Gene Hackman arrives at the Pearly Gates. Saint Peter welcomes him in without even looking up. Hackman asks, “How did you know it was me?” Saint Peter replies, “You have a certain way of opening up the door. Y’know, first the key goes in real quiet, and then the door comes open real fast, just like you think you’re going to catch me at something.”
I’m not sure there is a movie that took my head, and in particular my ears, and put them squarely on the rails they were meant to be on quite like the The Conversation did, in large part thanks to sound designer Walter Murch, and of course the embodiment of the fraught act of listening that is Hackman’s surveillance expert, Harry Caul. I’ve been uncovering the deep truths of this 1974 Francis Ford Coppola film ever since.
My attempt at a joke in the first paragraph above cribs directly from what Teri Garr’s character, Amy, says to Hackman’s Caul.
There is a lot of tragedy in this film, and for me the essential tragedy is Caul’s inability — and keep in mind, this is someone whose job is to discern people’s hidden truths by observing them — to recognize Amy as his soulmate. He gets outwitted several times in The Conversation, but his worst error of judgment is his lack of real appreciation for Amy. The fact that she catches him spying on her should be reason enough for him to see in her something special — countersurveillance as foreplay. But here, in this scene, she makes it clear that her ear is as good as, if not better than, his.
Whenever I watch the movie, I can’t help but wonder if Amy would have noticed the misunderstanding at the heart of the audio recording that Caul, fatally, doesn’t. If only Caul had let her in.
