By Oisin McIlroy
Luridly bound in film tropes, The Third Man should not be so captivating. Set amid the post-war tensions of a Vienna divided between the Allies, failed author Holly Martins (Joseph Cotton) encounters black cats and open ladders whilst searching for his old friend Harry Lime (Orson Welles). Alpine Zither music reigns and Dutch angles slope.
Yet the clichés are so neatly composed that they are charming. Maybe because Graham Greene first cultivated its mood and characters in a private novella, created solely to write the screenplay. Or, as is rumoured, because Welles secretly directed the film, instead of Carol Reed, leaving indiscernible masterstrokes.
Either way, the kitschy excess never tires or bores, even where it might overwhelm.
With a Cold War climax so iconic that “doing a Third Man” has become an industry byword for a twist ending, it still draws aspiring diplomats and film-makers alike.
