The Third Man  (1949)

The Criterion Collection No. 64
104 Minutes
Black and White
Mono
1.33:1 Ratio
Region 0 (1)

The Third Man is presented in its original theatrical aspect ratio of 1.33:1. This new digital transfer was created from the restored 35mm fine-grain master positive, made from the original nitrate camera negative. The sound was digitally restored from the original optical track negative. Telecine supervisor: Maria Palazzola; Telecine colourist: Jeff Burgess/Soho Images, London;
Additional colour correction: Kim Schneider/Modern Videofilm, L.A.

Details of the disk

Luminous new transfer, with digitally restored image and sound
Video introduction by writer-director Peter Bogdanovich
Abridged recording of Graham Greene’s treatment, read by actor Richard Clarke
The Third Man on the radio: (1) the 1951
“A Ticket to Tangiers” episode of The Lives of Harry Lime series, written and performed by Orson Welles; and (2) the 1951 Lux Radio Theatre adaptation of The Third Man Joseph Cotten’s alternate opening voiceover narration for the U.S. version
Archival footage of composer Anton Karas and the film’s famous sewer location. A collection of rare behind-the-scenes photos, with a brief production history
Original and re-release theatrical trailers
Restoration demonstration
English subtitles for the deaf and hearing impaired
Optimal image quality: RSDL dual layer edition

Cast

Holly Martins…Joseph Cotton
Anna Schmidt…Alida Valli
Harry Lime…Orson Welles
Major Calloway…Trevor Howard
Kurtz…Ernst Deutsch
Porter…Paul Hoerbiger
Dr. Winkel…Erich Ponto
Popescu…Siegfried Breuer
Sergeant Paine…Bernard Lee
Professor Crabbin…Wilfred Hyde-White

Credits

Produced and directed by
Carol Reed
Presented by Alexander Korda and David O. Selznick
Assistant director…Guy Hamilton
Editor…Oswald Hafenrichter
Associate producer…Hugh Perceval
Zither music played by…Anton Karas
Sets designed by…Vincent Korda
Photographed by…Robert Krasker
Screenplay by…Graham Greene

In The Third Man—probably the greatest British thriller of the postwar era—director Carol Reed and screenwriter Graham Greene set a fable of moral corruption in a world of near-Byzantine visual complexity: the streets and ruins of occupied Vienna. It is a Vienna far removed from the rollicking erotics of Ernst Lubitsch or the wistful elegance and melancholy beauty of Max Ophüls. Decadence and rot have seeped into the city’s very soul, poisoned it, left almost nothing unstained. This Vienna is a movie milieu as densely evocative and haunting as Curtiz’ Casablanca or Sternberg’s Morocco—yet, unlike them, it is primarily the real Vienna, the real streets, the real rubble: shot by Reed and cameraman Robert Krasker in such a striking style (almost constant off-angle compositions and wide-angle lens distortions), that it takes on a patina of nightmare. Through this macabre landscape—over which Anton Karas’ legendary zither score jangles with ironic jauntiness—the tale unwinds. A naïve and foolishly romantic American novelist, Holly Martins (a specialist in Zane Grey-style westerns) pursues the murderers of his best friend, Harry Lime; spars with the cynical British police major, Calloway; hunts for the mysterious “third man” who witnessed Harry’s death; and falls hopelessly and unrequitedly in love with Harry’s mistress, Anna. Finally, in two symbolic settings—a Ferris wheel towering above the city, and the shadowy chaos of the sewers—Holly comes face to face with the supreme evil, the supreme betrayal: both Harry’s and his own.

The Third Man is one of those rare films that captured its audience immediately and was regarded as a classic almost from its first release. It marks one of those unusual conjunctions of script, director, subject, cast and setting—and, of course, music—in which everything works. Graham Greene’s script, based on his novel, is a brilliant evocation of the urban battleground of good and evil, with just the right proportions of drama, atmosphere, action, rich character and tense construction. The acting ensemble is superb, with the mixture of Americans and Europeans in the cast creating an ideal balance: Trevor Howard as the pragmatic and brutally unsparing Calloway; Bernard Lee as the gentle Sergeant Paine; Wilfred Hyde-White as Crabbin, the slightly addled literary entrepreneur; Ernst Deutsch as the sinister, ferrety “Baron” Kurtz; Alida Valli, exuding fatalistic romance as Anna; and those two refugees from Citizen Kane, Orson Welles and Joseph Cotten, as the two old friends torn asunder, the dark side and the light, Harry and Holly—their names so similar Anna often confuses them. Welles’ relatively brief performance as Harry Lime is perfection itself: the bemused, lightly condescending, affectionate look with which he greets Holly; the murderous fluency of his Machiavellian story of the cuckoo clock (which Welles himself wrote); or the wild desperation as he flounders in the sewer. This is magnificent, highly charged film acting.

Because the two great set pieces in The Third Man—the Ferris wheel confrontation and the chase through the sewers—both revolve around Welles, and because they’re shot with the kind of weirdly angled grandiloquence and impudent virtuosity for which he’s noted, there’s been a temptation to believe that he directed them. Invaluable as Welles’ contributions and performance were, the directorial triumph is Reed’s. He is the hero, and dominating influence—insisting that it be shot in Vienna; insisting that Welles play Harry Lime over distributor David Selznick’s forceful nomination of Noel Coward; resisting Selznick’s usual indefatigable memos and attempted “Americanisation” of the script; discovering Anton Karas and his zither in a tiny beer and sausage restaurant (“The Harry Lime Theme” became a major hit record of its day); and finally, rejecting even Graham Greene’s suggestion of a climatic rapprochement between Anna and Holly.  (Ironically, there is a famous moment in Welles’ performance which is Reed’s too: Harry Lime’s hands, reaching desperately through the sewer grating, fingers flailing in the windy night air, actually belong to a stand-in—the director.)

Yet, perhaps Carol Reed took too seriously the suggestion that Welles’ hand lay somewhere in The Third Man. He never again caught the peculiar and vibrant visual stylisation, the special “look” which makes this film and his earlier Odd Man Out such a stunning experience. (William Wyler, after watching the film, presented Reed with a spirit level, to place on his camera next time, forcibly preventing any angle shots.) This was the one time Reed, as a director, reached perfection; and he did it as much by assembling and marshalling a brilliantly talented company as by the power of his own vision. Together he and Greene—and Welles, Cotten, Howard, Valli, Karas, Krasker, Korda and all the others—created a portrait of post-war corruption and the death of idealism that has lodged ever since in our collective consciousness. Together, they made a rich, moody masterpiece of guilt, love, and ambivalent redemption.

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