For spies, it’s all about subtlety. And that’s one thing those ’60s sexy espionage movies left out. But there’s a certain image in the stellar opening scene of Martin Ritt’s The Spy Who Came in from the Cold that speaks directly to that “spy craze”, and how off-the-mark it really was.
As British double agent Karl Riemack tries to coerce his way back into West Berlin with false papers in his hand and a bicycle by his side, fellow spook Alec Leamas (Richard Burton) waits safely across the border, silently rooting for his cohort. Just as it seems Riemack made it through the gates, the alarms and spotlights switch on, and Riemack ungracefully climbs onto his bike, trying to outrun the incoming gunfire. This last-ditch effort proves futile, and Leamas can do nothing but look on in horror as his last agent is murdered before his eyes.
That small moment – the image of Riemack collapsing from his bicycle – sets The Spy Who Came in from the Cold apart from the silliness of 007 (and all the other fantasy spy romps) and claims this film’s somber tone. Even though James Bond had been tearing up the British box offices and bookstores, this humorless adaptation of John le Carré’s 1963 gritty spy noir received much critical acclaim (including 1965 BAFTA wins for Burton and Witt), with kudos falling largely on le Carré’s great source material, Oswald Morris’ stellar black-and-white cinematography, Burton’s broad, lumbering shoulders, and Ritt’s ability to deal with Burton’s enormous amount of lumber.
In The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, Ritt uses demoralization and disillusionment as currency. No extraordinary gadgets, given by Q or Alexander Waverly, miraculously save your life – just a rickety bicycle, your inadequate wits, and a government that cares nothing about you. After watching Riemas’ murder, when the camera settles on Leamas’ sunken-in, weary eyes, the tragic realism of the film is secured, and Burton begins his powerhouse of a performance.
After Leamas’ failed trials in Berlin, the disheartened agent is given a new assignment: to act as a traitor and provide false intelligence to the East Germans, implicating one of their higher-ups (Peter van Eyck as Hans-Dieter Muntz) as a double agent for the British. It was hoped Leamas would provide enough doubt to Muntz’s credibility that his own organization would oust him. As different layers of the plot reveal themselves – who is indeed duping whom–- Leamas becomes increasingly embittered with an already bitter business.
If The Spy Who Came in from the Cold‘s story sounds convoluted, it’s because it is; spies often resort to various levels of self-reflexivity to provide cover. A former spook himself, le Carré (aka/ne David Cornwall) speaks about this topic and much more in his 40-minute Criterion-exclusive interview, as well as in the included BBC-TV documentary about his life and times, The Secret Center: John le Carré.
As per usual with Criterion, the extensive special features highlight the film and its accomplishments and all the culture that comes with it. For The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, that culture includes much of le Carré’s thoughts about Cold War spy tactics, Ritt’s involvement in the Hollywood blacklist, and the notorious public fights of Richard Burton and Martin Ritt.
Sadly, as good as the film is, the Burton-Ritt sparring sessions will always cast a tall shadow on its legacy. From the various special features interviews, it seems the blame rests squarely with Burton, whose argumentative nature ended with him storming off the set more than once and whose endless entourage increasingly isolated him from the film’s production.
It’s impressive how well Ritt could direct Burton despite such setbacks. Burton was known for his boisterous Petruchio, Hamlet, and other Shakespearean characters and his very public marriage to Elizabeth Taylor, but he wasn’t famous for his restraint. But in The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, Ritt reduces Burton’s grand gestures to nothing more than how he looks at someone. His weather-beaten Leamas shows the wear of the Cold War and the Second World War, but not in hyperbolic stage antics – rather in shuffles, ticks, grimaces, and glances.
This is easily one of Burton’s best film performances in a long career of great roles, and as Michael Sragow states in his included new essay, “Ritt may not have loved working with Burton, but as a director, he must have loved Burton’s art.” And it’s true; Leamas is interpreted here with incredible artistry. He represents and embodies so eloquently the ambivalence of the Cold War, the disdainful things done on both sides and the sad fiction of the “sexy spy”.
After watching 140 hours of The Man from U.N.C.L.E. it’s hard not to compare the two works directly. They are, after all, both products of the ’60s spy phenomenon. But where Napoleon Solo sleeps with women, Alec Leamas sleeps with alcohol. And where U.N.C.L.E.’s men are fitted with pen-sized, worldwide communicators, sleep-inducing darts, and a host of ever-expanding gadgets, the British SIS are provided a rusty bicycle, false papers, and a little information. The more you learn about the story, the more you realize how little information it really is. Spies certainly lead intriguing lives, but as this film showcases, they have little else.
The Spy Who Came in from the Cold is a classic in many respects, and, as always, Criterion gives the film the grace it deserves. The transfer is gorgeous, the grayscale is deep and clear, and the special features are apt and plentiful. My only gripe is that there are only scene-specific audio tracks instead of a full-feature commentary. There’s something to be said for listening to the commentator’s rhythm in conjunction with the film’s. With Criterion’s 40-minute interview with Ritt, a 1967 Burton interview, and the other lengthy features previously mentioned, you won’t be disappointed – unlike the spies themselves.