There's something about black comedies played very dryly that appeals to me. I'm often laughing at action and never quite sure if I'm supposed to be. That's what I found myself doing pretty consistently while watching Henri-Georges Clouzot's The Spies, a tale of madness in Paris, a mixture of Hitchcockian wrong-man tropes and surrealism that combines better than Hitchcock's own Spellbound.
Doctor Malic (Gerard Sety) is approached by American Colonel Howard (Paul Carpenter). There's a mysterious figure, Alex (Curd Jurgens), that needs to be hidden in Malic's neighborhood, and Howard feels that Malic is the perfect man for the kind of discretion that job of protecting Alex will require. With the promise of a million francs, money Malic will be able to prop up his failing clinic and help his patients, mostly the mute Lucie (Vera Clouzot), he agrees. And everything pretty much immediately spirals out of control.
The people who work at his local café are replaced within hours by strangers who only give cryptic responses about where those they've replaced have gone. His own nurse is replaced. Malic is beset by two new potential patients, Sam Cooper (Sam Jaffe) and Michel Kaminsky (Peter Ustinov). Alex shows up and hides in one of the clinic rooms as the place gets swarmed with strangers, all asking him cryptic questions, giving him cryptic answers to his own questions, and generally just getting in his hair. He tries to keep his business running, but things are increasingly frantic as things get increasingly confused.
And this is where the contrast between the film's tone and its content turns the film into a comedy. It's pretty black (not quite gallows humor), and it's delivered so dryly that it's almost British. It's really just Malic trying to keep his cool and composure in the face of increasingly ridiculous circumstances and changes around him as everyone tries to manipulate him into giving up Alex. The biggest effort is by Sam who tries to convince Malic that Howard, whom Malic cannot find any trace of at the American embassy, actually made a mistake about protecting Alex at all. So, Malic should give up Alex and Howard would certainly agree if he could be found.
Malic can't believe anyone, and he's increasingly at his wit's end to try and figure out whom he should trust, if anyone. Alex is of no help, being as cryptic as anyone else, and Malic flounders (in composed physical form) from one event to the next, all while Lucie observes most of what's going on and can't communicate what she sees in any way shape or form.
Who is Alex and why does he need protecting? There are twists and turns, but ultimately it's just a MacGuffin in the proud tradition of Hitchcock, touching on a generic approach to the dominate energy power of the day to paint a portrait of impending doom should the wrong hands get their hands on Alex, who may not even be the guy they're actually looking for. Who knows?
What seems to be a straight forward spy story on the outside is really more of a portrait of madness within a dream state. Malic seems to be jerking from one section of a dream to the next, only tangential details mattering as connective tissue, in particular business around a match box which seems vitally important early and gets dismissed with a single word later. It's part and parcel of Malic trying to figure out this sea of mysteries that almost never seem to have actual answers. There's a certain John le Carre aspect to it all in some dialogue that indicates the entire spy-life is empty and without meaning, as well.
This isn't one of Clouzot's greatest achievements, but it's a complicated trifle of a black spy comedy. I think it might end up taking things too seriously in the end, but it's a fun ride that probably needs the right kind of audience to appreciate it. The kind of audience that likes dry, sardonic humor. I'm that kind of guy, and I got a real kick out of it.
