A reunion of director Fritz Lang and stars Glenn Ford and Gloria Grahame after the previous yearâs successful noir masterpiece, The Big Heat, but this one canât help but feel a bit like a cooldown. Thereâs plenty of style to burn and a delicious pair of performances to thrill as often as they repel, but something about Human Desire just isnât quite as compelling. It might have something to do with the wind dissipating from the sails before the final credits roll.
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Maybe a better descriptor would be that the train runs out of steam before reaching the station as much Human Desire concerns railway workers. Based upon Emile Zolaâs novel La bĂȘte humaine, Langâs film is too stodgy for noir and too mean for literary adaptations occupying a fascinating netherworld where Grahame and Broderick Crawford give two of the greatest performances of their careers as a toxic, tragic married couple. This doesnât mean Human Desire is a failure as a film, far from it as itâs a solid example of Langâs craft, but that itâs a fascinating oddity that I strongly admired.
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Ford is a bit of stiff drip as Jeff Warren, a Korean War veteran caught in sexual frenzy with Grahameâs complicated femme fatale and the object of affection for a bland good girl (Kathleen Case). While his decency could be properly projected to project tension and inward anger coiled inside a respectable exterior, he seems a bit too levelheaded to the pulpier aspects of the script. Heâs essentially the straight man to the crazier, juicier supporting players.
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Jeff crosses paths with Vicki (Grahame) while her husband (Crawford) commits a murder on a train. Vickiâs responsibility for the murder is questionable, but her marriage is a portrait of mutually assured destruction and abuse. Crawfordâs big lug characters often seemed more bellow than follow-through. Not so here as Crawfordâs Carl openly hits and repeatedly hits Vicki, demonstrates a murderous possessiveness, and nearly earns a modicum of sympathy with his pathetic displays of insecurity and neediness. Itâs a marvel of acting that Crawford alternates between humanizing his abuser but never apologizes for him.
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Just as complicated is Grahameâs ability to keep us somewhere between sympathy for her circumstances, revulsion at her actions, and enthralled with her bad behavior. This is what Grahame excelled at as an actress. She was at home in film noir and indispensable as a femme fatale. Her appearance added to the vibe and overall artistry of any production she was in, and some of her best work was with Lang in this film and The Big Heat. Her sultriness is at its ripest here, and her victim/victimizer character must be one of the best performances in her career.
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It is in her and Crawfordâs depiction that the sexual frenzy and animal lust so endemic to film noir exposes the rot inside the genre. Shame that itâs Fordâs innocent brought into their twisted back-and-forth that remains the central point-of-view. His character never really seems to lose his barring on the real world as he enters the twisty funhouse of Grahame and Crawford. Frankly, there doesnât appear to be much internal struggle with his character. He moves through the motions too easily for a story so based in human emotions and base instincts.
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Lang keeps a cool, nearly impassive eye on the proceedings, but Fordâs character leaves the film with a bitter aftertaste of a man done in by a âbitches be crazyâ plot with a side order of virgin vs whore complex to boot. Compare Human Desire to The Big Heatâs triste on men going to power for purpose with a womanâs manipulations as mere pretense, and itâs no wonder that Human Desire has languished in its shadow. Itâs still a fascinating misfire that often approaches near greatness.