It’s hard to pick the best Billy Wilder film, but there’s a lot to be said for The Apartment as his most sophisticated cocktail of comedy and drama.
The premise is screwball-worthy: A New York City office drone nebbish, played by Jack Lemmon, angles for a promotion in the gargantuan insurance company that he works for by loaning his apartment to the executives for their discreet extra-marital trysts. Lemmon’s the complete doormat. He vacates his own home anytime these guys want, even on ten minutes notice in the middle of the night after he’s just taken a sleeping pill. Meanwhile, he’s also a lonely sad sack who’s got a thing for Shirley MacLaine, a pretty and approachable elevator operator, one of the few genuine humans he encounters at work.
Snappy dialogue (typical of Wilder and writing partner I.A.L. Diamond) lines the path along with sharp satire of workplace follies that still resonates today, but the striking thing about it is the seriousness of Wilder’s approach. The pain here is real, not a joke. The twists are gut-wrenching. Its sadness is haunting. Its widescreen black-and-white cinematography (by Joseph LaShelle) is lovely.
This film is a funny premise taken seriously and as told by a great wit at the height of his powers. In my world, it doesn’t get much better than that.
It’s also an impressively modern film. Wilder takes a dim view of the old school, boys club, executive washroom culture of womanizing and abuse of power. None of these guys who cheat on their wives in Lemmon’s apartment are charming, magnetic swingers. They’re all pathetic creeps who only think about themselves. In fact, in the world of this film, the only way to advance in this company is to help facilitate other mens’ sad vices. Keep secrets. Play along with whatever. Be the perfect doormat.
It’s a nasty, inhuman world.
The only way to fight it is to be human. It’s not easy. People like that get crushed in this world. Their hearts get broken. They lose their jobs.
But you’re no longer one of the assholes. And that’s your victory.