Friday, May 5, 2017


Warning: Spoiler Alert. This is a critical essay, not a review. Therefore, many crucial
plot points are revealed and referenced for the purpose of analysis. If you've never 
seen The Conversation and are interested, don't spoil your fun. The mystery is too good.

Although Francis Ford Coppola began writing his script sometime in the late ‘60s, and the film went into production well before all the details of the Watergate scandal became known to the public (it was released mere months before then-President Nixon’s resignation); few ‘70s films capture the wary pessimism of post-Watergate America quite like The Conversation. A small-budget, studio-interference free, auteur project Paramount granted Coppola in a bid to secure his services for a film he wasn’t interested in making (that would be The Godfather Part II); The Conversation is a detective film crossed with a character study, reimagined as the quintessential 1970s paranoid thriller.
Gene Hackman as Harry Caul
John Cazale as Stan
Harrison Ford as Martin Stett
Teri Garr as Amy Fredericks
Cindy Williams as Ann
Frederic Forrest as Mark 
Robert Duvall as The Director/Mr. C./Charles
Harry Caul (Hackman) is a career wiretapper. A skilled audio surveillance man who’s (ironically) well-known in the spy-for-hire field of surreptitious information-gathering. A loner and an outsider, Harry is ideally suited to his craft not only because he’s a man of such unprepossessing countenance that he doesn’t even seem to occupy the space he’s inhabiting, but because he lives his life by the credo: "Don’t get involved." Amongst the many complex gadgets and devices in his professional arsenal, Harry’s emotional detachment and studied lack of curiosity are his most valued. Indeed, “Nothing personal” could be the byline on his business cards. That is, were Harry the type of man to actually use business cards. I’m sure he'd think they divulge entirely too much personal information.

Like defense lawyers who revel in thrust-&-parry courtroom skirmishes, triumphant in victories, yet heedless of the drunk drivers and hardened criminals their legal machinations assist in getting back on the streets; when it comes to gathering secret information, Harry sees himself simply as a techie. He enjoys solving the strategic and electronic puzzles posed by his job, but never gives a thought as to why his clients want his services, what they will do with the material he provides, or whether or not he is in any way culpable for any misfortune that might befall others as a result of his actions. "I am in no way responsible" and "It has nothing to do with me" are his professional mantras.

But unless one is a sociopath, indifference to human suffering always comes at a price. And for Harry (a man haunted by the memory of the part his work played in bringing about the brutal torture deaths of an entire family) the price is that he has become a man who strives not to be seen or known by others because he most vehemently wishes he didn’t have to see or know anything about himself. 
Nowhere Man
Harry’s trademark professional detachment is put to the test when a logistically complex, otherwise routine surveillance job (involving the recording of a conversation between a man and a woman in San Francisco’s crowded Union Square) unearths a probable murder plot. In listening and re-listening to his recording of what on the surface sounds like a wholly innocuous conversation between two clandestine young lovers (Williams and Forrest), Harry comes to believe, with mounting certainty, that he is once again in a situation where the plying of his trade will bring about the deaths of innocent people—in this instance, a young couple who speak as though they live in dire fear of someone.

Compelled by equal parts empathy (the woman reminds him of Amy, his neglected girlfriend), the dread of history repeating itself, and the chance for (self)absolution; Harry breaks his cardinal rule of not allowing himself to feel anything about the subjects of his surveillance work. Thus, devoid of any clear plan of action, he resolves to do what he can to prevent what he still only just suspects, but most certainly fears.

As Harry Caul delves deeper into an investigation of the mystery, The Conversation chillingly reveals that there’s more to matters of comprehension, interpretation, and perception than meets the ear.
"He'd kill us if he had the chance."
The virtuoso opening sequence was shot by cinematographer Haskell Wexler (although Bill Butler shot the rest of the film). The contributions of  film editor Richard Chew and the brilliant Oscar-nominated sound work of Walter Murch & Art Rochester can't be overstated.

If post Depression-era films are typified by their reinforcement of the principle that the individual and common man still wields power and influence (Mr. Smith Goes To Washington, Meet John Doe), that the Little Man, through noble means and honesty, stands a chance of triumphing against corrupt institutions and governments; then post-Watergate cinema hammered home the impotence of the average man in the face of widespread moral decay and venality. The Vietnam War and Watergate forced America to lose its illusions about itself. Thus, sixties films like They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?, then later, the ‘70s films The Parallax View and Chinatown (both released the same year as The Conversation) all supported the notion that no matter what one does, the decks are stacked, the die is cast, and human intervention is futile in the face of evil's ascendancy.

Roman Polanski’s Chinatown has a lot in common with The Conversation in that both lead characters (Jack Nicholson’s private eye/Gene Hackman’s wiretap expert) start out as individuals already corrupted by a degree of moral cynicism, but whose fortunes only take a turn for the worse once they develop a conscience.
Allen Garfield as William P. "Call me Bernie" Moran

The Conversation’s Harry Caul is the living embodiment of Vietnam America: a willing, guilt-ridden participant in morally dubious activity who rationalizes the sometimes deadly ramifications of his actions by deluding himself that they have nothing to do with him. This spiritual deal-with-the-devil clearly plagues the devoutly religious Harry in his day-to-day life, resulting in his living a paranoid, loner’s existence of arms-distance friendships, inarticulate romances, and a near-constant suspicion of the motives of others.
Elizabeth MacRae as Meredith
(Best known to folks of my generation as Lou-Ann Poovie,
Jim Nabors' girlfriend on Gomer Pyle: USMC)

But Harry’s Achilles heel and one tragic flaw is that (despite best his efforts) he really hasn't become as callous and indifferent as he would wish. He's a man who struggles with his humanity (he goes to confession) in a world which continually reassures him that feelings...all feelings...are a liability and source of pain. Harry's uncharacteristic” decision to involve himself in trying to save the lives of the two lovers in the park is an attempt by Harry to save his own life as well. The source and substance of his dread is the fear that should his assignment turn out like the other, with innocent lives lost, he may well find his soul irretrievably lost and banished.

"This is no ordinary conversation. It makes me feel...something...."
A prevailing characteristic of the '70s paranoid thriller is how they provide no reassurance that conspiracies aren’t real. Nor do they contradict the notion of paranoia as a rational, reasonable response to a reality of diminished privacy and corrupt authority figures.
Conceivably as a means of conveying to the audience Harry Caul is a better man than his choice of profession would belie (he's more a gadget-geek than a spy), The Conversation establishes from the get-go that Harry is singularly ineffectual when it comes to keeping his life private; is not nearly the stealthy, opaque character he imagines himself to be; and in the end, rather than being too paranoid, the film suggests that Harry is perhaps not paranoid enough.
For example: In spite of multiple locks on his door, an alarm system, and a failure to divulge personal information to anyone, Harry's landlady not only finds out his birthday and how old he is, but manages to leave a gift for him inside his apartment when he is away. This scene, coming as it does after the opening sequence which details how anyone can be observed anywhere, is notable for the open blinds in Harry's apartment, revealing a moving construction crane ostensibly working outside of his window (an element made more obvious in the original script). A point that later plays into answering a third act disclosure revealing Harry’s mysterious employer has always had an ominous awareness of his comings and goings.
Harry grows uneasy when his girlfriend Amy lets on that she knows
 he spies on her and listens to her phone calls
A recurring motif contributing to the bleakness of The Conversation's world view is that Harry, for all the effort expended insulting himself, is really the most vulnerable person in the film. Unable to connect with anyone (not even the couple he's trying to save), he is easily followed, bugged, tricked, spied upon, and, in those moments when he does try to open up, too easily betrayed. In the end, it's clear Harry is both a victim and a (unwitting?) victimizer at risk of dying by the very sword he lives by.

The Conversation is an intriguing, genuinely chilling thriller. Made all the more compelling by having the tropes of its genre structure (that of a plot-driven, detective suspense thriller) being applied to what is essentially a character study. And while people take precedence over plot in The Conversation, what a doozy of a plot! (In 1975, Gene Hackman would play a private investigator in Arthur Penn's Night Moves, another nihilist '70s spin on the 1940s film noir.)
The film is at its most successful when drawing the viewer into questioning the significance of banal dialogue or mundane-appearing activities. The Conversation mines the suspense in the bland characters and gritty squalor of their lives in a way that reminds me of what Alan J. Pakula did with New York lowlife in Klute (1971). And for evoking paranoia and isolation, the purposeful use of San Francisco locations in The Conversation recall for me Philip Kaufman’s brilliant 1978 remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
There's a big retro kick to be had seeing the primitive sound equipment on display

The Conversation was not a success when released in April of 1974, and come December’s release of Coppola’s The Godfather, Part II, it was all but forgotten. It did garner three Academy Award nominations (Best Picture, Original Screenplay, & Sound), but in a tough acting year crowded by the likes of Jack Nicholson (Chinatown), Dustin Hoffman (Lenny), Al Pacino (The Godfather, Part II), and Albert Finney (Murder on the Orient Express), Gene Hackman's commanding and sensitive performance was crowded out. (I love Art Carney, but his Harry & Tonto nomination and win is baffling in context of what was around in 1974.)
All the supporting performances in The Conversation are outstanding, but
Elizabeth MacRae as the sad-eyed trade-show model is surprisingly good

In Harry Caul, Gene Hackman (2nd choice after Marlon Brando turned down the role) gives what I consider to be the best performance of his very impressive career. Portraying a closed-off character is always a challenge; playing one who must convey to the audience the gradual reawakening of conscience is something else again. The entirety of whatever dramatic effectiveness or potential for audience involvement The Conversation has rests on the credibility of Hackman’s transformation (tellingly, the film doesn’t require that you like Harry). On that score, Hackman—with the inestimable contribution of the film's uniformly remarkable cast—is nothing short of extraordinary.
Not sure if it's true, but I remember reading that Hackman gained weight and partially
 shaved his head for the role. The latter proving so problematic in growing back that it contributed to
his refusal to shave his head for the role of Lex Luthor in Superman: The Movie (1978)

If you’re familiar with The Conversation at all, you’ve likely read or heard about the fortuitous transcription error which resulted in the original last name of Gene Hackman’s character being changed from Call (perhaps a little too precious for a serious film about a wiretapper, anyway) to the homophonous and oh-so evocative Caul; the name given that transparent protective membrane surrounding a fetus. Not one to spit in in the eye of serendipity, Coppola builds upon this happy spelling error and uses it as both an allusive reference to Harry’s overly self-protective personality, and a springboard for a series of recurring visual motifs dramatizing the human instinct to emotionally insulate out of fear, regret, and guilt.
Rain or shine,  the emotionally embryonic Harry is rarely seen without 
his "protective" transparent plastic raincoat
The motif of protective membranes simultaneously protecting and isolating individuals is further conveyed in The Conversation's use of obfuscating veils of semi-transparent surfaces. It also suggests Harry, in being so wound up in his inner conflicts, doesn't see things clearly and has a blurred perspective of events and people.
In this scene depicting a cagey Harry talking to a colleague he doesn't trust (Garfield)
Hackman is filmed through a plastic sheet that could just as well be a barrier
The crucial details of a harrowing event are obscured behind a gauze curtain
A glass partition  prevents intervention while revealing only enough to horrify
A figure lies shrouded in a membrane of clear plastic

Coppola and cinematographer Bill Butler (Demon Seed) frequently rely on wide-angle shots to cut the frame into sections, dramatically emphasizing The Conversation's themes of isolation, loneliness, and the inability to communicate or emotionally connect.
The wide angle and strong vertical lines created by the support beams in Harry's vast warehouse work space create a sense of  emotional desolation while simultaneously conveying a feeling of being hemmed in 
In this office set, vertical lines once again create isolated frames distancing the characters from one another. Meanwhile, the membrane motif is recalled by the clear plastic window shades, the central image dominated by an instrument of privacy invaded (the telescope)
Separate, Yet Connected
One of my favorite images from the film, Harry stands on the balcony of the Jack Tar Hotel
in San Francisco, its design and layout creating a wall of isolated, sealed-off environments

Beyond its obvious Watergate-era appeal and glimpse into a cultural zeitgeist I still remember vividly; I have to say that what most makes The Conversation a film I can rewatch endlessly (per my tendency to gravitate to films from which I can glean insights into the human condition) is that it is a powerful and persuasive allegory about the risk in allowing oneself to be vulnerable.
Characters in The Conversation are fond of repeating phrases like “You’re not supposed to feel anything” and “Nothing personal”; but as (I hope) we all know, life is very personal, and any attempt to connect authentically with another human being is fraught with risk. It hurts; it’s messy; it invades your space and disrupts order; it leaves you exposed to betrayal, misunderstanding, and rejection. And worst of all, it comes with no guarantees. On the contrary, it comes with the unequivocal assurance that the closer you get to someone…the better they know you…the more open and exposed you allow yourself to be...the greater the potential for them to do you harm.
But what of the alternative? Is it possible to exist among others with life’s only objective being the hope that your path never intersects with another; that “nothing personal” transpires to invade your heart and cause you pain? As Harry Caul learns, not only does one embark on a course of self-isolation at the risk of losing one's soul and humanity, but the biggest irony is how life has a way of happening to you no matter how diligently you try to keep it at bay. As the saying goes, no one here gets out alive.
The Conversation is a peerless ‘70s paranoia thriller, one certainly not lacking in present-day parallels. But the film's paranoia/conspiracy theme is but one of the many layers making up this intelligent, superbly-crafted film. Like the audio tapes that plague Harry throughout the movie, The Conversation imparts more information and more insights the more you watch it.

This is the stationery letterhead for Coppola's American Zoetrope San Francisco offices when they were housed in the Columbus Tower on Kearny. Someone familiar with Coppola's history should help clear this up, but the letterhead graphic (depicting a dog with a camera in the center of a plate) is a image a child's dish set from Coppola's youth or that of his father. I'd written to them in my senior year in high school inquiring about film schools.

Elizabeth MacRae in a 1967 episode of Gomer Pyle: USMC highlighting the character of aspiring singer Lou-Ann Poovie.

Professional mime Robert Shields, then a real life annoyance, er...I mean, entertainer in San Francisco's Union Square when I was a kid, appears as himself in the film's opening sequence. He teamed with wife and fellow mime Lorene Yarnell in 1977 for the Shields & Yarnell variety show on CBS. Both are very skilled and talented, but since I'm personally terrified of mimes, their having their own hour-long TV program constitutes one of those "only in the '70s" phenomenons.

The Conversation on DVD & Blu-Ray
I haven't heard the commentary Francis Ford Coppola supplies for the most recent DVD release of The Conversation, but from what I've read, it offers a wealth of info into the making of the film (Harrison Ford got a bead on his character when Coppola informed him that Martin Stett was gay), and what was ultimately cut from the film (Harry is revealed to be the secret owner of the apartment building he occupies, he is plagued by overly-friendly neighbors, there was a subplot involving a niece [Mackenzie Phillips], and the betrayal Harry suffers at the hands of a character was not as conspiratorially sinister as it is in the finished film).

Copyright © Ken Anderson

Saturday, April 22, 2017


Neo-noir is the inevitable by-product of 1970s nostalgia-craze sentimentality colliding with post-Watergate pessimism. If inflation, the gas crisis, and a culture in flux (religion, Women’s Lib, civil rights) prompted much of America to seek comfort in the pop-culture romanticizing of the past and a so-called “simpler” time; then post-‘60s cynicism and Vietnam War malaise most certainly inspired many a filmmaker to outfit their rearview spectacles with a filter of healthy skepticism. A filter not at all certain that the Good Old Days were really all that different (or better) than the here and now.

With its distinct period visual style and built-in fatalism, the 1940s film noir—particularly the ’40s private eye movie—proved a perfect fit for '70s revisionism. There were serious entries in the field: Chandler (1971), Chinatown (1974), The Long Goodbye (1973), Robert Mitchum’s aging take on Philip Marlowe in The Big Sleep (1978). Some were serio-comic spoofs: Gumshoe (1971), Pulp (1972), Peeper (1975). Some were updates: Night Moves (1975). And some were broadly comedic: The Black Bird (1975), The Cheap Detective (1978), Murder by Death (1976). America's appetite for retrieving and redrafting the past was insatiable in the 1970s, and the updated film noir remained a plentiful and popular sub-genre, even if the results were sometimes wildly uneven.
One of the better films to come out of this era is Robert Benton’s The Late Show. Robert Benton is the 3-time Oscar winning director/writer behind Kramer vs Kramer (1979) and Places in the Heart (1984) in addition to being a collaborator on the screenplays for Bonnie & Clyde (1967), Superman (1978) and What’s Up, Doc? (1972). The Late Show is Benton’s second feature as director (his debut was the 1972 western Bad Company) and his first solo screenwriting effort.

I bring all of this up because the first time I saw The Late Show (it opened at my then place of employment, San Francisco's Alhambra Theater, and was one of the last features I recall playing there before I quit to move to LA) I honestly thought I was watching a Robert Altman movie. In terms of tone, structure, appearance, and cast, The Late Show looks and feels like the best Robert Altman film Altman never made. To be fair, Robert Altman did produce, but like that strange alchemy that occurs with actors who appear in Woody Allen movies (wherein they all take on Allen’s speech inflections and mannerisms); directors working on films produced by Altman (Alan Rudolph - Welcome to L.A. 1976; Robert M. Young - Rich Kids 1979) tend to make films that look exactly as though they were directed by Altman himself.
Art Carney as Ira Welles
Lily Tomlin as Margo Sperling
Bill Macy as Charlie Hatter
Thirty years ago, retired Los Angeles private eye Ira Wells (Carney) was—to hear him tell it—one of the best in the business. A hard-boiled detective in the mold of any number of 1940s tough-guy gumshoes dreamed up by Dashiell Hammett or Raymond Chandler; Ira is still possessed of a steel-trap mind and continues to pepper his speech with the outmoded shamus slang of dime-store pulp novels. But Ira Well’s glory days are behind him.

Gray haired, paunchy, outfitted with glasses and a hearing aid, Ira downs Alka Seltzers for his ulcer, limps due to a bum leg, and gets around town—a Los Angles he barely recognizes—by public transit. A self-styled loner, Ira rents a small room in the home of an elderly widow, one Mrs. Schmidt (Ruth Nelson), and spends his time reading the racing forms and writing his memoirs: “Naked Girls & Machine Guns: Memoirs of a Real Private Detective. 
Eugene Roche as Ron Birdwell
When former partner Harry Regan (Howard Duff, radio’s Sam Spade during the ‘40s) suddenly turns up at his door, mortally wounded from a gunshot to the stomach, yet talking of a sweet deal that could mean “a lotta dough” for the both of them; loyalty compels Ira to embark on an investigation to uncover the identity of his friend's killer. This decision almost immediately brings him into contact (though not entirely by chance) with two fringe L.A. types not-so-tangentially connected to the mystery of the murder: oily Charlie Hatter (Macy)—a sometimes talent agent, full-time bartender, and equal-opportunity informant; and eccentric Margo Sperling (Tomlin)—one-time actress, now jack-of-all-trades dress designer, pot dealer, transporter of stolen goods, and would-be talent manager. 

At first glance, this motley trio of mismatched associates appears ill-suited to even tackle a task as elementary as unearthing the whereabouts of a kidnapped pussycat (which, as it turns out, is precisely the CATalyst [heh-heh] for the film’s labyrinthine murder mystery plot); but, much like The Late Show itself, the disparate tonal contributions of these brought-together-by-circumstance individuals makes for a uniquely harmonious alliance.
Circumstances propel this unlikely trio into situations which put them increasingly
at risk or in way over their heads. More often than not, both.

In retrofitting the tough guy conventions of the private-eye film to the laid-back rhythms of Los Angeles in the Me Generation ‘70s; The Late Show deftly juggles tonal shifts in the narrative accommodating mystery, comedy, and character study. The film depicts Los Angles as a seedy, morally-relative wasteland of faded Hollywood glamour populated by wannabes and small-time operators living unstable, anything-to-make-a-buck existences. 
By way of contrast, Ira Wells is a living throwback to another time. Amidst all the L.A. denizens chasing trends, half-hearted careers, and try-on-for-size identities, Ira is constancy personified. In fact, he’s consistent to the point of fossilization.
One senses that not much has moved forward in Ira’s life for some time, and he likes it that way. Ruled by a principled moral code and a personal sense of dignity that brands him old-fashioned from the outset, he lives a smallish, solitary existence that hasn’t made much room for the passage of time.
The Big Nap
Aging private eye Ira Wells has to remove his hearing aid before firing his gun,
take the bus to his stakeouts, and do his own washing at the launderette 

The Late Show, with its irresistible blood-orange color scheme and glimpse back at the Los Angles I remember when I moved there in 1978, is at its best in its culture-clash scenes where the cool-headed Ira has to work closely with the excitable and rather spacey Margo. Ira's world of girls, gats, and goons seems an ill-fit for the faddish world of psychoanalysis, mood rings, crystals and biorhythms, but Robert Benton's script and the film's exceptional cast do a remarkable job of making the incongruous blending of these two worlds amusing and moving.
Mismatched partners are a timeworn staple (read: cliché) of cop/detective films, but the generation gap sparring matches between Ira and Margo (conflicts relating to both gender and personality) have genuine spark. Much of which I attribute solely to the onscreen chemistry of Carney and Tomlin (although mutually respectful, I've read that it took a while for the actors to settle comfortably into each other's method of working).
It certainly isn't lost on me that at times Tomlin's talkative Margo feels as though she could be the offspring of Art Carney's hyperactive Ed Norton character from The Honeymooners, and Carney's convincing underplaying of the hard edges of his character is reminiscent of how good so many comics can be (The Honeymooner's Jackie Gleason in The Hustler) when tackling drama.
The Late Show is extremely funny and human, with witty, character-revealing dialogue and performances that ring so true-to-life that when the film occasionally explodes into unexpected bursts of violence, it’s not only startling, it’s upsetting. Without knowing it you've found yourself really caring about these people.
Joanna Cassidy as Laura Birdwell embodies the contemporary update of
the vulnerable-yet-dangerous femme fatale

Tony-nominated actor and multi-Emmy-Award-winning TV star Art Carney won an Oscar for his first starring role in a feature film: Harry & Tonto (1974). I actually saw Harry & Tonto when it came out, but perhaps because it wasn’t a movie of my choosing (I think my mom dragged us kids to it) I’m unable to remember a single frame of it.
I owe it to myself to give it another look because Art Carney in the Late Show is simply a marvel. Not exactly an actor known for his tough side, Carney convinces as the aging, street-wise, former gumshoe drawn out of his solitude for one more caper.
Although Benton is said to have based the character of Ira Welles on his father, Carney—who was 59 at the time and did indeed wear a hearing aid and suffer a limp—brings so much strength, dignity, and frustration to the role, it’s hard not to feel as though it were written expressly for him.
Bill Macy (then riding high on the popularity of the TV series Maude) is The Late Show's most valuable player. In the tradition of supporting actors who enrich a film by supplying first-rate performances that rarely get the attention they deserve, Macy's double-dealing Charlie Hatter is pure gold. That's actor John Considine on the right, playing sadistic enforcer Jeff Lamar. Considine wrote the screenplay for Altman's A Wedding, in which he and several members of this cast also appear

I’ve been a fan of Lily Tomlin since first seeing her on the short-lived 1969 TV show Music Scene. From Laugh-In to seeing her onstage in The Search for Signs of Intelligent Life in the Universe to Netflix’s Grace & Frankie, she is a truly inspired performer who always finds the humanity in humor. (As per Grace & Frankie, seeing Tomlin in The Late Show portraying the kind of psychobabbling enlightened type we used to call a “granola,” it’s difficult to watch her Margo Sperling these days and not think I’m getting a look at Frankie: The Early Years.)
One's enjoyment of The Late Show might depend on whether or not one finds Tomlin's character appealing or annoying. To me, Tomlin is nothing short of a comic genius (1978's Moment by Moment notwithstanding) and a remarkable actress. I can't get enough of her in this film, and her scenes with Carney are an oddball delight

Art Carney won the National Society of Film Critics Award for his performance, and Lily Tomlin was nominated for a Golden Globe, but when Academy Award time rolled around only Robert Benton's screenplay nabbed a nomination. And deservedly so.
Like many a good detective thriller The Late Show has a very complicated, if not convoluted, crime caper at its center (one which only recently made sense to me thanks to the replay benefits of DVD), but Benton's dialogue is the real star. The rhythm of the divergent speech patterns of Ira and Margo (a great deal of the latter attributed to Tomlin's not-always-welcome improvisational skills) is almost musical. Here are a few examples of my favorite lines.
“Mr. Welles, I can understand your feeling that way. I mean, as an actress I understand it as a motivation…”

“My shrink says I’m a very conflicted personality…plus my astrologer.”

“And Brian’s not very evolved, in fact, he’s rather de-evolved. I’m very sensitive to the vibrations he gives out and I know what kind of karma he has."

"Do you know that people who play with guns are generally impotent?"

“Mr. Welles, a truly evolved person doesn’t go around ratting on her friends, if you catch my drift.”

"I am finished! Finalisimo!"

“It’s very lucky for you that I just happen to be a very self-destructive person.”

“This car is not only a toilet but you are the attendant!”

"Everything’s copacetic."

"If you lay a hand on me I’m telling you, you’ll pay for it in your next life.”

"I really cannot relate on this level." 

 The Wit & Wisdom of Ira Welles:
“Somebody puts the breeze on Harry Regan, next thing I know you show up at Harry’s funeral with some dolly and a song and a dance about a stolen cat and all that hot comedy. What’s it all got to do with Harry?”

 “Put that thing down Charlie, you haven’t got the ass to swing it!”

"Back in the '40s this town was crawling with dollys like you. Good lookin' coquettes tryin' their damnedest to act tough as hell. I got news for you...they did it better back then! This town doesn’t change; they just push the names around.”

The only real point that I can see behind making a film about the past as seen through a contemporary prism is to ruminate on the differences (if any) that time has wrought in people and places; to contemplate the advantages/disadvantages of youth vs. aging; or to ponder what has been gained and what has been lost culturally, with the inevitable passing of time. What’s remarkable about The Late Show is that it manages to hit on all of the above while weaving a pretty nifty crime caper.
In 1985 Woody Allen made a movie called The Purple Rose of Cairo in which a movie hero stepped out of the screen and tried to live in the real world with the same idealism and values his character had on the screen. Ira Wells in The Late Show is very much like that character. Wells is a self-styled throwback to the 1940s private-eyes in the Sam Spade/Philip Marlowe mold who somehow managed to survive into the ‘70s without benefit of changing. But Ira is aware he has outlived his time, and worse, he fears he’s outlived his usefulness. 
The Late Show—humorously, with heart, and a good deal of bloodshed—makes the case that no matter how much time passes and how significantly things appear to change, all of's misfits, dinosaurs, and fringe-dwellers, have something unique to bring to the table. 

The film's credits sequence provide brief glimpses into Ira Welles' past.
In the photo on the left, Ira and partner Harry proudly stand before the offices of Welles & Regan: Private Investigators.  On the right Ira and a woman we can assume to be his wife (we learn she eventually left him) pose with their friend Harry
The woman in the photo that sits framed on Ira's desk beside his typewriter is actress Martha Vickers, who played Carmen Sternwood in the granddaddy of all private eye films, Howard Hawks' The Big Sleep (1946).
Her entrance is particularly memorable

“That’s just what this town has been waiting for; a broken down old private eye 
with a bum leg and a hearing aid…and a fruitcake like you”

Copyright © Ken Anderson