End of the Line Cafés: “The Iceman Cometh” (1960/1973)

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The 1960 television

The 1960 television “The Iceman Cometh” as seen by Al Hirschfeld. Left to right: Hilda Brawner, Myron McCormick, Jason Robards and Julie Bovasso.

By Scott Ross

If, as I believe, Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey into Night is the great American play, his The Iceman Cometh vies with very few fellow contenders for a most respectable second place. And if family is the great subject of 20th century American dramatists, there is no family play that can touch Long Day’s Journey in its merciless yet pitying dissection of the means by which our immediate relations shape, and misshape, us, and the unshakable, death-grip hold they exert on us: How, even when we comprehend, and confront, the psychic murders parents and children visit on one another, we are unable to fully forgive, let alone forget, them.

James Barton, holding forth at center, the original Hickey of O'Neill's 1946 staging. That linear row of tables couldn't have helped.

James Barton, holding forth at center, the original Hickey of Eddie Dowling’s 1946 staging. That nearly linear row of tables couldn’t have helped.

While the nuclear unit is not the dramatic center of The Iceman Cometh, family is never very far from the surface. The denizens of Harry Hope’s saloon themselves form an uneasy, shifting, kind of family, made up largely of disaffected brothers and eccentric uncles, with Harry himself the predictably mercurial pater familias. And for many of these men, some sort of familial uncoupling forms the basis of dipsomania. Larry Slade, the “old foolosopher,” a one-time Anarchist, claims he’s long finished with the movement, yet it was his ultimately untenable involvement with young Don Parritt’s mother, rather than the movement per se, that soured him on his youthful pipe-dream of political upheaval. Parritt himself, who looks to Larry as a potential father-figure, has betrayed the movement to the police for a mess of pottage, ostensibly for money but really to get back at his indifferent mom, that self-same paragon of the movement who so effectively killed Larry’s activism. The one-time “brilliant law student” Willie Oban was likewise undone by the arrest and imprisonment of his bucket-shop proprietor father, and Jimmy Tomorrow pretends the cause of his bibulousness was his wife’s infidelity when it is far more likely that the reverse was true: That it was he, not her, who was unfaithful. Even “The General” and “The Captain,” old Boer War antagonists now inseparable companions in methomania, have been disowned by their families at home, while Harry deludes himself that he has withdrawn from life outside due to his great love for his (conveniently) dead wife Bessie, in reality a nagging termagant he could barely stand. And Hickey, whose arrival is so widely anticipated — and whose sudden reversal of persona is just as avidly despaired of — has finally reached the limit of his capacity to torture, and be tormented by, his endlessly forgiving wife Evelyn. If a happy Tolstoyean family lurks in the background of any of the habitués of Harry Hope’s saloon, the playwright hasn’t been moved to recall it. And what O’Neill doesn’t get around to discussing, and in detail, likely doesn’t exist.

O'Neill Time 1946

O’Neill generally (and Iceman most specifically) can feel like strong medicine, even to his admirers. For Arthur Miller, himself no slouch in the practice of heavy-handedness, O’Neill “is a very insensitive writer. There’s no finesse at all: he’s the Dreiser of the stage. He writes with heavy pencils.” Pauline Kael classified Iceman as “the greatest thesis play in the American theatre.” And Kenneth Tynan was absolutely correct when he noted of it, “Paul Valery once defined a true snob as a man who was afraid to admit that he was bored when he was bored; and he would be a king of snobs indeed who failed to admit to a mauvais quart d’heure about halfway through The Iceman Cometh.”

Indeed, I avoided both reading and seeing Iceman for decades, for precisely the reasons explicated above. Well, that and its 4-hour length, which cowed me. But no one who considers himself a playwright, or a critic, has any business avoiding O’Neill, or this play, indefinitely. Despite its obviousness, its insensitivity, its longueurs, its lack of poetry and its undeniable position as a thesis play, The Iceman Cometh is, somehow, indispensable. It says little, and at great length and volubility, and one can argue endlessly about whether O’Neill is averring that human beings need their pipe-dreams in order to live (Kael) or that the specificity of a barroom/flophouse filled with alcoholic bums invalidates its universality (Tynan.) I would say that O’Neill is not necessarily claiming anything for everyone but that, if he was, it is that pipe-dreams are less what allow us to face the impossibilities of life as they are the inevitable run-off of personal guilt and the fantasies permitting those who feel themselves failures to believe in some sort of hope, however tenuous or unattainable, for the future.

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Robards as Hickey

O’Neill premiered Iceman in 1946, with a production starring James Barton that was both unappreciated and puzzled over, and which ran only briefly; it took another decade for the play to be rediscovered, in the popular Circle Rep re-staging by José Quintero. And while there is as yet no “definitive,” complete video rendering of this unwieldy, occasionally stupefying but undeniably powerful dramatic cantata, two exceptional, if slightly abridged, editions were, thankfully, preserved for posterity. The first, Sidney Lumet’s 1960 video staging, produced by the nascent public broadcasting entity National Educational Television (NET) would be notable if only for its capturing of Jason Robards, Jr.’s universally acclaimed characterization of Hickey but is, despite its visual limitations, much more than merely a showcase for a great actor’s defining performance. The second, John Frankenheimer’s 1973 movie for the short-lived subscription series American Film Theatre, while lacking Robards, has a visual palette far richer and gives us as well, in a uniformly superb cast, the final performances of two great American actors.

Myron McCormick as Larry (1960.)

Myron McCormick, the Larry of 1960

The great Robert Ryan as Larry (1973.)

The great Robert Ryan as Larry (1973)

 

Since the play is at base a contest between Larry and Hickey, the casting of the two roles is crucial. About Hickey, more anon. But in its Larry, the AFT production has the decided edge in Robert Ryan. Then 59 — and, although he did not know it during the filming, dying — this greatest of unheralded American actors gives the performance of a lifetime. The movie camera helps, of course, but what is written on Ryan’s craggy, lived-in face is unique to him. As a lifelong leftist, the role of a former anarchist drowning in his bitterness must have held great appeal, but Ryan also brought to the movie the experience of his performance as James Tyrone opposite Geraldine Fitzgerald in a Long Day’s Journey revival, so his O’Neill bona fides are secure. He lends a gentleness, and a grace, to Larry that is absent in Myron McCormick’s effective but more obvious 1960 reading; in Ryan, the warring impulses of instinctive pity and a desperate desire to an indifference he cannot feel are as absolute, and as heartrending, as his conflicting hope for, and fear of, “the big sleep” of death.

Crucial too to the 1973 edition too is the Harry Hope of Frederic March. One of the most important actors of his time, March was a popular matinee idol (A Star is Born), twice an Academy Award® winner (Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, The Best Years of Our Lives) and, latterly, the creator of James Tyrone in the 1956 premiere, following O’Neill’s death, of Long Day’s Journey. At 76, March plays the 60 year-old Harry with rare gusto, his malleable face stretching from the slackness of both bottomless self-pity and irritable garrulity to the infectious grin of devilish (and innately sadistic) merriment that make it instantly clear why, aside from his largesse with liquor, the denizens of what Larry calls “The Bottom of the Sea Rathskeller” adore him and put up with his periodic grousing. I don’t mean to slight Ferrell Pelly, who played the role in 1956 and again in 1960. If March’s performance did not exist, Pelly’s would seem sublime. But March’s does.

The Parritts of the Lumet and the Frankenheimer are, by contrast, a virtual draw. The 1960 Parritt, Robert Redford, is so staggeringly good you can only lament how seldom, once he became a star, he has been given — or allowed himself to take — a role that gave him so much latitude. It isn’t that the self-hating young man is a great role, or even a terribly good one. It’s more a device, and an occasionally irritating one, but that merely makes Redford’s achievement all the more remarkable. There’s nothing guarded here, as there so often is with Redford’s later appearances; the moods are sudden and startling, the outbursts at once annoying and deeply moving. I think it’s the best work he’s ever done.

Jeff Bridges had been giving fine performances for some time before the 1973 Iceman, so his appearance here may have seemed less spectacular than Redford’s at the time. And, as with Ryan, he’s helped by the Eastmancolor camera; there are moments when you watch, filled with wonder at the beauty of his open young face. For all the schematicism of the role, Bridges brings to it the heartbreaking ardor, confusion, guilt and cruelty of youth, and more. When he feels Larry has given him permission to enact the very escape his hoped-for substitute father cannot undertake for himself, the sound he makes — something between a sobbing whimper of relief and a sigh very close to the post-orgasmic — is unforgettable.

Moses Gunn as Joe Mott

Moses Gunn as Joe Mott

Bradford Dillman, right, as a heartbreakingly believable Willie Oban.

Bradford Dillman, right, as a heartbreakingly believable Willie Oban.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the smaller roles, most of the 1960 cast are the equal of those in 1973. Two exceptions are the Willie of Bradford Dillman and the Joe Mott of Moses Gunn. James Broderick’s 1960 Willie is very fine, but Dillman’s is revelatory. We’d seen him in a profusion of thankless, largely forgettable, movie and television roles for years in the ’60s and ’70s, and he’d always seemed one of those actors, not beautiful enough to star, always reliable in support, who never quite get the chance to grasp the brass ring. Drunk, Dillman’s Willie simmers in self-disgust, and his delirium tremens is so terrifyingly right that he becomes a genuinely tragic figure, too young to be so lost, yet too long in the sauce ever to amount to anything. Moses Gunn, one of our best, and least well known, character actors, with a voice as commanding as it is recognizable, looks both like a sport and a hopeless drunk, and the way he bestirs himself to righteous anger at the others, and at himself, for their genial racism and his own complicity in it, are searing. In 1960, Maxwell Glanville was rather too robust physically to quite get the wreck Joe has become. And while his characterization is, like Broderick’s Willie, a good accounting, Gunn’s is non-pariel.

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Tom Pedi, second from left, as Rocky. To his right is Sorrell Booke. At far right, John McLiam, the movie’s heartbreaking Jimmy Tomorrow.

Lee Marvin's Hickey sizes on Jimmy Tomorrow and Harry Hope.

Lee Marvin’s Hickey seizes on Willie Oban and Harry Hope.

Tom Pedi had the distinction of playing Rocky, the saloon’s weather-vane of a bartender who deludes himself that being a procurer does not make him a pimp, in 1946, 1960 and 1973, and is both the same, and different, in the television edition and the AFT movie. The same, in that his characterization is roughly identical in each, yet diverges if only for his having aged into it. He’s at once keenly perceptive and eye-rollingly capricious, first cozying up to then deflating the bums in Harry’s bar with the breathtaking suddenness of a born sadist. (Like owner, like barkeep…) He’s also more than slightly terrifying. Sorrell Booke, too, is in both the Lumet and the Frankeheimer. As Hugo, perpetually sozzled, waking from his stupors just long enough to express his true loathing of the proletariat he believes he loves, Booke is both comic and (to use a word that, in context, sounds like a pun but isn’t) sobering. The Jimmy Tomorrows of 1960 and 1973 also constitute a near-draw, with the knife-edge going to latter. Harrison Dowd’s Jimmy, while eschewing any sort of noticeable accent, is moving enough. But John McLiam, whose voice carries more than “the ghost of a Scotch rhythm,” has sad, limpid eyes, helped along by the color camera, and his tremulousness is no less heartbreaking than are his occasional, doomed stabs at a regained dignity. Like Dillman, he’s ultimately heartbreaking.

The women are more problematic. Not the actresses themselves (Hilda Brawner, Julie Bovasso and Joan Copeland in ’60 and Hildy Brooks, Juno Dawson and the preposterously named Evans Evans in ’73) but the characters. Billy Wilder once allegedly — and notoriously — said of the women in his movies, “If she isn’t a whore, she’s a bore.” Well, the whores in this play are bores, devices through which O’Neill gets at his theses. The women in both casts do what they can, and Evans (married at the time to the director) rises above the material occasionally. But only barely.

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Marvin as Hickey

Which brings us, finally, to Hickey, and the great divergence. I wonder whether Lee Marvin’s performance might have been granted more honor in 1973 had Robards’ not been broadcast thirteen years earlier. (Although Kael, who discerned too much shouting in Marvin’s long, climactic aria, may have been relying on a faulty memory; Robards also bellows.) For my part, both actors are equally fine, if in different ways. Robards may be more jocular, raising that patented sheepish chuckle of his after revealing more than he means to, and the fact that the vocal gesture is one he used in other, later roles, does not diminish its effectiveness. Marvin’s persona was never that of the glad-hander, and there is a certain tightness behind his initial bon homie that hints at the coldness with which Hickey operates; he’s spent a lifetime sizing up his marks, calculating the unstated yearnings of those he’s selling before moving in for the kill. (Not that anyone with a halfway decent mind would have much trouble figuring out this bunch.) To grouse about Marvin not being Robards is to deprive oneself the pleasure of watching an actor stretch himself, and in a role whose richness he must have known would likely never come his way again.

Sidney Lumet in the mid-1950s.

Sidney Lumet in the mid-1950s.

Lee Marvin (Hickey) with John Frankeheimer on set.

Lee Marvin (Hickey) with John Frankeheimer on set.

 

 

 

 

 

 

As directors, both Lumet and Frankenheimer serve O’Neill, and their actors, never getting in the way of either. Both editions cut the text a bit, and the ATF Iceman omits the (admittedly minor) character of Ed Mosher, Harry Hope’s circus con-man brother-in-law, perhaps because of budget — the series producer, Ely Landau, of necessity restricted her filmmakers to one million dollars — but more likely because it was felt that one parasitic hanger-on (the corrupt former cop Pat McGloin) in Harry’s apartment was sufficient. The NET production, aired over two evenings, appears to have been live; lines are flubbed slightly now and then, and the actors begin to perspire noticeably around the mid-point of each segment. If so, it makes what Robards & Co. accomplish that much more impressive. That Lumet was trained in live television, and a past master at it, in no way dulls the luster of his achievement in directing so rich and immediate a production.

The major differences between the two versions is one less of scale than of opportunity. (Although the television edition is more like a filmed stage-play, owing as much to the space in which it takes place as to anything else.) Lumet, working within the severe limitations of early video, is unable to get a visual balance, or to light his actors suggestively. The starkness of the image washes out contrast, and what I assume must have been very hot lights presumably negated any possibility for subtly or nuance in the visuals. Frankenheimer, working with the color cinematographer Ralph Woolsey —  and film — and able to avail himself of Raphael Bretton’s realistically solid and beautifully tatty sets, had greater opportunity to make his Iceman Cometh much more cinematic, although he is never showy. The textures of the settings, rich and shadowed and lived-in, and the ability to use far more technically advanced, and supple, film stock than the flat black-and-white video available to Lumet, allowed Frankenheimer a looser, more realistic palette. It’s notable that the two, although radically different, got their start as directors during the era of live television drama, and had, perhaps as a result, deep respect for actors and text, both crucial here. In their respective versions of this essential American drama, each man came through with honor bright. And honor, as Aristotle suggested (and as I suspect Eugene O’Neill would have agreed) is the second greatest quality of the mind, eclipsed only by courage. All three men, to one degree or another, certainly had that.

Text copyright 2014 by Scott Ross

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Surviving is the only glory: The Big Red One (1980)

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By Scott Ross

Who’s afraid of Samuel Fuller?

I was, George. I was.

A decade or so ago, when I first became fully aware of Fuller, as more than just a name, it was as a result of discovering a clutch of paperbacks bearing his byline in a second-hand book shop: His early newspaper mystery The Dark Page, the caper-thrillers Crown of India, Quint’s World and Dead Pigeon on Beethoven Street, and the novel based on his war-time experiences, and the screenplay he fashioned from them, the extraordinary fictionalized memoir The Big Red One. I found Fuller’s voice unique — tough, witty, sardonic, yet curiously and endearingly matter of fact about some of the harsher realities of life lived in violence, whether private (crime) or public (war). I should have been well and truly primed, by the time I finished these compulsively readable novels, for Fuller the writer/director.

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Should have been, but wasn’t. For the simple reason that, aside from a few studio items like the 1953 Pickup on South Street, I had come to understand that Fuller’s aims nearly always exceeded his budgets. I was, somehow, afraid of Fuller’s movies. Not of their content, although his work tends either to be derided as vulgar trash by the John Simons of the movie world on one side, or venerated as inviolate masterpieces by the Quentin Tarantinos on the other — both of whose voices are equally suspect and neither of whose opinions matter to me, at least in this area. (Simon is occasionally useful; none of Tarantino’s opinions ever matter.) That the words “blunt” and “crude” recur, time and again, in appreciations of Fuller by his admirers didn’t encourage me either.

My fear of Fuller was similar to my approach/avoidance of Orson Welles’ independent work. Only three times in his history as a writer/director was Welles given anything like an “A” budget, and in only one of these cases was the final product presented whole, without mutilating cuts by the studio. Welles, like Fuller, had grand designs he was almost never given the fiscal freedom to realize. That said, what he did with those tiny budgets and their concomitant paucity of technical assistance was often stunningly effective, and occasionally (as in Mr. Arkadin — especially in Criterion’s “comprehensive” edition — Falstaff/Chimes at Midnight and F for Fake) well beyond that.

Still, with Fuller as with Welles, I despaired to see those grand visions diminished by poverty-row funding, although my veneration for Welles should have taught me that, for the truly inspired, cutting corners does not mean an ipso facto diminution of pacing, dialogue, narrative drive, storytelling arc or even effective, and affecting, use of the medium. So it is with The Big Red One.

I no longer remember how, or why, I missed the release of this one back in 1980, as my moviegoing habit was in full cry then (as opposed to now, when I avoid new movies out of a very different sort of fear — that of being disappointed yet again.) Over the years since I began to gather that the original Lorimar release was far from what Fuller had in mind, which only caused my discomfort with seeing it to double, or even treble. Since to my knowledge it never played the Raleigh/Durham area, I purchased the 2004 “reconstruction” on DVD (spurred by those novels of his, and Adam Simon’s 1996 Fuller tribute The Typewriter, the Rifle and the Camera) some time ago, along with, at various times, his posthumously published memoir A Third Face, the Criterion Pickup on South Street and the cheap-o Troma release of Fuller’s Shark! (1969.) And, again, it was that fear of diminished returns, not of content, that kept me from watching any of them.

Last weekend, I made up for lost time. And am now, unofficially and based on a very limited sampling, a veritable Sam Fuller fanatic.

The financial constraints that are evident in The Big Red One, I was relieved to discover, in no way slacken the movie’s emotional impact. Yes, Fuller’s D-Day sequence is under-populated, and nowhere near as wrenchingly (and, one presumes, verifiably) gory as Steven Spielberg’s. But stack that against the central incident on Fuller’s Omaha Beach as the young cartoonist Griff (Mark Hamill) freezes in mid-duty, brought out of his shock by the calculatedly close shots fired in his direction by his Sergeant (Lee Marvin.) The moment goes on, in seemingly nose-thumbing contradiction to what, even in the late 1970s was becoming a rage for fast cutting, as Fuller holds on Hamill’s reaction. You will seldom, I think, ever see a purer example of sheer, murderous rage in a mere movie than the lingering glare Hamill gives Marvin just before he resumes his duty. And all of this without a single word of dialogue. That’s called craft. And it says (as Fuller might have, cigar clamped firmly between his teeth) The hell with words! What is the emotional truth here? Show, fer crissake, don’t tell!

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The emotional truth Fuller gets at in The Big Red One, with surprising subtlety and eloquence for a filmmaker reputed for a characteristic bluntness (another false flag that added to my avoidance) is survival. And once you’ve seen it, you understand why the saga obsessed him for so many years.

The movie is a guided tour though Fuller’s own World War II experience, conducted by four disparate and somewhat unlikely young Privates — all of whom comprise some aspect of the writer-director: Griff (Hamill), Vinci (Bobby Di Cicco), Johnson (Kelly Ward) and Fuller’s most obvious, stogie-bearing, alter ego Zab (Robert Carradine), led by Marvin’s apparently implacable Sergeant. From their landing in North Africa in November 1942 to the liberation of the Flossenbürg concentration camp at Falkenau in the spring of 1945 and encompassing as well campaigns in Sicily, the D-Day landing at Omaha, the Bulge, the liberation of France, the invasion of Germany, V-E Day and the dispatch of a seemingly endless line of youthful replacements, this ragged quintet — the boys are known, with some awe, as the Sergeant’s Four Horsemen — sees, and survives, the majority of the major European battle sites of the War. It is, I suppose, stretching credulity to admit the deaths of none of them, but that too is part of Fuller’s mantra, stated in voice-over at the end by Zab: “Surviving is the only glory in war.”

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The Four Horsemen: Mark Hamill, Bobby Di Cicco, Kelly Ward and Robert Carradine, flank the irreplaceable Lee Marvin.

The “reconstruction” (overseen by perhaps my least favorite movie critic, Richard Shickel) restores the picture and adds roughly 45 minutes chopped by Lorimar in 1980. (An additional quarter-hour of so of sequences included as extras on the DVD proved intractable.) As with the recent revamp of Welles’ Touch of Evil, no one can know whether Fuller would have wholly approved the new edit (at nearly 450 pages, Fuller’s novel, taken from his original screenplay, contains even more incident) but it surely could not have hurt him as badly as the release of that truncated original.

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Perry Lang as Kaiser, the most likable of the squad’s replacements in “The Big Red One” — and the one with the longest shelf-life. Here, he enjoys Zab’s novel in an Armed Service Edition but doesn’t believe the cigar-chomping Private wrote it.

I’m always a little chary of calling a movie I’ve just seen for the first time “great” — real greatness in movie art, it seems to me, does not reveal itself in full after a single viewing, any more than a concert work of blazing originality and compositional complexity yields all its secrets at first hearing — yet I suspect The Big Red One of a sneaking greatness. It’s there in the perfectly delineated characters; in the strong, clean visuals; in the ripe, pithy, Fulleresque dialogue; and in the refusal to sentimentalize, even in the face of the insupportable. Fuller does not dwell on the horrors of Falkenau (which he saw firsthand) but on the effect of the unspeakable on his Four Horsemen. And it’s a pivotal moment for Griff, whose conscience cannot admit of the first essential of warfare: The need to kill. It isn’t, as some of the more moronic Imdb commentators have suggested, merely that Fuller dwells on the irony of the group’s pacifist firing endlessly on the German soldier he finds hiding in the ovens. Griff has been pushed to the limits of his endurance; after what he’s seen, and been through — including, especially, Falkenau itself — one bullet for the executioner of so many others is not enough. Griff must go on killing the German, inflicting on that single available body the rough justice demanded of every participant when the obscenity is so far beyond calculation. Even the Sergeant, who understands, is taken aback by the cold fury of Griff’s methodical retribution.

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Mark Hamill’s Griff, the most pacifist of the Horsemen, discovers the rage to kill with impunity at Falkenau.

Lee Marvin was one of the most interesting actors of his time — and the easiest to underrate. Perhaps that’s why his splendid Hickey in the American Film Theatre’s four-hour The Iceman Cometh (1973) was universally panned; when you don’t push Hickey’s jovial but ultimately false bonhomie, it’s easier to feel you’re betraying the character. But if Hickey is the roaring success as a salesman everyone says he is, there’s got to be something held back. If everything is out there, all noise and surface and grinning laughter, what have you got left to sell? I wonder if it was Marvin’s then-status as a certifiable movie star that occasioned the dismissal of his performance. (Robert Ryan and Frederic March, who — deservingly — garnered the best reviews, had also been stars, although much earlier.)

Marvin’s performance here is a carefully observed as the most acclaimed of its year, DeNiro’s in Raging Bull, and a great deal easier both to appreciate, and to like. His Sergeant may evoke death — and that pale, weary, stoic face is exactly what Fuller wanted for the effect — but he’s no automaton. There’s wisdom in him, a wit so dryly understated it’s sometimes impossible to laugh at, and reserves of compassion that belie his sandpaper exterior.

These qualities in Marvin’s rich performance are nowhere better evidenced than in the long, nearly wordless sequence at Falkenau between the Sergeant and the emaciated boy he liberates, exquisitely rendered by Fuller and played with unerring perfection by Marvin. (The unnamed child is extraordinary too, although naturally nowhere near as skeletal as such children actually were.)

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Lee Marvin’s Sergeant carries a young victim of Flossenbürg/Falkenau at the beginning of the movie’s most deeply affecting sequence.

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Sam Fuller in characteristic mode while shooting The Big Red One, firing off a pistol in lieu of shouting, “Action!”

A day after watching The Big Red One, I slipped my poor copy of the idiotically titled Shark! (Fuller had intended to call the movie Caine, after the name of his lead) into the DVD player. Even here, filming on a miniscule budget and at the mercy of both the elements and what is pretty obviously inferior camerawork, the Fuller touch with character, plot and dialogue come radiantly through.

A man who could do that is no one to be afraid of.


Text copyright 2014 by Scott Ross

The Professionals (1966)

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The great Robert Ryan and the much-missed Lee Marvin in The Professionals. They would be reunited the following year, briefly, in The Dirty Dozen, and seven years later in Ryan’s final film, the superb American Film Theare’s adaptation of O’Neill’s The Iceman Cometh.

By Scott Ross

Richard Brooks was a problematic figure. As writer and director, he was, in the Hollywood of his early period, part of a unique caste. There had never been many double-threat filmmakers; of the five major scenarist/directors around when Brooks moved to the director’s chair (Charles Chaplin, Billy Wilder, Preston Sturges, Orson Welles, John Huston) Sturges had burned out, Chaplin was not so much a writer — The Great Dictator is proof enough of that — as he was an ad-lib imaginer, Welles was living and working in Europe, and as a screenwriter, Wilder always operated with a collaborator.

When Brooks tackled hard-hitting, usually urban, subjects he was very good indeed: Crisis, Deadline—USA, The Blackboard Jungle. When he ventured into adapting literature, whether novels or plays, he often floundered. Orson Welles once said Brooks should have been shot for the way he mangled Lord Jim, and while his Tennessee Williams adaptations (Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Sweet Bird of Youth) are wonderfully acted, and even beautifully observed, they’re also impossibly hobbled by the prevailing censorship. Elmer Gantry is effective but overlong, and Brooks’ daring in taking on American religious huckstering was somewhat blunted by nervous studio interference.* He fared better with In Cold Blood, although even he shied away from some of its implications, notably the homoerotic, and Looking for Mr. Goodbar, while memorable — particularly in its genuinely shocking finale — is a nightmare that appears to equate sexual liberty with seediness and violent death.†professionals novel

Brooks had two terrific Westerns in him, however; the rousing, and deeply moving, Bite the Bullet (1975) and this one, a rip-roaring adventure out of a very likable Frank O’Rourke novel (A Mule for the Marquesa) that is expansive in the best sense, and carries with it the same humanist impulse that made Bite the Bullet so intensely pleasurable.

Conrad Hall’s sumptuous Western cinematography must have looked incredible on a big screen, and of course, the cast is first-rate: The always interesting Lee Marvin, a genial Burt Lancaster, the vastly underrated Robert Ryan, and the stalwart Woody Strode as the eponymous adventurers; Jack Palance as a surprisingly sympathetic kidnapper; the luminous Claudia Cardinale as the ambiguous object of the quest; and Ralph Bellamy as the unsavory source of it all.

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The Professionals shares with Bite the Bullet the rigorously unsentimental compassion Brooks finds for all his characters. He doesn’t play the black hat/white hat game. Or, even when you think he does, he pulls a switch on you and allows even the most seemingly malign of characters his or her individual humanity. (Well, everyone but Bellamy, and he’s so avariciously cynical he’s beyond redemption.) That was rare in American movies when Richard Brooks was active, and is far rarer now.

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*Brooks’ initial cut ended with this exchange, between Gantry and a newspaperman:
Newsman: See you around, brother.
Gantry: (Over his shoulder, with a wave and a smile) See you in hell, brother.

†And yes, I am aware that Judith Rossner based her bestselling novel on the murder of an actual schoolteacher with a double life. It’s the accumulation of sordid, and to some degree degrading, detail that gives the picture its curious impression of moralism.


Text copyright 2014 by Scott Ross

Point Blank (1967)

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By Scott Ross

Under the nom de plume “Richard Stark,” Donald Westlake wrote a string of crime novels featuring a truly vicious thug called Parker that are as tough and un-apologetically amoral as it’s possible to get without actually celebrating violence. The term “hard-boiled” gets bandied about a lot; the Parkers remind me of Jan Sterling’s remark anent Kirk Douglas in Billy Wilder’s Ace in the Hole: “I’ve met a lot of hard-boiled eggs in my life, but you — you’re twenty minutes!”

This is the first, the most well-known, and the finest, of the Parker movies. Lee Marvin plays “Walker,” who has just gotten out of prison and wants the money the Syndicate has promised him. When he doesn’t get it, he wreaks his vengeance, and it’s not for the faint of heart; at one point, as Ethan Mordden observed in his book on 1960s American cinema, Walker just plain murders the bed in which his wife has been unfaithful.

Marvin is superb; his Walker has not a hint of sentiment or softness, and that’s what makes him so goddamned compelling. Angie Dickinson is on hand (as Walker’s sister-in-law) and so are Keenan Wynn, James Sikking, Kathleen Freeman and the then-unknown Caroll O’Connor, as the cowardly Syndicate boss.

What really puts this taut little thriller above the general run of caper flicks, however, is the stylized direction of John Boorman. The movie is almost a time-capsule of late 1960s American cinematic techniques, and, surprisingly, none of them have dated, from Philip H. Lathrop’s stylish photography to Henry Berman’s hyper-kinetic editing. The taut screenplay is by Alexander Jacobs, David Newhouse and Rafe Newhouse. Johnny Mandel wrote the terrific score.


Text copyright 2013 by Scott Ross