There’s no shortage of movies that utilize New York City as a setting; in fact, enough productions have lazily selected Gotham (and it’s cross-coastal sibling, Los Angeles), as their location that it constitutes cinematic boilerplate. Yet the sheer size of the New York filmography also allows the city its own broad taxonomy of material, expansive enough to be broken down into specific sub-genres. Two Men in Manhattan falls into one of the most visually pleasing of these categories, encompassing the neon-kissed black-and-white wanderings of the ‘50s and early ‘60s, when the technical requirements for location shooting had improved enough to allow fictional works to take brief dips into genuine urban scenes. The city at this point was one with a thick layer of grit piling up around the edges, full of seedy locales and aesthetically-pleasing decay, a fact that only adds to the atmosphere.
Premiering the same year as Cassavetes Shadows, and shot around some of the same mid- and downtown locations, Two Men in Manhattan matches that film for pure nocturnal ambiance. It’s also structured around a series of itinerant movements conducted by similarly transient characters, in which pulp plotting is used as the catalyst, but mostly an excuse to bask in the rich character of these locations, soaking up verisimilitude. That latter quality is even more apparent here, in a movie whose wispy storyline is barely enough to keep the whole thing afloat, while also communicating just enough gravity to ground the narrative in real-world drama. The plot concerns the meanderings of a French journalist named Moreau (played by Melville himself, in his only starring turn), and his photographer sidekick Delmas (Pierre Grasset), as they attempt to get to the bottom of a simmering mystery involving the vanished French delegate to the United Nations.
Carried out across one feverish night, this quest results in a dream version of the city, one that functions as a companion to so many American cinematic portrayals of Paris, the romanticized allure of bohemian rootlessness yielding a composite image of the city’s fringe elements. Unlike Shadows, Two Men in Manhattan is not very actor-focused, with Melville’s usual method of assuring scenes are underplayed making for performances that feel a tad wooden, especially when working with English dialogue. Still, it’s apparent from his work here that Melville should have acted a bit more, possessing a great character actor face, as well as an effortless expression of weariness that fits well with the style of his films.
Overall, the general vibe is reminiscent of the work of the Belgian pulp master Georges Simenon, fitting considering his similarly titled Three Bedrooms in Manhattan, written a decade earlier, treads comparable ground. That novel, which follows the doomed whirlwind affair of a burnt-out French actor and a floundering divorcee, plays out across a fractured, lonely landscape of bars, coffee shops and under-decorated apartments, drawing energy from the invocation of a certain hazy, Hopper-esque desolation. This film attempts to translate that feeling to celluloid, and succeeds in doing so, chronicling an increasingly dark journey that threatens to strip away the characters’ already-fading assumptions about their own moral standing.
Melville transposes this sense of mounting ennui atop a Dantean inquiry into nighthawk New York, one that sinks deeper into economic and existential despair with each new stop. Opening at the U.N. building, this nexus of international affairs serves as an empyrean starting point from which the characters can only descend. The key to this descent is that the two protagonists begin it from very different places in terms of personal integrity. Moreau is a journalistic company man guilted into working the late shift by his boss, who demands some info for the morning edition on the delegate’s whereabouts. To accomplish this task, he must conscript the less-reputable Delmas, already a committed creature of the night, an amoral shutterbug whose prodding camera functions as the unsavory double for the film’s own inspection of the city’s seamy underbelly.
Fascinated with this world but also disgusted by that attraction, Two Men in Manhattan precedes Peeping Tom as a depiction of such ambivalence, as well as anticipating La Dolce Vita’s characterization of photo stringers as buzzing horseflies flocking to the first whiff of impropriety. Led along by Delmas, although largely complying with his conduct, Moreau is forced to follow their quarry into ever lower stations of society. His discomfort grows, pushing back at his partner’s more overt overtures toward depravity, although he’s still willing to take part in the intimidation of a fragile victim of attempted suicide, as she lies trapped in her hospital bed. When it comes down to it, he will do what it takes to get the story, the only way he can complete his task and get home to bed.
This complex two-tiered characterization confirms Two Men in Manhattan as part of that great tradition of stories in which journalists are not emboldened truth-seekers, but shady denizens of the peripheral zone at which the chores of everyday life bleeds into rank criminality. Neon lights are a major component of this downward passage, looking by turns gauzily romantic and aggressively glaring. The contrast between these overlit outdoor spaces and the shadowy interiors that make up most of the action is apparent, as what might be a lightweight scenario in lesser hands ends up serving as a crucible for the two men’s true characters. Similar to so many ‘50s classics, the specter of World War II still looms large, casting a discernible pall over the proceedings.
Including a few choice French Resistance references to again confirm his true focus, Melville ends up slyly delivering another of his wartime parables, even if it’s one set fourteen years after the close of the conflict. It’s the kind of potboiler that, with the pulpier elements cleared away, may actually be interpreted as a commentary on the director himself, which might explain why it’s his only starring role. Distinctly different on the surface, the two main characters might also be conceived as split sides of the same personality. In their internal conflict, the urge to find the truth is contrasted with the visual impetus to distort and sensationalize, with additional shading offered on the way that following orders for a noble cause can still lead to regrettable ethical quandaries. In this way, a conundrum all directors face in some measure is memorably committed to film, imbued with a sense of moral struggle only achievable by one of France’s great masters of existential angst.
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