The ConversationEverybody wants to believe that their place in the world is absolute, and that their perception of it is unmuddied. That we know what's going on. In reality, it couldn't be farther from the truth. The Conversation is a thriller about a "surveillance expert" (a.k.a. a "wiretapper") named Harry Caul (Gene Hackman). He is skilled at his craft and inventive, and has forged a reputation for this within his sphere of influence. But Harry is a haunted man, who struggles to connect on an individual level with his friends, lovers, and colleagues. His most recent commission has him rattled, as he suspects that the aftermath of his recordings may give rise to an echo of a tragedy from his past.
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There are a few movies which I've come back to reevaluate after having the benefit of time and life experience. Many, many years ago, I saw The Conversation and--loathe as I am to admit it--I felt bored by it. To me, Harry was such a sad sack and he continuously made foolish decisions that set himself up for failure. But time has a way of imparting wisdom, and more importantly, understanding. I recently revisited The Conversation and walked away with a new perspective. Yes, Harry is a sad sack, but...aren't we all in our own way? Don't our past transgressions weigh us down by degrees? There are (among many others) a few lines of dialogue that are repeated over and over again, made by one of the targets of Harry's observations named Ann (Cindy Williams): "I think he was once somebody's baby boy, and he had a mother and a father who loved him, and now there he is, half dead on a park bench..." Aside from becoming a clever refrain, the way that the film is edited often has this line repeated while the camera is directed at Harry. It's a pretty obvious commentary on Harry himself, that he is that same "half dead" old man, worn down by the world, and carrying the burden of his failures forevermore. By "failures", I mean an event that is only explored through nuance and insinuation later into the movie, involving the aftermath of one of his surveillance assignments that (presumably) resulted in the death of innocents. Harry is a religious man--a Catholic--which speaks to his conscience and his strong moral compass. And yet, here he is in a role that demands moral ambiguity, or at least detachment. Why does he do it? Much of the exposition into Harry's past comes by way of the snide comments made by a professional rival named Bernie Moran (Allen Garfield), who shares with others that Harry used to live on the East Coast before fleeing to the complete other end of the country, only to carry on the same work as before. Again, why? Why would Harry do this to himself...punish himself in the same way? Set a trap for himself, if you will? Because in his own eyes, Harry is as guilty (maybe even moreso) for profiting at the expense of others. What better form of punishment could there be than to force this penance upon himself, again and again?
Written and directed by Francis Ford Coppola, after his landmark success with The Godfather, The Conversation is obviously an exercise in style, but not at the expense of creating a compelling character with a compelling story. I describe it as a thriller largely because of the conspiratorial overtones throughout and the looming sense of danger that perpetually threatens Harry (merely perceived or otherwise). A significant amount of this tension comes by way of the cinematography and editing, composed in such a manner and with angles and far shots that constantly speak to Harry's inner thoughts by way of his placement in it. "Cinematic language" is one of those phrases which is often used but rarely understood. A simple way to explain it might be that the way that the feature film unfolds evokes a kind of mood or subtext which has an ulterior meaning to the audience. Of course this relies in part on individual experience, and so it was this revelation that made me come to appreciate The Conversation in a new light. Harry is not completely devoid of personal detail, aside from being excessively paranoid. (Consider, at least, the three locks on his apartment's door.) Harry's only apparent pleasure is playing the saxophone, and it is in these rare moments--and perhaps it's a result of the playing of the instrument--that Harry is smiling. This comes back to his continued role as a surveillance expert not being his true calling, yet one that he continues for all of the wrong reasons. I believe that this assessment speaks to the very end of The Conversation. Harry has destroyed everything that represented his past, his punishment, his failures, his way of life that isn't really his own. All that's left is that saxophone, and his playing of it. Some have theorized that the "bug" is hiding within the saxophone, but isn't it more important that it doesn't matter anymore, at least for Harry? He has come to terms with his past, even if by way of a violent act of expurgation--which becomes a kind of forgiveness for himself.
Recommended for: Fans of a deeply introspective character study and thriller, made at the height of the "New Hollywood" era of filmmaking. The Conversation is a film that is far ahead of its time, always toying with your expectations and emotions, from the sorrowful piano on the musical score to the way that it exploits your perception of people and events, making it a kind of cinematic magic show.
Written and directed by Francis Ford Coppola, after his landmark success with The Godfather, The Conversation is obviously an exercise in style, but not at the expense of creating a compelling character with a compelling story. I describe it as a thriller largely because of the conspiratorial overtones throughout and the looming sense of danger that perpetually threatens Harry (merely perceived or otherwise). A significant amount of this tension comes by way of the cinematography and editing, composed in such a manner and with angles and far shots that constantly speak to Harry's inner thoughts by way of his placement in it. "Cinematic language" is one of those phrases which is often used but rarely understood. A simple way to explain it might be that the way that the feature film unfolds evokes a kind of mood or subtext which has an ulterior meaning to the audience. Of course this relies in part on individual experience, and so it was this revelation that made me come to appreciate The Conversation in a new light. Harry is not completely devoid of personal detail, aside from being excessively paranoid. (Consider, at least, the three locks on his apartment's door.) Harry's only apparent pleasure is playing the saxophone, and it is in these rare moments--and perhaps it's a result of the playing of the instrument--that Harry is smiling. This comes back to his continued role as a surveillance expert not being his true calling, yet one that he continues for all of the wrong reasons. I believe that this assessment speaks to the very end of The Conversation. Harry has destroyed everything that represented his past, his punishment, his failures, his way of life that isn't really his own. All that's left is that saxophone, and his playing of it. Some have theorized that the "bug" is hiding within the saxophone, but isn't it more important that it doesn't matter anymore, at least for Harry? He has come to terms with his past, even if by way of a violent act of expurgation--which becomes a kind of forgiveness for himself.
Recommended for: Fans of a deeply introspective character study and thriller, made at the height of the "New Hollywood" era of filmmaking. The Conversation is a film that is far ahead of its time, always toying with your expectations and emotions, from the sorrowful piano on the musical score to the way that it exploits your perception of people and events, making it a kind of cinematic magic show.