Crime & Punishment, USA

"Crime & Punishment, USA" updates Fyodor Dostoevsky novel to the 20th century and transports it from Saint Petersburg to Los Angeles. It wasn't the first film to do so, with a 1956 French adaptation and, before that, the American "Fear" (1946) is a "Crime and Punishment" picture in all but name; plus, another 1959 reworking also from France, Robert Bresson's "Pickpocket," took even more liberties with the text that it's, nonetheless, clearly inspired by. I'm not opposed to loose reworkings in the transmutation from prose to picture; indeed, "Pickpocket" is my favorite Dostoevsky film. Especially for a poor production such as this American counterpart, updating and transporting a narrative in adaptation makes a lot of economic sense. Moreover, it may lead to some interesting reinterpretations of the source that make it more relatable to modern times. Asking a low-budget 1959 film to adequately transcribe, say, the criticism of Russian nihilism from Dostoevsky's 19th century is a tall order and equally so for a general 1959 audience to understand. This film acknowledges that; plus, at least, it's evident that the filmmakers comprehended Dostoyevsky's story. Cleverly, they replaced the radicalism of Dostoevsky's era with some from their own--the Beat Generation.

Like Dostoevsky's protagonist Raskolnikov, the film's Robert murders a pawnbroker based on his philosophizing about his own supposed superiority (including in an article he penned), thus allowing him to flaunt the law in pursuit of allegedly benefiting humanity at large. Both characters' beliefs are of the sort of atheistic and counter-cultural order mocked by the conservative Dostoevsky. Thus, we see Robert play the bongos and even tap on his coffee cup before that. He doesn't wear turtlenecks and a fedora like a stereotypical beatnik, but I sense he thinks he's hip smoking a pipe instead of cigarettes like any upstanding 1950s American would. He's also unconcerned when the picture's Sonya type, renamed "Sally," admits her sexual promiscuity, but is upset with her prostitution because it's a self-sacrificing act that goes against his hedonistic thinking. A young George Hamilton looks the part, too. And, to top it off, we get a jazzy score.

I also like what is done with the Svidrigaïlov character, renamed "Fred." He's more vital here to Robert's redemption, unintended as it may be, whereas Sonya's "hooker with a heart of gold" was the underlying force behind that of Raskolnikov. Fortunately, Fred isn't the usual movie heavy as his counterpart was in the 1935 American adaptation, either. In the book, I found him to be one of the more amusing characters, and so he is here. I'm less fond of what is done with Sally. She's also something of a beatnik--what with the book of non-traditional spirituality in her room. She even sleeps with Robert right after he confessed the murder to her. She initially suggests that he turn himself in, but as quickly gives up on the idea. As with other adaptations, time is also given to the inspector interrogating the murderer, which is fairly well done here, although the 1935 French version remains probably my favorite handling of this character dynamic.

Unfortunately, the poor production values also lead to this appearing largely as a filmed play, with characters mostly talking in cramped flats. We don't see too much of Robert's Los Angeles, and he only briefly mentions the sort of wandering throughout the city that Raskolnikov did to consume much of the novel's substantial length. We also don't see the murder. And some of the sound effects are poorly done. Nevertheless, it does that one important thing right in updating its source to the Beat Generation. It's far from the best but also far from the worst version of the book I've seen.

I haven't seen this movie for more years than I care to remember. It was released accompanied by sensationalistic contemporary tag lines -- "Beatniks! Rebels!" -- partly because George Hamilton is seen playing the bongos once in a while. Yet, it has stuck in my memory. It really was an unusual film.

First of all, Dostoyevsky is rather awkwardly superimposed on a story involving residents of modern L.A. The novel doesn't quite fit on the setting. People have serious conversations about God and the afterlife. Okay for a 19th-cntury Rusian novel -- but sunny California? Home of the Fountain of the World Cult?

And it always bothered me about the novel that everyone in Petersberg seems to be acquainted with everyone else. It was a bit difficult to swallow that proposition in the novel; it is absolutely impossible for that to have been true in L.A. circa 1960, the most anomic community on the face of the planet. But instead of being an irritation, the lack of fit between the plot and its contemporary setting lends the film an unquiet, almost surreal quality. Something is off kilter and we don't know exactly what. We squirm with bemusement.

Two points ought to be made. The movie must have been shot on the cheap. In this case, it inadvertently helps. We are given a tour of the seedier sections of L.A. -- railroad tracks, refuse dumps, shabby housing -- that a better-funded film would probably have avoided. Instead of Echo Park we get a slum. This is commonplace now, but it wasn't at the time. It's too bad nobody in California seems to know what a genuine slum looks like. Here it's all a sun-drenched, palm-fronded, flower-strewn paradise, however desecrated. They should have set it in Newark. And they needn't have used high-key lighting so consistently. It looks like an early television sitcom.

Second, the acting is actually quite good. I am even willing to forgive George Hamilton's handsomeness. (He's always been willing to poke fun at himself anyway.) Mary Murphy is not the young naif she played in "The Wild One." She's not exactly a hooker either, as she was in the novel. In 1960 neither audiences nor agents of social control were prepared for that. But she is a serious kind of easy lay, which was still saying a lot. Best of all is Frank Silvera. The smooth admirable way in which he insinuates himself into Robert's life. The cat and mouse repartee. The wondering expression on his face, his amazement that Hamilton has not yet caught on, as he tells him who committed the murder -- "Why YOU did, Robert."

I don't know how I would respond to the movie now, lo, these many years later. But, crude as it is, it's not just a shoddy ripoff of a famous psychological drama. It would be a mistake to think so. If all the elements of the film are amateurish, as in a high school play, the people involved seem to be hitting the right notes by accident. This is worth catching, a real curiosity.

This is a well written script based on Dostoyevsky's "Crime and Punishment." I think it is essentially a remake of a French film, with Jean Gabin,called "Crime and Punishment," later changed to "The Most Dangerous Sin," made around the same time. At any rate, self- justification, remorse, rationalization, guilt, and Truth are the subjects at hand. Each is handled slowly, without emphasis; the viewer is expected to bring much to the picture. This explains the films lower ratings. Hamilton, as an actor, is weak, others have been reminded of Tony Perkins. He was too handsome, and wasn't smart enough to use make up or a cheap haircut to make himself appear to be the poor student of his role. But, the real star is Frank Silvera, who underplays the cagey Detective, and is a joy to watch in action. He toys with Hamilton, who, unfortunately, just isn't his match (as an actor.) Marian Seldes plays Hamilton's long suffering sister.

A young man murders an old woman for money, then relies on a sense of intellectual superiority to defeat an investigating detective.

A heavyweight subject like Dostoevski would be a challenge for the most experienced filmmaker. For the youthful crew here, however, it proves way too much. For one, Hamilton simply doesn't have the gravitas to bring off a convincing intellectual heavyweight, and that punches a hole right through the film's middle. But he's not the only one. Silvera's cagey detective makes those cat and mouse sessions with Robert (Hamilton) borderline parody. I don't know what director Sanders was telling him, but whatever it was, it didn't work. Ditto Harding's hammy wife killer that produces another regrettable result. Unfortunately, acting here means more than usual since there's so much loaded conversation. Only the two women, Murphy and Seldes, come off aptly.

On the other hand, the filmmakers certainly don't lack imagination. Adapting a bleak 19th- century Russian novel to the sunny climes of LA amounts to an imaginative undertaking, whatever the outcome. However, modifying a dense 1,000-page novel into a 70-minute screenplay would be a challenge for Dostoevski himself. Unfortunately, the effort here is like trying to pack 10 lbs. of weighty story into a 5 lb. leaky screenplay. All in all, I'm glad the Sanders brothers and Hamilton went on to more appropriate projects.

In California, Robert Cole (George Hamilton) collapses in front of the cops. He buries the evidence of his crime, but a dying man may have seen him. He takes the man back home to Sally. He had written an article stating that certain superior people can break the law which comes to the notice of the police. He is brought in for an interview.

This opens on Pacific Ocean Park in Santa Monica. The most fascinating part of this B-crime movie may be the locations. It's great to see the old California with all the oil rigs. It does have a young George Hamilton as the lead. He's fine, but he's never been a great actor. I wanted this to start as a darker noir crime thriller. Robert should leave the man to die on the side of the road. That's the darker start. It's interesting that Robert has his views. Otherwise, the plot drags and I don't really care about him. This is not as compelling as it should be.