My name is Schmidt, but I changed it to Smith.

Rating: 7/10 (20 August 2016)

Alfred Hitchock's Lifeboat will almost immediately draw comparisons with Sidney Lumet's 12 Angry Men. Both almost exclusively take place in a singular location. Both focus on a group of characters confronted with moral dilemma and how their biases, experiences and emotions bubble under and take control of them. It is unusual then, for Hitchock's film to be the lesser one in the art of suspense. 12 Angry Men had a remarkable ability of building up tension within the space and through Lumet's manipulation of focal length, and then finally washing away the heat and stress with rain. Lifeboat floats more breezily along, because inherently there are large gaps that the plot demands to have, being lost at sea. The setting holds it back; it is not nearly an incisive a demonstration of space and composition as something like Rear Window, and because filming at sea was not viable, the characters seem to be half-removed from the background of the endless oceans. Sure, the frame and the boat is continually rocking, and they are pelted with water and wind during the storms, but because Hitchock lacks the ability to pull out (or even swivel around), the master shot is always locked in, and the boat seems to be rooted to the small spot of water, hardly moving at all.
Still, the absence of the traditional score is a nice touch, in that the characters are left with only the soft, incessant lapping of the waves throughout to haunt them. So they can see as far as the eye can see, but it is only water, water and more water, so like the juror's room, the setting closes in claustrophobically, and gives rise to all sorts of conflict. The problem is simple: the American and British are asked to share a lifeboat with a German sailor, only moments are both vessels have been sunk. Opinions immediately start flying about; once a German always a German, the Nuremberg defense, the American vs the Christian way of thinking. Radioman Sparks thinks he should be subject to the proper authoritative procedures, whereas the Army nurse Alice can't understand why there must be so much killing in the world (baffling then, to end up in this line of work). The older, venerable characters are set up as the moral compasses; the good Christian Rittenhouse, and the worldly columnist Connie Porter. And so Hitchcock must inevitably engineer the downfall of their grace and goodwill.
The characterisations are muddled because apart from the clear path set for these two, the other inhabitants of the boat mill about in the background and don't change much (including the literal milling about of the steward Joe, pushed to the metaphorical back of the boat and only called upon to utilise his 'natural' light fingers). The crewman Kovac is initially the most volatile of them all, even more villainous than the Nazi they have just pulled aboard, and takes charge of the boat's direction only because of his own ignorance and spite (even if he is right). Later, out of his compassion for his friend, he finally relents, but after that is content to simply sit back and watch the proceedings play out. There are little bursts of littler consequences; the anger of card cheating fizzles out almost immediately, and Connie loses her mind for a split second...only to be lying in the lap of Kovac the next.
There is some drunken attempt at philosophising from Gus, but the most intriguing character must be the German, Willi. Walter Slezak has the sort of face you might trust, if it were not for the circumstances, and his jovial, ever-smiling outlook while rowing against the current almost allows the others to let their guard down. Willi has mastered the knack for pretending he isn't listening in on the English quarrels, so as Hitchock layers the profiles of his cast so that they are all facing the camera, there he is in the background, with a determined absent-mindedness about his expression, constantly swiveling and marvelling at the empty sky. It is a triumph in blocking for such a limited space, and Slezak dominates it. He sings merrily all day, not even a slight sign of tiring, and in the night cruelly goads a man to seek the depths of the ocean for relief ("Remember your name is Schidmt"). Critics were not happy about this, especially in the midst of the war. How could a Nazi be so resourceful, so sneaky, so clever? But Hitchock respects his villain, building him up as someone who could be an ally in a desperate time, and also making him despicable enough to warrant the fury that sends him overboard with a few solid whacks of the boot from the gentle industrialist Ritt. An inhuman act surely, but is it justified? Very tricky indeed. One last question: does the directorial tag of Hitchock ultimately hurt or better it?