“Le cinéma, c'est Nicholas Ray.”-Jean-Luc Godard
Time and nostalgia have soft-focused the fifties antihero, but in the films of Nicholas Ray, nonconformism was a terribly lonely place. Ray himself could be as individualistic and self-destructive as his heroes, but never without a cause. Art for him was dangerous ground, from his roots in left-wing theater in the thirties to his phenomenal output in Hollywood between 1948 and 1961.
Being American, but “a stranger here myself” (Johnny Guitar's signature line), Ray was more anguished, more autobiographical, and more elegiac than the German-emigré Hollywood directors who, like Ray, critiqued America through mise-en-scène. Ray shared with Douglas Sirk (also featured this season) an architect's eye for the tragedy of American abundance; with Fritz Lang, a precise angle on mob psychology-a trait not German, not American, but human, and ubiquitous. Ray's portrait of Hollywood in In a Lonely Place is the antithesis of glamour-sunny bungalows like burrows of sadness-and his picture of happy family life is equally bleak. The discombobulation of apron-clad Jim Backus in Rebel Without a Cause is as nothing compared to the compounded confusions of James Mason in Bigger Than Life.
Young European directors placed Nick Ray in their canon of auteurs, and he became, toward the end of his life, both mentor and collaborator. For Godard, cinema was “truth, 24 times per second.” For Ray, film was bigger than life, requiring a CinemaScope screen to capture his vision-huge, eclectic, often tragically flawed, like America itself.
Judy Bloch