Sunset Gun

You Can Never Write Fast Enough...

My newest writing gig, (in my humble, auto-centric opinion) might be one of the coolest opportunities I've ever had -- Garage Magazine. The eternally bitchin' hot rod mag asked me to pen a column that combines two of my favorite things -- cars and movies -- so there was no way in hell I could say no. I struggled with just what to cover in my debut column -- my head spinning like my Torino doing cookies in the desert. And yet, the same movie continued to surface -- Two-Lane Blacktop. It was so obvious, too obvious, I wondered, but on final ponder, I put my brain in park and told myself: It's my favorite car movie, I've written about it numerous times, and I love it enough to expand, explicate and worship further. Why not christen my column with the best of the best?

An added bonus was my magazine photo session with the incredibly talented artist/badass LA photographer Estevan Oriol. He's snapped everyone from Ice Cube to Forest Whitaker to Dennis Hopper to Rob Zombie and more and created some gritty, gorgeous work concerning street life as well. I was in more than able hands (also, he loved my car, so naturally he's one of my favorite people). The issue is on newsstands now, so make sure to pick it up. Dita Von Teese graces the cover and centerfold, while other stories include a look at the great Hollywood/cheesecake photographer Bernard of Hollywood, a prison interview with famed skater Jay Adams and a look at DC based punk rock motorcycle couriers from the 1980's. You will not be disappointed. And stay tuned for my next Garage column which will cover famous cinematic mental breakdown car moments. (If you scroll down to my Bette Davis homage, you'll see one of the greatest).

So with that, I've dipped into my archives to feature again, my favorite car movies -- something that wouldn't have fit in the magazine and something Garage readers can enjoy, disagree or challenge me over (as long as those challenges don't involve a chicken race). On second thought...

Anyway, here's my look at the 10 greatest examples of car cinema (not entirely in order, not the greatest cars, or greatest car chase sequences, though many of these pictures feature both), proving that autos can make not only a genre, but compelling characters as well. For these films, it's not star but car power. The Torino is calling...

10. Dirty Mary Crazy Larry (1974)

OK, so the film itself leaves something to be desired in the deep-meaning department. And the director dips into the cheap-thrills cookie jar one too many times. But Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry is lots of messy fun -- especially when involving automobiles. Peter Fonda is (crazy) Larry, a would-be NASCAR driver who, with his mechanic Deke (Adam Roarke), pulls off a heist and runs for a new country. But they also take Mary (Susan George), a nutjob wild child (who's really the "crazy" one here, anyway?), who makes the getaway a little more, well, interesting. Filled with all kinds of terrific chase sequences starring lust-worthy hotrod "characters" such as a Dodge Charger, a Chevrolet Impala and a Dodge Polara. This one's muscle-ri-fic.

9. Duel (1971)

Before he struck fear in the heart of every beach-loving, ocean-swimming New Englander, Steven Spielberg crafted one of his supreme films with Duel, a movie that struck fear in the heart of every traveling salesman just trying to get down a California highway. Dennis Weaver is the nebbish, Joe-Blow salesman whose life becomes a vehicular nightmare when a mysterious, ominous truck will not stop following him. But why? Well, we assume the truck wants to kill him (or just completely mess with his head) in some kind of sanity test the poor schlub did not need that morning. Or maybe the truck really hates his car -- a Plymouth Valiant. Whatever the case, the deranged semi vs. Plymouth makes for a superbly tense 90-minute chase film that's a lot more disturbing and so-called "bad to the bone" than Christine.

8. Vanishing Point (1971)

Can you get from Denver to San Francisco in one night? Check out Vanishing Point, in which Barry Newman's mysterious speedster, Kowalski attempts just that. Hired to deliver the white Dodge 440 1970 Challenger in less than 15 hours, he's in the exceptional predicament of being pursued by cops, while a blind DJ named "Super Soul" (Cleavon Little) helps him along his way. Informing the driver of his progress via radio show, Super Soul also makes Kowalski something of a folk hero ("the last American to whom speed means freedom of the soul"). Taut, enigmatic and chock full of pursuits (a memorable one involves a Jaguar), the film skids and scoots and speeds to a kind of infinity. Who really wants to get out of their car?

7. Gone in 60 Seconds (1974)

You gotta love a movie in which the car is such a major character, she's given a name ("Eleanor"). You also gotta love a movie in which the writer, director and stunt driver also stars (H.B. Halicki), mostly because he's such a die-hard gear-head that he surely couldn't imagine anyone else leading the proceedings. Car thieves must steal 48 cars in a short period of time, including a 1973 Mustang Mach 1 code-named Eleanor. When Halicki (as the amusingly named Maindrian Pace) gets his hands on Eleanor, the film kicks into epic high gear, with a 40-minute chase scene that passes through five California cities and leaves nearly 100 cars totaled. The movie was re-made (badly) in 2000, proving you don't need big stars (Nicolas Cage and Angelina Jolie) or extra extreme effects when you already had the real deal in the first place. And Halicki was the real deal; he died in a stunt accident while making this film's sequel

6. The Driver (1978) 

Walter Hill proved that he knew his way around a car by writing the screenplay for Sam Peckinpah's supreme The Getaway (another great car movie) and directing the auto-centric The Driver. An unyielding, enigmatic thriller, the film stars Ryan O'Neal, known simply as The Driver, a man constantly chased by, yep, The Detective (a fantastically creepy Bruce Dern) in a seemingly endless game of cat and mouse. The entire film involves obsessed pursuit; the viewer's point of view is often inside the car as the Driver maneuvers without any discernible emotion. O'Neal is almost literally a driving machine, as he shifts, swerves and speeds his Trans Am through parking structures, alleys and oncoming traffic. This is no giggling Smokey and the Bandit; this is Le Samourai on high octane.

5. Le Mans (1971)

Le Mans is about exactly that: the famed French auto race that runs for 24 hours. And not much else. In true car-noir fashion, it takes a good half-hour before we hear the film's protagonist utter a line of dialogue. That protagonist, Delaney, is played by Steve McQueen in a film so stripped of plot that it often feels like a documentary. We simply watch the auto race on the world's hardest endurance course as our hero goes more than 24 hours on 14.5 kilometers of cordoned country road. There's a duel between Delaney, in his Gulf Team Porsche 917, and a Ferrari 512LM that tests not only the driver's technical abilities, but also his personal will. Filled with terrific racing sequences galore and impressive wrecks, the spectacle is thrilling even if the narrative, not so much. But who cares...

4. Bullitt (1968)

What -- you thought I'd get through this list with only one McQueen film? Not likely, especially since this film is so firmly implanted in car cinema, it's tough not to combine the car and driver as one super being. Bullitt, Peter Yates' too-cool-for-school-actioner, boasts the greatest cinematic drive through the streets of San Francisco. But there's more than that legendary pursuit. There's the car -- a sweet 1968 Mustang GT 390 (the best-looking Mustang ever) -- and the driver -- McQueen (the best-looking guy ever to drive a Mustang). McQueen, who helped re-vamp the bitchin' green Ford, is the James Dean of car culture, indelibly linked with the lure and lore of the automobile. Bullitt actually makes me think Mustangs are not the most obvious "muscle" car you can own. Still (sorry Steve), the villain's car, the 1968 Dodge Charger was much, much cooler.

3. Smokey and the Bandit (1977) 

Many remember 1977 as the year Star Wars became a national obsession. But while some of you played with plastic light sabers and (now priceless) action figures, there were others who busted out their Dad's CB radio ("Sheriff ... do the letters F.O. mean anything to you?") and prayed he'd buy a black 1977 Pontiac Trans AM just like the one Burt Reynolds (a.k.a., The Bandit) drives in Hal Needham's classic Smokey and the Bandit. And yes, I did just say classic. A charming, laughing Reynolds teams with trucker pal Jerry Reed to transport 400 cases of Coors beer across state lines, with an apoplectic, hilarious Jackie Gleason (as Sheriff Buford T. Justice) in pursuit. Loads of light fun filled with clever, excellently edited and just plain stellar car-chase sequences, Smokey and the Bandit is, as the infectious Jerry Reed song proclaimed, "loaded up and truckin.'

2. Mad Max (1979)

Mad Max gives new meaning to the term "playing chicken." After super-studly, leather-clad cop 'Mad' Max Rockatansky (played by Mel Gibson in a star-making performance) explosively wins this game with an escaped criminal named The Nightrider, thug-in-arms biker-gang leader The Toecutter (oh, how I love these names) seeks vengeance, killing not only Max's partner but Max's family as well. So now Max is, as the title states, mad. Very, very mad. As directed by George Miller, this dystopian vision of violent recklessness and ultimate revenge is wonderfully paced, beautifully textured and even quite emotional at times. It also, in terms of ingenious car chase, crash, smash and explode sequences, is incredibly, punk-rock badass. And it features one of cinema's coolest cars: The Interceptor, a 1973 Ford Falcon XB GT, the auto-erotic fixation of the petrol set. Where can I get one?

1. Two-Lane Blacktop (1971)

If Jean Paul Sartre had directed a drive-in movie, he might have crafted Monte Hellman's existential, car noir Two-Lane Blacktop. The stoic central characters are stripped down to their basic handles -- James Taylor is known only as the Driver, Dennis Wilson the Mechanic, Laurie Bird the Girl and the late great Warren Oates, in one of his most unforgettable roles, is GTO. All players drive and drive and drive, seemingly to challenge other cars and race cross country, but is that really what they're seeking? The characters don't even know themselves. But they do love their cars. Taylor and Wilson drive a seriously souped-up '55 Chevy that's all muscle and speed, no frills, while Oates rolls a yellow 1970 Pontiac GTO -- something Taylor scorns as right off the lot. What makes this film unique is its absolute auto-centric vision (the continual purr and hum of the engine makes even the viewer feel at one with the car) mingled with art-house beauty. And it's one of the few movies in which the Driver can state with extra, ambiguous meaning, "You can never go fast enough." A masterpiece.

And here's some Johnny Cash singing an ode to stealing/assembling his "Psychobilly Cadillac"...

Mr. Widmark Knocked...

With Richard Widmark and Marilyn Monroe on the brain (the sex tape! The gentleman!), I'm re-running my piece on "Don't Bother to Knock," a movie that not only boasts one of Monroe's greatest performances, but a wonderfully nuanced role for Widmark as well.

Oh Marilyn. I know, I know, we all love Marilyn Monroe (or we're supposed to) but I’m not going to stray from her simply because she’s so damn popular. The tragic heroine princess to every aspiring starlet or little girl or grown woman is our coffee mugged goddess, so ubiquitous that, I think, we sometimes take her for granted. Especially in her early and later roles (my two favorite periods for Marilyn). From the fresh faced, sublimely natural starlet sporting jeans in Fritz Lang’s Clash By Night to the methody, tired, tragic and lonely lady of John Huston's The Misfits, I find Marilyn’s first and last hopes at proving herself on screen immensely powerful.

Such is the case in Monroe's first starring vehicle, 1952's Don't Bother to Knock. There’s a prophetic sadness permeating her nuanced, fascinating performance, and for a picture of this period, her delusional babysitter (freshly released from an insane asylum) is surprisingly sympathetic. Knowing all we do about the troubled star, it most likely wasn't a stretch for the then-relative newcomer to understand the pathology and despondency of her character Nell, a beautiful young woman burned by love who can't handle the breach between reality and fiction. A film noir of sorts, director Roy Baker's part-thriller, part-character-study is a tense tale with plenty of pathos geared toward Marilyn, who wasn't the full-blown MM superstar yet. As Nell, a mysterious girl who takes on a babysitting job in a hotel where her creepy, sad-sack uncle (Elisha Cook Jr. — who else) works, Monroe enters the picture in plain clothes, dark blonde hair, and little makeup. Though she's no plain-Jane, she looks like a "nice girl" — nice enough for hotel guests the Joneses (played by Jim Backus and Lurene Tuttle) to allow a stranger to watch over their cute little daughter Bunny (Donna Corcoran). After quickly putting the girl to bed (clearly she's not interested in the kid), Nell plays dress-up in Mrs. Jones' fine silk robe, perfume, and diamond jewelry.

Meanwhile, cocky, self-absorbed airline pilot Jedd Towers (a very layered, and sexy Richard Widmark) is stinging from rejection after the hotel chanteuse (a young, gorgeous Anne Bancroft) dumps him.  Spying the beautiful Nell from his window to hers (which is damn hot) he finds some new action when the lonely Nell signals him from her room. He comes over for a good time, likes what he sees, and basically puts up with her strange behavior until it gets a little too freaky; a little too desperate. When she comes on strong, he exclaims: "You bother me! I can't figure you out! You're silk on one side and sandpaper on the other!" To which MM answers, "I'll be whatever you want me to be!" This is too much, especially from a woman this beautiful and he answers perplexed: "Why?" Indeed. A man, even Richard Widmark, can only take so much, and when Nell hangs Bunny out of the hotel window, he really starts thinking she might not be worth the tumble. But here’s the poignant part—Nell doesn't really mean any harm. She's just disturbed and frequently suicidal. And here’s a novel idea—she desires a man to take care of her without hitting or hollering at her desire to look gorgeous. She should be normal dammit!

But, why? Why must women have to be so normal? Though suffering from deep seated psychological problems, I sense that it’s this type of "normal" pressure making her crack (the punishing and smarmy Cook Jr. doesn't help either). Monroe portrays these ideas beautifully, so much so, that I wondered how much of her real life was seeping into her performance, it plays so real. I kept wishing that she could just get out of that hotel, doll herself up and have some fun with a man who might understand her. Widmark isn't really the one, even though underneath his smirk and swagger, he’s essentially a good heart.  Interestingly, however, the moral of the story comes at Nell's expense — Widmark’s Jedd becomes a better, more decent man by not giving into temptation with a supposed psycho (which, in Widmark's strong, able hands, is entirely believable). Poor Nell, and poor Marilyn. In real life, most men wouldn't so sensitively resist.

Happy 100 Bette Davis

Bette Davis would have been 100-years-old this Saturday April the 5th and I just wish (I wish) I could have met her in my life. I wouldn't have cared if she hollered at me, made me pull her anti-aging tape straps under her wig, blew cigarette smoke in my face or crisply informed me that my apartment was a "dump" -- whatever -- I'd take abuse from Ms. Davis just to listen to that voice. And maybe, perhaps more than likely, she would have been nice. (After all, I'm nothing like her back-stabbing, ungrateful daughter B.D.) In any case, I would loved to have solicited some advice from that woman. Bette Davis as life coach. That could work for me.

For if there is or was any female figure to whom others should turn to in times of crisis, loneliness and despair, it is Miss Bette. Why? Because Bette Davis is every woman (and some men) wrapped into one: ugly and beautiful, sweet and biting, honest and deceitful, classy and vulgar. There isn't a side of Bette that every woman doesn't see in herself. Her face -- those buggy eyes flickering with homeliness and yet an odd beauty (never forget how uniquely gorgeous Bette was as a young starlet), sadness, insanity, malevolence, rage and finally, strength. And her little body -- coiled up and ready to strike (as in Another Man’s Poison) or sloppy and cruelly casual (like in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?: “Here’s your lunch” she announces to Joan before promptly serving her a rat) or lovely and wary (as in All This, and Heaven Too) or brassy and swishy (as in Jezebel) or an elegant liar (as in The Letter) or mousy turned gorgeous (as in Now, Voyager) or just plain gloriously melodramatic then vulnerable (as in All About Eve) or heart-breakingingly desperate (as in The Star). There are moments when Bette seems almost turned inside out, as if she’s revealing the innards of the female psyche --  which is exactly why she can appear so damn terrifying at times.

But she had her soft moments (watch her opposite Charles Boyer in aforementioned All This, and Heaven Too and you'll see what I mean). In later years Bette recalled, "Christ, I was always bitching about how I hated my face in those days. Compared to what I look like now, I was an absolute living doll!"

She was a doll -- a doll that could easily contend with Chucky, but a doll nonetheless. God knows she had those famous, buggy-beautiful eyes, silky skin and an ample chest, but Davis, like most women, lived with numerous imperfections. But she didn't harp on these flaws or engage in diva delusions, instead she gleefully, sometimes perversely played up her problem areas. And it sometimes made her all the more attractive. In All About Eve, she's supposed to be an insecure, aging star, yet even when a young Marilyn Monroe walks on (who looks like a peach, even after undoubtedly consuming numerous benzos and splits of champagne), you can't take your eyes off Bette. And it wasn't just her looks -- it was her way. Everything Bette did -- walking (in minced steps), talking (with exacting enunciation), smoking (in circular jabs) -- she did with a flourish. Like Joan Crawford, Marlene Dietrich, Greta Garbo and the great Tallulah Bankhead (who really should have made more movies) Bette was her own unforgettable invention, an unconventional glamour-puss, who stands the test of time. Unlike sanctioned beauty, Bette's particular magic is something that never fades.

Neither did Bette's ballsy view of life and relationships, so wonderfully expressed on (and frequently off) the big screen. For instance, what to do when dumped? Go out in a blaze of glory. Though her demise was devastating in Of Human Bondage, she pulled off a stunning, final fuck-you to poor Leslie Howard. Bette, who insisted on looking the damaged strumpet against director John Cromwell's wishes was not only one of the first actresses to choose looking this bad on screen but also appeared like some kind of riot girl/punk rock proto-type (young Courtney Love must have studied this scene). Sitting in a flophouse, emaciated and dying, but still snarling all ugly/sexy in her revealing slip, bleached blonde hair and runny eye makeup -- all it took was a few withering looks to leave Leslie Howard's passive-aggressive club footed doctor with an image to smolder for a lifetime. In a very un-Camille like performance, she seemed to be saying: "Here I am, warts and all. Can't handle it? Your loss. Now go live your boring life with you new girlfriend."

And what about giving someone the cold shoulder? Bette showed women how to deal with the delicate situation of the brush off (or tease) by sparing him the psych-speak and exiting with a baffler: As Ms. Davis' Southern belle character drawled in Cabin in the Cotton, "I'd love to kiss you, but I've just washed my hair." (Try this one out). And along these same lines, she also reveled in showing that not all women want marriage and babies. In Beyond the Forest (a movie she didn't want to make but was brilliant in nonetheless), Davis' character is married to Joseph Cotten -- not a bad catch by any stretch of the imagination. But she grows bored and becomes critical of what marital bliss and good living are supposed to be ("What a dump" she bitches about their house). Though cast as an evildoer in the film, I've always felt sympathy for her Rosa Moline --- she was limited, in love with another and then, dear God, pregnant. So how to remedy this situation? She hauled herself off the side of a mountain, pregnant belly in tow. Sure, it wasn't the nicest, safest move (and it certainly wasn't as glamorous as Gene Tierney’s tumble down the stairs in Leave Her to Heaven), but perhaps through the dictates of the Production Code, this was the only way she could not have that baby. And she wanted to move to Chicago -- high-tail it out of that stifling, small town where everyone talked shit about her. Who can really blame her?

And yet, as much as women and men say they love the feisty ladies, it often simply comes down to the bitch. What a bitch. And I think a few women are even worse regarding this insult (sit down and act like a nice little lady). Bette would say bullshit to all that (and then call Joan Crawford a bitch: "I wouldn't piss on her if she was on fire." But I digress...). Her motto? "No guts, no glory." Like other gutsy women, she made men's heads spin: Is she a bitch? Or an assertive fox? This is the continuous (and exciting) inward query (and you know hubby Gary Merrill got all hot and bothered by that alluring combo). Like a lot of strong women, she had a Napoleon complex, but we love that in men (Pacino, De Niro). We get a thrill watching Joe Pesci shove a pen in someone's eye. But Bette? That would scare the shit out of us. Just imagine what Bette could do to an attacker -- the carnage a maniacal Bette would leave defending herself -- all that flying fur (real of course), red scratching fingernails and a lit cigarette to the face. I honestly can’t see Bette Davis successfully getting mugged.

And I imagine that if Miss Davis couldn't win a physical fight, she could reign victorious via a verbal arsenal of movie lines that were nearly as lethal. No, she didn't write them, but it sure sounded like she did. Take, for instance:

Marked Woman: "I'll get even if I have to crawl back from the grave."

It's Love I'm After: "You're going to have love for breakfast, love for luncheon and love for dinner. Sweet, sugary, sticky worship. You're going to have a steady diet of it till you're ready to scream, you billy goat!"

And the more subtle diamond dagger from The Little Foxes: "I don't ask for things I don't think I can get."

Finally, some real life advice from Bette Davis herself (and before sad-sack Miles in Sideways): "Never, never trust anyone who asks for white wine. It means they're phonies."

Bette, Bette, Bette. She didn't act the Diva, she was the Diva. But strangely down to earth too. She hated airs, which contributed to her dislike towards Joan Crawford (that, and something to do with Franchot Tone) and one of the reasons she slammed poor co-star Celeste Holm from All About Eve -- bemoaning perky Holm's on set salutations, Bette snarled, "ugh manners." As artificial as her carefully constructed lips were (that line!), Davis detested fakes, and forced, silly sentiments, things that would, as Bette said, “provoke anyone of sensibility to nausea.” Of her legendary All About Eve character Margo, Bette stated: "Margo Channing was not a bitch. She was an actress who was getting older and was not too happy about it. And why should she? Anyone who says that life begins at forty is full of it. As people get older their bodies begin to decay. They get sick. They forget things. What's good about that?"

Well, you could be alive Miss Davis -- and with all of your grit and gusto -- even at 100. I certainly wish you were. Like that Oscar statuette you placed on the dashboard during your dipsomaniacal drive through Hollywood in The Star, I'd love to ask just once: "Come on Bette, let's you and me get drunk."

Happy Birthday Bette.

Three Obsessions: Dassin, Dietrich, Dirty Mad Dog

After a curious absence from my usual triad of obsessions, I'm back at it, with DVDs I'm excited about and a few return offenders that are getting, as one horny old lady from Elvis: That's the Way It Is so eloquently put it, "my Phi Beta Kappa key a jangling" (You remember her, right?).

But, again, discs -- there's been some pretty choice DVDs released including The Bette Davis Collection, Volume 3 and last week's Gangster Collection, Volume 3 (finally, The Ladykiller!) as well as the new Bonnie and Clyde special edition. You can read all my DVD and Theatrical reviews at Strange Impersonation and check out whatever else I'm thinking at Pretty Poison.

As for now, Three Obsessions:

1. The Siren's Take on Jules Dassin's AP obit  First Richard Widmark and Abby Man, and now Jules Dassin -- one of film's most inventive, raw, soulful, intelligent auteurs.  With titles like Thieves' Highway, Brute Force, The Naked City and my favorite, Night and the City (featuring Richard Widmark's greatest, most desperate, most quintessential noir performance) and the brilliant Rififi and Topkapi, as well as Never on Sunday, a popular picture that served as a valentine to his talented wife, actress Melina Mercouri, Dassin was a seminal figure who deserves the respect of a Hawkes, a Ford, a Hitchcock or a Kazan. And speaking of Kazan...Dassin suffered the vile witch-hunt of HUAC, and was blacklisted from Hollywood after director Edward Dmytryk named him as a communist. Dassin would fashion his aforementioned greatest work -- Night and the City, in London, and later the influential Rififi, made in France. There's many terrific tributes to Dassin online, and I'm working on my own (I'm still reeling after Widmark) but I love (love, love, love) Self-Styled Siren's passionate objection to the AP's lame-brain Dassin obit. Sayeth Siren:

"Did you get the part where he was a leftist? Are you sure? Should we mention it again? Lefty-left-left-leftist, got that? How about the fact that Dassin left the Communist party in 1939? Oops, no space for that. He moved to London to do Night and the City, who knows why. Then Dassin 'abandoned' the U.S. after being denounced by vaguely plural 'contemporaries' and put on the blacklist. They wouldn't let on just anybody, you know, you had to be 'Communist enough.' Then Dassin lived in Italy and France and after soaking up the Euroscene he returned with Rififi...  It is worse to hear that an American director of exceptional talent...has died at the ripe old age of 96, and then see that the obituary flashing across the newswires is a slanted piece of crap."

Siren has riled me up over this -- like prison-riot riled up. I need to break a bottle or something. Or watch Brute Force again. That's probably the superior alternative.  Rest in peace Mr. Dassin.

2. Marlene Dietrich's ABC  From her leggy Lola in The Blue Angel to the tux and tails and later, gorilla suit and blonde Afro in Blonde Venus to the brilliant documentary Marlene -- as I've discussed before, I never thought I could love Marlene Dietrich any more that I already do. But while working at a book store years back, I came across this keeper -- not an autobiography but Miss Uber Blonde's own personal dictionary entitled Marlene Dietrich's ABC. Originally published in 1961, the reference book (and it really is a reference book) allows the reader to think of a word or term and look up Marlene's own special, specific definition.

You're not going to find the meaning of say, impugnable or dislogistic but you will find Suave ("I can get along very well without the use of this word."). You'll also flip through to find Morocco ("Looks better in films"); Credit System ("The American Tragedy"); Hardware Store ("I'd rather go to the hardware store than the opera. And I like the opera"); Medical Ethics ("They make me sick"); Pouting ("I hate it, but men fall for it so go on and pout") and Necking ("a dirty pastime."). (Oh Marlene, surely you mean good fun dirty?) But within her specific list is this oh-so-true statement regarding my own personal junkie paradise, Stationery Stores: "People who adore stationery stores are like dope addicts about paper clips, paper clamps, felt tip pens...paper...thick stiff, hard, soft, rough, large like canvas, surfaces like linen or pigskin... I remember buying the most beautiful pale blue legal paper, which almost felt like silken blotting paper...I look at it every once in a while and it sends me." Proof positive of her simultaneously mysterious and down-to-earth erotic potency, Marlene manages to make felt tip pens sound sexy. This gem is out of print but look for it. You never know when you might need to quote Dietrich's take on soda pop: "The gooey, bubbly sea drowning our American children." She's right.

3. Born to Kill (1947)  After re-watching the brilliant Night and the City twice in one week, taking in all of that "artist without an art" (such a great line) Harry Fabian, and feeling especially moved by not only the picture, but both Widmark and Dassin's recent deaths, I yearned for something I couldn't sympathize with. I wanted to feel hard. So who do I turn to for such necessary nastiness? That down and dirty mad dog hard-boiled hero Lawrence Tierney. Specifically, Lawrence Tierney in Born to Kill. Violent, black-hearted and disturbingly sexual Tierney is at his brutal best, especially when paired with Claire Trevor, the amoral climber who falls for the similarly ruthless Tierney (their chemistry is deeply sick yet wonderfully sexy). Adapted from the novel by James Gunn and directed by Robert Wise, the picture utilizes everything Wise learned from Val Lewton to stunning effect with, not only gorgeous noir lighting but genuinely nightmarish, violent attack sequences. A scene in which Tierney beats up and kills his ex-girlfriend and her lover will shock you much more than your modern eyes would expect. And Trevor (whom I worship) -- is one sizzling snake. I love how she cooly discusses the pain of death, as if explaining dental work or a hat sale at Bloomingdales: "A piece of metal sliding into your body, finding its way into your heart. Or a bullet tearing through your skin, crashing into a bone."

The  supporting cast is stellar (Walter Slezak, Esther Howard and the noir fixture Elisha Cook Jr.) but Tierney, good GOD, is he wonderfully evil here. Known to many (and to too many) as the rough talking oldster in Reservoir Dogs, young Tierney is a man with immense sex appeal, the ultimate alpha male, the ultimate tough guy just dripping with testosterone of the ticking time bomb variety. His flashes of anger are potently scary, intense and real. He's an odd cross between smoothness (his voice is more punctuated and level, not overtly gravely) and harsh moodiness ready to explode. And nothing he does seems fake -- especially killing. But we are talking about a guy who, in real life was arrested more times than the character he played (John Dillinger) and who was knifed in a bar fight. Aw, dammit...now I'm sad again. All of these guys really are gone. OK. We've still got Ernest Borgnine (and I'm counting him for The Mob, Johnny Guitar, The Stranger Wore a Gun, Bad Day at Black Rock and The Wild Bunch) but he's not really the same thing. Maybe everyone should have married Ethel Merman for 32 days just once?