The Apartment in December
There is a right time of year for The Apartment and it is the second week of December, when the office parties are happening and the lights are up and you are either part of it or you are not. Jack Lemmon’s clerk is not. He works on the nineteenth floor of an enormous insurance company, one desk among hundreds in a shot that still makes me laugh at its sheer scale, and he has a problem: the executives above him have discovered that he has a small apartment near the park, and they have been borrowing it for their affairs. He waits outside in the cold until they are done.
The first act is all setup and it is a marvel of economy. In twenty-five minutes you learn how the arrangement works, how it has wrecked his sleep and his reputation with the neighbors, who think he is a tireless playboy, and that the one person he actually likes is the elevator operator, Shirley MacLaine, who is kind to him and remembers that he was off sick. You also learn that his boss has noticed the pattern of favors and would like to discuss it. That is as far as I will go.
What I had not appreciated before was how funny the film is while being this sad. Lemmon strains spaghetti through a tennis racket. He explains his cold remedies at length. He is a decent man who has let himself be used and knows it, and the comedy comes from how cheerfully he papers over the knowledge. The black and white photography is sharp and gray and makes the city look as lonely as it should.
The disc was a charity shop find, slightly scratched, and it froze for a moment during the office party scene, which felt oddly appropriate. I watched the rest in one sitting with the lights off. It ran to about two hours and I was aware of none of them.
I would say this is the best film I watched this year, but I say that about something every December, and I am aware of my own pattern. Watch it in the dark, in the cold, with something warm to drink. It is kinder than it first appears.