Object #12 - Heart-Plugs - Dune (1984)

Dir. David Lynch

Ah Dune, what a fascinating train-wreck of a film. Directed by one of my all-time favourite directors, David Lynch, of Eraserhead and The Elephant Man fame at the time of the film's creation. These days Lynch looks back at Dune as little more than a bad memory, filled with studio interference, a lack of final cut, and a constriction on his vision, a death-note for an auteur such as Lynch. He's since proven himself even more substantially with Mulholland Drive, Twin Peaks, both on TV and the pre-sequel film Fire Walk With Me, and of course the out-of-place, yet no less great The Straight Story. (And Lost Highway, a personal favourite. I won't go on, I could speak about Lynch's films for days!) As a film, Dune is a mess, almost impossible to understand without reading the classic sci-fi novel it was adapted from, full of non-explained jargon, lazy voice-overs, and a half-baked script. Not a good film do these ingredients make. 

Yet, out of the mess, there are fascinating aspects to analyse. One of these is the heart-plugs. Not present in the original novel, these medical intrusions act as an instant-death pull-switch for the Harkonnen family, and more importantly, their slaves. They are implemented by the command of the  revolting Baron Harkonnen (Kenneth McMillan). There is a scene early in the film which acts as the introduction to the Baron, and uses the heart-plugs to tell us quite a bit. This abysmal-quality edit of the scene has all the main points I wanted, so see it here.

The Baron [right] and Doctor (Leonardo Cimino) [left]

In the scene, the Baron receives word of his ongoing plot to kill the leader of his opposing house, Duke Leto of the Atreides house. As he rants, raves, and schemes, a young, handsome teenaged slave-boy is ushered in, carrying metal flowers to place in the room, and he's outfitted with a heart-plug. The Baron, who floats across the room with the aid of suspensors on his body, carrying his massive weight, spots the boy, and his eyes fill with lust. On his way to the boy, he floats under a pipe, which turns out to be full of what seems to be either oil, some other liquid, or blood, presumably his enemies'. He reaches for the boy, pushing him back, then pulls the plug on the boy's heart-plug. Like the pin of a grenade, the plug halts the blood flow of the boy from escaping, and now pulled, it flows freely, killing the boy. The Baron, rubs his hand into the blood, and essentially molests the boy in his dying moments, rubbing the boy's blood into his own face. Lynch (or some studio-exec, it's hard to say with Dune) cuts to the reactions of the Baron's staff and family, who remain indifferent to the entire process, clearly disillusioned to the Baron's actions over-time. What this does is allow the sound of the molestation to continue, before we cut to a smiling Baron, blood-splattered. The Baron's nephew, Feyd-Rautha (Sting), grins maniacally, and we hear the Baron's voice-over "This is what I'll do to the Duke and his family".

The heart-plugs aren't in the original novel, and so are clearly an invention of Lynch's. What they do is personify the cruelty of the Baron. He has an instant means of death for every servant and slave under his rule and employment, and in fact, has outfitted them onto his extended family as well. It tells us a lot, the Baron is ruthless in his trust of others, or rather, his lack of trust. He can kill them at any point, and they know this. What the actions with the young boy tell us is that the Baron is cruelly sadistic, killing the boy with the swipe of a plug for his own sexual gratification. He enjoys not only the young boy, which shows he's gay, a bold statement in the 60's when the book was written, and still pretty bold in the 80's (we'll get to that), but also that he gets off on the death of the boy, and the control he has over life and death. It works. I think it's an interesting implementation by Lynch that acts well in this scene to inform us much of the Baron's character, despite the obvious lack of practicality in the design. Seriously what if a slave nabs it in something? Bam, one dead slave.

The Baron, whose face is covered in pustules and boils, appears sickly, ill, infected. His doctor injects and sucks at the pustules, all the while saying this:

 You are SO beautiful, my Baron. Your skin, love to me. Your diseases lovingly cared for, for all eternity. 

This film was written and shot in 1982/3, with the AIDS crisis emerging in the US, where predominantly gay men were transferring the deadly AIDS virus to each other through unprotected sex, and dying by the thousands. A tragedy of the 80's, as it passed through the infected needles of drug-users, through blood-transfusions, and through bisexual sex to the straight community. If these sentences make you feel uncomfortable like they do me, then that's normal, because the entire situation is wrong, it feels wrong, and sickening. Viruses, needles, infections, all horrible concepts to most people. So what Dune does is make the Baron infected, with, let's be honest here, an AIDS parallel, The doctor's words court the gay-perceived origin of the AIDS virus to make us feel revolted to the Harkonnens. It's cheap, but it works to this day.

The Baron, as I mentioned earlier, is gay, or at the very least interested sexually in men. Unfortunately, his appetite for young boys goes even further than the teenagers in the original novel if you catch my drift. In the 60's this would be a man to be hated, and it goes to show how powerful the idea is, that in this day and age, it still revolts us, as pedophilia does to most. The film retains the youth of the Baron's conquests, but avoids the pedophilic elements (ish), by making them teenaged, around 19/20 years of age. But everything surrounding the Baron is meant to make us feel sick, his obesity, so dire that he needs technology to help him move, his infection, and of course, the heart-plugs, which tell us of the Baron's sadistic sexual tendencies.

The heart-plugs, and in particular the scenes surrounding them, work. As a product of the 80's they enhance and modernise the characterization of the Baron. Lynch wrote the script, and 'directed' the film, so I'll hand it to him, this was a touch of genius. Genius for rather out-dated and off-putting reasons to us as a modern audience, hell probably even to the contemporary audience, but it works none-the-less.

Object #11 - Samurai Armour - Seven Samurai (1954)

Dir. Akira Kurosawa 

Just like my Battleship Potemkin post, I find it really, really hard to discuss the great works of cinema that have been discussed by far smarter people than I. Usually because I feel like anything I say has been said, said better, or is juvenile in comparison to the far more in-depth analysis out there. Tony Zhou's Every Frame a Painting video essay on Kurosawa is going to give you more bang for your buck than I ever will, link here. Regardless, I'm going to discuss it anyway, because damn it, if a film is this good it bares talking about by all the new generations discovering it!

Kikuchiyo (Toshiro Mifune), the most comic and enigmatic of the seven samurai in the film, has his moment to shine in this scene. To be pedantic, he isn't a samurai, and it is in this scene that we discover this. The scene begins with Kikuchiyo bringing in, and wearing, some traditional samurai armour that has been discovered in the village the samurai are protecting. As usual, he's laughing a lot, really happy that they have some actual armour, and frankly, geeking out at how cool it is! 

However, we learn that the reason the armour is in the village is that the villagers have been hunting down the injured or fleeing samurai from other nearby battles across the years. This infuriates the other samurai, their honour insulted by the villagers' keeping of secrets. But interestingly, Kikuchiyo begins to rant and rave at the other samurai. He think that the villagers aren't in the wrong, that they are no worse than the samurai who were little worse than bandits, who are the enemy in the film. Kurosawa has Mifune deliver his performance directly to camera, with the camera placement telling us that Kikuchiyo is ranting at the other samurai. Kikichiyo calls samurai in general rapists, thieves, and overall "mean, stupid murderers". 

This doesn't make sense to us. Kikichiyo, while more inept than the other samurai, has acted as one, carrying the symbolic sword and joining the others. He breaks down crying, and the other samurai know, they can tell that Kikichiyo used to be a farmer, and has suffered at the hands of bandits and samurai. He is self-taught, not even a ronin. This revelation occurs due to the finding of the samurai armour. It acts as a catalyst for some serious characterization of an otherwise comic character, and a stand-out performance from Mifune. 

Later in the film, as Kikichiyo and Shimada (Takashi Shimura) attempt to rescue the outskirt villagers from death, as the houses burn, a mother cradles a crying baby, dies in Shimada's arms from being speared, and the baby is handed to Kikichiyo. Kikichiyo breaks down, crying "It's just like me", and we completely understand his earlier animosity to the samurai as they insulted the farmers' actions. It informs us of the harsh upbringing of Kikichiyo, orphaned by the violent actions of this world, and how it all continues to happen, a cycle of violence and death. We know the real reason he joined the defending samurai, he wanted to protect his kin, and stop history repeating itself. Unfortunately, he couldn't. 

The armour serves no more purpose than making our heroes look cool, and of course giving us a fantastic insight into Kikichiyo's character. Kikichiyo himself sheds the armour later in the film, wearing the attire of his enemies to blend in and thin their numbers. The armour hammers home the theme of history repeating itself, as the samurai wear the armour of old to face new, yet unchanged, threats. The end of the film however does imply that a change is coming, as four of the seven samurai lay dead, the remaining three reflect that the victory for the villagers has been a defeat for them, the samurai at large. With each victory, the samurai will lose some of their numbers, until none remain. Shimada already felt too old to lead the conflict, and the youngest to survive, Katsushiro (Daisuke Kato) is already seen to long for love with one of the villagers. The apprentices then will integrate into modern society, and the remaining samurai will be killed or become too old to fight. It's a sad end to the film, as we know all the good they can do. But what Kikichiyo reminds us, through the use of that armour, is that perhaps the samurai were never noble heroes to begin with. Yet among these samurai, and the non-samurai Kikichiyo, bravery and sacrifice remain, but for how long?

Object #10 - Goldfinger's Fort Knox model - Goldfinger (1964)

Dir. Guy Hamilton

There's a scene in the first Austin Powers (1997) where the villains discuss their expanding business, and Number Two (Evan Farmer) states that on top of all their new oil refineries and communication towers, they have "a factory in Chicago that makes miniature models of factories". It's hilarious, as is most of Austin Powers, and it brilliantly rips on the over-indulgence of Bond villains such as Mr.Goldfinger here. 

007 (Sean Connery), captured by Goldfinger (Gert Frobe) in his personal U.S farm, manages to escape his cell and over-hear Goldfinger's nefarious plan for a massive raid of Fort Knox, the gold depository of the U.S. The beauty of the scene in Goldfinger's rumpus room is in design. Both the design of the room, and the design of the scene. The purpose of the scene is for Goldfinger to outline his plan to a bunch of gangsters, in exchange for their monetary support and assets needed for the raid itself, with a promise that they "could have the million today, or ten millions tomorrow". 

There are already plot holes appearing here. Why would Goldfinger plan this entire operation without having the money and assets to carry it out? We know he's rich. The scene plays out, with his outline of the plan balked at by some of the gangsters. 007 overhears the entire plan underneath the model of Fort Knox, literally. He is then recaptured. We the audience now fully understand Goldfinger's plan, as does 007 himself. This is the main purpose of the scene.

The rumpus room, already transformed into a war room, as can be seen here, is then transformed into a gas chamber. The gangsters are killed in this air-tight gas-chamber. Why? No real reason, their usefulness to the plot is complete, why else have them stick around? In-universe the justification is that Goldfinger humoured them with his plan, and then, by killing them, now has access to the materials they've brought. Now hold on just a second, what kind of mobsters bring the 'money' to a proposal, that's jumping the gun just a bit surely? Would a bunch of rival mobsters really all meet in the same room, shouldn't they hate each other? How does Goldfinger get away with murdering them and stealing the assets, don't they have bodyguards? 

Forgetting all that for a moment, why the hell does Goldfinger go to all the trouble of creating a pretty damn detailed model of Fort Knox, to use it once, knowing full well he'll kill the gangsters at the end of the proposal? It tells us that Goldfinger is a man of extravagance, as if we didn't know that already! Perhaps if he didn't spend so much money on miniature models he'd have some left over for the materials needed to complete his monumental raid, one that he's been planning his entire life! There are plot-holes a-plenty here but do we care, do we really? We have Ken Adam, production designer, firing on all cylinders here to make a scene that could have been full of this:

to a scene that's full of this:

Adam himself stated that briefing scenes such as in the picture above, with flat aerial photographs on wall, are dull. What if instead, we can see the target, physically? And so this scene was designed the way it is. It raises the question of why Goldfinger would build a bloody model, and more-so, build a room purposefully designed just to show it off. The billiard table turns into a control hub for goodness' sake!

How much do you think a custom room like this costs? In fact, the more time I spend thinking about this the more I think Goldfinger is so full of ego that he built this room for this exact purpose, custom models, control hubs, and moving floors and all. And let's not forget the fact that the entire room doubles as a gas chamber! Seriously this guy needs something to keep his mind occupied, he clearly has nothing better to do. How about planning a raid - oh wait.  

This whole train of thought has occurred only due to the production design of Ken Adam, with a script accommodating his changes. It's great, it's so great that a miniature model and an over-designed room can imply so much about the head-space of a person. The scene, as we know, is only here to enlighten 007, who oh so conveniently escapes at the right time to overhear Goldfinger's ENTIRE OPERATION, as well as us the audience as to Goldfinger's plan. Adam even makes it easier for us by making a model! It goes to show that details like this were only ever found in the Bond films, which from this point on continued this extravagance in set-design. It rightfully got the piss taken out of it in Austin Powers but isn't it just gorgeous to look at? Isn't it such an absurd idea? And yet...I like it, in fact, I love it. It's design for design's sake, and that's something that's rarely explored in film. Hats off, and not the Oddjob variety, to Ken Adam! 

Object #9 - Switchblade Knife - 12 Angry Men (1957)

Dir. Sidney Lumet

This film is incredible. I've had the pleasure of watching it three times so far and each and every time I am utterly enthralled by the drama. The film could be a stage-play and it wouldn't lose that much effect. I shouldn't really say that as a film-lover, but Lumet, as a first-time director doesn't have the flair to spice up a one-room drama. Actually, that's a lie, it's almost impossible even these days in one-room dramas such as Exam (2009) and The Man From Earth (2007) to really be inventive. This is usually due to budget but then again, what can you do with a single room? The heart of the film lies in the acting and the script. 12 Angry Men doesn't disappoint.

The switchblade knife then is naturally visible and present throughout the film after it's introduced. And what an introduction! Juror #8 (Henry Fonda) is the only member of the jury who believes the young man under trial is not-guilty. He isn't sure, but he believes that the matter should be discussed before the young man is sentenced guilty, and sent to death-row. At this early point in the film the tension isn't that high, and the jury is unanimous in their guilty sentence, except for #8 of course. One piece of evidence weighed against the guilty man is that the switchblade used to kill his father is unique, with a fancy handle and unique blade-shape. This is used by the other jury members repeatedly to try and convince #8 he's wrong. That is, until #8 pulls an identical switchblade out of his pocket, flicks it open, and sticks it into the table (.gif below)

This is a great shock moment, as it validates the doubt #8 has had in sentencing the man as guilty, and shakes the faith of the other jurors in the efficiency and truthfulness of the justice system, or rather, their apathy towards the case, particularly in the case of jurors #9 (Joseph Sweeney) and #5 (Jack Klugman). It's the first concrete piece of evidence #8 gives, having bought the blade from a shop near the crime scene, thus showing that the evidence of the blade being unique is fallible. He goes on to deduce and work out other inconsistencies in the case against the young man, eventually convincing all the jurors that the 'facts' are false, or at the least, inaccurate. As he sticks the knife into the desk, he makes a statement, like a Native American pinning his tomahawk into a tree, he's ready to fight. 

What the blade also does is tell us that #8 truly cares about the young man on trial. We get this from Fonda's acting regardless, as he stares vacantly out the window, clearly in deep thought. But #8's going down to the crime scene, scoping the area for himself, all unseen to us, tells us so much about the man. In sharp contrast to juror #7 (Jack Warden) who can't wait to leave to see the ball-game, #8 took some of his own time to investigate the guilt of the man on trial. He cares, which again is a big contrast to the other jurors. A little bit of human sympathy is the key to shaking the apathy of the others, and since this is a place of law, he brings evidence to support this. 

The knife is used again through the film as a prop for the jurors' re-enactment of the stabbing. Leading to the tense scene where juror #3 (Lee J. Cobb), the 'villain' of the piece and most consistent antagonist to #8, pulls the knife back, ready to stab #8. All the men get up, ready to defend #8, a human moment uniting them all. Of course, #3 had no intention of actually stabbing #8 but it increases the tension between the two, and the trust of #8 in #3, valuing his humanity over petty grudges. 

12 Angry Men is a superb psychological drama, that peels away the layers of each man, until we see their true character, beliefs, and, unfortunately, biases and bigotry. Every single one has a character moment, with a large focus on #3 and #8. The switchblade plays a crucial part in the early stage of the film, and continues to be used throughout. The knife falls under the rules of Chekhov's gun, where of course it is used to simulate a stabbing, and it doesn't suffer for it. Another great object to add to the list. Please see this film if you haven't, it's 96 minutes long, yet feels like 60. It transcends the time it was made to become an utterly timeless film about humanity at large. 

Object #8 - The Pram - Battleship Potemkin (1925)

Dir. Sergei Eisenstein

The Odessa Steps sequence in Battleship Potemkin has been watched, discussed, and analysed countless times. It's been referenced in parodies like The Naked Gun, as well as almost lifted directly in Brian DePalma's The Untouchables (1987). The scene is iconic in and of itself, and the pram is a shorthand for the entire purpose of the scene.

The pram referenced in The Untouchables (1987)

Battleship Potemkin is a propaganda film for the Russian revolution. The first three 'parts' of the film detail the uprising of the crew of the battleship Potemkin against the officer-class, and the support they receive from the people on-land. One of their fallen crewman, Vakulinchuk, is celebrated, and seen as a representation of the 'One against all' message of both the film and the revolution at large. Part four of the film, titled The Odessa Steps, details the retributive act of the Cossack soldiers, who, appearing at the top of the Odessa steps, march single-file, firing into the crowd of supporters for the fallen Vakulinchuk. They step over the bodies of fallen children, firing into the helpless innocents, killing a woman cradling her fallen son point-blank. A woman's eyeglasses break as she is shot in the head, a famous image from the film:

A pram, containing a young baby, teeters over the steps ready to run down the steps, endangering the baby. The mother is shot by the soldiers, she falls back, pushing the pram, and it falls. A man on the side looks on, unable to help. 

You can see the entire classic sequence here, and the numerous homages and parodies here. Despite the propaganda nature of the film, we can't help but feel appalled at the events happening on screen. A child in danger will always elicit an emotional response no matter the context, because the are innocent, and helpless, none more so than in a pram tumbling down corpse-ridden steps. The plight of the people can be cast aside by a heartless person: "Oh they knew what they were doing. They were supporting revolutionaries". But a child, a child knows no better. That's what makes this scene so powerful on the surface. 

It's Eisenstein's frantic use of montage, the true purpose behind making the film, that makes the entire sequence so effective. This is 1925, film was new, techniques still being developed. Revolutionary were the cuts used, not just the content of the film. In action films today such as the Bourne series, directors such as Paul Greengrass use frantic cuts to instill a sense of movement, excitement, and danger. Greengrass himself has cited Potemkin as one of his favourite films, and the influence is clear to see. Eisenstein's cuts have a musical pace to them, no longer than approximately four beats, keeping you on your toes, contrasting images against one another, and at a basic, but vital, level, keeping you excited and engaged in the events on screen. The decent of the pram could have been done in a long shot. In fact, the cinematographic potential of the location could lend itself well to this approach, but Eisenstein chooses instead to give us shots of the baby from above, the pram tumbling from the side, and cutting to a helpless onlooker. The onlooker's emotions tell us what we should feel, like all good propaganda should. 

The message the scene is conveying isn't complex. The use of the pram isn't borderline manipulative, it's specifically designed to manipulate your emotions, to make you sympathise with the down-trodden masses against the machine-like murdering force of the Cossacks. A child in danger needs to be saved, no matter the cost, no matter the enemy, and that's why the pram in this scene is effective, and oh so iconic. 

   

Object #7 - Paving Stone - The Remains of the Day (1993)

Dir. James Ivory

Eddie Izzard has a fantastic bit about the difference between American and British films, link here. It's hysterically funny, and the film he has in his head as he describes British drama films, and I'm almost sure of this, is Remains of the Day. With that "Oh, I'm so sorry...I, oh", type approach to drama, where everything is unsaid, and under the surface. 

The paving stone in Remains of the Day, and I'm being literal here, an actual paving stone, leads to this type of drama between our protagonist in the film, the head butler Stevens (Anthony Hopkins), and his aging father (Peter Vaughn). Relatively early in the film, Stevens Snr. is carrying some tea, quite shakily, to some important guests in the patio of Lord Darlington's (James Fox) estate. He trips over a paving stone, spilling the contents of the tray everywhere. Darlington and his guests rush over to help him, as does Stevens. No problem you'd think, tripping happens.

Oh no. This is upper-class Britain, the late 1930's/early 1940's. This trip hold far more subtext. It implies that the staff of Darlington House aren't fit for they job, embarrassing Darlington in front of important guests. It causes Stevens Snr. to begin judging his own capabilities in his late age, as we see him later in the film stepping on the paving stone, searching for any evidence of wonkiness. For Stevens Jr., this is highly embarrassing, not only have one of his staff failed in their duties, they've done it in a disparaging way to his employer, Darlington. It's also affected his relationship with Darlington as it appears that Stevens is showing favouritism to his father over a more fit and able staff member. And of course it impacts Stevens' relationship with his own father, cold and distant already to say the least. 

We see the ramifications of this last relationship in this scene. It's curt, beginning with small talk about how much sleep his father has had, before quickly reaching the crux of the matter. 

Stevens: I'll come straight to the point.

Stevens Snr.: Do. Some of us have got work to be getting on with. 

Stevens Snr. is being relegated to less straining duties, he's no longer allowed to carry trays for fear of further embarrassment in later, important meetings at the house. It's the way it's said more than anything, Stevens throughout the film calls his father, well, just that, 'Father'. 

Stevens: Because of Father's accident, you no longer wait a table.

Stevens Snr.: [turning to his son angrily} I've-. [Reigns in his anger] I've waited a table, every day, for the last fifty-four years. 

Stevens continues, telling him the further lack of responsibilities he now has. His father blames the crookedness of the paving stones, he won't accept the fact that he tripped due to his age. Shifting the blame to his son, telling him to fix them before any future accidents. Subtext, subtext, subtext. This scene is dripping with it. Not only of their distant relationship but of the culture of the time. Their outfits, the way Stevens calls his father, the importance of pretense and stiff-upper-lip over all.

I've only focused on the father-son relationship but the same occurs throughout the film between Stevens and Miss. Kenton (Emma Thompson), and this is the true emotional, or rather the restrained emotional, center-piece of the film. The father-son relationship if important however for details like this that tell us more about Stevens subconsciously. Stevens Snr.'s death later in the film is handled with a similar lack of emotion, as Stevens continues with the vital job at hand before attending to his own father. It's heartbreaking, as is his relationship with Miss.Kenton. They clearly have an attraction to one another, but Stevens can't allow himself to act on it, as it isn't 'proper' for a man in his position, and as it would distract him from his duties. Their lives move on, Miss.Kenton becomes married and pregnant, and in their eventual reunion we feel the ghost of another life, possibly not a better life, but a life the two of them truly wanted. Miss.Kenton clearly wanted it more, taking the initiative throughout the film, but Stevens couldn't move beyond his duties and the culture of the time to go with his heart.

With his father he does the same, acting as the Head Butler more than a son. But the tragedy is that his father wouldn't have it any other way either. They are both men of their time. We know that Stevens does care, he does feel. Hopkins conveys this so well in the contrast between Stevens in 'work-mode', and Stevens when emotionally bothered - the slowness of his movements, the elsewhere look on his face, some clumsiness. It's a more subtle acting but nonetheless powerful. The paving stone then acts as our window into this behaviour, of both Stevens and his father, by setting events in motion that impact their relationship for the remainder of the film. It's a beautifully melancholic film, nominated for eight Oscars but beaten by Speilberg's Schindler's List, but what are Oscars at the end of the day? Both films are superb, and both have objects that symbolise far more than their worth. As with almost all of the films I write about on this blog, please do watch this film if you find the time, I very much doubt you'll regret it.

Object #6 - Cat Food - The Long Goodbye (1973)

Dir. Robert Altman

Philip Marlowe (Elliott Gould), private investigator. Physically intimidating he is not. Unlike Humphrey Bogart, himself not averse to starring as PI's, Elliot Gould doesn't have the vibe to him that he's a force to be reckoned with. Bogart somehow had this aura that implied he could snap and take you out in a swift motion. What Gould does, and I believe better than Bogart does, is come across as the true Philip Marlowe. All snappy comebacks and disparaging remarks about the world-at-large, mainly told for his own amusement. He may use a gun, but his weapons are his words. Oftentimes they aren't that effective weapons but Marlowe gets by. Gould is vulnerable, as Bogart wasn't when playing the same character, and so I think Gould is closer to Chandler's Marlowe.

This may seem a bit odd to say considering that The Long Goodbye is time-shifted to the 70's, as opposed to the late 40's. Surely films such as The Big Sleep are more accurate? Maybe for the setting, but not the character. By having Marlowe in the 70's, himself a 40's, hell, maybe even a 30's character at-heart, we get this wonderful contrast. This makes Marlowe feel out-of-place with his own environment, which comes across as better in my opinion to the jaded, world-weary, yet savvy approach we get by in the 40's set films. His smoking, quintessential to the noirs of the 40's, have lost their coolness come the 70's. How he talks, his profession, Marlowe is a man out-of-time. 

So our object, cat food. This is another object that speaks more about character than plot. The film opens with Marlowe being woken by his hungry cat. He heads to the kitchen, the jazzy-noir soundtrack drawing us into the film. He offers the cat some some cat-food, the cat refuses. During this entire process Marlowe speaks to himself, commenting on the cat's taste, and so on. It's really great stuff, it's unreal but that's the charm of it. 

Marlowe heads to the shop, as he tells himself that the cat will only eat Courry brand cat-food. This is a man who wakes up at nighttime, lights a smoke, and heads to the shop to indulge a fussy cat. In the shop (I find it really hard not to write 'store', the noir vibe is so American!), he can't find the brand and asks a shopkeeper for help. We get this exchange (scene here, and you can see the entire 10 minute opening here):   

Philip Marlowe: Excuse me, I don't see any Courry Brand cat food here.

Supermarket clerk: Some what?

Philip Marlowe: Some Courry Brand cat...

Supermarket clerk: Could you spell that?

Philip Marlowe: Courry Brand, C-O-U-R-R...

Supermarket clerk: Oh, we're all out of that. Why don't you get this. All this shit is the same anyways!

Philip Marlowe: You don't happen to have a cat by any chance?

Supermarket clerk: What do I need a cat for, I've got a girl.

Philip Marlowe: Ha, ha. He's got a girl, I got a cat.

He's self-deprecating, he's confident, and obviously quite loving in a way, as he's willing to go to all this trouble all for his cat. On top of this, he lives opposite a bunch of pot-smoking, scantily-dressed women. They've asked him to get some brownie mix, I wonder what they're going to use that for? And he does so, as he returns with bag in hand, and hand over the mix:

Philip Marlowe: Night girls.

Girl #1: How much do we owe you?

Philip Marlowe: Oh that's okay, just put it on the bill.

Girl #1: Thanks...Mr.Marlowe, I'll save you a brownie.

Philip Marlowe: [walking away] Thanks a lot but they hurt my teeth.  

 The film is loaded with dialogue like this, it's superb. 'Just put it on the bill', he doesn't mind fueling these girls' enjoyment of weed for nothing, he sees it as a kindness, and the way he says it is humourous. 'They hurt my teeth' tells us that he doesn't partake in drug use, clearly a man who only enjoys a cigarette...or five.  The fact that there's young girls over there he could be chatting up but instead he's rather head home to cater to his fussy cat. So much character building in such a short amount of time.

And what does he do next? He goes to all the trouble of getting an empty Courry brand cat food tin from the bin, opens the new off-brand one, and transfers it to the Courry tin, humming to himself as he goes. The cat meows outside the kitchen door. "Oh the cat's hungry, right, right", and opens the door. Philip Marlowe man, the man's a pleasure to watch. He gets a smoke, comes back into the kitchen, opens the 'new' tin out of the bag, puts it into the bowl. The cat sniffs it for a few seconds, then jumps off the counter, and out a cardboard cut-out in the window to the city. 

All the effort Marlowe went to, for nothing. The cat could tell the difference and runs off to find a mouse or something. But what Altman, and especially Gould do here in the performance, is introduce us, via the cat-food and the brownie mix, to this man, Philip Marlowe. It's a MacGuffin to character development is what it is. It's superbly done, a testament to clever writing, atmosphere, and more than anything else, the acting of Elliot Gould. If I smoked I'd have one in his honour.