Borde and Chaumton employ many terms in their attempt to define precisely what compromises the style of noir films, but none of their terms is as apparent in almost every example of noir as that of ambivalence. At first glance it appears to be a passive term, implying the lack of moral certainty or clarity. Yet in reality this ambiguity is the most active element in a noir piece, constantly being reaffirmed in every other aspect of the genre, whether it be cruelty, eroticism, or dream states. This ambivalence, as Borde and Chaumton claim, exists in a noir film’s determination to avoid judgment or clarity, instead crafting a world of flawed heroes, guilty victims and questionable morals. It is this subjective experience that draws viewers in, inviting them to assign their own meaning and make their own judgments. Two pristine examples of this ambivalence are found in The Maltese Falcon (1941, Huston) and Double Indemnity (1944, Wilder), both films where the competence, morality and sexual prowess of the heroes remains perpetually in question.

In The Maltese Falcon, Sam Spade may be the private detective who emerges victorious at the end, but upon further analysis is not the brilliant, upstanding or suave hero he appears to be.

In discussing Spade’s professional skill, one must start with the central object of the film – the falcon itself. Shown initially behind the opening credits, casting a shadow, the black falcon is obviously the centerpiece of the story, yet Spade never once safely possesses this object of desire. He does receive a wrapped statue later in the movie, but his actions here reflect the ambivalence that Borde and Chaumton allude to. While he has somehow surpassed his rivals in acquiring this good, and promptly mails the article to himself in a crafty, step-by-step sequence that Huston highlights, he never opens this package before mailing and ultimately, after all of his skillful tactics and determination, has nothing but a forgery. It is here where the ambivalence emerges. Is Spade crafty for coming so close to the possessing the falcon, or inept in his failure to beat his adversaries?

To his credit, Spade is often shown as a detective at the top of his game. He evades an unknown pursuer early in the film (later identified as Wilmer) by ducking into a movie theater and speeding away in a cab, disarms Joel Cairo when he attempts to attack Spade in his office, fools the police who arrive at his office by concocting an elaborate lie about himself, Cairo and Brigid O’Shaughnessy, and gives a violent, infuriated performance to Kasper Gutman when he will not divulge what he knows about the falcon.

Yet for each of these acts depicting Spade’s intelligence, there are others which reduce his value as a private detective. Consider the scenarios just described. True, Spade disarms Cairo, but he then gives the gun back and is held captive nonetheless. Spade fools the police into leaving, but Cairo is still taken to the police station overnight, which is precisely what Spade was hoping to avoid. After Spade’s violent outburst and subsequent amusement over his performance, Huston cuts to a close-up of his hands, visibly shaking in nervousness. More blatantly, despite all of Spade’s carefully-measured dialogue and thoughtful planning, he is given a drugged drink by Gutman, passes out, and is kicked in the head by Wilmer. Huston films this scene in a constant medium shot, refusing to cut to a close up of the drug or glass, making Spade’s slip-up more surprising and unexpected, not attributed to Gutman’s skill but rather Spade’s inattentiveness..

Much like his professional behavior, Spade is a man of ambiguous morals. Never during the movie does he decisively make a decent or indecent decision. In an early scene, as Brigid attempts to keep Spade on her side, she shrewdly asks what she can offer Spade besides money. His response is a violent kiss, shown in close-up, his thumbs digging in to her face, quickly followed by the line, “I don’t care what your secrets are.” In the film’s final scene, he asserts a vague moral superiority, saying that “When a man’s partner’s killed, he’s supposed to do something about it. It doesn’t make any difference what you thought of him, he was your partner, and you’re supposed to do something about it.” When Spade decides to turn Brigid in, she asks if he would have done this if the falcon had been real. “Don’t be too sure I’m as crooked as I’m supposed to be,” he responds.

In these scenes, there is no clear meaning or tone. He does not come out and say that he will protect Brigid for sexual favors, but then again kisses her hard when she asks what she can offer him. He says he’s avenging his partner’s death, but Spade has also had an affair with his partner’s wife and says his lines in the most vague and emotionless way possible. He turns Brigid in, but her question concerning a real falcon and his evasion of the question highlights the possibility that he may have acted differently given different situations. Even in the film’s climax, one is not sure if Spade is the morally superior character who has finally decided to do the right thing, or the morally shrewd man out for himself at all costs.

Sexually, Spade is shown for a man who avoids the issue, sees it as a distraction or is threatened by what sexuality entails. When Brigid first enters Spade’s office, his partner makes all of the sexual advances, Spade seemingly not attracted to her and uninterested in anything more than business and profit. When his partner’s widow comes to the office, inquiring if Spade killed her husband so that they can be together, he seems disinterested and vaguely promises to see her, which he does not do for the remainder of the film. In Spade’s final dialogue with Brigid, she says “You know whether you love me or not,” to which he ambiguously responds, “Maybe I do.”

In one of the film’s most beautifully-realized moments, as Spade leans down to kiss a seated Brigid, the curtains flutter into frame, the camera pans up, and through the window the viewer witnesses a gunman standing in a dark doorway. Here, more clearly than any other moment, sexuality is shown as a dangerous distraction, taking Spade’s attention away from where it should be. Huston’s unbroken shot from the kiss to the gunman links sexuality to danger, as the audience is aware of something the film’s hero is not.

The same ambivalence exists in Double Indemnity. Already, within the film’s first five minutes, the audience has been told that Walter Neff is a murderer and is dying, establishing that he cannot be all that skilled (or he would still be alive) nor all that moral (or he would not have murdered in the first place).

In regards to skill, the remainder of the film counters Walter’s foreknown death with the portrayal of a cautious and comprehensive thinker. It is noteworthy that his dictation is established as a revelation for Keyes. While somewhere his plans have fallen apart (“I didn’t get the money and I didn’t get the woman.”), he has also been sufficiently successful at scheming to leave the future listener of this recording in the dark. During the flashback, his plans for the murder of Phyllis’ husband are thorough, noting everything from the concept of double indemnity itself to his careful crafting of a complete alibi, and are thwarted not due to a slip up in his preparations, but due to a “hunch” by Keyes.

In Wilder’s most dramatic visualization of Walter’s flawed skills, Phyllis arrives at his apartment just as he and Keyes are opening the door to leave. In a long shot, the situation plays out, Walter trapped in the middle, Phyllis hiding behind an open door on the left, and Keyes only feet down the hall on the right, waiting for the elevator. There are multiple ways to read this scene. In some ways, Walter is adept at feeling Phyllis’ tug at the door, remaining still, and defusing the potential disaster. But in another, we realize how close he has come to being caught, and how unprofessional he is in ever allowing the situation to occur in the first place. The close-up of Walter’s face, feeling Phyllis’ tug on the door, is one of both recognition and fear, an ambiguous mix of a professional detective and a scared, guilty man.

Morally, Walter is never quite defined. He confesses, which is a moral act, and is shown talking into the dictaphone as contrite and reserved to his fate, but still he is near death, with little to lose, and is only confessing because he has already lost. On the other extreme, he kills a man, but the murder is kept off-screen, the unedited camera shot focused instead on Phyllis as the car’s driver. He is a murderer, but is never shown as such.

And sexually, he is constantly denied Phyllis – the one object he desires. Even in their first meeting, as Walter waits for Phyllis to change and come downstairs, the narration comes in: “I was thinking about that dame upstairs and the way she had looked at me, and I wanted to see her again, close, without that silly staircase between us.” The next shot, however, is through the bars of the staircase, restricted to Phyllis’ ankle, denying us the vision that Walter had just discussed. One must also remember that the movie’s murder and suspense stems from Walter’s desire for Phyllis, and his willingness to do anything for her, yet the conspiracy they embark upon requires them to be separated. After Phyllis’ husband is murdered, the ensuing investigation keeps them apart, resolving in the only act that brings them back together: Phyllis’ attempted murder of Walter. “That’s all you ever meant to me. Until a minute ago, when I couldn’t fire that second shot,” she says. Even in this line, however, their sexual attraction is ambiguous. She does not shoot a second time due to what she claims to feel, but her first shot is enough to ultimately take Walter’s life.

In both of these films, one can see the ambivalence that Borde and Chaumton identified when discussing the noir genre. In The Maltese Falcon, Spade is smart, but not that smart; moral, but flawed; both intrigued by and fearsome of the opposite of sex. In Double Indemnity, Walter concocts a brilliant scheme, but starts the film as a dying man; makes immoral decisions, but is never shown doing so; concocts the entire plan for a woman, only to be denied her time and time again. It is here where, as Borde and Chaumton state, that ambivalence joins the other components of noir films in disorienting the viewer. No longer are the experiences clear-cut, black and white affairs. Rather, no character is easily definable; no decision or judgment obvious. Noir films, particularly these two, are fascinating precisely because of this pervasive ambivalence, ambiguity, and uncertainty.

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