mn
::
poetry
Detour into Navarone
"Do not despair -- one of the thieves was saved; do not presume -- one of the thieves was damned."
--St. Augustine
Castles, radios, desperate missions betrayed at every turn. Wild rides in
stolen cars, German bunker guards making tea, but upon opening the
door, he instead finds dead-drunk Vera and that tangled phone cord.
Vera knew too much about big adventures you don't want to be on,
about fear and hate, losing control in front of strangers. She was just
the type to understand hard usages of rope, men, and double indemnities.
And the revelation in the church basement, the fact that the Gestapo
never had to lay a hand on their best agent, a woman famed for her
terrible scars, but who came and went with the same milk-white skin!
Back up and watch it again, because Gregory Peck can't do the job. The shot
is fired--shock, sadness, lovely Anna falls. Pan right, Michaela lowers
her gun and spits. Roberts lets the phone go and opens the bedroom door.
Now you're in for it, the bomb timers wrecked and everything going critical--
there's Nazis and cops on every bloody inch of road and you're in enemy hands.
Can't sell the car, can't risk the wedding party, can't take Malloy with you and
can't leave him here to be found, to lose control over himself. Stuck with Vera.
The only difference between art and life is that one takes more practice.
Last modified: Oct 24, 2008 2:28 pm.
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