Dirty Dozen

The Dirty Dozen would be a lot more entertaining if I didn’t speak some German. I was never a big fan of the flick but the wife loves it. I like some of the training stuff–Sutherland’s general bit is by far my favorite scene–but once they knife those two German soldiers it starts creeping me out. The guy is talking about looking forward to seeing his family on his leave (Urlaub) and then gack. A really awful gack too. I especially hate the bit where Telly knifes the poor German lady. In English you assume she’s a whore, in German she could be a lover or wife or girlfriend. Then when they prepare to slaughter the people trapped in the basement their frantic talk and pleas are really hard to take if you can understand what they are actually saying. This is where it becomes a war crime. The dead sentry, well, that was war. The dead blonde, well, Telly’s character is a homicidal maniac. But the operation itself is the kind of thing we hung Nazis for at Nuremberg. You’ll notice that almost all the prisoners they lock in the basement are Wehrmacht, that is regular army, and not SS. And almost all are staff and support personnel, not generals. Notice how many are women–wives even. They are not even prisoners, soldiers are prisoners. Civilians are hostages. You’ll notice too that when the Dirty Dozen (or what was left of them) let the French help go they murder the German help–cooks, bell boys, whatever–in cold blood. That was killing prisoners. It was a more grisly Malmedy, except even the German army thought the SS who murdered the American prisoners in the snow were war criminals. The Dirty Dozen instead are heroes. The good guys. They were certainly on the good side, but I don’t know about being good guys. Think about what Jim Brown was doing when he died. That beautiful broken field run, plopping grenades down air shafts and murdering scores of prisoners and hostages.

That whole scene would have really bothered Americans in WW2, and as a matter of fact the whole flick would have been banned for the duration. That kind of stuff, in the European theater of operations anyway, was not OK. It usually meant a court martial, it certainly was hushed up. They were seen as incidents not to be bragged about. The fact that no one had second thoughts about it twenty five years later says volumes. Certainly the outright massacre of an entire village with fire arms and grenades as happened at My Lai would have been impossible in WW2, or had it happened the perpetrators would have been tried by the American army for war crimes. We did just that. We tried American soldiers who deliberately murdered civilians. We even tried soldiers in Europe who murdered prisoners. Though there’s a racial element here. We took no quarter (nor were we given any) in the war with the Japanese (something made worse by Japanese prisoners killing their captors with hidden grenades). It had happened before–during the Philippine Insurrection in the early 1900’s an entire village of Moros was annihilated in a nasty preview of My Lai–and would happen again, as in 1950 panicky American draftees under panicky officers could not tell the difference between South Korean refugees and North Korean soldiers at No Gun Ri and hundreds of innocent people were killed. But during World War Two there were no massacres of Japanese civilians by American troops on Saipan or Okinawa or in Japan. It was the Japanese Army who regularly gunned down civilians (or lopped off their heads or buried them alive or used them for bayonet practice), not the U.S. But by the time we were in Viet Nam only a generation after the Second World War, shooting civilians was not only acceptable behavior, but the perpetrators of a slaughter of an entire village were viewed overwhelmingly as heroes. Lieutenant William Calley was a beloved, lionized figure by a majority of the American populace apparently quite off its moral rocker.

Robert Bales, the U.S. Army staff sergeant who carried out that grisly calculated massacre in Afghanistan in 2012 was also seen as a hero by much of the American pubic. Not most, certainly, but by far too many. There was a huge change in American attitudes towards slaughtering unarmed civilians and prisoners by the 1960’s and it still lingers. Yet had The Dirty Dozen been a film made in Germany in World War II it would be held up as an example of Nazi depravity.

I’m not saying it’s not well made, exciting, well cast and even funny, I just find it really disturbing to watch once they start massacring all their hostages. And the scene where Telly kills the German woman is really disturbing. Notice how the camera has no pity for her. Pity is pointless, as she was to be killed anyway in the cellar with gasoline and grenades. She’s beautiful, she’s blonde, she’s looking for sex and gets a knife instead. That’s too much for me. Something is wrong with this picture.

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Lobby cards for U.S. release (above) and U.K. (below). Perhaps English test screenings had revealed some misgivings. Damn them or praise them, their tagline warns. American audiences seemed to have had no such problems. The film was released in June of 1967, smack dab in the Summer of Love.

Beneath the Planet of the Apes

Even by Charlton Heston standards Charlton Heston is too Charlton Heston in Beneath the Planet of the Apes.

And I wonder if any tourists showed up at Red Rock on the day of the shoot and saw that regiment of apes marching around? What did they think? Uh oh, the Manson Family? And Red Rock wa a popular place for hippies to go tripping. Imagine that psychedelic experience. And the sky was all pink and green and the rocks were all red and purple and there were columns of apes grunting and waving guns around. Far freaking out. I’ll have what he’s having.

Actually I thought there were hockey games all day today. Nope. Not on Superbowl Sunday. I forgot this is America, not Canada. So instead Fyl’s watching these execrable Planet of the Apes movies. She loves these movies. I knew that when I married her. I figured she’d grow out of it. She never did. God damn it all to hell.

I’ve always wanted to use that word “execrable”. I learned it from a Jack Benny show. It was a running gag. Did you know execrable means lousy?, Jack asks the audience. I didn’t. Mel Blanc used it later. He was robbing Jack’s house. I think Bob Crosby used it too, before singing one of his execrable songs. No Bing he, Bob. Had a great band though.

Now James Gregory’s going bonkers killing everybody, sounding like Inspector Luger in an ape suit. This is soooo pre-Dian Fossey.

Charlton Heston just Charlton Heston’d “you ape bastard!” and pressed the button and the phallic god bomb exploded. James Gregory, Victor Buono and the whole simian planet just vaporized. Poof. I thought that meant the end of the series but nope, here’s another. Apes coming out of a space capsule. Goddamn it all to hell, this is execrable.

Auntie Mame

(2013)

I confess I’ve never been an NFL fan–I’m an NHL fanatic, and football is too damn slow–but when I realized that I had completely forgotten about the Super Bowl and was watching Auntie Mame I grew concerned. Rosalind Russell prancing about in a feather boa, all butch and bitchy…. You go girl, I said, give it to that babbitty Fred Clark. I laughed every time the servant giggled, laughed at the Irishman’s poetic allusions, was delighted at all the witty repartee at her soirees. Gosh, I thought, how I would have loved to attend one of her parties. Then I checked out Twitter and thought that the young trumpet player’s jazz speak was even harder to understand than usual. Arcane references to players and playbooks and plays and he totally lost me. Way too metaphorical, whatever it was. Suddenly it hit me: those aren’t metaphors, he’s talking about football. The Superbowl. I had completely forgotten about the Superbowl. Instead I was watching Auntie Mame. I shuddered. Is this what living in Silver Lake for thirty years will do to a man? Feather boas instead of a football game? What’s next, The Music Man? Actually The Music Man was next, with Robert Preston prancing around in a shiny uniform, all red and fringe and leather. Seventy six trombones he sang, dancing and high kicking, and the townspeople followed him, singing and dancing and high kicking. I watched, petrified, wondering if I liked this now. I didn’t. Relieved, I changed the channel to a documentary on the Salton Sea. It was narrated by John Waters. Everybody looked like Divine. Uh oh.

Did I mention the Cabaret trailer? No? Never mind, then.

Moss Hart

(2013)

Just watched Act One, about the early playwriting life of Moss Hart. And if George Hamilton here was anything like the real Moss Hart, which he wasn’t, then Moss Hart was one of the most precious little two dimensional loathsome creeps on the Great White Way. It’s hopeless. He’s not even funny.  An unfunny Moss Hart. I write comedies, Hamilton’s Moss Hart says, and he can’t even read comedy. Why him, I think, why George Hamilton? I have no idea. Not even supporting actor Jason Robards could save this turkey. Eli Wallach nearly smothered it by, you know, actually acting. Was Moss Hart still alive when this came out? I hope he sued someone, at least. Or offed someone, at best. What a nightmare it would be to have future generations see you like this. I’ve never met a writer as lifeless and devoid of character as George Hamilton’s Moss Hart. Some critics, maybe, but never a writer.

At one point I was wishing I could unleash Moss Hart’s Sheridan Whiteside on George Hamilton’s Moss Hart. But that got too Escher, even for me. Sometimes you’re so beautiful, Moss Hart once wrote, you gag me.

Very nice ladies

(Found this one…it’s maybe a decade old, and the party was ten or fifteen years before that.)

I’m reminded of a party many years ago where, slightly bored, I wound up in the parlor, just me and a bunch of older pretty ladies (probably all pushing 40 then).  We just sat around talking. I remember we talked about vacations and where me and my wife like to go, about wine which I didn’t actually know much about but they did, about who it was we knew there. They were all very charming and they thought I was just perfectly charming as well. I can be, sometimes. They asked about my wife. You two enjoy doing things together? I said yes, we’re real tight. That’s so sweet, they said. None of them were married. None had kids. A few had tattoos which was still a little novel at the time. They sipped white wine and I drank a beer. We kept chatting and then I finally took my leave. Later, outside, someone took me aside. Saw you in the living room there, he whispered. You know who those women were? I had no idea. He told me that every one of those girls was a retired hardcore porn actress. A few were stars, even. Or had been. I shrugged. You didn’t recognize so and so? Who? He rattled off a few more names. I didn’t recognize any of them. You don’t look at a lotta porn, do you? I said no, a little ashamed. He snickered. You just figured they were all very nice ladies, didn’t you. I blushed and said yeah. Which, actually, they were. He laughed. When I went by the living room again, the ladies were cooing over someone’s child. One looked up, smiled a beautiful smile, and waved.

War of the Worlds

The first machine landed right near my folks’ house. Just a couple miles away. I was watching and knew the area they were talking about. Then I realized the flying wing was dropping the bomb on the hills maybe a mile from our house. I recognized them. I could look out the sliding glass door and see the same outline as I could on the TV. That was the early seventies and as cool a late night television experience as I’ve ever had, matched only by the realization a couple decades ago that giant ants were nesting in the Los Angeles River a couple hundred yards behind my back. I swore I could smell the formic acid, but it was only the weed.

War of the Worlds, 1953. Martians are incinerating Carbon Canyon. No word on the fate of the nudists just up the road at Glen Ivy Hot Springs.

War of the Worlds, 1953. Martians are incinerating Carbon Canyon. No word on the fate of the nudists just up the road at Glen Ivy Hot Springs.

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Grand Hotel

Was at an empty bar in Palm Springs off season once and the bartender was saying how out there you had to know how to make all the old style cocktails, so I got drunk on Louisiana Flips. Just like Lionel Barrymore in Grand Hotel. And like Lionel Barrymore, I fell down. Ouch. But man, those Louisiana Flips…they were wonderful things, some kind of yellowish concoction if I remember right,  and you could down ’em like creme soda. I haven’t dast another since….besides, my wife told me I began quoting the movie to the bewildered bartender. I vant to be alone, I said. So she left.

I followed her a flip or two (or maybe three) later. Our room was a quick few steps across a parking lot that became positively oceanic on the walk–if you can call it that–back. But I did well, I thought, tacking a little to port, to starboard…it wasn’t till the elevator door opened and I fell like a redwood that there was a problem. Surprised the hell out of me, how that elevator door opened to nothing but space. A fall is a long drop for a tall man. Several feet of air to plunge through and the floors are always hard and unforgiving.  Gravity is merciless, Isaac Newton a vile little man.  There were no witnesses, though, save a swollen, angry knee.

Palm Springs, ya know, people come, people go, nothing ever happens. Except I fell down. It was worth it, though. I got to be Lionel Barrymore. Maybe next time I’ll be John Barrymore and not pay my hotel bill.

Wikifeet

I can’t remember which story it was, but not long after I started blogging I posted something that somehow wound up on Wikifeet. You’d be amazed at how many people read the thing because it was linked to on Wikifeet. So many, in fact, that I pulled the story. Not much creeps me out, I suppose, but having a large following on Wikifeet did. I don’t think it was Wikifeet readers themselves. I mean they just really, really like feet. It was the idea that I might be considered one of them. I mean I like pretty feet as much as the next guy, I suppose. Just not as much as some guys. Some guys really like feet.

I’d forgotten this till I woke up just now in front of the TV after several hours of slumber to find myself in the middle of Kansas City Confidential. There was John Payne, sweating and scared. There was Lee Van Cleef acting tough. There was Neville Brand, giggling like Tommy Udo. And there was the girl, Coleen Gray, very striking but I couldn’t place her. I googled her name. Turns out she died just this year, aged 92. There were lots of publicity photos. Some of them were off of Wikifeet. Seems that some people look at a cheesecake photo of a movie moll in a bathing suit and all they see are the feet. You wonder just who these guys are. If you can tell them by their gaze in a crowded night club. Follow their gaze as the girls walk by. Some guys would see the color of their eyes. Some guys would watch the way they move. The Wikifeet guys find the loose change on the floor.

You never even heard of Wikifeet, I know. Actually neither had I, until I wrote something about feet. I wrote something about feet like I would have written something about hands or knees or thumbs. But there is no wikihands or wikiknees or wikithumbs that I know of. Maybe I haven’t written the right piece.

When I post this to my blog it will key word Wikifeet, and all the feet guys will be disappointed when they get here. They might even be miffed. Imagine a foot guy, miffed. Imagine too, that if I died right now, the last words I would have ever written would be a foot guy, miffed.

Fortunately I didn’t.

Coleen Gray, though perhaps some of you know that already.

Coleen Gray, though perhaps some of you know that already.

On the Waterfront

Was watching On the Waterfront and when Terry Malloy fesses up to Edie (he didn’t know they were gonna knock him off, he says) there is a helluva racket in the background, a huge clattering pounding. It’s a steam pile driver, and I remember seeing one in downtown Milwaukee thirty years ago. One of the loudest sounds I have ever heard, huge bangs amplified off tall buildings. Almost painful. You had to shout to be heard. I remember being startled at the volume, but the locals didn’t seem to notice. They used to build those monsters in Milwaukee and I suppose they were part of the scenery. No one ever said the industrial revolution was quiet.

Anyway, here’s one in upstate Wisconsin somewhere, at a fair. It’s loud, but it’s hammering wood, not steel. You want to hear it slam steel. You won’t forget it. A clang like the gods themselves, almost.

OK, this was an essay about On the Waterfront and I didn’t even write about On the Waterfront. Instead I wrote about something Terry Malloy might have talked about. Method writing, I guess.

A picture may be worth a thousand words and all that, but it doesn't make a sound. Without the incredible harbor racket in this scene, the scream of the tugs, the shrieking steam blown off by giant harbor rigs and and especially that pounding, slamming, clanging incessant pile driver, you don't feel the claustrophobia at all.

A picture may be worth a thousand words and all that, but it doesn’t make a sound. Without the incredible harbor racket in this scene, the scream of the tugs or the shriek of steam blown off by giant harbor rigs, and especially that pounding, slamming, clanging incessant pile driver, you don’t feel the claustrophobia at all. You can’t tell at all how trapped these two are. You can’t tell anything at all. It’s mute.

Jack Palance

Jack Palance on TV. The Lodger. I sat on his lap when I was one year old. Encino. A dentist’s office. He cooed. I grinned. No blood was shed. Later I found his copy of Henny Youngman’s party jokes at an antique store in Bakersfield. Five dollars. I cooed. I grinned. But now I can’t find it. Maybe it never happened. I don’t remember sitting in his lap either. I was too young. Perhaps my mother lied. Mothers do that in old Jack Palance movies. They lie. Hide things. Have secrets. The truth is twisted, warped, dark. Too many shadows. Like Rita Hayworth with a gun in a fun house mirror. She didn’t want to die. She did. But I digress. And now Jack Palance is lying to Aunt Bea. Life is cruel, hard. Jack Palance cooed. I grinned. And I didn’t even get a selfie.

Jack Palance in the Lodger.

Jack Palance in the Lodger.