In The Days When Crime Paid And The Coppers Took Their Graft Anyway They Could-Gene Tierney and Dana Andrew’s “Where The Sidewalk Ends” (1950)-A Film Review

In The Days When Crime Paid And The Coppers Took Their Graft Anyway They Could-Gene Tierney and Dana Andrew’s “Where The Sidewalk Ends” (1950)-A Film Review

DVD Review

By Will Bradley

Where The Sidewalk Ends (yeah, I know, they must have spent about three dollars to some starving stringer in the scriptwriters’ quarters to come up with that title), starring lovely Gene Tierney and pretty boy Dana Andrews, directed by Otto Preminger, 1950    

I get down on my hands and knees every day and pray that the day never comes when professional writing, review writing, ever stops being a dog eat dog proposition. Stops being what young, well she is younger than I am after all, Sarah Lemoyne, a fellow reviewer here following her mentor old greybeard Seth Garth has called a cutthroat business where only the strong and ruthless survive-once they get their coveted by-lines. Of course I would discount out of hand anything Mr. Garth has to inform the young and unwashed with, impressionables like Ms. Lemoyne, since I took the full measure of the man when he went down in flames in our “dueling” film review set-too on the question of the iconic nature of Sherlock Holmes and Doc Watson in their long and illustrious film series. I won’t bore the reader with details here but Garth insisted that the whole series was nothing but an ill-disguised homage to the Homintern, to their kinky little high-brow male same-sex club complete with every thief and con man in the kingdom doing their bidding.  And Ms. Lemoyne bought into that madness, following Seth’s lead about me being wet behind the ears since I didn’t catch on to the importance of “dilly boys,” young male whores, riffraff really in the whole scheme of their illegal Baker Street operations covered up by a see no evil landlady. But enough of that since if anybody is still interested in that what did wizened and senile, for once Sarah got it right, Sam Lowell call it, oh yes, a tempest in a teapot they can thumb through the archives at this publication (and American Film Gazette with whom this publication has reciprocal agreements on high profile reviews).         

Yes, I gladly bent the knees for the glories of beating down so-called film reviewers who have passed their prime and hope the nightmarish day never comes when, egged on by the likes of Amazon and Netflix, every buffoon who has access to the Internet, to endless cyberspace decides without any evidence that they can take on the lions, the real film reviewers. I have made a point of this mainly to respond to Ms. Lemoyne’s comments in her baffling film review of the first of the Star Wars episodes where she castigated me for not being a whirling dervish slave of the series after I panned, dismissed out of hand, Star Wars: The Last Jedi where ancient has-been, maybe never was, Mark Hamill as some sullen greybeard AARP-type Luke Skywalker finally gives us some relief from his tedious attempts at fighting inter-galactic evil from some ill-thought out self-imposed exile while younger,  fresher forces are willing to do battle up close and personal. Hell, I just realized that the plot-line of that movie could stand in for the controversy swirling around this joint’s water cooler between the has-beens and the new vanguard forces.  

Maybe I had better step back a bit and describe what the whole sad saga, this eternal office politics struggle is all about.  Sarah was assigned, and in this I think rightly so, a nice six-pic review package of cheaply produced and scripted psychological thrillers outsourced by Columbia Pictures to low-rent, low overhead Hammer Productions over in England back in the late 1950s. Then wizened and senile Sam Lowell who seems to endlessly hangs around the water cooler looking for young women to recognize him as the max daddy, his expression I think, of the film noir world based on some book he wrote or ghosted I never got it straight stormed into site manager Greg Green’s office and demanded based on some film noir series he had done put out by the same production company years ago to do Sarah’s series. Greg, needless to say, caved in automatically. Reason: Sam Lowell’s by-line is still a watch-word among noir aficionados. Real reason: Sam was the decisive vote when he cut his old friend Allan Jackson’s throat which gave the job to Greg. Yeah, office politics.      

Moving along. Sarah outraged turned to her mentor Seth hanging out at the water cooler just after her banishment. I would discount any denials by either one of them that nothing, noting romantic is in the cards between them but that is not germane to what happened next so I will can it. I will say old-time mentor Seth really did give some good advice on this score. He told Sarah to get right back in there before things cooled off and demand some kind of equivalent assignment. Hence her Star Wars package. Hence her stabbing me in the back over my perfectly righteous review of a bunch of has-beens whose only real existence now is to keep extorting sad sack parents for tickets, sodas and that awful popcorn for sullen underfoot kids that keeps the studios humming along.

I took her measure and the next Star Wars review I will give my considered judgment of the film and of her work but today I have a bigger score to settle. Have to take down one Samuel Lowell (don’t know his middle name or if he has one) and his sullied reputation as the king hell king, his expression of the film noir world. A reputation based on his “definitive” work The Night Belongs To Film Noir way back in the late 1960s and which even Sarah Lemoyne mentioned was something that every serious aficionado or noir reviewer has to acknowledge as the cat’s meow. Then it might have been true, and even today there are probably kernels of wisdom which a reviewer could profit by. But some of the stuff he spewed out was, well, bullshit. How do I know this?

Greg Green who is all over the place on what he does, or does not, want to see this publication become has latched onto a new idea that the younger writers like Sarah and I, maybe Minnie Moore, should take a fresh eye look at some older material that has withstood the test of time-or Hollywood is still putting out. Hence Sarah’s Star War look, hence my Sherlock Holmes take, and now I have been assigned to do a fresh-eyed look at film noir. Starting with the classic Dana Andrews and Gene Tierney film noir Where The Sidewalk Ends.

Reason: this is one of the films Sam reviewed, or somebody under his direction reviewed, many years ago. Re-reading his piece gave me a better idea that the old man really did have one idea and blasted a gullible world with ever since. I will explain below but you should also know that Sam was notorious for either having somebody, a stringer, write his stuff once he got his lifeline by-line or just ripped off whatever the studio publicity department put out and signed his name to it. I think the latter here.

My late grandfather who was a cop’s cop which I believed until I found out that he like all his brethren never paid for his coffee and crullers at Ida’ Bakery once some older cop clued him in always said that if a cop turns, if a cop goes rogue then get rid of him (and now him or her). And he should have known since he was a captain in the Albany Police Department and had seen it all, done it all. That seemed to be the family consensus as well since the family was infested with coppers who paid attention to the old man and probably took their coffee and cruller graft too. That idea, that getting rid of a bum cop is the story line behind this cute little noir. My grandfather would have been happy with the ending here. Of course Sam Lowell went to great lengths to yak about how one Mark Dixon, played by Dana Andrews, should have been lauded not lammed (and old town expression meaning given the boot, unceremoniously given it). And in the process destroying the whole premise of noir that no evil deed will go unpunished even as the bodies pile up. But maybe I had better run the story-line and you will see how Sam booted the ball something terrible.            

Even Sam Lowell, if not now then in his prime, in the time of his so-called definitive noir primer, would have to agree with my contention that it was a lot easier to say what a good noir private detective is than what a good public copper was when it came right down to it before he got all soft and dewy-eyed about reformed coppers. Jesus, Sam set the table on private eyes, guys, always guys in those days, who maybe had gotten some higher education (a good observation by him noting the germane reason why private dicks always were one or seven steps ahead of the slothful by-the-book, a book they couldn’t read in most cases, public coppers), had worked the public racket maybe in the DA’s office but saw the graft and gaff and didn’t worry about the pension twenty years out for staying low and unobserved, ready to take a slug or two, a fist or two to get a little rough justice in this wicked old world. If a good-looking dame, a femme, a what did Sam call them in the prime, frails, twists crossed his path and maybe curled his toes, and I hope I don’t have to explain what that meant to the good reader so much the better. If he rode off in the sunset with her fine, if he had to throw her over, well that was the breaks, that’s the way the ball bounced. Guys like Sam Spade, Phil Marlowe, Lance Larkin, and a host of others lighted up the firmament and raised hell with the public coppers just for kicks while getting their respective cases closed.

        

Film noir good public coppers, guys like Mark Dixon under review here are harder to figure in those pre-Miranda days. Mostly they didn’t have a pot to piss in, my grandmother’s expression, the one married to the police captain, could have given a fuck about criminal rights save that for the ACLU lawyers and the faint-hearted liberals and had the mindset of desert rats in heat. I would have taken Mark Dixon, bright boy Mark Dixon for what passed for a good cop in those days. Unlike my uncles who were afraid to get out of the squad car for fear they might have to do something which might jeopardize their heavenly pensions, who were mostly “on the take” from one guy or another (unknown to grandpa while he was alive anyway) and whose idea of justice was roughing up, pistol-whipping, Ida of Ida’s Bakery for having the audacity to ask them to pay for their coffee and crullers when she was having trouble meeting the rent money Mark Dixon was a straight-arrow copper. Did a little “third degree” here, a little rabbit punch there, a cold-cocked pistol-whipping for kicks. A little over the top but            not enough to get the commissioner and his underlings in a snit unlike when the Mayfair swells complained when he busted up their floating crap games or they had to fork over cases of high shelf whiskey. Mark’s idea of justice, if he knew the word, ran to hard fists and no bullshit.

For a while and for a while Sam Lowell kept propping him up in his famous turncoat review (the first time he went soft on a police procedural public copper when he did not have to do so at all). Then Dixon went crazy trying to frame local mobster Jimmy Scalise for everything from starting World War II to jacking up the price of gold and silver. Reason: and this would be Sam’s downfall, his Achilles Heel if you really want to know, Mark’s father, Jeep Dixon was the king-pin mobster before Jimmy, had put Jimmy on easy street with the gambling and whorehouse concessions and when Jeep ran afoul of the coppers for trying to cut their swag he died in a blaze of gunfire “trying to escape.” I don’t have to draw a diagram for you on that one. Dixon was scarred, was bleeding heart liberal scarred by being the son of a gangster, couldn’t take it and became a hard-nosed, third degree no holds barred copper. Sam bought that lonely hearts story hook, line and sinker. Saw this as a breakthrough for noir coppers with brains. Jesus.      

Of course Sam all rose-colored glasses now, or was it his ghostwriter who did him in, that will probably be his alibi when he answers this accusation, if he has the moxie to, and an accusation is exactly what it is, didn’t count on Mark committing about eight thousand felonies and a few misdemeanors in the mix, trying to save his damn ass from going up to Ossining and a “party” with a few guys he put in stir, a few guys who needed a “girlfriend” to while away those twenty years they were doing for crossing Dixie boy. This is where the unacknowledged American psycho part comes in. Mark was so obsessed with getting Scalise and his boys that he would stop at nothing. Figured when some rich Texas oilman got bonged, got good and bonged to death for winning too much dough at one of Jimmy’s get togethers that he had the bastard cold. Jimmy was not Jeep’s acolyte for nothing and he easily slipped Dixon’s noose with a pretty tale which the chief coppers bought.

Dixon was frantic, saw his golden opportunity for a frame, a big old square frame slip away, melt like butter on a hot summer day so he went to see the ringer, to see the guy who brought Tex to the party, brought some pretty frill as well who will get introduced soon. Confronted the ringer a little too hard and said ringer who had a steel plate in his head from a war injury went dead. Oops.

From there it is all downhill for Dixon as he makes mistake after mistake even a mental midget could see would not work. He tried to frame Jimmy for this one and instead got the ringer’s father-in-law, or maybe ex-father-in-law facing the big step-off in his place. This is where Morgan, played by Gene Tierney last seen in this space with that same Dana Andrews under different circumstances when he was trying to find out who killed her in the noir classic Laura, comes in and muddies up the waters, for Mark. See that ringer was her ex-husband, had been a guy, a war veteran like so many others and who various older writers at this publication, including Seth and Sam, have written extensively about, who couldn’t adjust after their military service. The ringer wanted easy street and so linked up with Jimmy. Brought Morgan along for the ride on the Texas oilman caper.

Mark and Morgan meet and are attracted to each other without knowing why and without knowing that Mark did in her ex-husband, accident or no, and would set the trap for her father to take the rap for killing his ex-son-in-law. But there is a light at the end of the tunnel which Sam gushed all over himself about. Tough copper Dixon, falling for the frill, can’t let her father fall fatally so devised a plan to let Jimmy fall if he can get one of his minions to snitch. That bastard does and Dixon grabs Jimmy for a hard fall. Here is where it gets sappy, where Sam begins his long fall from grace, Dixon’s superior is all set to let him back on the force when he hands back Dixon a letter he had written telling all he had done to cover up murder, mayhem and frameups. Dixon in a fit of conscience tells the superior to read the letter. Dixon will get to be somebody up at Ossining girlfriend after all. Morgan, father cleared, will stand by her man now that he has manned up. Sam has declared that scene the beginning of neo-film noir. I swear the last original thing he had to say was in about 1964, 1965.  As for his take on this film. Ugh! The emperor has no clothes.        

Present At The Creation-When Luke, Leia And Han Could Say To Be Young Was Very Heaven-George Lucas’ “Star Wars” (1977)-A Film Review

Present At The Creation-When Luke, Leia And Han Could Say To Be Young Was Very Heaven-George Lucas’ “Star Wars” (1977)-A Film Review   

DVD Review

By Sarah Lemoyne (somehow the editorial assistant, obviously a stringer, in a few of my previous recent reviews didn’t believe in spell-check or in inquiring to me personally how to spell my name and did so with the incorrect “LeMoyne” which drew a tell-tale red line under the incorrect spelling and should have been picked up.)     

Star Wars, starring Mark Hamill, Carrie Fisher (Eddie Fisher, he of the flyaway to Elizabeth Taylor reputation and jilted former girl next door Debbie Reynold’s daughter), Harrison Ford (he of the sullen Valley boy post-World War II hot rod “chicken run’ at midnight set in future star-studded American Graffiti ), and a cast of odd-ball characters from wizard Alex Guinness to Darth Vader aka James Earl Jones he of the authoritative-or else-voice and all the refuge of the galaxy wars and whatever techno-props were available at the time of film shooting) directed by George Lucas, 1977      

********

Seth Garth of this publication (and formerly for a long time of the prestigious American Film Gazette which impressed me no end since I had been spoon-fed on that publication, on-line of course from my young girlhood) is a beautiful man. Is a guy who has helped me out ever so much in trying to establish myself as a writer, a journalist really in this my first real job since I got out of journalism graduate school at NYU (we won’t count the couple of years spent as a waitress, ah, waitperson at Zack’s in the Village, a barista at you know where and as a cashier at Whole Foods although maybe eventually once I get established and get my own by-line I can use the material I gathered at those locales to fill out a few columns when I need something in a hurry like every writer since Homer’s time has done when deadline approaches).

Let’s settle this right away before the Internet rumor mills churn their grist and spew out the usual scandalous misinformation, no way, since I already have a companion whom I met as a barista at you know where, are Seth, the older seasoned writer who has seen it all and I, who still has star-dust in my eyes, sleeping together. That little literary trope has been done to death both in real life with the likes of the late Norman Mailer and others of the male-heavy literary establishment of a generation ago, now too as it turns out with the rise of the #MeToo expose movement, and their “young female met at some publishing event” so-called acolytes or in fiction most recently as part of the novel Asymmetry reviewed in the New York Review of Books.  Christ Seth has daughters older than I am and moreover as much as he has helped me he is “damaged goods” in the romance department having like half the older guys around here been married at least three times and is adamantly no longer interested in the marriage ceremony. I am the “B” of LGBTQ” so marriage is a hope especially if to another woman not that we can do that. I am very interested in that prospect once I earn my keep in the literary world, or at least can write reviews for cold hard cash.         

Seth has helped me in ways that matter as a matter of being a mentor to me, nothing more. Teaching me the ropes in this dog eat dog business where truly you are only as good as your last piece hitting publication and then the wolves begin to howl, especially if you are any good. And especially by those will fall by the wayside and can’t write and will earn their cold hard cash keep trashing those of us who can, who want to, as “film historians,” culture critics, book review essayists from whatever rock they have make their short climb. Teaching me things that they have never taught in any journalism class because if they did then many more people would be perfectly content to end their days as baristas at you know where. The biggest thing Seth has taught me which came in handy recently when I had my first real set-back in the business was that you had better yell loudly, very loudly when some cowardly editor succumbs to office politics and takes a plum assignment away from you.

Along with that very sound advice Seth also said, hell, since I am only a stringer anyway and life is precarious down at the bottom of the publishing food chain that I should take the opportunity when it presents itself to publicly write about what is what inside the fish bowl. Basically to dare any editor or fellow writer to cut me off at the knees and not let it be published (and laughingly Seth said what the hell you are getting paid by the word so stretch things out to pay the rent anyway-another good piece of advice especially when you submit your piece just before the deadline and that empty space you were supposed to fill is empty and the first smells of panic take flight from the offices upstairs). Again it is good to know the animal you are dealing with, fangs or licks. Seth told me that Greg, the guy who hired me and the guy who has taken that plum assignment away from me was put in charge after a vote of no confidence in the last site manager and so is actually something of a usurper, a guy who got his job on the rebound. Moreover, Greg is responsible to an Editorial Board and no new guy wants to lock horns with that crowd so Seth said I should write whatever comes into my thoughts and dare Greg and/or the Ed Board to not publish the piece.   

The number one villain in this dog eat dog saga is one Sam Lowell (who as he told me to do in the interest of full disclosure also happens to be a friend of Seth from the old days when they were in high school and hung around the same forlorn corner in the small town where they both come from and which tells you how really cutthroat this business is despite high tone glossy presentations and nice manners at cocktail parties and awards galas). Yes, that Sam Lowell of the big film review by-line back in the day who won his spurs in the profession by doing an incredible job of analyzing the history of film noir. That work is still the benchmark by which anybody who has come after has to consult if they don’t want to be laughed out of the room. A powerful man, a fixture, a force of nature if he wants to be, even if he is well past his prime and when I met him seemed to be a little wizened and not the florid-faced big shot I had expected to meet. But more on that later. For now though what has me pissed off, what had Seth pissed off for his own reasons about “passing the torch” and of plain orneriness from their long-time sometimes prickly relationship, is that Sam took without a murmur from anybody but Seth my Hammer Film Production six-film series of psychological thrillers from the 1950s that Greg had given to me after I had done a good on a couple of small reviews (for little money as one might expect from a stringer). Sam’s reason, if he needed one, was that he had done a couple of years ago the eight- film Hammer Film Production of film noirs from the late 1940s and early 1950s that Columbia Pictures had outsourced to them as low-cost using low production values, and unknown or has-been actors to keep the expenditures down in a time when movie attendance was being eaten away by the advent of television.

Greg immediately called me in to give me the bad news. I sat there stunned, left, and ran into Seth at the water cooler and told him my story. He said march myself right back into Greg’s office and get something in return. That is when Greg offered me this complete (so-far) Star Wars series looking back at the epic from the fresh eyes of somebody who was not present at the creation but who, truth, loved the action-packed series. Not only that but I have first dibs on any future Marvel or DC Comic studio productions with the understanding that I would have a better grip on why millions of kids have their parents pony up for high-priced tickets and expensive sodas and inedible popcorn to see this stuff that the older writers who have been drafted, mostly kicking and screaming, to write about since I love those films as well.

My blood is up though, egged on a little by Seth who has his own axes to grind with Sam or maybe just for old times blood sport sake, and I am not finished with Mr. Sam Lowell the big-time by-line columnist. I might have been, I might have let it go given what Greg had given me to get me on my way to a coveted by-line but Sam made the fatal mistake of thinking I was some carpet to walk all over. I had started two of the reviews for that Hammer Production (that outfit if you have never heard of it is English by the way, or it was back in the 1940s, 1950s and early 1960s when beside noir and psychological thrillers they also did low-rent horror and monster movies) and had, my mistake, shown him those rough drafts. What he said about them, that snake in the grass, my expression, that wizened old thief bastard, Seth’s expression, was that they were good, that they should be published, and he would see Greg about doing so. That part I took with some kindness and was starting to have a different opinion of the guy, starting to see that this cutthroat business was real but only on the surface when Sam said he wanted me to then, under his by-line “ghost” a couple of rebuttal reviews essentially trashing what I had written and making me out to be some holy goof who should have stayed in the service industry, have stayed a barista at that place. That done, that holy goof stuff done, Sam had the bright idea that we would have “dueling” reviews with me playing the naïve dunce and him the thoughtful and erudite film critic. With me writing everything on both sides like some sleazy lawyer, some hired gun, writing whatever paper or cyberspace would take.

This is where Seth really did put me straight, really made me realize that if I was to make it in the profession I had better know what was what or else I would be continually hammered by guys like Sam Lowell[O1] . This is what Seth told me about Sam (aided by a little independent research and some serious conversations with Leslie Dumont, who when she was younger had been put under the same Sam hammer as a stringer until she finally left and got her big by-line at Women Today and by Sam’s long-time companion Laura Perkins who nevertheless knew the pitfalls and pranks of her man). Everybody knows that Sam Lowell re-wrote the book on the meaning of film noir. Made his name and rightly so telling that new wave of film makers of the 1960s who were interested in the genre going forward what made noir so compelling, even B-film material, from plot to shadowy photography to the sublime sound tracks. Even today if one is serious about film noir your first stop is Sam’s work. I have never heard anybody, even his most vociferous detractors like Cella Dunne say otherwise. What people don’t know although if they had thought about and had compared it to academia and other professions Sam like the professors, the one note book writers, the one genre artists had one big idea which he milked forever. Got that by-line and never looked back. But aside from the million all expenses paid lectures and conferences, the pithy little pieces for half-baked journals generated by aficionados, that expensive by-line Sam never really expanded his universe. Truth.

Seth thought maybe it was because Sam like him was from hunger and that once he made his mark he quit, he let the fate sisters ride him to wherever they wanted to take him. I have mentioned this before as has Seth but Sam was perfectly happy when he was short of an idea for a review, especially if it was a not a noir to take whatever the studio publicity department handed-out, cut off the top, type his name in and sent it along. Allan Jackson, when he was walking with the king here, unaided by any such hinderance as an Ed Board was perfectly happy to publish the piece no questions asked. Meanwhile Sam was on some beach, maybe with Seth, maybe with some young woman, some Seven Sisters young woman who were his preferred acolytes and grinders, snagged from one of those high-priced lectures drinking whiskey sours and cavorting the day and night away. The other thing that Sam would do and this is where Leslie Dumont came in with her insights was to have a stringer, her mostly, write the whole thing and sent it in under Sam’s name. Even tried, the old dog, the old “controversy” gag with Leslie which Sam had tried on me. Allan was more than happy to publish the pieces in double columns. Hopefully this will get some dewy eyes opened up and not throw writers off the trial but I thought you should know what I now know courtesy of Seth Garth, a beautiful man.             

       

Now to the task at hand. As I mentioned a minute ago in the “negotiations” between Greg and I we agreed that I would do a retrospective of the entire Star Wars series now in its eighth rendition (plus a couple of outliers in the bunch to introduce new elements, a black resistance fighter and a female wannabe Jedi for starters) from fresh eyes, from eyes that were not bedazzled by the first spectacle which animated my parents’ generation back in the 1970s when they needed to have something to take their minds off of what with the international gas crisis and endless ragtag inflation eating up their dollars like crazy. This “fresh eyes” approach is important since we have just witnessed in young Will Bradley’s review of the eight installment Star Wars: The Last Jedi what were jaded eyes since Will in his own words could give a fuck about the stupid series. This from a guy who slept through the one film he did see when his parents grabbed a video from their local store and threw it in their VCR.  Greg wanted a much better take, a rationale for why new generations have gravitated to the series over the past forty or so years, young, old and in between.

I am just the gal to do this job because I too saw my first Star War film via the old VCR although it was the very first one that I am reviewing here. My parents loved the movies, had met at some retrospective at the Tattler Theater in old-time Ann Arbor, at Michigan and while their professions never intertwined with their love of films there was a constant flow of films from the 1960s to 1990s running through the house in Cos Cob. From then on I was hooked on the series unlike timid and fearful Will. I might add, and here Seth has given me another good piece of advice kick your competitor when she or he is down and Will is very down in the eyes of our supreme leader Greg. I wouldn’t be surprised if he were reviewing Saturday morning kid shows before long after that stunt with the precious A-1 review material he was given to work with and blew. In case you have forgotten Will in any case was a guy who went mano a mano with sainted Seth over the question of the homosexuality of Sherlock Holmes and Doc Watson in their long film collaboration and got it wrong, totally wrong not knowing about the dilly boys that this pair hung around with on the wharves between cases. Will got caught with what I would call his pants down not knowing of the rampant homosexuality in the English public school (private schools here). Everybody, except beloved Seth who does have a heart after all he has gone through, had a great big laugh at that faux pas, even I chuckled when I heard what he had tried to do to defend himself after Seth lashed him to the mast.        

As the Star War series has progressed we have seen many more sophisticated technological gizmos per film but I am here to tell you that the basics were all set up in that first film from the grotesques of the galaxy who no self-respecting persons not bitten by the “politically correct” bug would let in the neighborhoods to the latest in space age travel. That is however not the most important part-not the Hollywood “hook” that Seth has told me that every film and every film review needs. Usually it is the time-honored boy meets girl or these days girl meets boy or whatever other combination, hopefully “B” meeting “B” but you don’t see much of that yet the screen can produce-including inter-species love if the 2018 Oscar for Best Film is any indication. Here though and it will drag out at least through this first trilogy, the part of the saga that is the fight against the dark side, the Darth Vader side is the whole question of good and evil and what to do about it. What do good guys and gals do about it when the baddies want the galaxy and they want it now.

With that as the backdrop we have our three main players here and in the trilogy. Future Jedi warrior prince angel avenger Luke Skywalker, played by young Mark Hamill, the fairy queen Princess Leia of the royal house of whatever since apparently even is advanced space technology and future times we are going to be bedeviled by goddamn monarchies and future romantic interest Han Solo, played by hard-working Harrison Ford of the jut-jaw who is the only one who broke out of the sci-fi paydays good as they were. (Han was in once everybody figured out you can’t have incest once it turns on a dime that Luke and Leia were brother and sister and, and the children of … well see the film, oops see the trilogy). They will be guided in their battles against the fallen satanic angel gone on a vengeance run one Black Knight breathing heavy Darth Vader and his boss some mad monk who as usual wants to rule the world and needs a good gunslinger to do his dirty word. The battle is joined, the endless battles and heavy casualties on the bad guys side. This is one point I will agree with Will Bradley on for such a massive force the bad guys seem to be very ill-trained not to be able to beat a few kids and assorted amateurs. More later since I have run out of billable words.