The Third Man (Movie Review)

"In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance; in Switzerland, they had brotherly love, they had five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did they produce? The cuckoo clock." —The Third Man, Graham Greene

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What would you do if found out your best, oldest friend was possibly to blame for countless crimes against humanity? Would you support the police in their quest to implicate your friend? Or embark on your own investigation to exonerate him?

Holly Martins, the American protagonist in The Third Man (1949) finds himself in such a quandary when his best friend, Harry Lime (Orson Welles), sends him a ticket to Vienna. Lime knows Martins has been struggling financially, and offers the hope of new work for this pulp fiction writer. But when Martins arrives in Vienna, he finds that Lime has just been killed in a gruesome car accident; following the funeral, he meets a British major who claims Lime is better off dead, having himself perpetuated crimes far worse than his own demise.

Martins is furious. He sets out to clear the name of his friend, all the while struggling to determine whether Lime's death was really an "accident." And what better place for such an investigation than a war-torn Vienna, partitioned off into "quarters," so designated by a divide among fading alliances.

It's a case of American naivete vs. post-war reality. Cold fact vs. Pulp fiction. Ideology and truth.

This polarity is most apparent in a scene where Martins is called upon to deliver a speech on the Crisis of Faith in literature. Having himself never studied critical theory, he simply knows (and writes) what sells. He doesn't know what to say to his audience, as a result, and the crowd abandons him as he fumbles to connect fact (what's happening with his friend) with fiction (his perception of the world). Even better yet: he's undergoing his own crisis of faith throughout the film.

In short: this is a good movie. Well-written (kudos to Graham Greene, whose novel The Heart of the Matter is among my favorites), and with camera direction that reminded me a bit of Citizen Kane. I enjoyed watching Orson Welles play the honest charlatan (oxymoron, I know), and the closing scene left a pseudo-smirk on my face.

My only question: what happened to the driver? If you've seen the film, let me know... there's a 4th man I'd like to know more about.