They Made me A Criminal (1939)
John Garfield is a dissipated young fighter with a ‘socco’ left punch. His manager accidentally kills a man, but drunken Garfield — and thuggish detective Claude Rains — both think Garfield’s guilty of the crime. So Garfield escapes to the country, meets up with Ann Sheridan and The Dead End Kids, and lickety-split he’s reformed. It’s kinda corny. But there’s a great moral dilemma; Garfield has to decide between boxing to raise money for his newly adopted ‘family’ -- which means getting caught and going to jail — or disappointing Ann Sheridan and the young juvenile delinquents, by not boxing at all. The moment when Garfield decides to fight is a great one— a tribute to Garfield’s acting and Max Steiner’s music, an inarticulate realisation that feels completely real. And from that point on you’re with him, and this movie. I didn’t care how silly it seemed to be rooting for wholesome Ann Sheridan and a bunch of charmingly fake street teenagers, I just was. Finally Claude Rains (a most unlikely tough guy — but he manages to pull it off) — on a hunch — decides not to arrest Garfield, and so there's a happy ending. All of this would be pure as the driven snow, but I couldn’t help finding the silver lining: a distinct gay undertone. There’s Ann Sheridan’s line when she thinks Garfield is going to desert her. I had to listen to the line about five times to be sure — but I’m almost 100% positive she says: “I love you. And I don’t think you’re queer!” (Hear me out!) It would make sense because he’s just said he’s too chicken to box. (And I know to be queer is to be chicken, because I’m both.) And then I found myself rooting a bit too much for Billy Halop and I wasn’t sure why, until I remembered he was the gorgeous adolescent (he was 19) in You Can’t Get Away with Murder with Humphrey Bogart. So I guess I’m kinda in love. Billy and I have been through two movies together, so now it’s a relationship, and both films have implied gay subplots. The earnest young Halop (leader of The Dead End Kids, streetwise, but with a heart) is always falling in ‘idol-worship’ with a criminal. (I’m kinda a criminal; I got excommunicated by Woke People!) Not only that, there are heart wrenching scenes when he’s begging John Garfield to run away with him. And there’s the ending. Well you’d think that when Garfield discovers Rains is going to set him free, he would rush into Sheridan’s arms, right? Except it isn’t her arms Garfield rushes into. It’s Billy Halop’s. And they stroll off, down the railway tracks, with Garfield’s arm around his young, strong shoulders. The final image. Endings are important. It’s important that in 12th Night Viola never takes off her male disguise — even when she’s going to marry Orsino. How things end is how we end, and it’s the way we imagine ourselves. And since I’ve always imagined myself strolling down the railway track with my arm around Billy Halop — not Ann Sheridan — (no offense Ann, you’re a great actress) and I’ve always imagined myself as earnest and handsome like John Garfield — the end of this movie was, for me, true romance. I must tell you I ‘hooked up’ (euphemism) with someone a few days ago. Yes, during COVID-19! I know it’s heretical, but thinking about Billy Halop set me thinking about that. I’m sure not in love with this guy (there are a couple of things about him -- and me -- that make that entirely impossible). But we had a promiscuous encounter (is that what you would politely call it?) that went the way these things are supposed to go. (I promise, no details.) But when you are with someone who obviously cares enough to get you off (uh-oh) — exactly the way you want to get off — that’s kinda special. He was a person who facilitates the pleasure of others; and he facilitated mine. There are those who facilitate, and those who are born to be facilitated. It’s called top and bottom, but it’s also much more complicated then that. It’s always been a revelation to me that my sexual selfishness is actually quite appealing to someone who us obsessed with being sexually unselfish. But then I’ve never believed in this ‘equal’ thing when it comes to sex. Love has to be equal, sex has to be unequal. It’s because sex is about power and affection is not. Not the other way around. If affection is about power, and sex is not, then it’s just awful. There’s dry lightening outside tonight, and on the TV they are still rioting over George Floyd. Sex should be like that — not dry, but certainly lightening, and definitely a riot. (But you kinda know, if you fall -- he’s gonna catch you). Do I imagine Billy would want to lie around kissing and hugging me for hours on end? Oh for sure yeah, but at some point he would have ‘needs’ that might frighten me. I remember trying to explain all this to a young lesbian playwright. I said sex was power, and love was affection. She didn’t like it: ‘But my lover and I have affectionate sex!’ Oh dear. I didn’t mean to critique her sex life. I said -- ‘If it’s equal, and full of caressing, and no one is ever taking charge, then it’s love — but if there’s power play, then it’s sex.’ ‘Are you saying my lover and I aren’t having sex?’ No, I would never say that. I reassured her that I wasn’t judging her, or her sex life. And if you think my definition of sex comes from Foucault you’re wrong. I got it from a lesbian dominatrix, my best friend Johnny Golding — when she was called Sue. Sue asked me if I was a top or a bottom and I had no idea. Then she asked: 'Do you want to organise the sex, plan it out, figure out everything you guys are going to do?' I told her that would be terrifying. 'Well then you’re a bottom,' she said. But the biggest revelation was something another dominatrix told me not to tell anyone. But those rules do not apply here. (These days when we are outside — there are rules everywhere — so here, in this blog, there will be no rules). I was talking to her about S/M and safe words and she explained it all to me, and then she said: 'The truth is…don’t tell anybody…but sometimes it’s actually more fun…..without a safe word.' Of course I wouldn’t recommend not having a safe word when you’re having sex with a stranger. but - and this is a big butt— If Billy Halop ever wanted to do it with me, I would say 'Go ahead honey, and screw the safe word.' I would trust Billy. And we’d just have to say to hell with Ann Sheridan.