Public Enemy (1931)
I had no idea what a great movie this is. One must ignore the moralism. The introduction says this film’s purpose is to “depict an environment that exists in certain strata of American life, rather than glorify the hoodlum.” This is an inept apology for the brilliant display of brutal Warner Brothers pre-code naturalism that follows. Public Enemy makes a flaccid attempt at psychoanalysing the anti-hero of the film: James Cagney’s father spanked him too harshly; could that have been the cause? Or perhaps it was the neighbourhood he grew up in? Or Putty Nose, his tutor in crime who Cagney eventually assassinates for cheating him as a child? But the facts are clear. The sublimely handsome Edward Woods, Cagney’s friend, is nowhere near as nasty as Cagney — and both had exactly the same upbringing. Despite the cloying homespun message that hovers over this film, director William Wellman lets Cagney’s performance speak for itself: he’s mad as hell for no particular reason, and that’s that. Public Enemy is filled with random acts of violence: like Cagney shooting the horse that killed his friend (why?) or the infamous moment when Cagney squashes a grapefruit into his girlfriend’s face (well, she was rather boring). He also hits another woman who seduces him when he is drunk; he is just a fountain of rage, and I do identify with that somewhat. This is the only pre-code movie I have seen that clearly seems bent on flaunting standards of decency then and now— not only in its violence but in daring to feature marginal characters in sympathetic roles. There is the gay tailor who dresses Cagney in what is a truly sexy scene. Cagney is young enough for us to notice his beautiful dark, long-lashed eyes, which — like Robert Mitchum’s - laugh and cry at the same time. The tailor notices them for sure. (These are hoodlum eyes, and they can’t be explained away by lazy moralizing.) The tailor minces and nibbles on his tape measurer — and when Cagney asks for lots of space at his pant waist, the tailor brazenly caresses Cagney’s bicep and gurgles: “Here’s where you need the room! Such a muscle!” And Cagney smiles — he clearly knows this type of guy —and breezily tolerates him. And there’s the black manager of the speak. Cagney treats him as a friend. And then there’s Jean Harlow’s brief monologue, which displays her immense talent (though like Monroe no one could see it for her beauty). “Oh you don’t give — you take, Johnny. But I love you to death.” There is nothing wrong with this film, and one can see why the harrowing final moments inspired Martin Scorcese. “They’re bringing Johnny home!” cries his mother, but we know something’s afoot. And then the soundtrack plays ‘I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles’ (which is darker here even than Streisand’s mordant 'Happy Days Are Here Again’) and the mob rolls up a dead, tortured, mummified James Cagney, and tosses him on the floor of his mother’s house. Was it because I knew I would be watching Public Enemy that I woke up this morning right in the middle of one of my guilt dreams? I have them all the time. Obviously I go to bed guilty, and that feeling pervades my sleep. My dream quandary was this; I had promised two Shoppers Drug Mart stores that I would go to work — one in to Bramalea, and one in downtown Toronto. (My first job was at a Shoppers Drug Mart in Don Mills, as store clerk, when I was 16). I felt horrible because I wanted to skip work in both places. Then I thought — well I can certainly cancel Bramalea, but I’ll have to turn up at the downtown Toronto store. As I woke I was still talking myself out of feeling bad about this. So what did I do yesterday so initiate this soul-searching slumber? Let’s see… I wrote a blog, I had a friend over for a drink. I made plans to go to an anti-COVID-19 protest the next day. Nothing horrible there. Oh sorry, I forgot; all those activities are now suddenly incendiary and possibly illegal. Having a friend over (isn’t being friendly a good thing?) writing (it’s creative, isn’t it?) and planning a protest march (doesn’t it show I care?). But I’ve always been an enemy of the public. Like James Cagney I have a lot of rage and am prone to expressing it. And though it’s unlucky to say so — I may end up mummified to the strains of ‘I Am Always Blowing Bubbles’ at some point in the future. But rather than concentrate on my fascinating self, I’d like to talk about our collective guilt. Because I think it has a lot do with whats happening right now. The old people. Finally on TV today I heard some numskull dare to speak the truth ‘COVID-19 is a high infectious but not very lethal illness, which should only be of concern to the very old and those with at least two serious underlying conditions. There is no reason to stop an entire economy because of it; but we need to make sure the old and vulnerable are protected.’ Hey — let’s talk about old. Let’s talk about their ‘protection.’ I am old. I know what it’s like to be old. You are rejected and treated like garbage. Period. This is a youth centred culture, a culture which fears death, and people are generally unhappy to see the wrinkly folk, and doubly unhappy to hear from them — as they are probably not on snapchat or instagram, and, shockingly, don’t even know such technologies exist. For years I have objected to people calling me an ‘elder’ — not because I’m vain (although I am) — but because the term is appropriated from the aboriginal community who actually do respect the old. I don’t think we should respect old people more than we do the young; but we shouldn’t respect them less. A lot of it has to do with un-imagining our own deaths; making all the nastiness disappear. So we lock up the old in ‘golden age’ ‘seniors’ residences because they remind us of what’s coming. And we don’t want to talk to them or see them, but we do, occasionally, out of duty, visit. And then we feel guilty. Then COVID-19 comes along and says that old people are dying, and suddenly the whole culture is magically concerned about their ‘elders’ and all these young women are interviewed about their dying 90 year old mothers and grandmothers saying “it was so tragic I loved her so much.” Right. So why did you vote to have Mike Harris remove all the health regulations in old folks homes — so that your mother could die in her own shit? And why did you put her there in the first place? If you love her so terribly much and miss her like tomorrow? I’m not saying that people should never put the old folks in homes, I’m saying why is everybody suddenly getting all sanctimonious about them? Could it be guilt, maybe, over our stunning hypocrisy? Because what we should really be guilty about is not that we have put the old, and age itself, and death — out of sight and out of mind — but our deluded, infantile, privileged, very white, western, modern, middle-class, nicey-nicey fantasy-obsession with the notion that we might live forever.
