Carter, o Vingador

London criminal Michael Caine returns to Newcastle for his straight-arrow brother's funeral. The police say he got drunk and killed himself in a driving accident, but little bits don't add up. Caine pokes around Newcastle's dirtier side and becomes convinced it was a murder. But who and why?

It's a thoroughly unlikable movie, from Caine's seething performance through Wolfgang Suchitsky's overcast Technicolor lighting through the apathetic and evil people who inhabit the movie's world. At the same time, this neo-noir take on the Elizabethan Revenge drama is a brilliant exposition on the dark side. There's no one to admire here, no dark humor. The people in charge are not misfits. John Osborne, as a local crook, isn't a man oppressed by his environment, searching for a meaning that isn't there. He's a smart man who has judged his society accurately and coldly applied its rules to his own profit.

Caine's self-loathing rage is likewise efficiently applied. The police won't come and save anyone, they won't avenge anyone, they won't restore order by finding the bad guys. They are almost unseen, a howling car showing up too late, unable to stop or even notice Caine's spree. There is no justice, just revenge, and application of the rule that mad dogs must be put down.