In a Lonely Place (Nicholas Ray, 1950)
A shattered world, future so bleak
it’s hardly worth the effort. If not for
a post-war temper, lashing out, hairpin-
turns at ninety psychopaths an hour,
losing a woman so beautiful she could
pawn your breath, and schlep the ticket
from L.A. to Tijuana and back again.
But asking that hat-check girl home to
turn a hack screenplay into something
saleable? So fucking cynical, yet so
human. As if those cloying lines- “I was
born when you kissed me. I died when
you left me...", blah, blah, blah- were
nothing more than an excuse. In the end,
you couldn't even look at each other,
so profound the betrayal. Though, in
this version, you weren't guilty, or at
least I don't think you were. But the
other crimes. Much closer to the edge,
everything played out, depicting this
world we have so clearly inherited.
it’s hardly worth the effort. If not for
a post-war temper, lashing out, hairpin-
turns at ninety psychopaths an hour,
losing a woman so beautiful she could
pawn your breath, and schlep the ticket
from L.A. to Tijuana and back again.
But asking that hat-check girl home to
turn a hack screenplay into something
saleable? So fucking cynical, yet so
human. As if those cloying lines- “I was
born when you kissed me. I died when
you left me...", blah, blah, blah- were
nothing more than an excuse. In the end,
you couldn't even look at each other,
so profound the betrayal. Though, in
this version, you weren't guilty, or at
least I don't think you were. But the
other crimes. Much closer to the edge,
everything played out, depicting this
world we have so clearly inherited.
The Killers (Robert Siodmak, 1946)
Night time the proverbial
for irritable hoodlums,
terrorising night-shift small-
town diners. Laconically
seeking jack-of-all boxer,
small-time criminal, gas
station pump-man. Twenty
minutes and Hemingway is
conveniently thrashed. With
a thin line separating history
from back-story. Think Citizen
Kane for pulp-heads, albeit
with a jones for fractured
narratives. A frozen demeanour,
ever the plight of insurance
investigators, Swede's passivity
and hat-factory heist despair.
O'Brien, untarnished enough
to ask lascivious Ava if she
would take to his hotel room,
stands at attention, like he's
recovering from a severe case
of erectile dysfunction. Not
a condition Swede recognises.
“She’s beautiful,” he says,
drooling, like Bugs Bunny on
steroids, down Ava's cleavage,
leaving his girl-friend on the
sidelines searching for a different
angle, while only the musicians
stand capable of calculating so
slippery a hypotenuse. But whose
dream is this? Movies-within-
movies, planetary jail-house spiel,
death bed supplication, a stair-
case littered with Ava’s victims.
All to prevent premiums rising
a tenth of a percent. And what
about the pay-out? Times Square
humanity, five-and-ten jewellery,
more than anyone can imagine.
for irritable hoodlums,
terrorising night-shift small-
town diners. Laconically
seeking jack-of-all boxer,
small-time criminal, gas
station pump-man. Twenty
minutes and Hemingway is
conveniently thrashed. With
a thin line separating history
from back-story. Think Citizen
Kane for pulp-heads, albeit
with a jones for fractured
narratives. A frozen demeanour,
ever the plight of insurance
investigators, Swede's passivity
and hat-factory heist despair.
O'Brien, untarnished enough
to ask lascivious Ava if she
would take to his hotel room,
stands at attention, like he's
recovering from a severe case
of erectile dysfunction. Not
a condition Swede recognises.
“She’s beautiful,” he says,
drooling, like Bugs Bunny on
steroids, down Ava's cleavage,
leaving his girl-friend on the
sidelines searching for a different
angle, while only the musicians
stand capable of calculating so
slippery a hypotenuse. But whose
dream is this? Movies-within-
movies, planetary jail-house spiel,
death bed supplication, a stair-
case littered with Ava’s victims.
All to prevent premiums rising
a tenth of a percent. And what
about the pay-out? Times Square
humanity, five-and-ten jewellery,
more than anyone can imagine.
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