The Apartment manages to achieve the impossible, especially for 1960. As with Gigi, the winner from 1958, it’s difficult to imagine a mainstream film like this surviving the Hays Code, which was still in control of morality as depicted on screen. This is a story about an ambitious, young, insurance actuary who pimps out his bachelor-pad apartment to a string of married executives from his office so they can hook up with discreet ladies for sex on a regular basis. This movie has everything: blackmail, attempted suicide, sexual harassment, corporate corruption, booty calls, invasion of privacy, adultery, bribery, habitual lying, medical malpractice, prostitution … did I mention this is a comedy? Or at least it’s presented as such, with great wit from the brilliant mind of “writer-director-producer” Billy Wilder. He won a trio of Oscars in those respective categories as well—a record at the time. As the years go on, however, it gets harder to laugh. The humor still works, but the dramatic weight of the subject matter rings louder and often overtakes the comedy, particularly in this Internet Age with powerful social media movements like #metoo shedding much-needed and long-overdue light on sexual harassment and coercion.

Fred MacMurray as Jeff Sheldrake.

Much of the reason this story stays afloat is the cast, particularly the three leads. Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine do what they did best early in their careers. Lemmon plays a flawed, semi-annoying opportunist with cartoonish enthusiasm and bumbling charm. MacLaine plays a lost waif with self-deprecating humor, no taste in men, and a heart of gold. Fred MacMurray, on the other hand, took a big risk with the role of a first-class jerk devoid of any redeeming qualities whatsoever. He received quite a backlash from film fans, so much so that it marked the last time he would play against type, particularly after signing a longterm contract with Disney. My hat goes off to him, because he’s terrific. Lemmon and MacLaine both received Oscar nominations for their work, but MacMurray is equally deserving.

Watching The Apartment today, I see how its style, plot, characters, setting, and overall approach inspired so many other stories and projects—everything from Mad Men to How to Succeed in Business without Really Trying to The Office to The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, not to mention a hit Broadway musical based directly on the material called Promises, Promises. Each owes a debt of gratitude to this film and to Billy Wilder for knowing precisely how to present serious issues in an entertaining and “attractive” way, lowering barriers and curbing knee-jerk resistance to the subject matter. Audiences and even censors from 1960 became receptive to it.

The corporate beehive in “The Apartment,” 1960.

The plot is simple, although there are several nifty turns along the way to keep things interesting. C.C. Baxter (Lemmon) is a white-collar drone, toiling away each day with his stats and figures for a national insurance company in New York City. The one thing he’s got that separates him from the anonymous masses around him isn’t talent or promise. It’s a key to an apartment, his apartment, along with a willingness to play the game. That key makes the rounds among a small group of discreet executives, played by such recognizable faces as Ray Walston (Damn Yankees, My Favorite Martian), Willard Waterman (Auntie Mame), and David White (Bewitched). They need his apartment to hook up for sex, you see. All of them are married, so hotel bills that might serve as evidence of infidelity aren’t an option. In exchange, they promise to recommend Baxter for a promotion. These corporate creeps make good on their promise until personnel director Jeff Sheldrake (MacMurray) catches on. He gives Baxter the promotion as a swap for, you guessed it, the key. As a bonus, Baxter trades his key for two tickets to see The Music Man on Broadway, and it’s fun to view the outside of the Majestic Theatre while this hit show was actually running. Sheldrake ditches his wife and their plans for the evening so he can rendezvous with his mistress.

Shirley MacLaine and Jack Lemmon.

Feeling terrific about the new job and the tickets, he invites an elevator operator named Fran Kubelik (MacLaine) to see the show with him. He’s had his eye on Kubelik for a while now, as have others in the office who feel no shame in grabbing her derriere as they sweep past her, exiting to their floor. She already has a date for drinks after work but agrees to meet Baxter in time for the 8:30 curtain. Of course her date is with Sheldrake, she is his mistress, and she never actually makes it to the theatre.

Things come to a head when Sheldrake’s secretary Miss Olsen (Edie Adams, who is quite effective in a small part) has too much to drink at their Christmas party and spills the beans about her boss’s previous affairs, including herself in the mix. Olsen has had to sit outside Sheldrake’s office and watch her “replacements” parade by, one after the other. She rattles off their names as Kubelik grows ill at the realization. During her next visit to the apartment, Kubelik has it out with Sheldrake, who dashes off to catch a train back to his wife and kids. She ends up raiding the medicine cabinet and downs half a bottle of Seconal, attempting to kill herself.

When Baxter stumbles home drunk with a random pickup from the local bar (Hope Holiday), he finds Kubelik unconscious in his bed. He throws the other woman out and wakes his neighbor Dr. Dreyfuss (Oscar-nominee Jack Kruschen), who saves Kubelik’s life. Baxter keeps her engaged with rounds of gin rummy and dinner for the two of them while she recovers. Ultimately, they fall in love. When Sheldrake asks for the key again at work, Baxter hands him a key to the executive washroom instead. The game is over, and he resigns—which is the likely reason this story made it past the censors. Sinning was okay in Code-era movies, provided the guilty party either repented or was punished.

Baxter packs moving boxes at home on New Year’s Eve while Sheldrake is out celebrating with Kubelik at their regular club. As soon as she learns that Baxter quit his job and refused to loan them the key, she ditches Sheldrake for the last time and races through the streets to Baxter’s apartment. It’s funny, the tears flowed for me this time, watching this scene. I don’t recall that happening before, but I find it unabashedly romantic after seeing these deeply flawed characters stagger about for two hours without a bright decision between them. The happy ending works. And when all is said and done, so does this unique gem of a film.

On the surface, The Apartment could be labeled as dated, offering a quaint retro-nostalgia to the proceedings—elevator operators, endless rows of adding machines being hand-cranked, record players, tiki-bar lounge music, even black-and-white as a popular film stock. But the story’s themes make it relevant today. Perhaps we’ll reach a point in society where unwarranted sexual advancements and sexual politics in the workplace are a thing of the past as well. I would like to think so.

The Apartment