In Orson Welles’ 1958 masterpiece Touch of Evil, a deadly incident reveals the tensions bubbling just beneath the surface of an American-Mexican border town. The threat of violence is ready to present itself in the ominous, confusing atmosphere that is elegantly constructed through a single five minute long shot. A classic exercise of film noir, this scene in Sanchez’s apartment displays the Wellesian sense of innovation with visuals, sound and dialogue that is so well respected today.
The shadows that are so integral to the noir atmosphere are in full display here; sunlight filters through blinds and light glows from low-set table lamps resulting in shadows that cut across the actor’s faces and loom on the wall behind them. The stark contrast between black and white results in menacing doppelgangers, creating a claustrophobic sense of police dominance. Actors’ faces are hidden by shadows; intentions are uncertain, as all appear to be concerned with their reputations rather than with the carry-through of justice.
The question of race is clear in Touch of Evil, but perhaps nowhere as obvious as here. Sanchez, in his panicked state, reverts to Spanish to communicate his frustration. Vargas appears to be the only other Spanish-speaking individual in the cramped apartment and acts as a translator for the xenophobic Captain Quinlan, who declares that he doesn’t “speak Mexican”. Confusion emerges as the characters begin to speak over one another in an Wellesian/proto-Altmanesque fashion, each one trying to gain dominance in the conversation. The frustration of bilingual communication reaches its peak as Quinlan slaps Sanchez across the face for speaking in Spanish - who merely told Vargas in a polite tone where the telephone was. Quinlan’s reaction is perhaps the only time we see a sliver of remorse cross his face.
The differences between Manolo Sanchez, Marcia Linnekar, Ramon Vargas and their legal situations powerfully depicts the themes of race and class. Linnekar, as the wealthy daughter of a white American, is able to hire an attorney, speak when she desires (she absent-mindedly answers an officer’s question with little concern) and leaves early to “rest” with only a few questions, most of which are easily dodged by her lawyer. Sanchez, as a Mexican shoe clerk, cannot afford such luxuries. He is brutally questioned, beaten and framed. Quinlan openly floats various theories in front of him, each more condemning than the next, and Sanchez is never treated with even a morsel of respect. Even Vargas is treated with more civility than Sanchez; he too is a foreigner, but he is a man of influence and wealth. Quinlan may despise both of them, but the questions of class and power mean that Vargas can not be openly harmed.
An interesting dichotomy between visuals and sound emerges as the camera follows Vargas to the bathroom, in what initially appears to be a meandering move away from the central action. We can still hear the escalating exchange between Quinlan and Sanchez, but it becomes muffled and distant, and our attention is visually focused on Vargas washing his hands. However, our attention is truly on the events unfolding off-screen through sound, as Quinlan punches Sanchez in the gut as to not “leave a mark”. The camera carefully focuses on the (empty) shoe box that Vargas knocks over into the bathtub, but it seems to be such an uneventful action that we hardly notice. Later, when the importance of the box is revealed, we are left to search our memories over what we saw. We doubt our recollection, and the atmosphere of tense confusion strengthens.
Quinlan’s vile aura comes into full bloom within this scene. While we have already been introduced, here his unkempt appearance contrasts greatly against the suave Vargas, dressed in an elegant dark suit, slicked back hair and handsome sunglasses. Quinlan waddles into the room with a protruding stomach, sweaty brow, unbuttoned jacket and messy tie. It is a clear and obvious juxtaposition, but an effective one nonetheless. Quinlan’s officers are almost pathetic in their reverence. When Quinlan finally enters the apartment, he asks if anyone has touched anything. “We know better than that, Captain,” replies one of the officers. “We were waiting for you.” He goes on to send one of his inferiors to fetch him coffee, and then reacts with gluttonous disappointment when he doesn’t bring back a donut or sweet bun, too. He is overtly confident that he will charge Sanchez with the crime: when asked about the lack of any real evidence, he smugly responds with “Oh, we’ll get it.” His vocal mannerisms recall an aged ‘gumshoe’ from early gangster films, tinted with tired vanity; his monologues are lengthy yet terse, and as mentioned previously, he has little hesitance to speak over others. It is a startling contrast to the eloquent Vargas, the cosmopolitan anti-drug official from Mexico, a rising star in a new wave of educated, sympathetic law enforcers. Yet when the tension explodes in the final act of Touch of Evil, even Vargas has not been able to escape the treacherous, back-stabbing schemes as perfected by Quinlan. His touch radiates evil.
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