No one person can possibly have seen every film noir ever made. I’ve personally seen quite a few, but regrettably, Edmund Goulding’s 1947 version of Nightmare Alley is not one of them. I mention this only because much of the criticism surrounding Guillermo del Toro’s remake of the same name (good and bad), revolves around comparisons to the original. Free of that constraint, I offer my glowing report as follows:
I’m such a sucker for film noir. I can’t help it. From its philosophical explorations of existentialism and fatalism, to its darkened, barely-glimpsed truths and rapid tête-à-têtes between the audacious and the exploited, film noir is a deceptively versatile genre that, when done well, acts as a release valve for a society on the brink. It offers a glimpse into the American psyche many refuse to admit even exists outside of dime novels and certain neighborhoods, and in doing so, effectively points out the crooked fallacy of the so-called American dream. Film noir and its genre cousin the western are the thankless workhorses of American cinematic history, without whom the medium would have evolved quite differently. As movie fans, we owe more than we know to the shadowy figures, venetian blinds, and billowing plumes of smoke from the past. It’s a debt that must be repaid – which is exactly what Guillermo del Toro has done with his fantastic remake of Nightmare Alley.
In many ways, del Toro was destined to make this movie. His deep reverence for film history, combined with the imaginative ways in which he showcases the desperate and the macabre, are tailor made for film noir, and for this story. With this beautifully constructed fable about a down-and-out carnival roustabout who finds fame and fortune as a high society mentalist (Bradley Cooper, in the first role I’ve genuinely enjoyed him in), del Toro lays down the gauntlet for modern noir that I can only hope is answered by even darker and more visceral material to come (here’s looking at you, Coens).
As Stan Carlisle, Cooper embodies the corruptible nature of humanity when given even the slightest hint of opportunity, regardless of its danger to himself and especially to others. Just like the best noir anti-heroes of yesteryear, Stan doesn’t begin his journey as a despicable heel, but winds up there through a series of increasingly cold-hearted decisions. Eventually, as is often the case, the demands and desires of the new life Stan has created for himself only lead to more wanton and erratic behavior. Like so many before him, he is completely incapable of quitting while he’s ahead, and in one of my favorite endings of the year, pays a shocking price.
Perhaps what’s most striking, though, is del Toro’s ability to chart the exploitative nature of capitalism and the degrading effects of poverty from the film’s depression-era setting to a relatable modern context. Stan’s world is one of such disheartening hopelessness that it can only be measured in tangible successes or abject failures (something that distastefully persists to this day), which creates a culture of eat or be eaten, kill or be killed. Of course, as evidenced by Stan’s increasingly risky endeavors and noir’s long history of comeuppance, this framework for achievement is a trap that can’t possibly be sustained, let alone end well. Nevertheless, poverty and dependence of any kind was then, and is now, too often seen as a personal moral failing instead of the inevitable result of exploitation that it is. Nightmare Alley bitterly exemplifies how little this has changed.
But, if analyzing political subtext isn’t your thing, Nightmare Alley still has plenty to bite into. Cate Blanchett wows as Lilith Ritter, Stan’s rival, confidant, and foil. Channeling the best of Barbara Stanwyck and Lauren Bacall, Blanchett revels in the femme fatale role, bringing a remarkable layer of psychology to the already cerebral and stylish proceedings. On top of this, del Toro gets plenty of brilliant use from the rest of his cast as well, directing spectacular turns from Willem Defoe (the unscrupulous carney), Rooney Mara (the innocent assistant), Toni Collette (the reluctant mentor), Richard Jenkins (the wealthy patron) and many others.
As we’ve come to expect from del Toro, Nightmare Alley is a tremendous display of style and substance that intelligently utilizes genre devices to somehow both modernize and reinforce their power and durability – all without wearing them out or resorting to hackneyed cliché. He’s so good at this. Even in his less-than-successful efforts, narrative is never sacrificed at the altar of genre, even if genre serves as much of the story’s backbone. Nightmare Alley is no different in this regard, and in fact drives home the point. Now, if we could just get that long-awaited adaptation of At the Mountains of Madness I can die a happy critic.
James is a writer, record collector, wrestling nerd, and tabletop gamer living with his family in Asheville, North Carolina. He is a member of the Southeastern Film Critics Association, the North Carolina Film Critics Association, and contributes to The Daily Orca, Razorcake Magazine, Mountain Xpress, and Asheville Movies.