Walter Neff, the doomed, duplicitous insurance salesman played by Fred MacMurray in Double Indemnity, says early on that he doesn’t like the word “confession.” So what should we call the movie, in which Neff recounts his disastrous attempt, with the assistance of a conspiring wife played by Barbara Stanwyck, to murder a man for an insurance payout? A cautionary tale? A nihilistic noir? How about a near masterpiece.
I say “near” only because I wish there was more heat between MacMurray’s Walter and Stanwyck’s Phyllis Dietrichson. Partly this is because MacMurray lacks a certain darkness. But there’s also this curious thing with Stanwyck: she’s so sly, so whip-smart, so many steps ahead that her male costars are often too busy playing catch-up to flirt on her level—especially of the kind that a steamy noir like Double Indemnity requires. (Ironically, my favorite Stanwyck partner is Henry Fonda’s snake specialist in The Lady Eve, a man so wildly, comically out of his element that their relationship goes around the bend and becomes romantic.) Here, MacMurray’s Neff talks tough and tries to be in charge, but he’s just not equipped for the joust.
Still, it’s a thrill to watch Stanwyck go to work and assert her dominance. When Neff stops by for the first time to renew her husband’s auto policies, Phyllis answers the door wearing nothing but a towel. She changes, but comes down the stairs still buttoning her blouse. (Auto policies are never that urgent.) When she sits in a chair, it’s with a slinkiness that suggests the furniture is caressing her.
Neff resists as long as he can, which isn’t very long at all. (A few more scenes of seduction might have generated some of that heat.) Once the murder plot is underway, Stanwyck’s performance becomes more layered. When Neff, hiding in the back seat while Phyllis drives, rises up to choke her husband (Tom Powers), director Billy Wilder cuts to a close-up of Phyllis as the deed is being done. Stanwyck somehow manages to deliver an eerily blank expression that also conveys deep-seated terror.
Wilder and Raymond Chandler wrote the screenplay, adapting the novel by James M. Cain. It’s a noir more in plot and language than mise en scene. There are plenty of shadows, of course, including the threatening silhouette of a man with crutches who approaches the camera during the opening credits. I also appreciated the claustrophobic framing, especially in two echoing shots: an early one of Phyllis in the background, placed between Neff and her husband as they sign insurance papers; then a later one of Neff in the background, placed between a witness and the insurance investigator on their trail (a delightful, cigar-chomping Edward G. Robinson). By that point the tables have decidedly turned. It won’t be long until Neff confesses—no matter what he wants to call it.
(9/8/2022)
