The Conversation

Harry Caul is the sort of fellow who slips in an elevator and remains unnoticed, even if it's just you and him. His unassuming appearance is your standard drab rumpled raincoat and blank expression. He may make eye contact with you for a split second, but he's usually too self conscious. He'll get off on some floor and remain unseen, part of the wallpaper. If he ever committed a crime, eyewitnesses would have the damndest time recollecting his features with any distinction or accuracy.

In other words, he's perfect for his job as a surveillance expert. As clandestine as he already is, perhaps passersby may not give him a second glance when he's somewhere he perhaps shouldn't be, carefully mounting a microphone in an attempt to capture a lunch hour chat outdoors. Typical job for a wiretapper. He works with precision, usually solo. Sometimes he needs collaborators in his spying, using a guy wearing a mic, other techs wearing headphones in a nondescript van just yards away from the target. The conversation in question will be the basis for a sinister plot. This is to be no concern for Harry, as usual. He's employed to document, record, not interpret.

But Harry already has blood on his hands. A previous assignment led to three deaths. He knows this, but guilt isn't part of it, at least not the job. He'll visit a priest to confess petty shoplifting on his own time, but a job's a job. Part of his studied, unwavering focus in his work stems from a reconciliation that ethics, responsibility, even civic duty are distractors that only muddy the water and prevent accuracy. The information he collects is just that, pieces of oxide on tape.

This new assignment requires the use of several microphones placed atop different vantage points. Harry will distill the separate recordings into one, a process we get to observe. Writer/director Francis Coppola patiently guides us through Harry's craft, never rubbing our noses in his (or Harry's) technique. As Harry listens, he suddenly feels compelled to play detective. This is an unadvised deviation, but he can't help himself. He listens over and over, the clarity of the words indeed suggesting something quite evil is being planned. The implications, the tone of words will reveal themselves through layers of both tape and mental clarity. Or insanity. For the first time, Harry will be led to intervene, perhaps becoming undone in the process.

THE CONVERSATION is one of the best films ever made. I'm not one to just throw such a statement out there. I've seen thousands of films. The accepted classics, generally agreed upon masterpieces that I likewise admire and laud. I've also seen many sleepers that sneaked up on me. Coppola's 1974 film is both, a quiet gem that, in my opinion, is as disturbing and fascinating as any of the great films of Bunuel, Ozu, Welles, Bresson, Antonioni. Such a simple scenario, explored not with grandiosity, but rather a beautifully modulated central performance by Gene Hackman (reputed to be his favorite role) and script by the director.

The statements made about privacy are as salient as ever. In 1974, the Nixon tapes were likely on the minds of many viewers (comments?). What a timely subject this must've made! Surveillance has, of course, exponentially grown technologically since then. Are we ever truly alone? Harry will wonder this himself during the devasting closing scene. Are we supposed to hear the words of others? Are we playing God by eavesdropping? Harry may well be asked that. His choice to intervene on his latest case prompts some theological questions. Does God have a conscience?

Part of the brilliance of THE CONVERSATION is the stillness. Deliberately edited, minimally directed, patiently acted, this film allows us to really ponder the central dilemma. We're there when Harry, after attempting to be a bit social at a party, has a nightmare that contains those haunting words from the conversation. The words he hears over and over. Sleep provides no relief. He'd kill us if he got the chance. He also hears a train horn. We're not sure if a train is really chugging past Caul's San Francisco apartment; its wail making its way into the dream.Like when you leave the radio on as you sleep. Or is it a memory? Is there really an audible call?

By the end, Harry will pay for his involvement. His evolution from detatchment to participant will be raw and painful, but perhaps will save his soul. Or damn it.