Jack Palance as Charlie Castle is the prominent lead, but the key character in this movie is really Dixie Evans (Shelley Winters, in her early 30s and in full command of her talents). Dixie is a slightly blowsy dumb blonde and a #MeToo victim of the studio system that The Big Knife attacks from both inside and out: it was originally a Broadway play (with John Garfield) by Clifford Odets, after he left Hollywood in disgust. The screenplay oozes with the knowledge that Hollywood hangers-on sacrifice their dignity just to be close to the movies.
Dixie got wise to the system the hard way, and she defiantly holds on to what little power she has (the scandalous truth about a crime) against men who dangle roles en route to the casting couch. The dialog is neutered, but it isn't hard to read between lines like, "Don't tell me about Mr. Hoff. He called me a child one minute and the next he--." Hot-headed Rod Steiger and his cold-hearted henchman Wendell Corey bring the corruption to life: the only thing that matters is power, and the measure is money. Blackmail is light work; murder, a bit more complicated.
Charlie's lament is that he's trapped (being blackmailed by Hoff about the crime) into signing a contract with Hoff studio, which forces him into roles that he plainly considers beneath him. We hear no details about his movies, but if he is as big a star as the screenplay suggests, they're not lousy little B pictures. I found myself wondering how objectionable the Hoff movies really were, Hollywood standards being what they are. Charlie ("Anything for my art") seems to think he's Olivier or Welles, but he's probably more like Errol Flynn or Tyrone Power. At worst, Johnny Weissmuller, athletic and bankable.
So, okay, he's sick of it and wants to be cast against type. Well, excuse me, but if being trapped with fame and wealth is his punishment for getting away with driving drunk and killing someone (the crime), is that really worse than prison for vehicular homicide? Charlie evidently didn't prevent his despicable bosses from giving the cops and courts a studio flunky as the fall guy, and when he says "Anything for my art," he means aiding and abetting the murder of Dixie to further protect them all. Charlie is a victim of big-box-office corruption, but he is also a selfish player in that game.
Even if Charlie Castle is throwing the snit of all artistic snits, it's an engaging movie, partly because of the set, which is echt mid-century modern L. A., complete with sunken bar. Ernest Laszlo's camera examines the room from every angle, making it a kind of palace/prison, and we are never bored. The room also includes a huge kitschy painting of a clown (like a bad Raoul Dufy), which says a lot about just uncultured Charlie really is.
Shelley Winters really delivers, as I said, as does Wendell Corey, who is vastly under-appreciated. The incomparable Ida Lupino is irresistible as Castle's virtuous wife, providing a strong contrast to Jean Hagen as Connie Bliss, a role that is an insult to both women and writing: an insufferable aging sex kitten, wife of a studio toady. The movie would lose nothing if they'd both been left on the cutting room floor.
Finally, but worth noting, the bombastic dialog is needlessly underscored by Frank DeVol's bombastic music, which includes use of the drumroll from the Nazi rally at Nuremberg as the theme for the studio boss Hoff. More than a bit over the top.
Dixie got wise to the system the hard way, and she defiantly holds on to what little power she has (the scandalous truth about a crime) against men who dangle roles en route to the casting couch. The dialog is neutered, but it isn't hard to read between lines like, "Don't tell me about Mr. Hoff. He called me a child one minute and the next he--." Hot-headed Rod Steiger and his cold-hearted henchman Wendell Corey bring the corruption to life: the only thing that matters is power, and the measure is money. Blackmail is light work; murder, a bit more complicated.
Charlie's lament is that he's trapped (being blackmailed by Hoff about the crime) into signing a contract with Hoff studio, which forces him into roles that he plainly considers beneath him. We hear no details about his movies, but if he is as big a star as the screenplay suggests, they're not lousy little B pictures. I found myself wondering how objectionable the Hoff movies really were, Hollywood standards being what they are. Charlie ("Anything for my art") seems to think he's Olivier or Welles, but he's probably more like Errol Flynn or Tyrone Power. At worst, Johnny Weissmuller, athletic and bankable.
So, okay, he's sick of it and wants to be cast against type. Well, excuse me, but if being trapped with fame and wealth is his punishment for getting away with driving drunk and killing someone (the crime), is that really worse than prison for vehicular homicide? Charlie evidently didn't prevent his despicable bosses from giving the cops and courts a studio flunky as the fall guy, and when he says "Anything for my art," he means aiding and abetting the murder of Dixie to further protect them all. Charlie is a victim of big-box-office corruption, but he is also a selfish player in that game.
Even if Charlie Castle is throwing the snit of all artistic snits, it's an engaging movie, partly because of the set, which is echt mid-century modern L. A., complete with sunken bar. Ernest Laszlo's camera examines the room from every angle, making it a kind of palace/prison, and we are never bored. The room also includes a huge kitschy painting of a clown (like a bad Raoul Dufy), which says a lot about just uncultured Charlie really is.
Shelley Winters really delivers, as I said, as does Wendell Corey, who is vastly under-appreciated. The incomparable Ida Lupino is irresistible as Castle's virtuous wife, providing a strong contrast to Jean Hagen as Connie Bliss, a role that is an insult to both women and writing: an insufferable aging sex kitten, wife of a studio toady. The movie would lose nothing if they'd both been left on the cutting room floor.
Finally, but worth noting, the bombastic dialog is needlessly underscored by Frank DeVol's bombastic music, which includes use of the drumroll from the Nazi rally at Nuremberg as the theme for the studio boss Hoff. More than a bit over the top.