Try and Get Me (Cyril Endfield, 1950)
Take away this San Jose, replete counter-factual
lynchings, deep into the genotypical. And if
offending the offendable, remove the offence,
or, for that matter, sleazoid jurisprudence.
Preambled by yet another religious nutter, his
sign, gulp, muddy water, turkey in all this
chinoiserie: like, "How much are you guilty
for the evils in the world?" Swallow, head down.
Numb post-war suburban man, washed with a yen
for monopoly capitalism. Lurking in a tostada-
with-all-the-trimmings clink. Ain’t no get outta
jail free card in this star spangled banana republic.
And "no law against what's right." But what is right?
Poor pendejo, coming back to his little chickadee.
In darkness, a window, his only art, sans tv to
distract, sans disposable dosh to schlep his sitcom
son to a ball game. Still, ducks will slurp for the
nearest psycho, and rungs on the ladder will break
with lumpen farce, Elmer Fudding raison robbery.
Born to shoot shit, his marriage crumbles for lack
of middle-class moxy. Spilling beans on a barroom
floor, to a wallflower displaying her magnificent
ambersons, plumaged to shop the schmuckable,
revving the reviled to break into jail, their monkeys
signifying one man's guilt might well be another
man's gelt. Whether backroom boy or tinselled
mensch, seething to insert an immigrant root-canal
cosmopolitan, eurosplaining vigilantism. Pre-
Murdoched with a by-lined Green Stamp wallop,
sans hostages to redeem, for this, buy easy bay lurch.
Where Danger Lives (John Farrow, 1950)
Who doesn’t “do” anxiety, influence or discontents.
High rollers, disguised as low hitters. Dodge-ball
pretenders and four-square curators. Likewise, scionic
border rats, and their calico partners. Blimey! It’s a
replicant of Willeford’s Wild Wives, six years later.
Uncredited, forgotten, unmentioned, or marooned in
anodyneland. But let’s gloss this lipstick, mire this
pig in graveyard proverbials. Picture a wealthy young
wife, her past perturbing her present, secondhand
clocking a handsome young doctor. We wonder, is
the old guy her husband or father? Well, Cassandra
is nothing if not complex. That Dr Mitch and the old
man come to blows, is more ontological than generational.
That Dr Mitch dances like Sluggo, must impair his
gamut of suicidal tendencies. Like travelling to Mexico,
with warts and all peccadilloes. Nearing the border, her
psychosis riles, tries to kill Dr Mitch. Hardly una
mojada, but shot all the same, straight to the core of her
consequentialism. Her confession prompting a debate
on the nature of false consciousness. Is this a stitch-up,
or simply a gold digger’s diet? Ubiquitous, granular
paranoia, so lopsided this autonomy, so why can’t these
fuckers recycle their trash as they do their movies or
wives? I had no choice. I fell under her spell. As old as
Hollywood, clueless though it was and always has been.