(Slight spoilers ahead.)
C.C. Baxter (Jack Lemmon) is a nameless drone at a Manhattan insurance company, one among many in an sea of desks that stretches as far as the eye can see (literally; it’s one of the clever visual tricks Wilder employs). Partly by accident, and partly to garner favor for a promotion, he has arrived at an arrangement wherein three of the executives in his office use his apartment for their extra-marital affairs. It works well for them, but it means Baxter has to make himself scarce too often for comfort — and from what they can hear through the walls, his disapproving neighbors think he’s some kind of indefatigable sex maniac. It’s a lonely, alienating, and demeaning existence, but at least it could get him a promotion down the line (a fact his betters never seem to let him forget).
Baxter begins wooing a sprightly elevator operator named Fran Kubelik (Shirley MacLaine, stunning), before realizing that she’s one of the girls who’s been using using apartment. Or, rather, who’s been being used there. What begins as a pretty standard screwball comedy here makes a hard turn, tonally. After her lover, personnel executive Mr. Sheldrake, leaves early from one of their trysts at Baxter’s apartment to catch a train back to his wife and kids, Fran tries to take her own life by overdosing on some sleeping pills she finds in the bathroom. Baxter finds her unresponsive in his bed, and nurses her back to health with the help of his doctor neighbor. Wilder doesn’t at all make light of the situation; it’s a raw, realistic second act.
But as Fran recovers, the movie drifts back toward comedy. After some more screwball contrivances, Baxter and Fran, of course, end up together in a happy ending. But the weight of their shared trauma lingers over the rest of the film. The effect is like a major-scale arpeggio with a minor note added in the middle; you intuitively sense how it will resolve, but the added tension makes it all the more satisfying.
Also, when Baxter and Fran are finally reunited at the end, he’s holding a freshly popped champagne bottle that’s absolutely gushing bubbles; probably the best phallic metaphor in all of cinema.
“The Apartment” had been on my to-see list for quite some time, and now that I’ve seen it I’m kicking myself for not doing it sooner. Perfect script, technically deft direction (Wilder makes great use of space), and Lemmon and MacLaine are just perfect. You could watch them just playing gin rummy for two hours.