birdman of alcatraz

Prison movies seem to strike a communal nerve, as if we were all pleasurably whacked on the knee by a tender old physician. Which is odd considering the genre itself is so uncinematic, playing out behind iron bars, brick walls and razor wire that limit our sense of scale and movement. But inherent is almost every screenplay in that longing for freedom - both physical and spiritual - that excuses a somewhat philosophical approach to what should be a soul-crushing scenario. This resonates quite clearly in 1962’s Birdman of Alcatraz, starring Burt Lancaster as the real-life (if somewhat sanitized) prisoner Robert Stroud, a convicted killer who experiences an unlikely transformation while serving his life sentence.

Entering Leavenworth prison as an angry, unrepentant sociopath, Stroud runs afoul of the warden (Karl Malden) who promises to add whatever new punishment the law allows after Stroud murders a guard. But as the years slip by, Stroud begins to soften thanks to his adopted pet: a helpless sparrow that he nurses back to health. One bird leads to another, and soon Stroud’s cell is filled with canaries he shares with the other prisoners; feeding, training and eventually treating them for an outbreak of avian disease that leads to a major scientific discovery.

Stroud’s rehabilitation – he even marries a fan of his literary work – is acknowledged by some, but his parole is perpetually denied thanks to a prison system that refuses to treat men as individuals. Or so the politics behind director John Frankenheimer’s film say. Based on a book by Thomas E. Gaddies (the film even uses an odd author’s intro to add a documentarian edge), Birdman of Alcatraz is unique in the sense that it doesn’t sugarcoat Stroud’s reasons for landing behind bars in the first place. That he deserved punishment isn’t the argument, the question is how much punishment is enough?

Burt Lancaster plays both sides of the coin brilliantly. His portrayal of the violent misanthrope and the aged scholar are equally compelling and, perhaps more important, believable. Stroud’s redemption might have been a hard pill to swallow, but Lancaster and Frankenheimer humanize him in one brilliant scene with a softhearted prison guard (Neville Brand) who forces him to express gratitude for the first time in his life. That single “Thank you” is a turning point. And everything that comes after is accepted as fact.

Frankenheimer had pushed the dramatic envelope on television for years on Playhouse 90 and at times the film feels a bit talky and two-dimensional (his other film released that year, The Manchurian Candidate, was chatty too but had a flashy gimmick). Yet it’s anchored with such a universal cry for justice and redemption that questions of style are squashed by its substance. Prison might be an awful experience outside of a movie theater, but on the screen it serves as an excellent stage for the bearing of men’s souls.

Twilight Time’s 3000-copy limited edition sports a beautiful B&W transfer along with a trailer, isolated score track and audio commentary from film historians Paul Seydor, Nick Redman and Julie Kirgo who also contributes the excellent liner notes.