A Pricelessly Symbolic Reflection of Its Era

Rating: 10/10 (28 January 2007)

This film, in form and style, too, is a uniquely gifted work of art; on a par with other, more wastefully "forgettable," so-called "grade B" masterpieces, such as Desire In the Dust (a must, for every Raymond Burr fan), and Hell on Frisco Bay (an equal must, for every Edward G. Robinson fan). The latter two had apparently been conceived, or, at least, might just as well have been, for the very purpose of showcasing the induplicably villainous talents of, again, Raymond Burr, as Colonel Ben Marquand, and Edward G. Robinson, as Victor Amato; whereas, quite obviously, Anne Bancroft herself stands out, to this selfsame end, as Mrs. Robinson, in The Graduate; along with a no less outstanding supporting cast, as is also the case with the other two thus far mentioned. While my own release from prison bears certain outwardly, superficially, and commonly misleading similarities with those of Dustin Hoffman alone, in addition to a strong personal identification with the nature of his internal struggle as well; it is, nevertheless, my sense of deeply temperamental empathy with Alan Ladd, from Hell on Frisco Bay, and with Ken Scott, from Desire In the Dust, which serves, about as overshadowingly, to set me just as apart from Hoffman, too. I'll even expand the analogies here, by referencing myself as a cross, between John Cassavetes, from Crime In the Streets, and, again, John Cassavetes, from Edge of the City; or, similarly, again, to Hoffman, too, but much more grimly, as a cross, between Farley Granger, from Edge of Doom, and Paul Anka, from Look In Any Window. . . . Despite my enormous head start, over Alan Ladd, in the sense that he'd begun, during mid-incarceration; his own extremely volatile level of intensity had been very equal to mine, on both counts, in my case, prior to his period of confinement. However, Ken Scott had required barely no time at all to catch up, on one of the two counts, subsequent to his release; just as, by now, he's the only one with whom I bear any kind of similarity, at least in one sense, during the very end of his own extremely well-crafted Morality Play. Unlike with him, however, my own particular story-line is not entirely finished yet, even though it is historically just around the bend; as my own real-life version of Jo Van Fleet, from East of Eden, along with her other son, are also about to discover. Indeed, an equally superlative performance, by Edward Binns, from Desire In the Dust, is about to make its mark, too, the hard way; particularly with relation to those who also participate in the selfsame profession he did, but much more commonly than superlatively. Fortunately, the relatively imminent ending which I currently anticipate is much more historically if not otherwise so very circumstantially well-timed than had been the case, say, for Preston Foster, from The Last Days of Pompeii, or Kirk Douglas, from Spartacus; even when the latter had decided he could endure no more, let-alone when Laurence Olivier had finally had enough of him. What I have to concern myself with the most, however, is the extent to which the much more endurably noble temperament, of Spartacus, is still being displaced, in my case, with the one of, again, Kirk Douglas, from The Last Sunset, during his more dangerously, irrepressibly volatile intervals. Likewise, Al Pacino, even at the end of The Godfather II, let-alone III, just as analogously and tragically comes to mind; alongside the equally unfortunate relevance, on second and third thought, of these very same segments, from Stallone's Rambo saga. . . . I do consider myself fortunate, nevertheless, that my story hadn't already ended, long ago, in the same way it had for Dustin Hoffman, or even Alan Ladd. More to the point, it probably wouldn't have made any difference, had I decided to continue the same senselessly masochistic ritual, right up to the back of the church; let-alone while slugging it out in a speed boat, against all the forces of hell! How brutally laughable that I had ever wanted it to work at all, contrary to the dignity as well as patience and self-control which required an alternate form of education to become more perfectly-ingrained; and which, even despite my current imperfections, has a much better chance of finally sinking in on time. Even then, I'd also despised the entire lot of them, no less than they did me; the way Jack Ging felt, along with Brett Halsey, about the former's own father and sister, at the end of Desire In the Dust. Regardless of how much time life proceeds to grant their kind, they only seem to continue feeling more and more delighted about what they are; to the point where I also deeply identify with Burt Lancaster, from The Swimmer, and feel just as Desperately, Fatalistically Vulnerable, during my numerously weakest moments, also like Anthony Quinn at the end of La Strada. Vincent Price, as The Last Man on Earth, is an appropriate analogy, too; alongside Charlton Heston, as The Omega Man! I feel as fed up, and for the same reasons, as Dr. Louis J. Prescott (Gene Lockhart), when he dived off the mast, to his death, in The Sea Wolf!--Or like Rod Serling's Leading star, from Number Twelve Looks Just Like You, as well as The Obsolete Man! And let's not forget John Hurt, under the Tutelage of Richard Burton, in 1984! They still despise me, but with even less reason, as well as more, than Brett Halsey had, for popping Ken Scott in the jaw; just as even the latter had much better reason than I would have, were I to reply, to the numerous jabs I'd received, by saying, "I don't blame you for doing that, doc!" However, my warning is just the same as his, but on even Higher Authority than they're so hysterically, violently, idolatrously venerating, when he continued, "But don't try throwing another one!"