Movies I Love, Part XVII: Atlantic City

One of the most iconic first shots of a character in American cinema is that of Rita Hayworth in “Gilda.”

Her head pops up from the edge of a couch. She glistens. She tosses her mane and radiates off the screen. There is an assuredness that the film is all hers. (Though in real life, Hayward lacked confidence.) It is glamour. More important, the tone of the film is set from that single shot, inducing a desire that infects the other characters, and thus how they proceed.

There is a similar, if less glossy moment that introduces Susan Sarandon in Louis Malle’s “Atlantic City.”

She shucks oysters. When she comes home, she stands at her sink, rubbing her upper body with lemons to kill the fish odor.

She has an admirer. Burt Lancaster watches her from his window through hers. It is with longing. Of course. And lust.

Lancaster is a numbers runner. He may or may not have been a bigger deal back in the day in Vegas. That we never really know is one of the effective strategies of this deliciously understated film that observes the underbelly of a town based on vice.

Kate Reid plays a Norma Desmond type of character. Was she an actress really? An actress of note? A hooker? Whatever. She lives in her seedy apartment in the same decaying building as Sarandon and Lancaster and he takes care of her.

This is an understated study of quiet resonance. Malle was a master film maker. “Atlantic City” is a masterpiece of a character study.

From that languorous shot of Sarandon not so innocently washing herself down at her sink and Lacaster casting his eyes and countenance upon her, the viewer is drawn into a forlorn world with an intriguing tale to reveal.