The Gangster (Gordon Wiles, 1947)
Old-world scar maps a familiar but seldom
visited country. Where arrogance and bravado
morph into fear and cabbage. Where fatalism
and tears flow like honey. So singer-obsessed
he's lost interest in his empire, gaming tables
located in the crevices of a diversified ice-cream
parlour. What about an ad in the classifieds:
corporation seeks new emperor of ice cream,
greased by a seam of sleazy modernity. Apply
to melt this frozen empire. Total liquidation,
everything slashed. Unreasonable love, hidden
to heed the voices. Knowing power will soon
be as negotiable as a two-dollar bill. So stylised
its scheming, one expects Gene Kelly to enter
the frame, a leap of faith across a rain-ridden
Coney Island boardwalk.“You know what my
sins were?" asks Shubunka, a yid too far for
the studios. "That I wasn’t low and rotten and
dirty enough.” With politicos still seeking less
with more than ever, a final grand gesture
skinned of old world remnants, slight accent,
cigarette smog, heart attack sandwiches and
decayed lungs. Grist for a melodrama that turns
on an empty soap box, the politics of poetic
realism searching the gutter to touch the stars.
visited country. Where arrogance and bravado
morph into fear and cabbage. Where fatalism
and tears flow like honey. So singer-obsessed
he's lost interest in his empire, gaming tables
located in the crevices of a diversified ice-cream
parlour. What about an ad in the classifieds:
corporation seeks new emperor of ice cream,
greased by a seam of sleazy modernity. Apply
to melt this frozen empire. Total liquidation,
everything slashed. Unreasonable love, hidden
to heed the voices. Knowing power will soon
be as negotiable as a two-dollar bill. So stylised
its scheming, one expects Gene Kelly to enter
the frame, a leap of faith across a rain-ridden
Coney Island boardwalk.“You know what my
sins were?" asks Shubunka, a yid too far for
the studios. "That I wasn’t low and rotten and
dirty enough.” With politicos still seeking less
with more than ever, a final grand gesture
skinned of old world remnants, slight accent,
cigarette smog, heart attack sandwiches and
decayed lungs. Grist for a melodrama that turns
on an empty soap box, the politics of poetic
realism searching the gutter to touch the stars.
Gilda (Charles Vidor, 1946)
A sluice of post-war Nazis sleazing it up
down Argentina way. And that song,
exotic turbulence churning routine, from
self-preservation or convenience, the singer,
displaying a metaphorically-stained dress
Bill might have denied denying, and her
Nazi, tie the knot, unpredictably gordian,
entangled by a roving gambler with a case
of tango tumescence, rubbing his recent
past against her precarious future. But that
fucking Nazi should have known hiring
a gambler to run a casino, tweaking his job
description to include spying on a libidinous
wife, was a hedge too far. A wall beyond
which to fixate on his sword-tipped cane
affectionately called my little friend. While
an array of sycophants quack dubious dialectics,
maracas shake, hearing hubby's plane bubbling
under troubled waters. Disentangled to marry
the lone stranger, who too will soon learn to
down Argentina way. And that song,
exotic turbulence churning routine, from
self-preservation or convenience, the singer,
displaying a metaphorically-stained dress
Bill might have denied denying, and her
Nazi, tie the knot, unpredictably gordian,
entangled by a roving gambler with a case
of tango tumescence, rubbing his recent
past against her precarious future. But that
fucking Nazi should have known hiring
a gambler to run a casino, tweaking his job
description to include spying on a libidinous
wife, was a hedge too far. A wall beyond
which to fixate on his sword-tipped cane
affectionately called my little friend. While
an array of sycophants quack dubious dialectics,
maracas shake, hearing hubby's plane bubbling
under troubled waters. Disentangled to marry
the lone stranger, who too will soon learn to
grovel. As for the Nazi, they rarely die with
such aplomb, floating shark-infested seas,
treading wetness until the fish cry mercy, the
Argentine cows come home, and the blame
is put on...a weapon of mass dysfunction, as
euphemism for a greater obscenity. “Men
fall in love with Gilda," she said, "but they
wake up with me.” No wonder out of all
her films, it was only musicals that Holly-
wood's closet chicana could bare to watch.
such aplomb, floating shark-infested seas,
treading wetness until the fish cry mercy, the
Argentine cows come home, and the blame
is put on...a weapon of mass dysfunction, as
euphemism for a greater obscenity. “Men
fall in love with Gilda," she said, "but they
wake up with me.” No wonder out of all
her films, it was only musicals that Holly-
wood's closet chicana could bare to watch.
No comments:
Post a Comment