Feb 3, 2010 8:11 AM

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Two weeks ago, I wrote about how disappointed I was with the film The International. Last week, I was hoping to be more upbeat about Public Enemies, seeing as the material—J. Edgar Hoover takes on John Dillinger—seemed tailor-made for writer-director Michael Mann (Manhunter, Heat, The Insider). But, once again, a weak script prevented even a charismatic lead—in this case, Johnny Depp—from facilitating a must-see. So I cheated: I re-visited an old favorite of mine, knowing I'd have nothing but good things to share. My only hook is that, outside of film-buff circles, it's an unappreciated gem, one overshadowed by other work by Joel and Ethan Coen. It's titled Miller's Crossing.

Although it's been 20 years, I remember vividly that, when it was released, the film received polar-opposite-style reviews, as this sparring match between Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert attests. The late Siskel saw Miller's Crossing, the Coens' third film—after Blood Simple and Raising Arizona—as yet another fresh take on an old genre, i.e. "the gangster picture." But Ebert—like many other critics—couldn't tolerate what he considered extraneous dialogue, lethargic pacing, and a convoluted plot.

I didn't know exactly why at the time, but I was in Siskel's camp. I remember, as the end credits rolled, sitting in the theater, thinking, "What the hell did I just see?" The plot is complicated, but in an almost Shakespearean (that is to say, brilliantly comical) way that reflects the absurdity and unpredictability of life. At the center is Tom (Gabriel Byrne), an Irish mob lieutenant whose boss, Leo (Albert Finney), is letting his emotions hurt business by refusing to allow an Italian counterpart (Jon Polito) to kill a bookie who's been spoiling his boxing fixes. The bookie, Bernie Bernbaum (John Turturro), is, it turns out, the brother of Leo's girlfriend, Verna (Marcia Gay Harden). And it just so happens that Tom and Verna are seeing each other on the sly.

The backdrop is an unnamed mob-run city during Prohibition. It could be New York, Chicago, wherever. (The film was actually shot in New Orleans.) As the plot thickens—with Tom, at first, telling Leo that he's been sleeping with Verna, then going to work for the Italians—loyalties are called into question, and the Coens' script pinballs from one Big Theme to another: reason vs. emotion, friendship vs. business relationships, the true meaning of love.

The much-better-than-average dialogue, a Coen trademark, is especially polished and hyper-realistic in this film, as if the intention were to air even the subconscious thoughts of each character. Johnny Caspar, the Italian ganster, for instance, begins the film with a discourse on "ethics," of all things. And later, as Tom tries to convince Leo to give up Bernie, he machine-guns the following lines:

"You might not like it, but giving up Bernie Bernbaum is a pretty small price to pay for peace. Business is business, and a war's going to hurt everybody. Bernie plays with fire, he's got to deal with the consequences—even if that means he gets bumped off."

Ironically, Tom himself, in order to prove his mettle to Caspar, is eventually ordered to "bump" Bernie—in a secluded, wooded area that gives the film its title. The sequence was the most talked-about when the film was released, and rightly so. Not only is it beautifully shot (by Barry Sonnenfeld, who later directed The Addams Family and Men in Black), but it spotlights the Coens' truly unique talent. Critics have said that the brothers rarely invest their characters with emotion, thus rendering them unsympathetic. While I concur that, in their weaker films (The Hudsucker Proxy, Burn After Reading), the characters are more caricature than human, in their best work (Raising Arizona, Fargo, No Country for Old Men), the reverse is true. Such may not appear to be the case, but that's only because, like normal human beings, the characters in those films invest lots of time and effort into not showing weakness.

Which is why the "bump" scene in Miller's Crossing is so emblematic. Bernie, who's as openly gay as one could be during Prohibition, represents the other end of the spectrum. An emotionally open book, he has no problem begging for his life as Tom forces him deep into the woods. Tom, meanwhile, moves like a robot—gun drawn, lips tight, body draped in an overcoat, fedora pulled low. Only his eyes betray him as Bernie, in one final plea, falls to his knees, saying: "You can't kill me. I'm praying to you! Look in your heart! I'm praying to you! Look in your heart!"

The hat; I need to mention it. There was, and still is, a lot of talk about what hats symbolize in Miller's Crossing. Just after the title sequence, during which the heartbreaking beautifully Irish classic "The Lament of Limerick" serves as Carter Burwell's theme, a fedora lands on the forest floor in front of the camera. It's then buffeted by the wind, which carries it into the distance, among the trees. Later, Tom alludes to the image, telling Verna about a dream he once had. She guesses that when he finally caught the hat, it turned into something "wonderful." "No, it stayed a hat," he says. And when Tom gets knocked around in a crowded nightclub by Leo, after revealing his affair with Verna, every time his hat comes off, someone hands it back to him.

The hat, for me, is that "thing" we all put on when we don't want to show fear or weakness, or want to get something out of someone else. It's the opposite of wearing your heart on your sleeve. Call it a persona, a façade, what have you; it allows us to function in the "real world." And it's no mistake that Leo, who's seen wearing his hat the least, is the most emotionally vulnerable in Miller's Crossing—and, thus, must be protected, at least when it comes to matters involving Verna, by his old friend, Tom.

One thing I don't want to do is undersell the "action" sequences, which, like those in any great film, are paced appropriately and help develop character and plot. One sterling example once again involves Leo, who shows exactly why he's boss during an assassination attempt that takes place in his house as "Danny Boy" blares from a gramophone. After his guards are taken out, it's Leo against a handful of Tommy-gun-wielding thugs, who, as we soon see, are no match for the resourceful, ruthless mob boss, who's no slouch with a machine gun himself. Later, in fact, one of his minions says of Leo's performance: "The old man's still an artist with a Thompson."

As exceptional as their first two outings were, Miller's Crossing was proof, for me, that the the Coens were artists as well, a notion that's since been confirmed by an unmatched body of work that continues to grow. Truly remarkable, however, is that, with each film, they've headed in a completely different direction, without regard for box-office appeal. (Barton Fink, the followup to Miller's Crossing, is a good example.) They did not however, give up on the crime genre, which gives me an excuse to write about their work again. Till then, Miller's Crossing should be enough for anyone, as one of its characters might put it, to "chew over."

Photo courtesy of Twentieth Century Fox.

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