Compulsion (1959, Richard Fleischer) (Patreon)

80/100

Second viewing, last seen 2004. There's a fascinating paradox at work here: Compulsion abruptly turns into a different film about ⅔ of the way through (and surely must hold the record for Latest Entrance By A Movie's Top-Billed Star*, with Orson Welles first appearing 68 minutes in), making it feel disjointed and incoherent...but, at the same time, pseudo-Darrow's lengthy, impassioned argument against the death penalty gains tremendous power by arriving from out of nowhere, as the unexpected denouement to what had been a true-crime thriller told exclusively from the murderers' POV. As a study of Leopold & Loeb's asinine sub-Nietzschean bullshit, this handily trumps Rope, largely because subbing Dean Stockwell for Farley Granger is a Pete-Best-to-Ringo-level move; I might even now call this Stockwell's finest performance (that I've seen), with Judd/Leopold credibly oscillating between craven submission to Artie/Loeb and smug contempt for humanity in general. Compulsion also sticks pretty close to what actually happened, taking proper advantage of almost-too-good-to-be-true details like the frames of Leopold's glasses—unwittingly dropped at the scene of the crime—employing an unusual hinge that could be traced to exactly three individuals in the Chicago area. Fleischer directs with such panache that you'd never guess he's working from a novel, and while the time-lapse transition I shared on Twitter could be considered unduly show-offy, I love it all the same. 

Then Welles finally shows up, decked out in way too much tired-old-man makeup (at least it's less distracting in monochrome than it would've been in color) but giving an accordingly—and remarkably effective—worn-out performance. Most actors would have been tempted to engage in thundering oration, à la Spencer Tracy's pseudo-Darrow from the very next year. Welles savvily goes the opposite route, muttering much of his lengthy climactic speech as if genuinely weary of having to point out the same fundamental moral truths over and over again. Which of course invests them with additional force. I also very much appreciate, after enduring Saint Omer's strong-arm tactics (accurately summarized by Michael Sicinski as "offering the viewer two choices: identification with the woman on trial, or with the history of colonialism"), that Compulsion gives a voice to the opposing side—not merely in the form of E.G. Marshall's prosecutor (Marshall's fantastic in the interrogation scenes, all but neutered in court), but via Ruth's boyfriend, who, when she attempts to defend Judd as a decent person who went astray, snarls "I hope they hang him. I hope he hangs 'til the rope rots," in a tone that manages to convey empathy for the 14-year-old victim rather than mere vengeful bloodlust. He changes his tune after hearing Wilk's speech, but at least there's an acknowledgment that extenuating circumstances don't excuse everything. And if these two reprehensible creatures deserve a measure of mercy, as Wilk convincingly argues, then truly everyone does. Same basic idea as Dead Man Walking, but imagine that film if it had withheld Susan Sarandon's nun until the final act. 

* As distinct from Briefest Performance By A Movie's Top-Billed Star. Brando's barely in Superman, for example, but at least he's right up front. (Glenn Ford and Jackie Cooper are also billed ahead of Margot Kidder.) Whereas someone who saw Compulsion in '59 because the ads trumpeted Welles spent over an hour wondering whether they'd somehow wound up in the wrong theater.