Ryan was an imposing screen presence at 6’ 4”, rugged and masculine with an athletic build that served his more sinister characters to perfection. He was also quite handsome, though his ominous edges seemed to handicap his ability to access traditional leading roles. In Tender Comrade (Edward Dmytryk, 1944), Ryan flirted with romantic melodrama as the doomed serviceman husband of Ginger Rogers. Even this early supporting performance is underscored with darkness; the film is wartime propaganda with a supposed political message that would further complicate or aid in the career destruction of several actors and filmmakers involved during the House Un-American Activities Committee hearings. (A passionate liberal, Ryan avoided the blacklist that marred the careers of director Dmytryk, screenwriter Dalton Trumbo, and actresses Mady Christians and Kim Hunter, all of whom worked on Tender Comrade. Ginger Rogers blasted the alleged Communist ideology of the film.)
The paranoia of the post-WWII and early Cold War era that generated the best in American film of the period, most notably in film noir, fit the attributes and talents of Robert Ryan well. The actor is at his best inhabiting characters threatened by shifts in the status quo, by changes in social order. His Academy Award-nominated performance as an anti-Semitic soldier in Crossfire (Edward Dmytryk, 1947) was a professional breakthrough. In the role, Ryan surveys the psychological landscape of ideological agitation with a complicated, loathsome vulnerability. The supporting Oscar went to Edmund Gwenn’s warm Kris Kringle in Miracle on 34th Street. Robert Ryan nonetheless established his finesse in developing multi-dimensional interpretations of complex characters in 1947—not only in Crossfire, but also as another conflicted member of the Armed Forces—in Jean Renoir’s The Woman on the Beach.
Outstanding work in noirs such as Fred Zinnemann’s under-appreciated Act of Violence (1948) and Max Ophüls’ Caught (1949) followed. Ryan possesses a cunning attractiveness in these films, a cold allure of instability that culminates in quite different character trajectories specific to each. His physical potency is commanding as a has-been boxer in Robert Wise’s real-time The Set-Up (1949); Ryan was a collegiate boxer and this film is perhaps the most straightforward expression of his athletic power, albeit in retrograde. Even in his work in comparatively minor fare such as the sensational I Married a Communist! (Robert Stevenson, 1949) and the deliciously tawdry Born to Be Bad (Nicholas Ray, 1950), the actor is always an arresting screen force.
The maturation of Robert Ryan as an actor arguably culminates in another Ray film, the noir masterpiece On Dangerous Ground (1951). As a violent, unbalanced police detective, Ryan realizes the combative agitation found in many of his supporting performances, this time as a leading man. The internal anxieties of his earlier work inform his searing external portrayal. His muscular physicality is further reduced and the abstract hollowness of his gaze, so pronounced throughout his filmography, collapses into redemption. The actor frequently registers bleak resignation in his work, but in this film that imminent submission reveals hope.
Some subsequent performances lacked such salvation. In Bad Day at Black Rock (John Sturges, 1955) Ryan’s cruel racist is tremendously actualized evil. Regardless, the actor creates his customary complexities of performance and hints at the possibility of redemption, a hallmark of his performances from Crossfire onward. The tension between good and evil is slightly more fluid for the Ryan characters in Clash by Night (Lang, 1952), The Naked Spur (Anthony Mann, 1953) and Odds Against Tomorrow (Robert Wise, 1959). Yet a less stereotypical, “good” character portrayed by Ryan in a lesser film like Inferno (Vincent J. Donehue, 1958) also exhibits a sophisticated morality that is encroached by conflict. Though the characters and situations may appear black and white, with Robert Ryan, there are seldom such absolutes.
Ryan enjoyed experiences on the stage as well, appearing Eugene O’Neill’s A Long Day’s Journey Into Night, and the time-tested Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur comedy The Front Page. Solid supporting work in war dramas and Westerns followed Ryan into his final decade of film acting (The Longest Day, The Dirty Dozen and The Wild Bunch are perhaps the most recognizable films to modern audiences in the actor's arsenal), culminating in John Frankenheimer’s adaptation of O’Neill’s The Iceman Cometh (1973). In contrast to many of his bold, aggressive portrayals, Robert Ryan was an outspoken supporter of Civil Rights and vehemently against McCarthyism. The disparities between his personal convictions and some of his notable performances might appear difficult to reconcile. As charged and as memorable as his villainous and bigoted roles remain, however, it is important to note that Ryan never celebrates these men onscreen. Instead, he frequently creates characters of depth that relay the realities of human experience as change envelopes society. He does so in terms relatable—even at their most extreme—to audiences. Because he often eschews flimsy, thin representations, his work continues to provoke and involve viewers.
The paranoia of the post-WWII and early Cold War era that generated the best in American film of the period, most notably in film noir, fit the attributes and talents of Robert Ryan well. The actor is at his best inhabiting characters threatened by shifts in the status quo, by changes in social order. His Academy Award-nominated performance as an anti-Semitic soldier in Crossfire (Edward Dmytryk, 1947) was a professional breakthrough. In the role, Ryan surveys the psychological landscape of ideological agitation with a complicated, loathsome vulnerability. The supporting Oscar went to Edmund Gwenn’s warm Kris Kringle in Miracle on 34th Street. Robert Ryan nonetheless established his finesse in developing multi-dimensional interpretations of complex characters in 1947—not only in Crossfire, but also as another conflicted member of the Armed Forces—in Jean Renoir’s The Woman on the Beach.
Outstanding work in noirs such as Fred Zinnemann’s under-appreciated Act of Violence (1948) and Max Ophüls’ Caught (1949) followed. Ryan possesses a cunning attractiveness in these films, a cold allure of instability that culminates in quite different character trajectories specific to each. His physical potency is commanding as a has-been boxer in Robert Wise’s real-time The Set-Up (1949); Ryan was a collegiate boxer and this film is perhaps the most straightforward expression of his athletic power, albeit in retrograde. Even in his work in comparatively minor fare such as the sensational I Married a Communist! (Robert Stevenson, 1949) and the deliciously tawdry Born to Be Bad (Nicholas Ray, 1950), the actor is always an arresting screen force.
The maturation of Robert Ryan as an actor arguably culminates in another Ray film, the noir masterpiece On Dangerous Ground (1951). As a violent, unbalanced police detective, Ryan realizes the combative agitation found in many of his supporting performances, this time as a leading man. The internal anxieties of his earlier work inform his searing external portrayal. His muscular physicality is further reduced and the abstract hollowness of his gaze, so pronounced throughout his filmography, collapses into redemption. The actor frequently registers bleak resignation in his work, but in this film that imminent submission reveals hope.
Some subsequent performances lacked such salvation. In Bad Day at Black Rock (John Sturges, 1955) Ryan’s cruel racist is tremendously actualized evil. Regardless, the actor creates his customary complexities of performance and hints at the possibility of redemption, a hallmark of his performances from Crossfire onward. The tension between good and evil is slightly more fluid for the Ryan characters in Clash by Night (Lang, 1952), The Naked Spur (Anthony Mann, 1953) and Odds Against Tomorrow (Robert Wise, 1959). Yet a less stereotypical, “good” character portrayed by Ryan in a lesser film like Inferno (Vincent J. Donehue, 1958) also exhibits a sophisticated morality that is encroached by conflict. Though the characters and situations may appear black and white, with Robert Ryan, there are seldom such absolutes.
Ryan enjoyed experiences on the stage as well, appearing Eugene O’Neill’s A Long Day’s Journey Into Night, and the time-tested Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur comedy The Front Page. Solid supporting work in war dramas and Westerns followed Ryan into his final decade of film acting (The Longest Day, The Dirty Dozen and The Wild Bunch are perhaps the most recognizable films to modern audiences in the actor's arsenal), culminating in John Frankenheimer’s adaptation of O’Neill’s The Iceman Cometh (1973). In contrast to many of his bold, aggressive portrayals, Robert Ryan was an outspoken supporter of Civil Rights and vehemently against McCarthyism. The disparities between his personal convictions and some of his notable performances might appear difficult to reconcile. As charged and as memorable as his villainous and bigoted roles remain, however, it is important to note that Ryan never celebrates these men onscreen. Instead, he frequently creates characters of depth that relay the realities of human experience as change envelopes society. He does so in terms relatable—even at their most extreme—to audiences. Because he often eschews flimsy, thin representations, his work continues to provoke and involve viewers.
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