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Iron-jawed Burt Lancaster plays a tortured prisoner aching to get out to reunite with his ailing wife (Ann Blyth). We understand and sympathize with him, but not just with him but all the men in his cell block. When they riot against the despotic guard (Hume Cronyn), we understand their motivating factors as we have spent plenty of time with them.
A touch manipulative, sure, especially as so many of their infractions seem so small in the grand scheme, and that is the main problem with Brute Force. What seemed shocking, even daring, in 1947 now appears outdated. If, as Jules Dassin argues, prisons reflect the wider society, and that’s a valid argument to make, then American society has a rot at its core. Nobody ever escapes, as one character argues, and the entire thing is wrapped up in a salaciously violent, and noir-esque bleakness, bow.
It is a weird, unshapely film that combines bits of jailbreak, social expose, film noir, and political allegory. In trying to shove all these various bits and pieces together, Brute Force winds up being entirely pleasing. Certain sections engaged me far more than others. Yes, the violent denouement had me on the edge of my seat and completely engaged, while parts involving Cronyn’s Napoleonic guard seemed so over-the-top (despite his committed performance) that I found myself taken out of the narrative. Through it all is Lancaster giving a soulful and deeply grounded performance that will make you rethink his iconography as a preeminent square-jawed tough guy of cinema.
