François Truffaut’s auteur theory describes a filmmaker, or auteur’s, ability to inject a distinct character into their films (Truffaut, 1977, cited in The Criterion Collection, 2013). When considering auteur theory in its entirety, this definition is one I personally prefer – in that it communicates a directors command over the production of the film, rather than the subjective ‘goodness’ or ‘badness’ of a certain film. Andrew Sarris’ expansion on auteur theory in American cinema and criticism aligns with Truffaut’s contention, acknowledging auteur theory lacks the “gift of prophecy” (Sarris, 1962). Sarris offers a defined, yet broad framework – in the sense it remains open to subjective interpretation – for identifying and discussing the auteur status of a director. The first premise is their technical competence – or command of the medium – ranging from the subject and script to the cinematography (Sarris, 1962). The second premise refers to the distinguishable personality of the director, and whether or not this manifests into recognisable characteristics or flair throughout their body of work (Sarris, 1962). The third is the interior meaning – ambiguously defined by Sarris as essentially the heart a director injects to their work, or how evidently their vision manifests in the final product (Sarris, 1962). Here begins a discussion of American Filmmaker Brian de Palma, whose body of work explores the conflict between his beginnings as an independent filmmaker and later star in Hollywood (Keesey, 2015). de Palma’s work is consumed with voyeuristic allegories surrounding the very conflicts of class, conformity, and psychosexuality. A dissection of Scarface (1983), de Palma’s first gangster drama starring Al Pacino as Tony Montana, exemplifies de Palma’s authorship and ability to inject a voyeuristic awareness into the narrative of a Cuban refugee turned powerful ego-driven drug lord in Florida.

Scarface is a kaleidoscopic vision of Tony Montana’s inexplicable desire for success at the command of ego, dressed in the flush of 80’s glamour. De Palma’s technical competence is demonstrated in his control over the mise-en-scene throughout the film, creating a dynamic expression of Florida’s world of organised crime. Our first introduction to Elvira Hancock (Michelle Pfieffer), drug lord Frank Lopez’s (Robert Loggia) mistress, sees her descend the glass elevator in Frank’s Bauhaus mansion, her back to the men below. The camera cuts and zooms to Tony’s face from a wide angle, cutting Manny and Frank from the frame, then back to Elvira, and again to Tony. The scene could easily be executed through one take, in one frame, and yet the use of zoom, the staging, the performance, and setting all collaborate to create a scene communicating Tony’s vicious, yet warranted, impulse to collect what he wants, as the camera zooms closer to his face and the action around him dissipates to focus entirely on Elvira – descending in a glass elevator resembling a toy box.

De Palma’s authorship surfaces in the way Scarface interacts with its audience to make them a voyeur; a forced witness of the violence, misguided values, and addiction disguised as glamour. His distinguishable personality is confirmed early in the film, at the motel Tony meets the Columbian cocaine dealers, and their chainsaw. The suspense and drama of this scene, and the voyeuristic undertones, encapsulate de Palma’s recurrent style and reflects his creative expression (Sarris, 1962). Tony and Angel’s (Pepe Serna) arms are tied to a curtain rod, and the Columbian dealer wields the chainsaw, threatening to dismember Angel as a gun is buried in Tony’s cheek. The rattle of the chainsaw permeates the scene, and the camera zooms in to Tony’s eyes, then out and through the window of the shower. The camera enters the outside world, almost floating down to Manny (Steven Bauer) and Chi-Chi (Angel Salazaar) waiting in the car. It’s almost comical as tropical reggae drowns out the chainsaw and Manny calls out to women walking the street in bikinis, the ocean and palm trees right beside them. The camera zooms out and reverses its path to return to the motel bathroom, and the sound of the chainsaw dominates the scene. As the Columbian dealer begins to cut off Angel’s arm, the audience is offered some reprieve when the camera cuts to Tony’s face, splattered with blood. The camera cuts and zooms on elements of action, then back to Manny in the car, then again to Tony’s sweating, struggling face. The manipulation of space and time with a long take, where the camera floats from the motel bathroom to the street below, paired with the frequent short cuts to a close up of a face, a chainsaw, or blood, demonstrates de Palma’s technical competence in recreating a Hitchcock-esque sequence that generates suspense and fuels the narrative (Bordwell et. al, 2019). The formulation of the sequence, and our reaction to it – we anxiously wait for the chainsaw to meet bone, for an unaware Manny and Chi-Chi to intervene, or for Tony to reveal the gangster promise we were given – is consistent with classic Hitchcock bomb-under-the-table anticipation (Bordwell et. al, 2019). In interview with de Palma by Mark Cousins for Scene by Scene, de Palma heavily discusses Hitchcock’s work as “grammar” and how such techniques can maximise the film form, impacting the audience so strongly – as a pulse races, a hand curls, a jaw clenches – with only visuals to create atmosphere (Mark Cousins, 2021). The long take, quick cuts, and sound editing positions the audience as a witness to violence, a voyeur moving between the world of crime in the motel bathroom, and the oblivious, exterior world Manny inhabits. Scarface becomes a three-dimensional world we can enter, and move around at de Palma’s request, as if the film is aware there is an audience without breaking the fourth wall.

Sarris’ ambiguous definition of an auteur’s interior meaning; it is “extrapolated from the tension between a director’s personality and his material” (Sarris, 1962). Sarris ties this to how the director’s soul is expressed in the final product, and how such expression was achieved (Sarris, 1962). What is de Palma’s soul?

“… A rational, thoughtful, intellectual person who stands outside things— and who, in fact, is the opposite of that, whose passions run deep, whose sense of outrage is limitless. He is his own opposite.”

Wilford Leech in Keesey, 2015:4.

How contradictions co-exist and produce cognitive dissonance is a thread woven throughout de Palma’s work. In Scarface, the conflict is between Tony Montana’s own ego, and his reality, and between gratification and respectability. The film tugs at these binaries, gratifying us with the one-liners iconic in popular culture, the gore, the action, then bringing us back to earth with an overly stylised performance or a reflection on the audiences’ likely values by asking why we even want to see how this unfolds. This is perhaps most visible in Tony Montana himself. His character is driven entirely by ego, subsequently a hollow, macho-man with little context beyond a scar across his face, using it to get rich quick. Tony maintains he is different, better, tougher than his enemies and colleagues, and yet the only difference is his openness about his lifestyle, preferring to wear his scar as a medallion of vicious success. He ends the same – having it all, but unable to enjoy it. At the core, Tony Montana represents the capitalist drive in his desire to dominate. Pacino’s operatic performance is completely consuming, but Brechtian enough that an element of satire escapes, communicating this awareness of the film’s fire and impact it was sure to have (Keesey, 2015). De Palma, who grew from independent filmmaker to revered Hollywood auteur, and discusses feeling removed from his family throughout childhood, almost uses Scarface as a catharsis, and creative expression of his awareness of the capitalistic nature of Hollywood, desperately trying to hold onto the conflict within his soul, the “American dream gone wild” (Frownfelter, 2022).

Scarface is a testament to Brian de Palma’s mastery in creating a voyeuristic experience of themes not relating to its exact definition, producing a cathartic representation of gratification, success, and the hypocrisy of attaining such aspirations. De Palma is an auteur, infusing his work with a technical competence demonstrated by control over mise-en-scene, a distinguished personality through manipulations of film form, and a prevailing interior meaning reflecting the complexities of attaining success.