Sunset Gun

Good Cop, Bad Cop: Seven Famous Fuzz

One character Hollywood and viewers never tires of is the cop. And as formulaic as these characters can become, our never-ending obsession makes perfect sense. They may hand us speeding tickets or throw us in the drunk tank, but we love examining their very specific culture and lifestyles and, for some of us, their ability to legally pull guns on people. Look at some of our favorite television shows from the past (Dragnet -- Jack Webb the ultimate cop), present (The Shield), and finished (The Wire). Or think of some of our more legendary cinematic icons, from Dirty Harry to Bullitt to Popeye Doyle and then some.

With this in mind, I'm looking at some favorite fuzz -- cops who are good, bad or ... well, you decide. With so many officers to choose from, I had to rule out entire genres (like film noir, which would make for its own well heeled list...though I couldn't resist Touch of Evil) and make some hard decisions (I settled on the iconic). Though this list certainly isn't complete, it offers an intriguing array of the popular movie cop. We may call them the fuzz, the man, the po-po, or those brave men in blue (which is what I'm required to say in print -- my dad was a cop), but we heart badge-wearing crime fighters in numerous big screen incarnations.

Touch of Evil (1958)
Boy in blue: Harry Quinlan (Orson Welles)

"He was some kind of a man." So says Marlene Dietrich's cigar-smoking gypsy regarding Orson Welles' corpulent, corrupted, candy-bar-eating Hank Quinlan, a man who, like the director himself, had gone  through a lot in life. Directed by and starring Welles, Touch of Evil is a tough, sleazy, beautifully tawdry film noir that should be ranked equally with his universally acclaimed Citizen Kane -- especially when looking at Welles' wonderful creation of the lecherous American police chief Quinlan working a seedy Mexican border town. A locally adored but feared celebrity who's not below associating with shadowy figures for personal gain and crude enjoyment, Quinlan finds himself pitted against straight arrow Ramon Miguel "Mike" Vargas (Charlton Heston), a Mexican narcotics cop who becomes entangled in Quinlan's case after a car containing a local bigwig explodes right in front of his eyes (and on his honeymoon with wife Janet Leigh!). Viewing Vargas as an in-the-way do-gooder, Quinlan will stop at nothing to control his reign. And yet, he's sympathetic. Ever since his own wife was murdered long ago, he's lived in a state of moral decay, which only intensifies his hatred and demise. A picture that remains brilliantly stylistic and daring (thugs, drug dealers and a gang of butch lesbians are all featured in a story complete with bordellos, flophouses and other images of shabby, intoxicated decadence) Touch of Evil is, with Welles' performance especially, a touch of genius.

Serpico (1973)
Boy in blue: Frank Serpico (Al Pacino)

Oh, Frank Serpico, you were just too good weren't you? And isn't it sad that such goodness was a dangerous principle to possess? Based on the real life cop (who testified against police corruption in 1971), Pacino's titular hero sports a beard, rocks out the earrings and bell bottoms, and gets his groove on at counterculture parties, but, unlike a few too many on the corrupt New York police force that he valiantly works for, he maintains his integrity. No free lunches for Frank Serpico; he's a noble soul through and through. And yet, that's the problem, that's what puts him in harm's way, not just with criminals, but with those who are supposedly there to protect and serve. He might be a hit with the ladies (especially when calling himself Paco), but his fellow boys in blue regard him as an outcast, a tattletale, a troublemaker a “fag.” Directed by Sidney Lumet in one of his many terrific cop films (including Prince of the City and the fantastic Q & A), Serpico is a gritty, gripping and exciting experience that boasts a performance by Pacino that's as powerful and heroic as it is subtle and touching. A fine tribute to a fascinating man, Serpico is now the one name definition of "good cop."

In the Heat of the Night (1967)
Boy in blue: Virgil Tibbs (Sidney Poitier)

This is one of the most iconic performances of Sidney Poitier's career, as well as within the genre of police pictures. And though it’s been deemed a bit overrated through time (totally unfair) It's also an important Hollywood films regarding race relations, with Poitier's black Philadelphia cop, Virgil Tibbs, working alongside Rod Steiger's small-town Mississippi sheriff, Bill Gillespie, to solve a murder for which Tibbs is initially accused. When Gillespie urges the more schooled, experienced and better paid Tibbs to stay on and help with the case ("Because I'm not an expert, officer!" he confesses), the picture studies the deep rooted racism regarding Tibbs' position of power, as well as Gillespie's gentle awakening toward a man he'll consider something of a friend. Poitier and Steiger are brilliant (ditto for the great Warren Oates), and the combined talents of direction by Norman Jewison, cinematography by Haskell Wexler and editing by Hal Ashby make the picture both relevant and absolutely stunning to look at (you can truly feel how hot this Southern town is – and there are a few shots that Scorsese must have noticed for Taxi Driver). The picture holds up beautifully, never feels dated, and Poitier's famed "slap heard round the world" still inspires.

Bad Lieutenant (1992)
Boy in blue: The Lieutenant (Harvey Keitel)

The title of director Abel Ferrara's controversial very obvious picture says it all -- this lieutenant (played by a supremely brave Harvey Keitel) is bad -- really, really bad. He's a police officer patrolling the mean streets of New York and apparently a Catholic, but these distinctions don't deter his downward spiral of seriously destructive behavior. From abusing numerous drugs to cheating his friends to gambling to stealing to taking advantage of young girls to getting buck naked at the wrong times (in one of the picture's most notorious moments, he weeps in the nude), the picture studies contradiction, corruption and cruelty with three capital C's. A tough, unflinching and perverse picture featuring a character who may never have a chance for redemption; this cannot be a favorite among New York's finest. With that Johnny Ace tune however, he does have good taste in music.

Dirty Harry (1971)
Boy in blue: Harry Callahan (Clint Eastwood)

How did Inspector Harry Callahan earn his now famous moniker? According to his police partner, Chico, for getting the "shit end of the stick" -- meaning, Harry's heaped with all of the nasty assignments, including (and especially) a freaky serial killer horrifying the denizens of Harry's beat, San Francisco. Inspired by the real life Zodiac killings (which would be made into one of 2007's greatest pictures, David Fincher's Zodiac), the freaky Scorpio is just one of many creeps who will endure Harry's vigilante wrath -- all that cool and muscle that ignores pesky rules like search warrants or the dangers of police brutality. In the squinty iconic eyes of Clint Eastwood, and the gritty, lean direction of Don Siegel, Harry Callahan is just the cop we need as the darker, cynical and violent era of the 1970s commences. Or do we? Like the equally fascinating Death Wish, the blurred line between right and wrong is both celebrated and contemplated in this compelling cop classic.

The French Connection (1971)
Boy in blue: Jimmy "Popeye" Doyle (Gene Hackman)

A tour de force of stylistic, kinetic editing, sweeping handheld camerawork, savage realism, and natural, antiheroic leads, William Friedkin's The French Connection won that rare honor in Hollywood: Academy Awards for Best Picture and Best Director, for an "action" picture (Martin Scorsese would achieve similar honors years later with The Departed). Within this complex police story exists wonderful hard-boiled acting, ingenious cinematography and one of the dirtiest, toughest and, dare I say, sexiest cops in filmdom. That's Gene Hackman (who also won an Oscar for his performance) as the porkpie hat wearing Popeye Doyle, a rough police detective who has no qualms about breaking the rules to catch one of the French drug smugglers he's pursuing. A heavy drinker, disrespectful, even bigoted, Popeye Doyle isn't exactly a nice cop, but a likable, determined and dedicated police officer. He also contributes to one of film's grittiest, most exhilarating chase scenes. And he can intimidate while wearing a Santa suit. Other than Billy Bob Thornton, who else can boast that kind of talent? He's terrible and perfect all at once. On a side note, make sure to check out Hackman’s flawed, crazy cop in the great Cisco Pike and, on another side note, have you ever been to Poughkeepsie?

Electra Glide in Blue (1973)
Boy in blue: John "Big John" Wintergreen (Robert Blake)

Something of a cop version of Easy Rider, Electra Glide in Blue is wonderful 1970s curio, an underrated work of complexity that's extremely effective in showing the fruitless attempts of one truly good cop. A brilliantly strange and touching Robert Blake plays the ironically named Big John Wintergreen, a diminutive motorcycle cop whose goal of becoming a detective is met when a recluse is mysteriously killed. So by-the-book is Blake's Wintergreen that, not surprisingly, he's looked upon as an oddball and finds it tough to fit in anywhere -- with the cops he works with or the hippies who mock him. And that's one of the saddest aspects to the picture, the idea that if any cop is going to give a fella a fair shake it's Wintergreen, but since the anti-establishment crowd can't see beyond "the man," they're missing out on a tremendously good person. Directed by James W. Guercio, the movie is a lovely ode to the outsider, and was more than likely a head-scratcher in its time. And, without giving anything away, the heartbreaking picture's final shot of endless highway is absolutely transfixing. This is a bravura Blake performance. No wonder Baretta was so damn good.

Battle Ax: Stark Raving Crawford

Because I've been feeling crazy...Joan in Straight-Jacket

When famed horror director/B-movie producer/shock pioneer William Castle approached Miss Mildred Pierce/Oscar winner/demented diva Joan Crawford about his newest project, Strait-Jacket, he explained that, she the star would play a woman in her Fifties. "Forties" was Joan's quick response, even though in 1964 the larger-than-life part-woman, part-gargoyle was a ripe 60. Fine, fine, fine. Castle conceded anything for Ms. Crawford.

A mean-spirited offshoot of superior psycho-hag masterpieces like Robert Aldrich's Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, Strait-Jacket (scripted by Robert Bloch) was really a Crawford-approved vehicle, right down to the lighting (of course), the hiring, and the firing -- namely of her first co-star. As told in Battle-Ax: The Making of Strait-Jacket (included on the DVD), Crawford didn't like the first luscious, young thing who played her daughter, and so had her (ahem) axed from the project. No one in the documentary says why Joan didn't get on with the woman exactly, but apparently she wanted a statelier gal, hence the casting of the lovely Diane Baker (so arch eyed and kittenish in Hitchcock's Marnie).

We also get a nice little glimpse into the talented, vizard charisma that is Joan in the disc's other special feature, with her costume and makeup tests. She's in full character, smoking sexily, and she believes she's the hottest thing in high heels, jangling her charm bracelet around all come-hither-boys. Crawford the star and Crawford the woman never wandered far from each other, making her alternately brilliant and terrifying. Stare at these tests and you'll think she just may be one of the most fascinating self-inventions ever to grace, or rather, claw her way across the silver screen. If you watch it more than three times, you just can't help but adore how wonderfully insane she seems. Whatever happened to actresses like Joan? They died away  -- torn down like the old hat resting atop the Brown Derby restaurant.

In the new cinema of the '60s, Strait-Jacket is the procession towards that funeral, and Joan as Lucy is poignant, terrifying, and yes, funny with her portrayal of a woman who loses it when she finds her younger husband in bed with another girl. She grabs an ax (yep, you'll think of Faye Dunaway yelling "Tina bring me the ax!") and hacks the lovers to bloody hell while her little daughter looks on. She's then shoved in a mental institution (the screaming Joan is truly horrifying) and is finally released after a 20-year sentence. Upon release, she moves in with her brother, who is rather ironically played by Leif Erickson (Frances Farmer's ex-husband. One wonders if any guilt drifted across his mind whilst reading the script).

Her daughter (Baker), now a grown woman and sculptress, re-unites with her tentative, insecure mother and helps her along. She even gives her a makeover to look exactly as she did when she hacked off her husband's head. She also encourages Mama to do some subtly unhealthy things. And then similar ax-murders begin popping up all over town. Hmmm. No surprises will be given away here, but upon first viewing, Strait-Jacket definitely marks you more than you'd expect.

Joan is just so...touching. I'm a big Crawford defender (especially in pictures like A Woman's Face and all of her early shopgirl work, in which the harshness of her past life is visibilty poignant) and even in such so-called exploitative fare, the actress is excellent. In her transition from saucy lady to crazy broad to shy hausfrau to delusional sexpot (her weird come-on to her daughter's boyfriend is deliciously disgusting while being strangely erotic), she's really not as hammy as you'd think. The pacing is suspenseful and the story intriguing, and though some of Castle's effects are a bit cheap, there's something vaguely sinister about his fake heads and blood-squirting necks. It's not real imagery, but rather imagery that wakes you up from nightmares. It's real and unreal -- just like Joan.

Six Stanwyck Noir (And One Sirk For Measure)

I've been neck-deep in noir (a good thing). And I’ll get to all of it later (interviewing Marsha Hunt and Eddie Muller at the Egyptian, watching the amazing Wicked Woman and Cry of the Hunted, Peter Lorre, Steve Cochran, Jack Elam…there’s so much to process) but for now, I’m turning to Barbara. Before I dive into Beverly Michaels (and I will -- that woman was a revelation), here are six Stanwyck noir and one Sirk for measure. You can’t deny yourself the Sirk. 

The Strange Love of Martha Ivers (1946)

Barbara Stanwyck's tormented, dominating performance in Lewis Milestone's noir The Strange Love of Martha Ivers is one of my favorites. Stanwyck plays the title role opposite a studly Van Heflin and a wimpy Kirk Douglas, and she's almost alarmingly powerful. As the domineering Martha, a wealthy woman married to a recently elected district attorney (Douglas), Stanwyck seethes with a sick viciousness that, as ugly as it becomes, never appears entirely inhuman. Her marriage is loveless, resulting in extensive cheating and a rage she takes out on a milquetoast drunkard Douglas. She also harbors a secret that Heflin, whom she's still in love with, is privy to, and both she and Douglas spend the picture scheming, fighting and experiencing a series of stinging nervous breakdowns. Stanwyck has a field day displaying neurotic bitterness with a deep sadness that's so intense it becomes fascinatingly sick.

Sorry, Wrong Number (1948)

As proven by this enthralling picture, Stanwyck could be physical and fascinating even while lying in a bed and simply talking on the telephone. Of course it helps that she's desperately attempting to save her life in a dangerous telecommunications scenario involving both a nefarious husband and the unending bureaucracy of the telephone company, but I'm certain Stanwyck would be gripping even if she was merely chatting with a girlfriend. As Leona Stevenson, an invalid heiress, Stanwyck gives us a masterfully complex vision of fear and dread without being shrill or one-note about her situation. And that situation is terrifically frightening. After picking up a phone call with crossed wires, Leona overhears two men discussing a murder plot. She's frightened, obviously, but becomes absolutely terrified when she realizes the mark is (gulp) her. Via elaborate flashbacks we learn more about her situation, chiefly Leona's estranged, shady husband (played by Burt Lancaster), who's gotten in so deep with gangsters that he has resorted to this murderous plan. And Stanwyck's performance is complicated, vulnerable and endlessly fascinating.

Double Indemnity (1944)

Already proving her mettle in screwball comedy, Stanwyck took on the dark art of film noir with nasty brilliance. Creating one of noir's most inspired, iconic femmes fatales, Stanwyck's double-crossing, bitch-seductress Phyllis Dietrichson in Billy Wilder's seminal Double Indemnity remains unparalleled. Donning the now famous blond wig, a sexy, cynical smirk and (dear God!) that anklet, she oozes a snaky sex appeal that manages to be evil and, in flashes, vulnerable. After eyeing her mark in Fred MacMurray's insurance salesman, Stanwyck convinces the lovesick lug to help plot and execute the murder of her husband in the hopes of cashing in on the dead man's insurance policy and supposedly living happily ever after. But, as usual in these situations, nothing ever comes off without a hitch -- numerous hitches, in this case. All dolled up in pom-pom heels, creamy sweaters and dramatically lined lips, Stanwyck's Phyllis, who's not as young as she used to be and not quite as lush, can't hide the poison within her. And her chemistry with MacMurray sizzles as they swap barbs and coos (co-written by Raymond Chandler from a James M. Cain crime novella) with sleazy ease. They yearn for more, but Stanwyck, the prototypical noir siren, seems perfectly aware of how fatalistic this kind of dream really is. Sometimes murder really does smell like honeysuckle.

Clash by Night (1952)

What makes Stanwyck tick? That's a continual question regarding the actress who played, among other characters, tramps and heiresses, wives and writers, scammers and showgirls. So it's especially electric to watch Robert Ryan attempt to figure her out in the Fritz Lang melodrama/noir Clash by Night (written by Clifford Odets). As a woman returning to her hometown of Monterey, Calif., we learn that her life hasn't worked out the way she hoped for. She yearns for a more substantial life and, as she admits to a young Marilyn Monroe, a man to help build her confidence. The man she chooses is a worshipful Paul Douglas, but he's not the one she wants, and she struggles with feelings for her husband's best friend, the probing hothead Ryan. Stanwyck gives one of her tour de force performances -- brittle, poignant, tragic and strong while being simultaneously down to earth and superior. You absolutely get why she would think better for herself, and then, in her wounded moments, why she couldn't quite succeed. But, true to her mystery, you never really understand why. Though Ryan spits, "Don't kid me, baby. I know a bottle by the label," he and the viewer never can put their finger on what that label reads. Barbara was never that easy.

The File on Thelma Jordon (1950) / There's Always Tomorrow (1956)

As the saying goes, the woman could tempt a saint. In the case of these two different performances, Stanwyck tempts two married men: one quite aggressively and with criminality (The File on Thelma Jordon); the other without premeditation but as a consequence of confining 1950s matrimony (There's Always Tomorrow). As the title siren of Robert Siodmak's noir The File on Thelma Jordon, Stanwyck lures nice, married Wendell Corey into an affair to further her criminal plans and, though committing many misdeeds, comes out sympathetic (albeit not off the hook) in the end. Showing her range within the archetype of femme fatale, Stanwyck's Thelma is a woman consumed by guilt. So much that even had she not sacrificed herself after ruining Corey's life, you'd sense her doomed conflict regardless.

Similarly moody, guilt ridden (though a positive influence) and ultimately sacrificial, Stanwyck's accidental temptress in Douglas Sirk's There's Always Tomorrow shakes up bored Fred MacMurray's claustrophobic life with a "perfect" wife and three selfish kids. In his indictment of middle-class complacency, Sirk rightly cast previous collaborator Stanwyck as the woman who inspires MacMurray's desires -- not only because she's alluring, but also because, among the cookie cutter fakes, she's real. This realness was an intriguing element to Stanwyck -- it was something that would cause many of her characters deception, pain and suffering. Stanwyck may have aged to play mother roles, but damned if she was going to tie on an apron and call it a day.

Jeopardy (1953)

The John Sturges directed daylight noir thriller is not only a tense, daring ride, but a deliciously good time. Here's the predicament: While vacationing in Mexico with hubby Barry Sullivan and their young son, Stanywck is put to the test after Sullivan is trapped in the surf and she must find anyone (anyone) to help her. Aid arrives in smarmy Ralph Meeker (ohhhh...Ralph Meeker) a fugitive who has a few other things on his mind. And off it goes. The repartee between Stanwyck and Meeker is absolutely priceless with standouts involving the triple slap Meeker lays on tough Babs, or Meeker’s proud preference for cheap perfume: “it doesn’t last as long,” or my favorite moment  --  when Stanwyck realizes she must make the ultimate sacrifice. She faces Meeker all hard and seductive to say, “I’ll do anything for my husband. ANYTHING.” And she does. Hard-core Babs.

"Big ideas, small results."

Soul Survivor

Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, Jackie Wilson, Curtis Mayfield, my beloved Ike Turner…they are all gone dammit. Gone.  How any self respecting (or self flagellating) Christian thinks I should believe in God is beyond me. Not that I need God necessarily and yet, when I hear that true soul Survivor, Al Green, I start thinking…Jesus Christ…maybe I do. Green, one of the greatest soul singers ever placed on this God-forsaken planet is (yes, thank God again, apologies Christopher Hitchens) still living, still putting out records and still performing live. One of the last real soul singers blessing our landscape -- especially a musical landscape populated by lip-synching video vixens, pop punk whiners and the very allowance of Kevin Federline cutting a rap record, Al Green will make you believe.

The Arkansas–born, Michigan–raised, Memphis-living Green made brilliant albums during his Hi Records heyday (Al Green Gets Next to You, Let’s Stay Together, I’m Still in Love With You, Call Me), his live performances (which I’ve fanatically collected over the years) were something to behold -- sexy, inspirational, transcendent experiences that weren’t simply swoon-worthy (though the ladies love Al Green), but genius examples of tightness and improvisation. Al Green can riff out of the margins, break from his sensuous midrange to talk to the audience and then lift to falsetto only to bust into a goose-bump–inducing raw growl that comes from a place so deep it’s nearly impossible to describe its power.

To use simpler terms, Green performs with raw, soulful intensity in its purest form. And where do you see that anymore? Excuse the easy takedowns, but seriously, Beyonce, Rihanna? Give those girls some Al Green Midnight Special performances simply to remind them not, what only a real singer is, but a real entertainer, and a real interpreter of song.

And Green’s realness can be achieved anywhere, from the soundstages of Soul Train to still-packed concert halls to his Full Gospel Tabernacle where the soul icon remains the residing reverend. If you’re ever in Memphis, don’t miss the chance to possibly catch Mr. Green presiding over worship -- an experience that, years back, one of my atheist-leaning friends caught and was so significantly inspired by, the tough guy was moved to tears. If you’ve ever watched Green perform the baptism-by-orgasm “Take Me to the River,” you’ll completely understand my friend’s reaction.

And further, if you’ve ever suffered through many of our current pop stars, you’ll feel a little sadness that performers like Al Green barely exist anymore in popular entertainment. I mean, really. What the fuck happened? There’s plenty of gritty soulful artists out there (thank you Andre Williams, thank you T. Model Ford, thank you Black Keys -- and thank you for almost recording an album with Ike Turner) but gone are the days when you could actually turn a large clunky dial and see these kinds of geniuses on the five channel boob tube. I hate to say this, but our parents were lucky. No wonder my father went through that leather vest, leather cap, butterfly collar phase. I always thought it might have been some Charles Bronson Death Wish nervous breakdown situation. (Remember when Bronson remodels his apartment all swinging '70s garish in the movie? That's what divorce did to some men, even without the murder and vigilantism -- but I digress.) Anyway, it was probably all that Al Green in the 8-track. That’s some potent stuff.

And I do mean stuff, since Green makes me want to pop a doll and worship God at the same time (must have something to do with Jesus via hot grits in the tub and a handgun...). Especially when he sings the sexy haunting “Jesus Is Waiting” -- and with a sling!  You can interpret this Soul Train performance as pure holy or holy high-high (check out Green's eyes) or whatever kind of godliness you apply to your Green, but one thing’s for sure, it’s on a holy high mountain of silky hot brilliance. That's religion.