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This review contains spoilers.
When we first meet him, the miner played by Harry Belafonte seems to be having a bad day at work. You see, the mine's just caved in, and he can hardly get in touch with anybody topside. Realizing that nobody's going to come down and save him, he manages to dig himself out. At this point, he finds himself bewildered by the total absence of people anywhere he goes, although as he goes looking, the picture becomes clearer, with newspaper headlines and old radio broadcasts confirming that he missed the apocalypse as he was trapped underground. Eventually he makes his way to New York City, and these initial scenes provide the movie's most haunting passage, juxtaposing him with a sea of unattended cars on a bridge and other landmarks. The most poignant of these images has him framed against skyscrapers, suggesting that as a working class black man, he could only attain such heights once society has totally collapsed.
At this point it starts to come into focus that this is not merely a cautionary tale about nuclear weapons (the same year saw the release of the talkier but no less involving On The Beach, and the following decade produced one of my favourites in the genre, The War Game, the sometimes bitterly funny and mostly terrifying pseudocumentary that hits like a sledgehammer). Belafonte eventually starts accepting his new reality, finding ways to amuse himself like befriending two mannequins, one male, one female (he does not however give the female a fake mustache and the male lipstick, nor does he make them kiss; his intentions are more dignified). He even regales them with a song, perhaps as a commercial concession and acknowledgement of Belafonte's other talents. Boy, this nuclear apocalypse sure is grim, here's a tune from the "Banana Boat Song" guy to cheer us up.
He eventually tires of the male and tosses him out the window, which leads to the reveal that he's not alone. In fact, a young woman played by Inger Stevens has been stalking him the whole time. They become friends, but up to a point, as Belafonte is unable to accept her affection, and the movie slowly reveals how their internalized racism colours their relationship, no matter how much they desire to bridge the gap. Further complications are posed by the arrival of a sailor played by Mel Ferrer, who announces that he's not a racist but is beholden to patriarchal notions, feeling the need to compete for Stevens' heart, neither man paying much heed to what she actually wants. Eventually he forces an ultimatum, triggering a showdown between both men that has them hunting each other across the city.
There is arguably something quaint about a movie that chooses to tackle racism and misogyny without explicitly addressing structural issues, but I found the movie quite moving in how it depicts the depth to which the characters have had such ideas ingrained in them by society that they're unable to shed them even said society has collapsed. It helps that it provides three very engaging lead performances. It helps even more that the delivery is so cinematic, with striking B&W scope compositions lending the proceedings an austere beauty and heightening the tension of the climax. And if the movie's resolution, which has the characters walking off like I assume Clint Eastwood, Sondra Locke and Lee Marvin do in Paint Your Wagon (which I haven't seen but am happy to make wild assumptions about), is a little hokey, I guess that's okay too. If Inger Stevens held our hands and looked deep into our eyes, I suspect many of us would be powerless to resist too.
The World, the Flesh and the Devil (MacDougall, 1959)
This review contains spoilers.
At this point it starts to come into focus that this is not merely a cautionary tale about nuclear weapons (the same year saw the release of the talkier but no less involving On The Beach, and the following decade produced one of my favourites in the genre, The War Game, the sometimes bitterly funny and mostly terrifying pseudocumentary that hits like a sledgehammer). Belafonte eventually starts accepting his new reality, finding ways to amuse himself like befriending two mannequins, one male, one female (he does not however give the female a fake mustache and the male lipstick, nor does he make them kiss; his intentions are more dignified). He even regales them with a song, perhaps as a commercial concession and acknowledgement of Belafonte's other talents. Boy, this nuclear apocalypse sure is grim, here's a tune from the "Banana Boat Song" guy to cheer us up.
He eventually tires of the male and tosses him out the window, which leads to the reveal that he's not alone. In fact, a young woman played by Inger Stevens has been stalking him the whole time. They become friends, but up to a point, as Belafonte is unable to accept her affection, and the movie slowly reveals how their internalized racism colours their relationship, no matter how much they desire to bridge the gap. Further complications are posed by the arrival of a sailor played by Mel Ferrer, who announces that he's not a racist but is beholden to patriarchal notions, feeling the need to compete for Stevens' heart, neither man paying much heed to what she actually wants. Eventually he forces an ultimatum, triggering a showdown between both men that has them hunting each other across the city.
There is arguably something quaint about a movie that chooses to tackle racism and misogyny without explicitly addressing structural issues, but I found the movie quite moving in how it depicts the depth to which the characters have had such ideas ingrained in them by society that they're unable to shed them even said society has collapsed. It helps that it provides three very engaging lead performances. It helps even more that the delivery is so cinematic, with striking B&W scope compositions lending the proceedings an austere beauty and heightening the tension of the climax. And if the movie's resolution, which has the characters walking off like I assume Clint Eastwood, Sondra Locke and Lee Marvin do in Paint Your Wagon (which I haven't seen but am happy to make wild assumptions about), is a little hokey, I guess that's okay too. If Inger Stevens held our hands and looked deep into our eyes, I suspect many of us would be powerless to resist too.