THE LOST WEEKEND: A Terrifying Noir Portrayal of Addiction

The relentless act of reaching out with one hand, tilting the bottle to their throat, and setting it upright again, only to refill the fuel tank as quickly as possible, washing away the memory of hitting the bottom too fast—much too fast! At birthdays, name days, weddings, and christenings. For baby gifts, a farewell drink, or “one for the road.” Gulp, gulp, gulp—just don’t spill it! And even though the mouth already burns, the thirst persists. The stomach protests, and the head pounds ever more intensely. The room seems not so much unfriendly as it does narrower, and the simplest tasks suddenly become monumental circus feats. These often end not so much in failure as in unexpected successes that leave onlookers dumbfounded. After all, how is it possible to perform something so complex while seeing double and somehow avoiding harm to oneself (or others)? And all the while, thoughts turn to another drink, another shot, another beer—just one more, I promise. Well… at least until the next one. Or until the catastrophic hangover, whose aftermath is reaped the next day after waking up to the news that the best part of the party was missed. What party? Exactly… The Lost Weekend

Alcoholism—most often associated with the comical image of the bum from the neighboring block, stumbling over his own feet at high noon to the amusement (and warning) of passersby. Yet for those addicted to alcohol, laughter is usually the last thing on their mind (well, maybe between the sixth and seventh round, when laughter simply cannot be stopped). And they themselves can take on various forms, not necessarily evoking entirely negative associations, unlike the reeking, unconscious passenger in the back row of the city bus. A police officer, a politician, a priest, or an eco-conscious sex worker—it doesn’t matter. For anyone, alcohol can turn from an occasional friend and savior into a deadly foe, and sober everyday life can quickly become unbearable.

Interestingly, one of the groups most susceptible to strong spirits is the seemingly quietest one: the so-called “people of the pen” (and artists in general)—writers, poets, screenwriters, and journalists often find themselves empty not just on the page but in the bottle as well. Again. Charles Bukowski enveloped his entire work in an alcoholic haze. Ernest Hemingway, when not hunting animals, enjoyed drinking himself into oblivion. As did James Joyce, with whom he went on drunken escapades. Alcohol literally drove F. Scott Fitzgerald to his grave (he died at just 44), as well as his wife, Zelda, who first lost her mind from recurring intoxication. William Faulkner drank, as did Jack London, Raymond Chandler, Tennessee Williams, and Edgar Allan Poe. The glass was one of Truman Capote’s, Arthur Rimbaud’s, and Dorothy Parker’s essential tools of the trade. For Don Birnam—the protagonist of Billy Wilder’s film—firewater is the only chance to survive in an unkind, torturous world. As the exception to the rule, William Wharton, put it:

Addicts don’t respect themselves; they want to escape from themselves. It’s a form of psychological suicide.

Thus, Don escapes, though he hasn’t touched a drop for ten days, diligently monitored by his brother and his (for some reason deeply in love with him) girlfriend, who want to keep the streak going and plan a weekend getaway to the countryside, away from temptation. Don, however, is no fool and knows he won’t last long out there, so he prepares accordingly. But his plan is discovered, and he’s stripped of illusions—until fate hands him a few extra dollars, enough to head to his favorite bar for a shot. But just one, to keep suspicions at bay…

At this point, one could stop, as the rest is predictable. But Wilder’s film is anything but empty and predictable, unlike the “tool of the crime” wielded by its protagonist. On the contrary, it contains surprises and unconventional ideas, even those seemingly most abstract rooted in reality. Frequent visitors to drunk tanks and detox clinics may not be overly impressed by the intoxication depicted (especially since some formal aspects are now somewhat dated—literally!). Yet even the toughest pub-goers must admit its accuracy. It couldn’t be otherwise, as everything seen on screen originated in the painstakingly crafted novel by Charles Jackson—another literary genius, prodigal son of a dysfunctional family, and a man who ultimately ended his fight by pulling the trigger.

Thank God Wilder spares his characters a similar fate. The director doesn’t deprive his work of hope, though he harbors no illusions about its state, leaving Don dangerously close to suicide. One need only look at the weary face of Ray Milland (who won an Oscar for his role) to see a man not so much defeated as teetering on a steep precipice—one from which, if left to himself, he would surely fall, completely shattering his moral spine in the process. Even a controlled descent might end in disaster, taking all efforts down with him. To escape one hell, Don must traverse another.

Don is not a typical victim overwhelmed by circumstance. Far from it—he tries, fights for himself, even improvises to achieve his goal. After all, he does it not just to feel better but to feel more talented, as he openly admits. For him, alcohol is a tool, a brain’s driving force, a fuel for ideas. Don, however, lacks neither skills nor resourcefulness, as evidenced by his cunning—if not entirely commendable—acts. The tragedy is that he operates on the dark side, deluding himself into believing that his weaknesses will vanish with a sip of golden liquor and never return. Don is both a fallen hero and a brilliant villain in his craft—a rare combination, even in cinema.

What’s intriguing is that neither Wilder nor Milland believed in their own work. Milland thought he didn’t fit the role (wrongly, as it turned out), and Wilder admitted the character, not the actor, won the Oscar. Both were likely shaken by the film’s lukewarm reception at early screenings—unnecessarily, as it became a major hit, recouping its million-dollar budget many times over. Audiences resonated with Birnam’s honesty and could empathize with him, even, perhaps especially, when he sought solace among equally intriguing, brilliantly acted secondary characters, also regulars in such circles. Among them were the archetypal stoic bartender (Howard Da Silva) and the obligatory femme fatale (seductive Doris Dowling), along with Bim (Frank Faylen), a hospital worker injecting a mystical yet ironic element into the story.

All these characters and their increasingly strange events blend into a dreamlike atmosphere that denies both Don and the viewer any safe conclusions—or hope for a clear happy ending. A happy end does occur, but we cannot be sure it’s real. It could just as easily be part of Don’s delirium or another chapter of the book he finally begins writing—perhaps even finishes. The state in which he does so becomes secondary. What matters is the fact itself, as it signifies that Don’s stronger ego triumphed over his weaker “self.” Or did it? Unlike Jackson, who laid everything bare, Wilder avoids definitive explanations. And that is why his cinema remains so satisfying.

The film earned seven Academy Award nominations—a breakthrough for such a topic at the time.

It wasn’t the first movie to touch on alcohol; A Star is Born had done so earlier. But Wilder brought drunkenness to Hollywood’s main stage, showing it in all its corrupt glory, peppered with dialogues that entered everyday language (like the brilliantly simple “Thanks, but no thanks”). The Lost Weekend ultimately won four Oscars: for Milland, screenwriter Charles Brackett, and Wilder himself, who was both director and co-writer. The film also won Best Picture, triumphing over Spellbound by Alfred Hitchcock and Mildred Pierce by Michael Curtiz. While those films are undeniably classics, The Lost Weekend made cinematic history—even if over seventy years later, it has faded somewhat, overshadowed by fresher, bolder portrayals of alcoholism, such as All That Jazz, the comedic Bad Santa, the recent Flight by Robert Zemeckis, or Polish The Mighty Angel.

In many ways, Wilder’s production remains the most convincing and terrifying portrayal—perhaps because, using simple means, it says nearly everything about alcohol in the human body and its effects on Homo sapiens. This was openly acknowledged by Seagram, which congratulated the filmmakers as part of an anti-alcohol campaign. While it doesn’t exhaust the topic of alcoholism or serve as an antidote, it stands as a kind of cinematic oracle—riveting, full of character, drama, and suspense, firmly placing it within the cherished noir tradition of its decade. Though not the purest or most factual noir representative, it is undeniably one of the darkest.