Rod Steiger doesn't so much give a great actor's performance in "The Pawnbroker" as much as he presents a seminar on film about great acting. He spits out his lines, contorts his face and becomes mired in bitter, embattled rage. We get few other dimensions from Steiger and, even at the picture's close, I felt little about his character's progression because the actor himself is still teaching class. As a Concentration Camp survivor immigrated to New York City, Steiger cannot do anything simple: his pain is grandiose, unsubtle. As for the plot, everything is spelled out for us to read, and director Sidney Lumet refuses to let the audience do any additional work. The look of the picture is edgy (pushing the boundaries of cinema in '64 with a gritty scenario), but the rest is flattened out, made too easy. The flashbacks are well-done (especially a haunting shot involving rings on the prisoners' fingers), but Quincy Jones' music is too jazzy (particularly at the end) and the dialogue, courtesy screenwriters Morton Fine and David Friedkin, is too direct and forceful. Eventually, the film is simply off-putting. ** from ****
Review of The Pawnbroker
