The 1960s were many things – liberated, innovative, revolutionary, hip, bold, racy
but they were seldom sensitive, much less mature. And yet, being a time of greater honesty of expression, they were also a period in which humanity could perhaps begin to deal frankly with the most harrowing events of the century. But was the new generation of filmmakers up to the job? In some ways, yes they were. I am using the term filmmakers in its broadest sense, meaning everyone who contributes to the making of a motion picture. Lead actor Rod Steiger delivers a performance of incredible weight. It could be thought of as easy, portraying Sol Nazerman's emotional flatness, but in fact what Steiger is doing is portraying suppressed emotions, and he does so with exceptional control. Even when his character is at his most blank, Steiger is still presenting him as feeling on some level. This is testament to the commitment and realism of the Strasberg generation. But much as I admire Steiger, I would have preferred to see a man who actually petitioned hard for the role but never got it – Groucho Marx. At 74 Marx may have been a little old (although Steiger is theoretically too young), but I think he would have brought a certain level of feeling to the part, drawing from his life experience and the fact that comedians often have a contradictory knack for poignant dignity. This is something that a thorough professional like Steiger could not have achieved.
The source novel by Edward Lewis Wallant appears to be an occasionally intelligent, respectful and even moving exploration of the effects of colossal emotional trauma. However it distractingly deals too much with the politics of the New York underbelly, and if there is some attempt to parallel the horrors of the holocaust with the deprivation of Harlem, this is an insulting piece of reductionism. From here on it is one poor judgment after another. The direction of Sidney Lumet, typically inventive but still a little unsteady at this point, veers off the rails completely here, with some unpleasantly bizarre and showy techniques. For example, when Brock Peters shows off his stolen-goods lawnmower, we can tell he is an intimidating character and that this is a confrontational moment – so why labour the point by putting the camera on the floor? Artsy self-indulgence is bad enough at the best of times, but it is monumentally inappropriate for a picture like this.
And this is not all. The rambling Quincy Jones score relates not at all to the tone of the material (you couldn't even really say it is the sound of Harlem), and is surely only there because all independent avant-garde productions of the sixties "had" to have a free jazz score. And then there are the supporting roles – Jaime Sanchez's hammy Hispanic act would be fine in, say, West Side Story, but it's not for a serious picture. It's all such a shame because bits of The Pawnbroker are quite startlingly deep. There are certain things however that if done at all need to be done just right. I do not doubt that The Pawnbroker was all conceived with best of intentions, but those 60s hipsters were simply not equipped for the task.
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