Ian Thomas Malone

There’s an inherent beauty in the way that film offers such an enclosed, finite glimpse into its subject’s lives. Sequels aside, audiences aren’t invited to the happily-ever-after. In most cases, the three-act structure is all you get.

John Boorman’s iconic 1967 thriller Point Blank deploys a non-linear structure, showcasing its lead’s death in the opening scene. Walker (Lee Marvin) is betrayed pulling a heist on Alcatraz Island by his partner Reese (John Vernon) and wife Lynne (Sharon Acker), left to bleed out in the prison only four years removed from its active operations. The narrative is anchored by Walker’s pursuit of his share of the job, putting him at odds with Reese’s shadier associates.

On the surface, the film largely plays out like a revenge thriller, but vengeance isn’t the primary focus for either Boorman or Marvin. Instead, their focus lies pretty solely with the deconstruction of Walker’s psyche. Walker moves with determination back and forth between San Francisco and Los Angeles, but the layers quickly unravel behind the broken man.

Marvin, who played a key role in adapting the film from the Richard Stark’s 1962 novel The Hunter, delivers a deceptively subtle performance, keeping his cards close to his chest. For a man with one of Hollywood’s most distinct voices, Walker doesn’t speak all that often. Instead, Boorman utilizes Johnny Mandel’s chilling score to supply much of the perpetually heightened dramatic tension.

What’s particularly remarkable about Boorman’s work is the way that he essentially introduces a fourth act into the equation that lingers in the audience’s mind long after the credits roll. The non-linear structure doesn’t just toss the traditional notion of narrative out the window, it practically laughs at the idea that one would want to put the pieces of the puzzle back together. Beyond that, Point Blank stresses the unimportance of doing so.

One could spend hours deliberating over whether Walker truly died in the opening act, but film isn’t really about those kinds of answers. A conventional thriller within the genre might care more about definitive conclusions, satisfied with its role as mere entertainment. Such is the realm where Point Blank separates itself from its peers.

Walker wanted his work to mean something. Boorman and Marvin operated with the very same intentions, a thoroughly tantalizing production. Featuring stunning cinematography that highlights an anxious 60s LA, Point Blank is the kind of film that’s hard to get out of your head. Walker isn’t particularly likable, but his frantic grasps at purpose are far more meaningful than your typical revenge fare. A definitive entry in the genre.

Horror movies, particularly those in the slasher genre, exude an aura of indifference with regard to their characters, many of whom exist simply to be killed by the film’s big scary villain. The audience is trained not to get too attached to anyone whose name wasn’t near the beginning of the credits, just as most narratives have plenty of secondary and tertiary characters who don’t play a role in the climax. Gruesome death is largely just a way to pass the time, some warm-up thrills before the big main event.

Many slasher films forget the importance of giving their audiences some morsel of a reason to care about the secondary characters designed to serve as cannon fodder, spending large portions of their runtimes treading water in between murders.  Halloween had different intentions. Carpenter’s meticulously crafted film doesn’t waste a single second, the gold standard of the slasher genre with its most effective score.

Halloween is an intimate film with few characters. Carpenter doesn’t spend much time exploring the backstories for Laurie Strode (Jamie Lee Curtis), Dr. Sam Loomis (Donald Pleasance), or Michael Myers (Nick Castle), understanding the inherent relatability of the stakes at hand. It’s not that there’s no time for frivolous backstory, but there’s no real need for it either. The gruesome nature of Myers’ villainy more than speaks for itself.

Carpenter can raise his audience’s heartbeat with a simple piano riff. Night or day, the sound of that melody takes hold of the senses, presenting the idea that anything could happen at any moment. Pleasance and Curtis, the latter making her cinematic debut, are top-notch, but Halloween is the rare film that could’ve coasted solely on the strength of its score.

Michael Myers is the very definition of evil, but Carpenter is careful not to saddle his villain with the bulk of the audience’s contempt. There is much reserved for the institutions that failed to safeguard the world from the boogeyman, including the hospital that failed to contain him and the police who didn’t take him seriously. Myers is not exactly a great example of the cover-up being worse than the crime, but Carpenter manages to spread the blame around.

What’s particularly refreshing about Halloween is the way that Carpenter’s fairly narrow scope feels simultaneously conclusive and open-ended. The bogeyman cannot be killed, not when Myers’ services are required for a dozen sequels. There should be no relief at the end of the narrative, yet Carpenter masterfully eases up on the pressure valve, providing a sense of closure where none should exist. For a genre often defined by low-budget direct-to-video releases, Halloween is a shining example of the power of the form when a master of the craft is behind the wheel.