The Stuff Dreams Were Made Of-With The Late Sam Spade In Mind

The Stuff Dreams Were Made Of-With The Late Sam Spade In Mind

By permission of Bart Webber

“Hey, sailor buy me a drink I am feeling a little blue today because I just read in the Times that my old boss Sam Spade what did he call it, oh yeah, cashed his check, has gone to the pearly gates or wherever ex-private dicks go to,” Effie Perrine was loudly calling to a guy in a three piece suit a few bar stools down who certainly was not a sailor. Not a sailor, or if so was totally lost in the Garden Bar of the Grand Hotel in New York City. The guy who seemed sober enough slid down beside her and offered her that drink. Scotch, neat so you knew, if you knew Effie as she had advanced in years, nice way to put it, was definitely feeling blue as the bartender brought her a drink and a whiskey sour for the three-piece suit. When Effie asked his name he gave it as War Bond and had started to give his line when she stopped him cold asking if he remembered the name. Barton answered that if that was Sam Spade of the Samuel Spade Investigation Agency which had after the war given the Pinkerton organization a run for its money then he had heard of the organization but had not known that the founder was still alive.

Effie used that acknowledgement as her entre into telling her new friend why she was feeling blue this day. “Back in the day, back before the World War, back in the late 1930s Sam Spade was the last of the tough guy private investigators, the last of the guys who could take a punch, give a couple back, take a slug and throw back some too, get some flame in the sack and have time for lunch all in a day’s work. Not like the no-name private dicks today excuse me with no balls and no way to get them watching too much television with their pansy detectives like that Nick Charles everybody is raving about. Punk, nothing but punk,” Effie effused as she eyed her empty glass and point to Barton. As the bartender went to fill the order Effie said the following, “Do you remember the black bird case that was in all the papers back then, the case that made Sam’s career?” Ward gave a look of bewilderment and said “No.” Effie retorted, “If you don’t interrupt a girl and let me tell the story then for kicks you can take me upstairs to my room and we can see what we shall see.” Ward perked up to that offer, said the unnecessary yes and gave Effie the floor.                   

“I met Sam back then out in San Francisco when I first hit town after blowing dust off my shoes from nowhere dust bowl Nebraska at the height of the Depression. Actually I met his partner Miles, Miles Archer, when they were partners before Miles was killed on a case. I had met him in the Farrell Hotel on Post Street when I was doing the best I could working the bar for drinks and for tumbles to keep my head from wasting away on some park bench. This Miles was nothing but a lady’s man, nothing but soft-touch jobs and I knew I could handle him. Had handled guys tougher than him when I was nothing but a teenager in Omaha. He had this wife whom he didn’t like, and she didn’t like him either. During the time Miles and I ran together Sam was boffing Miles’ wife, Iva, I think her name so there were no problems. Miles, like guys like Miles always do, got tired of me and was ready to leave me high and dry until I put the bug in his ear that if he didn’t watch out his every loving wife might be getting a little call from me. The way things worked out though was that Miles brought me into the office to be the office secretary and that is where I met Sam.               

“I was immediately attracted to Sam and after that barely talked to Miles except on office business. I, once I honed in on him, grabbed Sam for a while, lived with him even, but I knew that I was just a plaything for him and so when Harry came along I latched onto him. But being in the office, working with Sam when he was in his prime, when he was the real deal detective was how I was up to my skinny ankles in the black bird case.[Ward looked down with an approving look, a look complete with lips smacking.] 

“You know this was the heart of the Depression so after sleeping my way into a job and after the communal lusts wore off I proved to be a very competent office manager which is really what I was. Sam would depend on my judgement a lot, would ask me to evaluate a client if for no other reason than would the party pay up for services rendered. That’s how I got involved with this Wonderly, LeBlanc, O’Shea whatever her real name was, I’ll call her Bridget, which to this day I am not sure what it was since we never wound up billing her. Sam maybe got a few hundred dollars out of her in cash and that was all we ever got. She had come walking into the front office where I worked (and screened the clients) all boas, feathers, and the scent of jasmine looking for some detective help. Told me that a guy named Dashiell Hammett, who I had never heard of although Sam told me later he knew the name, had recommended Archer& Spade to help with her secret problem. I personally although I let her into Sam’s office thought when all the dust settled and Sam and I were laughing about the roller coaster ride we had just been on that she had just grabbed the first name in the telephone book and would have worked her way down until she got her claws into somebody who would do her bidding after a whiff of that jasmine.      

“The story that she gave Sam, the story that got poor Miles Archer an early grave, was she was looking for a sister who was running around with some hardnosed gangster and she needed some heft to face the guy and whatever his demands were down. Her hundred dollar bills (Sam told me Miles had seen her wallet and they had plenty of brothers) a couple Sam said for the record got the services of Archer& Spade. Miles licking his chops all the while volunteered to meet this bad guy, this Thursday, Thursby something like that I have trouble with names of late later that night at the Majestic Hotel.

“The next thing I know is l got a call in the middle of the night from Sam saying Miles had taken the big send-off, had cashed his check and could I break the news to this Iva whom Sam went back to fucking, excuse my English which would not have been sued then but now we can say whatever we want. I did but what a bitch to settle down. He also asked me to call Bridget and was pissed off at me when I told him she had flown the coop. The situation got worse when some coppers came to his door to shake him down not only about Miles and what he was working on but that this guy Thursby whom Miles was to meet had been blasted to kingdom come later in the evening. Sam kept saying that he could feel the noose tightening around his neck and I could see it in his eyes.       

“You never know about men though, especially tough guys like Sam, guys who are tough and good in bed which Sam was and not all tough guys are-some believe me are pansies no doubt. Bridget wound up calling him saying she was in fear of her life and could he please, pretty please stand by her. She probably spread her legs, spread then wide or gave him a quick blow job but an hour later he called me and told me that Bridget had laid five hundred bucks on him to stay on the case. He was in, all in come hell or high water.

“The next I heard from Sam he had just finished blowing smoke at the cops investigating the cases of Archer and Thursby when Bridget and this fag who had come to the office looking for Bridget, looking for what he said was the black bird she knew about had tangled. The cops bought whatever he was selling but it was a close call. That mention of the bird and what it was worth in human life and death was what the whole thing would turn out to be about. Who had it, who thought they had it, and who was willing to pay cold hard cash to get it.

“That is when the Fat Man, a guy named something Street got on his high horse with Sam and tried to get him to betray Bridget. Sam wasn’t buying that line just then but he definitely saw that whatever sexual promises laid ahead with Bridget he was going to have the cash nexus in mind as well. Was going to get out from under the cheapjack back office in some failed office building with losers and fakers and go uptown. Said he would take me there with him. I was in, all in too.      

“The deal on the black bird was that it was supposed to have been loaded with jewels as tribute by some monks or knights back in the dark ages to the Spanish king. The thing never got to him so the damn thing was whoever had control of the item who would profit from the possession. The Fat Man, a clever guy from the one time I saw him tried to cut corners on Sam since he knew, or thought he knew it was. Put the bang-bang on Sam. Did the Fat Man no good because this guy, this ship captain that Bridget had conned into working with her when she was working in some Hong Kong whorehouse from what Sam told me later wound up in our office with the bird. Wound up dead too from the Fat Man’s hired gun. But we had the bird although seeing that guy die right before my eyes was one of the worse things that I have ever seen in my life.         

“We had the advantage now since Sam had put the bird in storage somewhere and mailed the ticket to me for safekeeping. Sam was off to deal with the Fat Man, with Bridget or whoever had dough to win the bird. That was his story anyway.  He negotiated, negotiated up front for Bridget but I think really for himself, with the Fat Man at his apartment. He was to get ten thousand up-front for delivery of the bird to the big man. That is where I came in. I was to pick up the bird from storage since I had the ticket and bring it to the Fat Man’s apartment. I brought it and then left.      

“Sam told me later that all hell brought out when the Fat Man and his associates found out that the bird the Captain had delivered to us was a fake, worthless. He left with his confederates after flashing some guns. Leaving Sam and Bridget to face the coppers. That is where Sam went into his magic act, where he sent Bridget over. See she had killed Miles for her own reasons, probably had killed Thursby too. Sam was not taking the fall for her, no way. She was going to the big-step off, and while he would not forget her he had to take her down, let her take the fall for his profession, for Miles whether he liked him or not. Bad for business letting civilians run amok over the dead bodies of private investigators.

“Here’s the part that never got in the newspapers which was just what the cops gave the newspapers. Bridget and the Fat Man were not the only one’s smitten by the idea of the stuff of dreams. Sam saw this bird as his way out of cheap street. That fake bird was not the bird the Captain had delivered to the office. The one I had innocently delivered to the Fat Man’s apartment. Sam had squirreled it away in another storage box. Later after cashing in on the jewels he gave me more than enough to set me up here. And that is the real story of how the Sam Spade Investigation Agency got its start. The real story of the days when guys did private investigation for keeps. Sam Spade RIP. Now you can take me upstairs and see what is what.”             

A Haters’ Elegy, Of Sorts-Swerving A Big Detour From Simple “Traipsing Through The Arts”

A Haters’ Elegy, Of Sorts-Swerving A Big Detour From Simple “Traipsing Through The Arts”

By Laura Perkins   

Maybe it is because I am in chloric mood having just gone through a bunch of medical procedures, been poked and prodded to perdition but today I am nothing but an old-time flame-thrower, not those tunnel rat throwers that my friend Sam Lowell keeps telling me about from his time in Vietnam but the ancient stoic Greek warriors who batted burns with the best of them and maybe that will help me feel better.

I hate in no particular order: two million-word writers (excluding revered Jack Kerouac who at least wrote a few great novels and some passable ones too and who at least did his work the hard way via some nubbed pencils and a ten-cent notepad purchased at some off-hand Woolworth’s when that was a go-to place for such things among the young and then to secret cave libraries and mind adventures); terminal word junkies (not serious writers, see above,  although if my medical condition gets worse maybe them too but guys and gals who prattle on endlessly assuming just because they don’t consider their time valuable they assume everybody else is in step and that getting the last word is the idea of great literary/debate style); Jimmy Swag “hit men” (the last one, let’s call him X in case shows up in this country again and maybe take umbrage that I didn’t show him quite enough respect either calling him a lowlife hitman or that he left Jimmy cold and dry not doing his contract leaving the Swag to do a nickel in State Pen and who has rumored of late to have been seen in Argentina working as a gunsel for a high-end Madame at a Buenos Aires bordello; “fixer man” (no, not the beautiful backroom cigar-smoke, whiskey drinking guy of politics like sainted Mayor Daley of Chic town when he had that place wired, was so wired he was so wired that he was electric and who could “deliver” those last three crucial votes to your guy from his opponent to put him over the top by threatening to expose them as respectively having had carnal knowledge of animals, being a sodomite, and having sent fifteen years in a mental hospital but the guy down your street wearing high-belted yellow pants, floral jacket and a soft fedora with a feather in the band flailing little white packets yelling out “let me make your nightmares into dreams, ” let sister turn cousin in tricks in the night);Primitive Baptists( a primer, not the grand army of the post-flood who need to have their sins washed away in some rushing river or non-fetid swamp but the ones who insist that those adults, no children under twelve need apply thankfully resolved that issue without too deep a cut in the congregation, to be baptized in a muddy creek or swamp to signify they have been dirty little harlots who left alone for a minute covet every wife’s man or in a pinch every man’s wife, the whores, and con artists shaking some innocent girl out of her maidenhead by claiming ye are the Jesus and she the bride, bullshit with gravy,  so not the more well-known General Baptists who do their nasty rituals in fast-moving rivers without life-preservers daring the penitents to survive the torrents those few not drowned, the Remnant, are “saved” or the Particular Baptists who don’t care where it is done except everybody has to get naked as jaybirds for the cameras even the kids);Mountain Methodists (here I know from whence I speak unlike that flock Baptists, since my father, born and bred as I was, in Upstate New York, land “burned over” during the Second Great Awakening in the early 19^th century had been raised in that faith whose central tenet was that all would be saved come End-Times, come Judgement Day some might have to wait at the gate a little longer  that was all but would alms, welfare checks to day I guess, and who differed from the merciless Wesley boys and their factory pallor who would make the “saved” jump through hoops to get in the pearly gates and bums, tramps, winos, lay-abouts, junkies and usurers had best look elsewhere because the joint would be sealed with seven seals against them);Brethren of the Common Life (another place which I know from whence I speak, my mother was purebred Brethren, and I pretty much followed the religion as a girl, which was a breakaway operation from the more famous Monrovian Tabernacle the split issue there which I never really understood and then would care about less when I was old enough to have investigated had to do with doctrinal differences over how long and at what rest points did God create Earth the Brethren arguing five days on, two days off against the more traditional view); Clarence Dewar, a professional art critic for Art Today who I am calling out today by name for his boorish and deluded view that I have nothing important to say about art because I am not a professional art critic, which I have never claimed to be, that has stirred up the fire-eaters, dingbats, hopelessly deranged, a few irate art patrons, some museum volunteer guides, the Grey Ladies, here’s the dagger- back in the day to feed his horrible opium addiction he would take old copies of say Art Wave , maybe cut and paste, literally in those days before word processors saved our butts,                    

an article by Clement Greenberg and sent it along under his own name.); People who blather on about art being the search for the sublime (when we have the names Clarence Dewar and Clement Greenberg on the grille we might as well tackle this sawdust bit that has saved more bogus careers in the art world than you can shake a stick at when these dingbats go off on their tangents and proclaim, yes, that is just the right word, that the best artists rather than trying to sell a few items to keep the wolves from the door are really pushing the human experience forward a thimbleful thus saving themselves from having to work up a sweat over what the artists really had to say in their productions); Edgar Degas the pervert(there is no room even in hell for this degenerate who spent his life bothering, girls, children really, and young women around ballet schools and riding stables clutching his wretched cigars in his moth-eaten hands and taking a million hits of his bong pipe no among of reparations can repair that savagery but would help and while we all know that this stuff went on, goes on, witness the #MeToo movement the coppers knew wat he was doing, had the complaints in their archives gathering dust but sat on their hands when the art mavens and their bosses pulled down the hammer);Whistler’s “theory of art for art’s sake” (following ever so closely behind that sublime business that has saved more wretches clueless about art is the idea that nobody but the artist should give a fuck about their artistic production and not be floored by conventions and again every bum of the month has held on to this beauty for dear life when trying to get those last thousand words on some freshman term paper or glossy art journal entry although strangely Whistler himself, the old dog, used that idea to hustle his mistresses when the rent was due and when he couldn’t figure out what the hell he was doing with all those fireball, color ball, bombast ball paintings that did make sense otherwise including hanging his poor dear mother out to dry as some color study, not nice);Claude Monet’s Camille (Jesus why would anybody in their right minds pick on his poor first wife especially if one, I, am setting aside the whole idea of cultural appropriation associated with the painting La Japonaise but this allows me to get at the bastard through the back door since what I really want to get at is artistic whoring after having argued how fetching and sexy Madame posed and then found a photograph of her from an earlier time and she looked like like a lunger, had consumption or something);and, art gallery owners (I had intended to finish up with whorish press agents and flak-catchers but they are down in the cesspool of the food chain which runs the Cabal but I saw a better moving target and a grouping more central to the so-called trends which only means that they are always hustling to avoid being stuck with some goods that even flea marketeers would have a hard time getting the fuck rid of I know because some of it is in my living room).

Why all this, why all this venom. Why this surly mob of disparaged elements. One way or another these loss-leaders have been the bane of my existence of late as I have tried to blast some small hole in the entombed Art Cabal for the benefit of the art devotee public. Strangely the strands they represent could give one a very good look at the yahoos and b.s. artists who have attempted to defend the “academy” against the onslaught. You know already I feel better maybe I will take on the literary lightweights as an encore.        

The Stuff Dreams Were Made Of-With The Late Sam Spade In Mind By permission of Bart Webber

The Stuff Dreams Were Made Of-With The Late Sam Spade In Mind

By permission of Bart Webber

“Hey, sailor buy me a drink I am feeling a little blue today because I just read in the Times that my old boss Sam Spade what did he call it, oh yeah, cashed his check, has gone to the pearly gates or wherever ex-private dicks go to,” Effie Perrine was loudly calling to a guy in a three piece suit a few bar stools down who certainly was not a sailor. Not a sailor, or if so was totally lost in the Garden Bar of the Grand Hotel in New York City. The guy who seemed sober enough slid down beside her and offered her that drink. Scotch, neat so you knew, if you knew Effie as she had advanced in years, nice way to put it, was definitely feeling blue as the bartender brought her a drink and a whiskey sour for the three-piece suit. When Effie asked his name he gave it as War Bond and had started to give his line when she stopped him cold asking if he remembered the name. Barton answered that if that was Sam Spade of the Samuel Spade Investigation Agency which had after the war given the Pinkerton organization a run for its money then he had heard of the organization but had not known that the founder was still alive.

Effie used that acknowledgement as her entre into telling her new friend why she was feeling blue this day. “Back in the day, back before the World War, back in the late 1930s Sam Spade was the last of the tough guy private investigators, the last of the guys who could take a punch, give a couple back, take a slug and throw back some too, get some flame in the sack and have time for lunch all in a day’s work. Not like the no-name private dicks today excuse me with no balls and no way to get them watching too much television with their pansy detectives like that Nick Charles everybody is raving about. Punk, nothing but punk,” Effie effused as she eyed her empty glass and point to Barton. As the bartender went to fill the order Effie said the following, “Do you remember the black bird case that was in all the papers back then, the case that made Sam’s career?” Ward gave a look of bewilderment and said “No.” Effie retorted, “If you don’t interrupt a girl and let me tell the story then for kicks you can take me upstairs to my room and we can see what we shall see.” Ward perked up to that offer, said the unnecessary yes and gave Effie the floor.                   

“I met Sam back then out in San Francisco when I first hit town after blowing dust off my shoes from nowhere dust bowl Nebraska at the height of the Depression. Actually I met his partner Miles, Miles Archer, when they were partners before Miles was killed on a case. I had met him in the Farrell Hotel on Post Street when I was doing the best I could working the bar for drinks and for tumbles to keep my head from wasting away on some park bench. This Miles was nothing but a lady’s man, nothing but soft-touch jobs and I knew I could handle him. Had handled guys tougher than him when I was nothing but a teenager in Omaha. He had this wife whom he didn’t like, and she didn’t like him either. During the time Miles and I ran together Sam was boffing Miles’ wife, Iva, I think her name so there were no problems. Miles, like guys like Miles always do, got tired of me and was ready to leave me high and dry until I put the bug in his ear that if he didn’t watch out his every loving wife might be getting a little call from me. The way things worked out though was that Miles brought me into the office to be the office secretary and that is where I met Sam.               

“I was immediately attracted to Sam and after that barely talked to Miles except on office business. I, once I honed in on him, grabbed Sam for a while, lived with him even, but I knew that I was just a plaything for him and so when Harry came along I latched onto him. But being in the office, working with Sam when he was in his prime, when he was the real deal detective was how I was up to my skinny ankles in the black bird case.[Ward looked down with an approving look, a look complete with lips smacking.] 

“You know this was the heart of the Depression so after sleeping my way into a job and after the communal lusts wore off I proved to be a very competent office manager which is really what I was. Sam would depend on my judgement a lot, would ask me to evaluate a client if for no other reason than would the party pay up for services rendered. That’s how I got involved with this Wonderly, LeBlanc, O’Shea whatever her real name was, I’ll call her Bridget, which to this day I am not sure what it was since we never wound up billing her. Sam maybe got a few hundred dollars out of her in cash and that was all we ever got. She had come walking into the front office where I worked (and screened the clients) all boas, feathers, and the scent of jasmine looking for some detective help. Told me that a guy named Dashiell Hammett, who I had never heard of although Sam told me later he knew the name, had recommended Archer& Spade to help with her secret problem. I personally although I let her into Sam’s office thought when all the dust settled and Sam and I were laughing about the roller coaster ride we had just been on that she had just grabbed the first name in the telephone book and would have worked her way down until she got her claws into somebody who would do her bidding after a whiff of that jasmine.      

“The story that she gave Sam, the story that got poor Miles Archer an early grave, was she was looking for a sister who was running around with some hardnosed gangster and she needed some heft to face the guy and whatever his demands were down. Her hundred dollar bills (Sam told me Miles had seen her wallet and they had plenty of brothers) a couple Sam said for the record got the services of Archer& Spade. Miles licking his chops all the while volunteered to meet this bad guy, this Thursday, Thursby something like that I have trouble with names of late later that night at the Majestic Hotel.

“The next thing I know is l got a call in the middle of the night from Sam saying Miles had taken the big send-off, had cashed his check and could I break the news to this Iva whom Sam went back to fucking, excuse my English which would not have been sued then but now we can say whatever we want. I did but what a bitch to settle down. He also asked me to call Bridget and was pissed off at me when I told him she had flown the coop. The situation got worse when some coppers came to his door to shake him down not only about Miles and what he was working on but that this guy Thursby whom Miles was to meet had been blasted to kingdom come later in the evening. Sam kept saying that he could feel the noose tightening around his neck and I could see it in his eyes.       

“You never know about men though, especially tough guys like Sam, guys who are tough and good in bed which Sam was and not all tough guys are-some believe me are pansies no doubt. Bridget wound up calling him saying she was in fear of her life and could he please, pretty please stand by her. She probably spread her legs, spread then wide or gave him a quick blow job but an hour later he called me and told me that Bridget had laid five hundred bucks on him to stay on the case. He was in, all in come hell or high water.

“The next I heard from Sam he had just finished blowing smoke at the cops investigating the cases of Archer and Thursby when Bridget and this fag who had come to the office looking for Bridget, looking for what he said was the black bird she knew about had tangled. The cops bought whatever he was selling but it was a close call. That mention of the bird and what it was worth in human life and death was what the whole thing would turn out to be about. Who had it, who thought they had it, and who was willing to pay cold hard cash to get it.

“That is when the Fat Man, a guy named something Street got on his high horse with Sam and tried to get him to betray Bridget. Sam wasn’t buying that line just then but he definitely saw that whatever sexual promises laid ahead with Bridget he was going to have the cash nexus in mind as well. Was going to get out from under the cheapjack back office in some failed office building with losers and fakers and go uptown. Said he would take me there with him. I was in, all in too.      

“The deal on the black bird was that it was supposed to have been loaded with jewels as tribute by some monks or knights back in the dark ages to the Spanish king. The thing never got to him so the damn thing was whoever had control of the item who would profit from the possession. The Fat Man, a clever guy from the one time I saw him tried to cut corners on Sam since he knew, or thought he knew it was. Put the bang-bang on Sam. Did the Fat Man no good because this guy, this ship captain that Bridget had conned into working with her when she was working in some Hong Kong whorehouse from what Sam told me later wound up in our office with the bird. Wound up dead too from the Fat Man’s hired gun. But we had the bird although seeing that guy die right before my eyes was one of the worse things that I have ever seen in my life.         

“We had the advantage now since Sam had put the bird in storage somewhere and mailed the ticket to me for safekeeping. Sam was off to deal with the Fat Man, with Bridget or whoever had dough to win the bird. That was his story anyway.  He negotiated, negotiated up front for Bridget but I think really for himself, with the Fat Man at his apartment. He was to get ten thousand up-front for delivery of the bird to the big man. That is where I came in. I was to pick up the bird from storage since I had the ticket and bring it to the Fat Man’s apartment. I brought it and then left.      

“Sam told me later that all hell brought out when the Fat Man and his associates found out that the bird the Captain had delivered to us was a fake, worthless. He left with his confederates after flashing some guns. Leaving Sam and Bridget to face the coppers. That is where Sam went into his magic act, where he sent Bridget over. See she had killed Miles for her own reasons, probably had killed Thursby too. Sam was not taking the fall for her, no way. She was going to the big-step off, and while he would not forget her he had to take her down, let her take the fall for his profession, for Miles whether he liked him or not. Bad for business letting civilians run amok over the dead bodies of private investigators.

“Here’s the part that never got in the newspapers which was just what the cops gave the newspapers. Bridget and the Fat Man were not the only one’s smitten by the idea of the stuff of dreams. Sam saw this bird as his way out of cheap street. That fake bird was not the bird the Captain had delivered to the office. The one I had innocently delivered to the Fat Man’s apartment. Sam had squirreled it away in another storage box. Later after cashing in on the jewels he gave me more than enough to set me up here. And that is the real story of how the Sam Spade Investigation Agency got its start. The real story of the days when guys did private investigation for keeps. Sam Spade RIP. Now you can take me upstairs and see what is what.”             

Troubled Times-Alfred, Oops Sir Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Man Who Knew Too Much” (1934)-A Film Review

Troubled Times-Alfred, Oops Sir Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Man Who Knew Too Much” (1934)-A Film Review 

DVD Review

By Film Critic Sam Lowell

The Man Who Knew Too Much, starring Peter Lorre, directed by Sir Alfred Hitchcock, 1934

The last director Sir Alfred Hitchcock (I guess you can still use the honorific “sir” if a guy is dead and in any case he longingly coveted that title so I will stick with it) had two period in his long film directing career (three if you include his television work). The early British period which produced among other films the one under review, The Man Who Knew Too Much and the American period with such gems as the really chilling Psycho and The Birds. While nobody would claim that the British period films compared with the production values of the later period you can see the little tweaking that Hitchcock would do with his later films in this one.       

There was no escaping the reality of the 1930s after Hitler’s rise to power that any thriller would have to have as a part of the plot the threat of assassination to political figures as part of the mix. This film is a classic example of the genre in the 1930s (as in the 1950s and 1960s the Soviet Union would ask as foil for espionage fare. Here an ordinary English couple with their young daughter are in Switzerland for a clay pigeon shot (well, maybe I had better amend that “ordinary English couple” and make it a stiff upper lip English couple) when friend is mysteriously shot. Before he goes beyond the pale though he confides in the husband that he has to get some information to the British consulate. The husband dutifully gets the information and is ready to move heaven and earth to make sure the proper authorities get the crucial information.

Well the husband wanted to move heaven and earth except that a nefarious foreign agent, played by Peter Lorre, and his minions who are up to no good have kidnapped the couple’s daughter as a hostage. The couple go back to London to await their fate. The play is that Lorre and his crew are in that fair town to set up and commit an assassination on an important foreign dignitary from an unnamed country (although it could have been one of a number that were unstable after World War). The dastardly deed was to be done while that diplomat was attending a classical music concert. The wife whose quick action while she was in attendance at that same concert averted that fate for the hapless diplomat.              

Get this though the assassin left a trail for the husband and seemingly every bobby in London to follow to their hide-out. That proved to be curtains for Lorre and his crafty crew as the police performed a classic shoot-out with the bad guys. Lorre took it in the end. As for the daughter showing her metal despite her age skillfully escaped the clutches of the assassin who was fatally shot by her mother who was the crack clay pigeon shooter. How about that. If you want to see an early product of a thriller master check this one out because of that lot this is probably the best.  

Once Again, Mission Possible-Tom Cruise’s “Mission: Impossible-Rogue Nation -A Film Review (2015)

Once Again, Mission Possible-Tom Cruise’s “Mission: Impossible-Rogue Nation -A Film Review  (2015)

DVD Review

By Movie Critic Sam Lowell

Mission: Impossible-Rogue Nation, starring Tom Cruise, Rebecca Ferguson, Alex Baldwin, 2015

Recently in reviewing an earlier film in the this Mission: Impossible, version of the popular 1960s television series The Fugitive from 1989 (are you following me) there were several films that had been made from old time television series and that some were able to cross, to “pass” and others were not. (The action has gone the other way as well with a film like say American Graffiti spawning a number of television series and they in turn spawning others). The film (now part of a seemingly never-ending film series) under review, Mission: Impossible-Rogue Nation, is a similar example of the flipping process although the technological gizmos used in that long ago television series which seemed so exotic and improbable are today’s standard fare for, uh, eight-year olds delights. Although the missions were perhaps more interesting (and more politically attuned to then current Cold War realities) than now with a greater emphasis on the team as an ensemble rather that one “hot-dog” Ethan Hunt using the team as fodder for his exploits

That said every once in a while I like to grab as I did with that prior film an action-packed adventure thriller and no question this one is a vehicle for the action every minute title. I have not seen the other films in this series and so this review makes no pretense to have an overview of the series or the place of this film in the eyes of other critics but this one had a reasonably interesting story-line along with that mile a minute action.

   

The play here centers around trying finally to put a nefarious organization, the Syndicate, made up of, well, rogue elements from every known intelligence operation in the world and which is running amok out of action The operation is led by a “turned” British intelligence officer. Everybody is trying to bring that bad guy down including the British sending in an agent, a foxy agent to boot who knows what is what, Ilsa, played by Rebecca Ferguson, to infiltrate the operation. Along the way she has to do a lot of tough things to prove her “loyalty” to the Syndicate.

Problem is that IMF, or rather Ethan Hunt (I don’t have to give Tom Cruise as the actor playing the role at this point do I?), and his team are working the same street and at times working at cross purposes with the bloody British, with Ilsa too. Compounding all of this is the hard fact that Ethan and crew are rogues too since the IMF cowboys have been taken down a notch and defunded. Taken down by guess who-the C.I.A. in a little interagency squabble by its director, played by Alec Baldwin before he became Donald Trump. Not to worry though if anybody but that eight year old mentioned earlier was worried the crew will stand up and get the bad guys-get them bad, real bad like always. Don’t worry about the thinness of the story line in places and the various ruses and false leads and enjoy the bang, bang action for a couple of hours if you need an action thriller fix every once in a while just like me.  They say another film in the series is coming so if you like this constant action watch out for it. I think I will retire after these two.   

Yeah, no question that Davian went over the line grabbing Julie, went a little crazy even for somebody in his line of work and would pay with his life for putting Julie through the meat-grinder. And he does but guess what that Musgrave who gave Ethan the assignment had been “turned” and also had to be taken out. Guess by who? Yeah, Julie. This Ethan-Julie marriage latch-up was made in heaven.                     

Malignant Obsession-Bette Davis and Leslie Howard’s Film Adaptation of W. Somerset Maugham’s “Of Human Bondage” (1934)-A Film Review

Malignant Obsession-Bette Davis and Leslie Howard’s Film Adaptation of W. Somerset Maugham’s “Of Human Bondage” (1934)-A Film Review

DVD Review

By Film Critic Sam Lowell

Of Human Bondage, starring Bette Davis, Leslie Howard, based on W. Somerset Maugham’s novel of the same name, 1934

No question love can take some funny turns from eternal bliss to the malignant obsession of medical student Phillip Carey, played by Leslie Howard, for waitperson (then known as waitresses) Mildred Rogers, played in an incredible performance by Bette Davis in the film adaptation of W. Somerset Maugham’s Of Human Bondage. The human, the very human capacity to find love in some very wrong places gets a full-throated workout in this 1934 film. Moreover even though the smitten and tortured character here is a man the feelings know no gender boundaries.     

The first problem for our troubled medical student is the class issue in very class-bound England then, and now. The play between the up and coming doctor and the tart-like waitperson could only spell trouble even if Mildred had been half as perfidious as she was-always looking for the main chance-for the next Mister Big. The second problem was that the very smitten Phillip was physically- challenged (then called crippled which Mildred at one point made a point of being disgusting to here). The combination would have been daunting even if Mildred had been less of an opportunist. See while she was leading Phillip on she was also seeing her meal ticket-her Mister Big. Phillip played the sap for her on that one thinking he would marry her when all she was doing was making moves to marry Mister Big. Well Mildred should have checked his credentials or at least his marriage because Mister Big dumped her-turned out he was already married. All he did was leave her to the wind with child. Still Phillip took her back.                  

Okay once is okay but then the next best thing came along, a fellow medical student of Phillip’s and she was off again. Still once it was question of helping or her on the streets with an unwanted child he succumbed again. But he was getting wiser. At least he wasn’t as smitten as in those fresh bloom days. All she kept doing though was holding him in contempt while feeding off his feelings for her. At some point, a point where a young gentile women is interested in him, he begins to withdraw, begins to break from his feverish desire for Mildred as she begins her descent down into well, the gutter, the ”life,”  the hard streets. In the end T.B got her (then called consumption and if I recall earlier called the vapors), left her on deep cheap street and an unloved grave. Phillip, well Phillip finally got himself free, got free once Mildred passed the shades. Took life in his own hands and grabbed that gentile woman who was made for him. Still Mildred let him a not so merry chase. An excellent performance by Miss Davis especially one scene when she went berserk and cut up all of Phillip’s precious nude paintings (he had started out as a failed art student) and another when after she had been finally rebuffed by Phillip she spewed forth her utter contempt from day one. Watch this one-and read the book too.            

the third one, I noted that in reviewing Harrison Ford’s cinematic

A View From The Left-An Appreciation of Chuck Berry-By Ruth Ryan

A View From The Left-An Appreciation of Chuck Berry-By Ruth Ryan

Workers Vanguard No. 1112	19 May 2017

An Appreciation of Chuck Berry

(Letter)

23 April 2017

To Workers Vanguard,

Chuck Berry (1926-2017) was very nearly the last of the black pioneers of rock’n roll from the 1940s and 50s including Little Richard, Ike Turner, Howlin Wolf and more, who lived, performed and innovated from the time of Jim Crow segregation and lynch law until well into the 21st Century. Chuck’s parents and grandparents on both sides knew their slave-born ancestors and passed on to him their names, relationships and stories.

Like others before him, Chuck bucked his Baptist parents’ opposition to play “the devil’s music”. Consigned to the category of “race music”, he and his fellow rockers were exploited by promoters and recording companies, cheated of the rights to their songs, and later saw their songs covered with far greater commercial success by admiring white American performers and British invaders (Roll Over Beethoven, Sweet Little Sixteen). John Lennon was quoted as saying, “If you tried to give rock and roll another name, you might call it ‘Chuck Berry.’”

Unable to make a living from their recordings, these musicians toured at an exhausting pace, staying in segregated accommodations and playing to segregated audiences. Where there were no hotels for blacks, they slept in their cars and ducked the police. They were virulently hated by politicians and law enforcement when white kids, especially white girls, began to literally dance across the color line, touching the explosive intersection of sex and race under capitalism. From Billie Holiday to Ray Charles, black musicians were targeted for beatings, confiscation of earnings, arrest and imprisonment, typically for sex, drugs and taxes. Chuck was hounded under the Mann Act, once for travelling with a married 17-year old and once with a teen prostitute. He was imprisoned for tax evasion (i.e., failure to set aside money to pay outrageously regressive self-employment taxes).

Chuck built on previous musical advances, including those of Johnny Johnson, T-Bone Walker and Bob Wills, melding blues and country swing with his own style. He was a vivid story teller of the poor man’s experience (Nadine, No Money Down, Memphis Tennessee). He combined his slyly provocative lyrics, signature duck walk and a hard-driving rhythm, “the backbeat, you can’t lose it”. He made the crossover to biracial and teenage audiences, shedding his exploitive managers, signing with Chess Records, and getting a grip on the rights to his songs.

Chuck was prominent among the musicians who boldly broke the color line in performance venues. He was unapologetic, and an icon for the 1960s generation who rebelled against the strictures of family and religion, imperialist war and racial oppression. The Freedom Riders, those who sat in at lunch counters, those who marched against the Vietnam War grew up on his music, knew his songs and his story. The life and hard times of Chuck Berry exemplified the fact that there is no original American music or culture without black music and culture. Beating all odds, Chuck Berry died in bed at his home at the age of 90.

Ruth Ryan

In Honor Of Our Class-War Prisoners- Free All The Class-War Prisoners!- Free The Ohio 7's Jaan Laaman!

In Honor Of Our Class-War Prisoners- Free All The Class-War Prisoners!- Free The Ohio 7's Jaan Laaman!



http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jaan_Laaman



A link above to more information about the class-war prisoner honored in this entry.

Make June Class-War Prisoners Freedom Month 

Markin comment

In “surfing” the “National Jericho Movement” Website recently in order to find out more, if possible, about class- war prisoner and 1960s radical, Marilyn Buck, whom I had read about in a “The Rag Blog” post I linked to the Jericho list of class war prisoners. I found Marilyn Buck listed there but also others, some of whose cases, like that of the “voice of the voiceless” Pennsylvania death row prisoner, Mumia Abu-Jamal, are well-known and others who seemingly have languished in obscurity. All of the cases, at least from the information that I could glean from the site, seemed compelling. And all seemed worthy of far more publicity and of a more public fight for their freedom.

That last notion set me to the task at hand. Readers of this space know that I am a long time supporter of the Partisan Defense Committee, a class struggle, non-sectarian legal and social defense organization which supports class war prisoners as part of the process of advancing the international working class’ struggle for socialism. In that spirit I am honoring the class war prisoners on the National Jericho Movement list this June as the start of what I hope will be an on-going attempt by all serious leftist militants to do their duty- fighting for freedom for these brothers and sisters. We will fight out our political differences and disagreements as a separate matter. What matter here and now is the old Wobblie (IWW) slogan - An injury to one is an injury to all.

Note: This list, right now, is composed of class war prisoners held in American detention. If others are likewise incarcerated that are not listed here feel free to leave information on their cases in the comment section. Likewise any cases, internationally, that come to your attention. I am sure there are many, many such cases out there. Make this June, and every June, a Class-War Prisoners Freedom Month- Free All Class-War Prisoners Now!

************

Thursday, January 31, 2008
*Free The Last of the Ohio Seven-They Must Not Die In Jail

Click on title to link to the Partisan Defense Committee (an organization whose goals I support) to learn more about the Manning and Laaman cases(and other political prisoners supported by the organization)

COMMENTARY

ONE OF THE OHIO SEVEN -RICHARD WILLIAMS- RECENTLY DIED IN PRISON (2006). THAT LEAVES JAAN LAAMAN AND TOM MANNING STILL IN PRISON. IT IS AN URGENT DUTY FOR THE INTERNATIONAL LABOR MOVEMENT AND OTHERS TO RAISE THE CALL FOR THEIR FREEDOM. FREE ALL CLASS WAR PRISONERS.

I have added a link to Tom Manning's site that can provide a link to Jaan Laaman's site. For convenience I have labelled this link the Ohio Seven Defense Committee site. Free the last of the Seven. Below is a commentary written in 2006 arguing for their freedom.

Below is a repost of a commentary I made in 2007 to support of freedom for the last of the Ohio Seven

The Ohio Seven, like many other subjective revolutionaries, coming out of the turbulent anti-Vietnam War and anti-imperialist movements, were committed to social change. The different is that this organization included mainly working class militants, some of whose political consciousness was formed by participation as soldiers in the Vietnam War itself. Various members were convicted for carrying out robberies, apparently to raise money for their struggles, and bombings of imperialist targets. Without going into their particular personal and political biographies I note that these were the kind of subjective revolutionaries that must be recruited to a working class vanguard party if there ever is to be a chance of bringing off a socialist revolution. In the absence of a viable revolutionary labor party in the 1970’s and 1980’s the politics of the Ohio Seven, like the Black Panthers and the Weathermen, were borne of despair at the immensity of the task and also by desperation to do something concrete in aid of the Vietnamese Revolution and other Third World struggles . Their actions in trying to open up a second front militarily in the United States in aid of Third World struggles without a mass base proved to be mistaken but, as the Partisan Defense Committee which I support has noted, their actions were no crime in the eyes of the international working class.

The lack of a revolutionary vanguard to attract such working class elements away from adventurism is rendered even more tragic in the case of the Ohio Seven. Leon Trotsky, a leader with Lenin of the Russian Revolution of 1917, noted in a political obituary for his fallen comrade and fellow Left Oppositionist Kote Tsintadze that the West has not produced such fighters as Kote. Kote, who went through all the phases of struggle for the Russian Revolution, including imprisonment and exile under both the Czar and Stalin benefited from solidarity in a mass revolutionary vanguard party to sustain him through the hard times. What a revolutionary party could have done with the evident capacity and continuing commitment of subjective revolutionaries like the Ohio Seven poses that question point blank. This is the central problem and task of cadre development in the West in resolving the crisis of revolutionary leadership.

Finally, I would like to note that except for the Partisan Defense Committee and their own defense organizations – the Ohio 7 Defense Committee and the Jaan Laaman Defense Fund- the Ohio Seven have long ago been abandoned by those New Left elements and others, who as noted, at one time had very similar politics. At least part of this can be attributed to the rightward drift to liberal pacifist politics by many of them, but some must be attributed to class. Although the Ohio Seven were not our people- they are our people. All honor to them. As James P Cannon, a founding leader of the International Labor Defense, forerunner of the Partisan Defense Committee, pointed out long ago –Solidarity with class war prisoners is not charity- it is a duty. Their fight is our fight! LET US DO OUR DUTY HERE. RAISE THE CALL FOR THE FREEDOM OF LAAMAN AND MANNING. MAKE MOTIONS OF SOLIDARITY IN YOUR POLITICAL ORGANIZATION, SCHOOL OR UNION.

YOU CAN GOOGLE THE ORGANIZATIONS MENTIONED ABOVE- THE PARTISAN DEFENSE COMMITTEE- THE OHIO 7 DEFENSE COMMITTEE- THE JAAN LAAMAN DEFENSE FUND.



*Once Again, Free Laaman And Manning- The Last Of The Ohio Seven In Jail- An Update



http://nightslantern.ca/prison/seven.htm

Link above to a little off-hand information about the Ohio 7.

Markin comment:

Needless to say, the organization that I support, the Partisan Defense Committee, has over the years supported the last two imprisoned members of the group, Jan Laaman and Tom Manning, in their struggles for freedom. While we spent time on this site recording and remembering various events from our youth, the 1960s, we should not forget those who are behind the walls of the class enemy. I will repeat what I have mentioned on previous occasions, and the PDC has as well in their publicity on the case; the Ohio did nothing that can be considered a crime by the international working class movement. Moreover, the roll call of crimes, great and small, from war to torture by the American imperial state in that time since Vietnam remain to be opposed, including today's Obamian war policies in Iraq and Afghanistan. Free Laaman and Manning- Do Not Let Them Die In Prison!

LAAMAN, JAAN KARL

Outside The Garden Of Eden-With Preston Sturgis’ "The Lady Eve" In Mind

Outside The Garden Of Eden-With Preston Sturgis’ "The Lady Eve" In Mind  

By Lance Lawrence

Take it from me, from William Demerest, that women are screwy, even two-timing women, or the two-timing woman I am thinking of just now was screwy. Yeah, I still insist that Charlie Pike, the guy old man Pike, yeah, that Pike who has made a ton of money selling ale-not beer, Jesus, not beer not if you don’t want to get an earful about the freaking differences, out of trouble. As best I could which as long as the whacky guy was alone in the Amazon or up the Nile the job was easy and I didn’t have to work up a sweat. Could sit around with the senoritas or whatever their designations were and swill beer (hell there wasn’t a bottle of Pike’s Ale within a thousand miles of where we were, thank God) and getting a little off-hand loving in. Like I said without working up a sweat.   

It was when Charlie, sonny boy, who could have given a sweet flying fuck about where his money came from as long as it rolled in for his various off-the-wall scientific experiments, got back to civilization for more than two minutes that every hustling guy and gal had their antennae set in his direction. Chasing Charlie down was all in a day’s work for a con artist like this Jean Harrington, who was working with her father and his associates on the very profitable trans-Atlantic ocean liner trade (this before a guy named Hitler who we eventually put paid to made it very unsafe for civilians to cross over to Europe or the other way around either for a while putting a big crimp into the con artist community’s source of livelihood).

I was supposed to make sure the “snakes” (not real snakes those Charlie could handle since that was his specialty) were de-fanged but this Jean did an end around and the minute, maybe two minutes, she had Charlie in her clutches, after she tripped him up as he passed her table oblivious to anything and claimed he had ruined her slippers, he was a goner. Had the scent of her perfume, jasmine something probably if I had to guess or maybe it was just bath soap, impressed on his heart and soul. The best I could do was to make sure he wasn’t beaten as clean as a jaybird by this combination. The thing that saved Charlie, saved my job too, was that the purser had photographic evidence that the Harrington entourage was nothing but a clip club. Charlie was bitter about it for a while, bitter than his affections such as they were got jobbed by a twisted hustler that he had intended to marry.        

You would figure case closed but you would figure wrong. This Jean either really had the “hots” for Charlie or she was a vengeful little bitch no matter how innocent she looked or whatever fragrance she was wearing. This is where the two-timing comes in, and maybe I shouldn’t call it two-timing because then you might think she was running after some other guy after Charlie gave her the heave-ho. No, this Jean was still going to plague the boy (man-boy at best). She, or somebody who looked very much like her, showed up at the Pike estate in the leafy suburbs of Maryland, down in horse country under the auspices of Sir Alfred somebody who vouched for her. Except now she was wearing an English accent and calling herself Lady Eve. I swore on a stack of seven bibles and I swear now the two dames were the same-that Jean bitch that Charlie had ditched on the ocean-liner.     

Whatever her motive she got Charlie just as wrapped up in her fragrance as he had been with that Jean on the boat. Except he didn’t even bother to check out her credentials, to see if she was real and married her out of hand a few weeks later. Here is the strange part for some broad who was hustling a guy. On their honeymoon she gave Charlie a story about how many men she had “known” before him. He naturally flipped out and left the train in the middle of the night. Headed back home to sulk over his mistake. Funny though this Eve didn’t want any dough when she could have had half the world, the Pike Ale world anyway and the old man wasn’t even squawking.

I still had my job but I suggested to Charlie that maybe he should head back to the Amazon where he could handle the snakes there a lot better than his recent adventures. He bought my argument and we grabbed the next tub out. Get this though this Jean/Eve somehow got on the tub and pulled the same damn trick of tripping up clumsy Charlie as the first time. And he went crazy for her, and she for him as they kicked me out of his suite. Jesus, women are screwy, or one woman is as far as I can figure. Take my word for it, okay.