On Dangerous Ground (Nicholas Ray, 1952)
Why do you punks make me do it?
growls the cop as he beats the shit
out of a pathetic street hood. As if
the same old same old, aggressor
blaming victim, perking watch and
wonder. Law and order cracking as
inevitable as the saturated light, an
apartment filled with testosteronised
artifacts: what once was, will never
be. Violence, as always, feeding the
conundrum. If only it wasn't so addictive,
or family of last resort. A jones exiling
him to a sparsely populated snow-
ridden town, viewed- a movie within
a movie- through a windscreen, the
schtumed backseat viewer cachéd
in their own private critique, bleached
out by the death of a young girl at the
hands of a teenager barely knowing
better. With darkness bleeding into
domesticity, a match is lit for unblinking
eyes, and a wounded plea to locate
her brother before revenge can freeze
his tracks. Frightened, the kid invariably
slips from higher ground, recycling a
geology of clichés, footnotes in an
expurgated history of crime and
punishment. Fifty years on, the screen-
writer, blagging in his local coffee shop,
tells a redacted story: how he'd simply
wanted the cop to return to the city a
different person. But the studio’s arc was
non-negotiable. After all, the politics of
money dictates that only a miracle can
suffice. A capitulation, however generous,
not quite more than barely nothing at all.
growls the cop as he beats the shit
out of a pathetic street hood. As if
the same old same old, aggressor
blaming victim, perking watch and
wonder. Law and order cracking as
inevitable as the saturated light, an
apartment filled with testosteronised
artifacts: what once was, will never
be. Violence, as always, feeding the
conundrum. If only it wasn't so addictive,
or family of last resort. A jones exiling
him to a sparsely populated snow-
ridden town, viewed- a movie within
a movie- through a windscreen, the
schtumed backseat viewer cachéd
in their own private critique, bleached
out by the death of a young girl at the
hands of a teenager barely knowing
better. With darkness bleeding into
domesticity, a match is lit for unblinking
eyes, and a wounded plea to locate
her brother before revenge can freeze
his tracks. Frightened, the kid invariably
slips from higher ground, recycling a
geology of clichés, footnotes in an
expurgated history of crime and
punishment. Fifty years on, the screen-
writer, blagging in his local coffee shop,
tells a redacted story: how he'd simply
wanted the cop to return to the city a
different person. But the studio’s arc was
non-negotiable. After all, the politics of
money dictates that only a miracle can
suffice. A capitulation, however generous,
not quite more than barely nothing at all.
Out of the Past (Jacques Tourneur, 1947)
It’s all about that hat, and the
light, Acapulco golden, straight
outta the sun, fat man staring,
one last cramped tete-a-tete
with Mitchum. Throwing down
mis-coined phrases: like it's a
small world or a big sign for a
dame with a rod or a guy with
a knitting needle. They say no
one is all bad, but she comes
close. A serial betrayer. Who
never claimed to be anything
light, Acapulco golden, straight
outta the sun, fat man staring,
one last cramped tete-a-tete
with Mitchum. Throwing down
mis-coined phrases: like it's a
small world or a big sign for a
dame with a rod or a guy with
a knitting needle. They say no
one is all bad, but she comes
close. A serial betrayer. Who
never claimed to be anything
other than herself. Gallows
steadfastly high. That's how it
works if it works at all. She
walks into a bar and finds you
there, not even capable of
hatred. Dream on, have another
Cuba Libre on me. You know,
like one for the road that never
ends, that is until suddenly it does.
Double-murderer, sans chapeau,
dressing as a nun, pretending
she has the Big Guy on her side.
But isn't it true that it's always
the psychopath who take charge.
Machine-gun hidden behind a
tree, cash on the floor, blood on
the wheel. And simpering Ann
now free to marry her childhood
Rotarian. Mitch aside, it can
only be a losing battle, with
everyone no one in disguise.
steadfastly high. That's how it
works if it works at all. She
walks into a bar and finds you
there, not even capable of
hatred. Dream on, have another
Cuba Libre on me. You know,
like one for the road that never
ends, that is until suddenly it does.
Double-murderer, sans chapeau,
dressing as a nun, pretending
she has the Big Guy on her side.
But isn't it true that it's always
the psychopath who take charge.
Machine-gun hidden behind a
tree, cash on the floor, blood on
the wheel. And simpering Ann
now free to marry her childhood
Rotarian. Mitch aside, it can
only be a losing battle, with
everyone no one in disguise.
No comments:
Post a Comment