Since their inception, film noirs have provided a running commentary on American masculinity—more specifically, American society’s ideal of masculinity. From The Maltese Falcon’s Sam Spade and his one-punch knock-out of the effeminate Joel Cairo to Laura’s Mark McPherson saving the titular character from the bookish, possibly gay Waldo Lydecker, film noirs have sent a very clear message that the ideal man is strong, straight, and ready to beat anyone up at a moment’s notice.
It is within this same vein that Don Siegel’s 1971 Dirty Harry presents a tough, no-nonsense male ideal in the form of Clint Eastwood’s eponymous character, who wants nothing more than to carry the biggest gun, solve the case, and perhaps look at some nude women along the way. While the film is largely a celebratory romp within this ideal, it does show hints of self-consciousness, as expressed through the film’s slightly tongue-in-cheek nature with supporting characters apologizing for or explaining away Harry Callahan’s behavior. It is in this way that Dirty Harry establishes itself as a neo-noir by representing a period of change where 1970’s audiences reveled in the masculine ideals of film noirs past, all the while knowing that the times were changing, and these ideals could not last.
Originally a story written by husband and wife team Harry Julian Fink and Rita M. Fink, the screenplay underwent several rewrites with work from Dean Reisner and uncredited work from Terrence Malick, Jo Heims, and John Milius. Clint Eastwood became Harry Callahan only after several actors including Frank Sinatra, Burt Lancaster, and Steve McQueen turned down the role. Eastwood then insisted that Don Siegel be brought on as director.
Clint Eastwood as Harry Callahan in the title sequence from Dirty Harry.
Opening with a female rooftop swimmer dying from sniper-fire, Dirty Harry quickly establishes itself as, at the very least, a cop film. As Eastwood’s police inspector Callahan enters the mix, the film quickly transitions from the investigation of a woman’s murder to a wild shoot-out in the streets as Callahan single-handedly stops a bank robbery with his own violent methods. It is at this point that the lines begin to blur between cop and criminal and the film begins to feel more like a noir with a morally ambiguous protagonist.
While much of the film’s action occurs in high-key daylight sequences, more characteristically dark night scenes later appear, using low-key lighting and chiaroscuro effects. One such scene that works particularly effectively is the rooftop shootout sequence featuring Callahan and his partner, Chico Gonzalez, as played by Reni Santoni, against the serial killer Scorpio, who is loosely based on the real-life Zodiac Killer and portrayed by Andy Robinson. The sequence employs extremely minimal diegetic lighting, including creative uses of rim and colored lights.
As illustrated in the rooftop shootout, the film uses its urban environment as both a battleground and a key feature to the plot as Scorpio has a nearly unlimited supply of targets to pick-off within the concentrated city. The urban setting also brings attention to Callahan’s extreme disregard towards using his .44 Magnum safely within the public sphere. Perhaps no clearer example is Callahan’s shootout with the bank robbers.
More of Callahan’s morals come in to question as he and Gonzalez drive through the city at night, passing several strip clubs. Seeming to contain traces of Scorsese’s Taxi Driver, which would not come out until 1976, Callahan looks out his window with disgust and mutters, “These loonies, I ought to throw a net over the whole bunch of them.”
A few scenes later however, Callahan finds himself watching not just one, but two sexual encounters, during the latter of which he tells himself, “You owe it to yourself to live a little, Harry,” and continues watching.
Like its protagonist, the film can’t seem to decide whether to condemn or indulge in its own stereotypical portrayals of masculine libido and violent behavior. While Callahan nearly always chooses to indulge, a supporting character is also always there to provide moral commentary. After observing Callahan’s behavior in the above sequence, Gonzalez remarks, “I just had another thought about why they call you ‘Dirty Harry.’”
While the line plays as a bit of comic relief, it nonetheless acknowledges the moral ambiguity with which Dirty Harry confronted its 1970s audience. Other similar sequences occur, such as police officers commentating on Callahan’s choice of weapons: a switch blade (“It’s disgusting that a police officer should know how to use a weapon like that”) and .458 Magnum rifle (“This thing will stop an elephant…well, [Scorpio’s] no elephant, Harry—he’s no animal of any kind, remember that”). The film is well aware that its protagonist is outlandish and out of line, but it is also equally unwilling to change him. In fact, the film seems to conclude, echoing the mentality of Kiss Me Deadly’s Mike Hammer, that violence and meanness will always get the job done when asking nicely does not work. An example is Callahan’s tactics of enraging a suicide jumper in order to bring him safely back to the ground.
While Dirty Harry became wildly successfully, spurring four sequels, it also generated a large amount of controversy. It was labeled by some, including Roger Ebert, as having a fascist message with Callahan’s violent one-man approach to solving every problem that came his way. Today, the film seems equally reproachable for its depictions of women and gay men. Unlike many noirs, Dirty Harry features no femme fatale and nearly all of the women depicted within the film make their appearances naked and entirely objectified. However, like many noirs, gay men are portrayed negatively, with one such character being a potential target for Scorpio’s sniping and another receiving snide encouragement from Callahan to kill himself.
Where Dirty Harry finally begins to make some sort of statement about the moral ambiguity it dwells in is the scene where the district attorney confronts Callahan about his disregard towards the accused’s rights. The attorney reveals that because of Callahan’s actions, he is forced to allow the criminal to go free. For once in the film, Callahan’s behavior is not treated as a joke, but as a serious offense.
“Where the hell does it say you have a right to kick down doors, torture suspects, deny medical attention and legal counsel?” demands the attorney. “Where have you been? Does Escobedo ring a bell? Miranda? I mean you must have heard of the 4th amendment.”
It is here that the film confronts the heart of its own conflict and presents 1970s audiences with a choice between two ideals: a rugged, violent American individualism versus fairness and equality under the law. A mix of the two proves to be counter-productive, and the film makes it clear that because America has chosen to follow the latter by making decisions like Escobedo vs. Illinois and instituting the Miranda Rights, there is no returning to the means of the past.
Although the film does in fact return to its romp in thematic violence, and the situation becomes conveniently skewed in Callahan’s favor, this message reappears at the end of the film. In the final scene, Eastwood’s character symbolically throws his police badge in the lake and walks away, signifying that Callahan realizes his way of doing things is no longer what America needs and he can no longer serve as an officer within the new system. In this way, as 1970s America turned towards an uncertain future, Dirty Harry served as one last hurrah for the noirs of the past. The old ways of doing things had given way to a grudging acknowledgement that the times were changing, and the next ideals and resultant films would be much different in the years to come.
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