Walsh directs an atypical gangster movie in many ways: first, the psychological dimension of the protagonist: complex and compulsive, with a plethora of phobias that would delight the palate of any ravenous psychiatrist. It is not simply a fleeting neurosis, but a true pathological abyss, fueled by excruciating migraines that grip him with the violence of an infernal torment and by claustrophobia that turns him into an animal in a cage, unable to tolerate any spatial or emotional limitation. This deep intrusion into the criminal's twisted psyche marks a radical turning point compared to genre classics, which until then had mostly depicted their anti-heroes as products of a dysfunctional social environment or unbridled individualism, rarely probing the darker, more irrational motivations nestled in the folds of the unconscious. White Heat, in this sense, stands as a precursor monument to psychopathology on film, a decade before the aberrations of the human mind became fertile ground for bolder cinema.

In any case, fascinating in its perverse multifaceted nature. The perversion here is not merely ethical, but existential.

Then there is the ethical connotation, which is beautifully subverted, unlike other instances where outlaws were nonetheless pilloried by the institutional perspective of the work, though certainly presented as brave men. In this work, Walsh outlines the archetype of the anti-hero and finds perfect embodiment in Cagney's cynical mask. But Cagney doesn't wear a simple mask; he inhabits Cody Jarrett with vibrant physicality and emotional modulation that transforms the character into a psychological freak show. The moralistic rigor of the Hays Code, which for years had imposed exemplary punishment for criminals on screen, is here bent and almost ridiculed. Cody's condemnation is not so much social as internal, a self-imposed prison of madness and maternal dependence, making his end not a redemption, but a cathartic, yet inevitable, implosion. Walsh, with his dry and brutally effective direction, strips away every hypocrisy, presenting Cody not as an example to avoid, but as a clinical case to observe with horror and morbid curiosity.

James Cagney plays Cody Jarrett, a petty criminal raised in a family of bandits. An atypical family, moreover, led by an iron matriarch, "Ma" Jarrett, a figure as loving as she is ruthless, who herself embodies a deviation from the norm, reinforcing the thesis of a criminal destiny transmitted almost by blood osmosis.

Cody has a veneration for his mother and is prone to violent mood swings that make him appear a man on the brink of madness. This veneration is the true keystone of his delirium, an Oedipal bond exacerbated to a paroxysm, serving as his sole anchor in a sea of instability. His dependence on his mother is total, almost fetal, and when she is gone, his fragile balance definitively breaks, revealing a man-child incapable of facing reality without his emotional totem. His fury is not only externally destructive, but also self-destructive, a vortex of uncontrollable rage manifesting in sudden outbursts, primordial screams, and unprecedented violence that explodes without warning. The scene of his psychological breakdown in prison, where he screams and writhes like a wounded animal, is an acting tour de force by Cagney that goes far beyond simple "fury": it is the pure manifestation of despair and psychosis.

When he reunites the old gang in an abandoned factory, he begins to plan a train robbery that will change their lives forever. This train robbery, a symbol of a fast-moving world that Cody cannot grasp, becomes not so much a plan for financial freedom as the last, desperate attempt to assert control over a reality that eludes him, a challenge thrown at fate, destined for failure.

Memorable, it must truly be said, is Cagney's performance. Cody Jarrett is the archetype of ferocity and Oedipal submission to his mother. The actor, famous for his "tough guy" roles since Public Enemy (1931), surpasses himself here, delivering a performance to cinema that is both visceral and disturbing. He doesn't just play a gangster; he is repressed fury, embodied pathology, vulnerability masked by violence. Every one of his glances, every tic, every explosion of rage is calibrated to convey the character's internal implosion. His ability to switch from affectionate maternal devotion to glacial brutality in the blink of an eye is what makes Cody Jarrett one of the most complex and unforgettable criminals in cinema history. It is a role that redefined not only his career but also the genre itself, paving the way for more multifaceted and psychologically tormented criminal characters, far removed from the two-dimensionality of their predecessors.

When Hitchcock filmed Psycho, he surely remembered the lesson of this film and the figure Walsh managed to design and Cagney to embody. The parallelism between Cody Jarrett and Norman Bates is striking and profound: both characters dominated by a possessive mother (though in different ways), both suffering from deep psychological deviations, with a dual nature oscillating between complacency and murder. Walsh, in White Heat, anticipates by a decade not only the psychological analysis of crime but also the narrative technique of psychological suspense, bringing the viewer to confront the protagonist's distorted mind. The final scene, with Cody screaming "Top of the world, Ma!", as the steel mill explodes in a blaze of glory, is one of the most iconic and nihilistic in cinema history. It is not just the end of a gangster; it is the self-annihilation of a man who never found his place in the world, a liberating yet definitive explosion that closes a circle of violence and madness. This film, with its intensity and thematic boldness, positions itself as a bridge between the classic gangster film and the emerging psychological film noir, leaving an indelible mark on cinematic culture and the collective imagination.