas is determined to prove Quinlin guilty of corruption. Therefore, Quinlin strikes back, teaming up with Joe Grandi to discredit Vargas by kidnapping his wife and making it seem as if she is addicted to narcotics. This is the scene in which Quinlin’s life slips into chaos, and is thus the most frenetic and disturbing scene of the film. As Quinlin enters the room, he and Grandi stare at the bed where the unconscious Mrs. Vargas lies. They are shot through a baroque and ornate bed post, a disquieting image that suggests everything is not well. Quinlin asks Grandi to turn the light off, transforming the lighting of the scene into a true noir masterpiece. The only light coming into the scene is a blinking neon sign from outside the window, throwing everything into darkness for several seconds at a time. This allows a great deal of suspense as the scene progresses: we must wait for the set to light up to see clearly the violence Quinlin does to Grandi. As Quinlin steps to the opposite side of the bed, the light comes through the window in such a way that Susan’s face is well lit, while Quinlin’s is almost wholly in shadow, again implying the imminent danger faced from Quinlin. As this danger becomes evident to Grandi and Quinlin makes his move, the editing speeds up. With the obscure lighting, distortion caused by the wide angle lens, and rapid fire pace, some critics have argued this scene is “designed solely to shock the spectator (Comito, 253). Jean Collet, however, argues the montage serves a deeper purpose: It is to prevent the spectator from adhering to a single character; to force him, on the contrary, to be everywhere at once, to play all the contrary games: the satisfaction of Grandi… the machiavellianism of Quinlin… and finally the terror of Susan. (Comito, 253). Touch of Evil is at all times a complex film with, by all accounts, a “labyrinthe plot” (Ebert) and characters with confusing motivations and personalities, especially that of Hank Quinlin. The conclusion of the film is no relief from that complexity. Quinlin, shot by Menzies, floats away in a slimy canal after attempting to wash Menzies’ blood off his hands, an action McBride calls “an allusion to Macbeth” (McBride, 154), which Welles not-so-incidentally filmed ten years earlier. If anything, Quinlin is, like Macbeth, a “giant destroyed by hubris” (Ebert). Welles himself denounces Quinlin, stating, “Quinlin is the incarnation of everything I struggle against… that’s what I detest above all, men who wish to judge by their own authority” (Comito, 206). Tanya, Quinlin’s old friend, comes to a more apathetic conclusion, stating, “He was some kind of man… what does it matter what you say about people?” as she stalks into the noir-lit streets. For Orson Welles, like Hank Quinlin, Touch of Evil would be a final effort. Disgruntled with the studio interference on nearly all his films, including Touch of Evil, Welles never made another film in Hollywood, struggling to finance his own films and eventually dying with several projects lingering in various states of completion. Touch of Evil, then, shows us Welles’ last great manipulation of the Hollywood system. Within the bounds of adapting a crime/gangster novel, Welles used all his skill in filmmaking to deliver a deep and complex work covering themes of racism, betrayal, and justice in a border town where issues are never black and white. To explore these themes, Welles created some of the most famous and critically lauded images in the history of cinema, and inspired a new generation of directors like Francois Truffaut and Jean-Luc Godard. For this achievement, Welles deserves only the highest praise. Works Cited: McBride, Joseph. Orson Welles. New York: Da Capo Press, 1996. Comito, Terry. Touch of Evil. New Jersey: Rutgers University Press. 1985. Ebert, Roger. “Touch of Evil.” RogerEbert.com. September 13, 1998. Chicago Sun-Times. November 29, 2005: Hyperlink