← Back to Reviews
in
I assume I'm not the only one who saw Martin Scorsese's Cape Fear remake before J. Lee Thompson's original, and approaching them in this order helped bring their differences into focus. (I also assume I'm not the only one who saw the Simpsons parody before either. Certainly it made the theatre scene in Scorsese's version hard to watch with a straight face, although given Robert De Niro's glee in that scene, I assume the effect was somewhat intentional.) The most obvious difference between this and the Scorsese remake is the portrayal of the hero. In the Scorsese version, the hero is compromised from the beginning, having hidden away evidence to help put the monstrous villain behind bars. In this, the hero starts off righteously, having only stopped the villain's crime and testified against him. The casting of the stars is key to each film's dynamic. In the Scorsese version, the hero is played by Nick Nolte, whose default mode is sweaty, uncomfortable, maybe a bit hungover. (Exhibit A: 48 Hrs.) This is a guy we can buy as not entirely above board, making him a more conventional noir protagonist. Here, the hero is played by Gregory Peck, who is more readily believable as a stoic, righteous type, having played one for Thompson a year earlier in The Guns of Navarone, a movie that I am completely unable to be partial about as it's a childhood favourite. (Of course, Peck could play real bastards too, as seen in Duel in the Sun.) In that sense, the movie plays a bit more like a nightmare pitched directly at the audience: what would YOU do if this violent sociopath terrorized your family?
The casting of Peck is also crucial because of his offscreen liberal politics, and the movie plays like a direct challenge to liberal notions of criminal justice. The villain is sure to stay clear of obvious (or provable) criminal wrongdoing, leaving the hero unable to defend himself in any meaningful way. The fact that he readily urges the police to strongarm the villain (in ways that now register more clearly as police overreach) compromises him, even before he resorts to more obviously unlawful methods. Peck even has a line about his rights as a taxpayer in what might have seemed like a throwaway bit of dialogue but now might read a little like a preemptive jab at Johnson's Great Society and liberal ideas of big government. With all this in mind, it makes a good amount of sense that Thompson went on to direct a Death Wish movie, where lawlessness is answered with righteous lawlessness. You want something done about all this crime? Pick up a gun and do it yourself.
Scorsese's version has the benefit of loosening censorship and greater acceptability of onscreen sex and violence, but watching this I was struck by how sleazy the movie gets. In addition to the danger the villain poses to the hero, he's undeniably a sexual threat, which the movie bluntly demonstrates with the brutal rape of a drifter. (Because in 1962 such things could not be shown onscreen, the film has a dramatic shot of shutters snapping to a close.) Even for a movie in this era, there's little ambiguity about what he plans to do with the hero's wife and daughter, and the climax offers us the deeply uncomfortable images of him shirtless and glistening as he advances on them both at different times. That being said, the movie is unexpectedly sensitive about the trauma of sexual assault victims and their difficulties with the legal system. Part of the cruelty of the villain's scheme is based on the hero's reluctance to subject his daughter to court proceedings should she be sexually assaulted. I was not expecting a nearly sixty-year old movie to be this astute about this matter.
And of course, much of this would be a moot point if the movie were not effective as a thriller. It's a very good one, with sweltering, disreputable Southern atmosphere and a terrifying Robert Mitchum as the villain (his burly physique and threatening masculinity a nice contrast with the genteel Peck), and a climax in a swamp that drowns you in bold expressionist shadows.
Cape Fear (Thompson, 1962)
I assume I'm not the only one who saw Martin Scorsese's Cape Fear remake before J. Lee Thompson's original, and approaching them in this order helped bring their differences into focus. (I also assume I'm not the only one who saw the Simpsons parody before either. Certainly it made the theatre scene in Scorsese's version hard to watch with a straight face, although given Robert De Niro's glee in that scene, I assume the effect was somewhat intentional.) The most obvious difference between this and the Scorsese remake is the portrayal of the hero. In the Scorsese version, the hero is compromised from the beginning, having hidden away evidence to help put the monstrous villain behind bars. In this, the hero starts off righteously, having only stopped the villain's crime and testified against him. The casting of the stars is key to each film's dynamic. In the Scorsese version, the hero is played by Nick Nolte, whose default mode is sweaty, uncomfortable, maybe a bit hungover. (Exhibit A: 48 Hrs.) This is a guy we can buy as not entirely above board, making him a more conventional noir protagonist. Here, the hero is played by Gregory Peck, who is more readily believable as a stoic, righteous type, having played one for Thompson a year earlier in The Guns of Navarone, a movie that I am completely unable to be partial about as it's a childhood favourite. (Of course, Peck could play real bastards too, as seen in Duel in the Sun.) In that sense, the movie plays a bit more like a nightmare pitched directly at the audience: what would YOU do if this violent sociopath terrorized your family?
The casting of Peck is also crucial because of his offscreen liberal politics, and the movie plays like a direct challenge to liberal notions of criminal justice. The villain is sure to stay clear of obvious (or provable) criminal wrongdoing, leaving the hero unable to defend himself in any meaningful way. The fact that he readily urges the police to strongarm the villain (in ways that now register more clearly as police overreach) compromises him, even before he resorts to more obviously unlawful methods. Peck even has a line about his rights as a taxpayer in what might have seemed like a throwaway bit of dialogue but now might read a little like a preemptive jab at Johnson's Great Society and liberal ideas of big government. With all this in mind, it makes a good amount of sense that Thompson went on to direct a Death Wish movie, where lawlessness is answered with righteous lawlessness. You want something done about all this crime? Pick up a gun and do it yourself.
Scorsese's version has the benefit of loosening censorship and greater acceptability of onscreen sex and violence, but watching this I was struck by how sleazy the movie gets. In addition to the danger the villain poses to the hero, he's undeniably a sexual threat, which the movie bluntly demonstrates with the brutal rape of a drifter. (Because in 1962 such things could not be shown onscreen, the film has a dramatic shot of shutters snapping to a close.) Even for a movie in this era, there's little ambiguity about what he plans to do with the hero's wife and daughter, and the climax offers us the deeply uncomfortable images of him shirtless and glistening as he advances on them both at different times. That being said, the movie is unexpectedly sensitive about the trauma of sexual assault victims and their difficulties with the legal system. Part of the cruelty of the villain's scheme is based on the hero's reluctance to subject his daughter to court proceedings should she be sexually assaulted. I was not expecting a nearly sixty-year old movie to be this astute about this matter.
And of course, much of this would be a moot point if the movie were not effective as a thriller. It's a very good one, with sweltering, disreputable Southern atmosphere and a terrifying Robert Mitchum as the villain (his burly physique and threatening masculinity a nice contrast with the genteel Peck), and a climax in a swamp that drowns you in bold expressionist shadows.