The Third Man puts the “N” in noir, to the point that the shadows of post-war Vienna at night should get a co-starring credit. The ginned-up love between Holly Martins (Joseph Cotten) and Anna Schmidt (Alida Valli) isn’t altogether convincing, serving mostly as a diversion from the real theme: friendship, and what it takes to end it.
Having said that, it is an odd kind of friendship. When British officer Calloway (Trevor Howard) asks Martins about his “best friend” Harry Lime (Orson Welles) when they are having a drink after meeting at Lime’s “funeral” in the film's opening 15 minutes, he can only come up with a few things he remembers about Lime. He hasn’t seen him in 10 years and only a few other times since they were at school together. It seems a shaky basis to say “no one knew him better than I did” and call Lime “the best friend I ever had,” yet Martins decides to clear Lime’s name after Calloway calls him “the worst racketeer who ever made a dirty living in this city” and so we have a movie.
It’s news to no one that The Third Man is a classic, and deservedly so. The plot is involving, as a mystery should be; the acting is uniformly first rate; the cinematography is extraordinary, and the climax is iconic. The 35mm print “photochemically printed from original film elements” that played at Film Forum in New York is beautiful, with no scratches anywhere, and a gorgeous palette of grays and deep, deep blacks. If a couple of reel changes could have been smoothed out they’re only momentarily distracting. It’s well worth your time to give the film a second, or third, viewing.
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