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While I had seen the original Scarface before, my memory of it was dimmed by time and corrupted by comparison to the atrocious remake. That film is so awful I had to believe the original was better, particularly since I remembered it as the only film from auteurist darling Howard Hawks that I remotely liked. My memory wasn’t entirely wrong. The original is indeed better, but that says very little.

Hawks is generally admired for supposedly lean, clean direction that inspires his more slavish admirers to talk about him as Hollywood’s Hemingway. Leaving aside how valid that comparison may be (or whether it is a compliment), it at least helps to describe the transparent style of his later work. The comparison does not, however, capture Scarface’s elaborate German Expressionist mise-en-scène and flamboyant camerawork. Hawks may have become Hollywood’s Hemingway, but Scarface’s cluttered sets, lacy shadows, intricate dolly moves and rakish wardrobes are more Pabst or Murnau or Sternberg than the cinematic equivalent of macho prose. These continental tropes may therefore be doubly foreign, but Hawk’s fluency with them proves that his reputation is not entirely a matter of wishful thinking.

That skill is unfortunately lavished on thin material. Ruthless gangster Tony Camonte (Paul Muni) rises in the ranks through sheer viciousness. That doesn’t make for very endearing involvement, particularly since, unlike James Cagney in Public Enemy or Edward G. Robinson in Little Caesar, Muni does not lend any personally attractive qualities to the character. There are no depths to him beyond his blind ambition, aside from his obsession with his sister Cesca (Ann Dvorak). Explored seriously, that dissonant kink could provide some complexity, but it is handled so uncertainly it is as if the filmmakers are dancing gingerly over the hot coals of what they want to show, but cannot.

Otherwise, there is much shooting, punching, cars careening through the streets, and yet more shooting relieved only by periodic moralizing about the need to pass laws to fight the evils of armed gangs. Those homilies might have placated the ’30s censor, but it is difficult to imagine audiences responding with anything better than a yawn. As for any peripheral distraction, if the incest angle is a non-starter, Tony’s play for his boss’s moll Poppy (Karen Morley) is interesting only because she is smart enough about him to survive his attention. Even two future stars in supporting roles (George Raft and Boris Karloff) are simply wiped out.

In truth, violence as repetitive as the rat-a-tat Tommy guns used to perform it is just tedious after a while. There is some satisfaction in seeing Tony brought low and exposed as a coward, but he is at best the most brutal of brutes. Once the milieu and situation are established, there is only heightened mayhem, no investigation or development. That rising hyperbole keeps things going, but you can be shot in the face just so many times before you sigh “enough” in exhaustion.