Review: The Sniper

[The following review contains MINOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

Edward Dmytryk’s The Sniper caught me unawares—like a bullet fired from miles away.

Released a whopping eight years before Michael Powell’s similarly themed Peeping Tom, this is the oldest “missing link” between the melodramatic visual language of Old Hollywood and the psychological/social “realism” more typically associated with the “Movie Brat” generation that I’ve yet encountered. At the very least, its deliciously complex protagonist and (relatively) naturalistic tone anticipate such seminal masterpieces as Peter Bogdanovich’s Targets and Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver. Consider, for example, the early scene in which the eponymous reluctant serial killer deliberately burns his hand on an electric stove in a futile effort to curb his violent compulsions, the faint light of the coil casting ominous, distorted, moody shadows on the wall behind him; later, he suggestively caresses the wooden stock of his rifle as he impatiently waits for his prey to emerge from a bar across the street—making the phallic symbolism plainly explicit.

The inherently controversial subject matter is, of course, presented in as sensationalistic a fashion as you might reasonably expect from a “traditional” crime thriller of the era; in a gimmick reminiscent of William Castle’s delightfully gaudy showmanship, the film even opens with a shamelessly lurid “disclaimer” describing sexual assault statistics—a choice clearly intended to intrigue rather than caution. The rich narrative, exquisite style, and nuanced lead performance, however, ultimately elevate The Sniper above its pulpy roots, distinguishing it as a (pardon the pun) higher caliber of motion picture. Simply put, it is an unforgettable cinematic experience.