She’s the reason we’re all here. In a story packed to the brim with Hollywood heavyweights – Sidney Poitier, Rod Steiger, Lee Grant, Warren Oates – it is little ol’ Quentin Dean, a Sixties’ era actress who never worked again after 1969, who is ultimately responsible for every subsequent action following the opening credits. You see, Delores is a whore. Not the conventional variety, but a whore nonetheless. No shame, mind you, because not everyone in Sparta, Mississippi is built like sweet Miss Purdy, so not everyone can strut around in the nude, attracting cop, field hand, and café proprietor alike. She knows exactly what God gave her, thank you very much, and since the Deep South is hotter than balls all but three hours a year, she’s going to make the best of it. Look, but don’t touch. Though you can touch. In fact, you’d sure as hell better.
Delores is pregnant. It’s uncertain whether or not this is her maiden voyage, but the odds are decidedly against it. It’s practically an article of faith that she’s on a first name basis with the local abortionist. Likely has some frequent flyer miles built up, in fact. But here, now, she’s been given a belly full by Ralph, the aforementioned hash-slinger who would normally not have a shot with someone of Miss Purdy’s charms, only she’s run out of options, and he’s the last known resident not sidelined by the clap. Under normal circumstances, this being the South and all, Ralph and Delores would be headed towards wedded bliss, but since she’s 16, and he’s well, creepy and psychotic, cue the suction machine down at Mama’s.
Still, we have a problem. Ralph sells pies for a living, and Delores is dead broke, so money must be had. A lot of it, given the going rate. Naturally, this means Ralph is pretty much forced to commit murder, steal a man’s wallet, and set Delores free for further adventures. The man Ralph murders just happens to be a very important industrialist, and the discovery of his body leads to a false arrest, which ultimately leads to Sidney Poitier showing these crackers what’s what. Anyone worthwhile knows the story. But, as stated, had Delores Purdy had other hobbies – say, reading, or not showing her tits to anyone driving by – Virgil Tibbs would not have been arrested, nor given the chance to smack the shit out of the town’s racist overlord.
Thankfully, because In the Heat of the Night is a remarkable mood piece with some of the era’s finest performances, Delores is just the sort of girl to open the floodgates of doom and let the film run its natural course. If there’s trouble, she’ll find it. She’ll even use her time sitting before Chief Gillespie to pretty much implicate the wrong man, proving again that she’s not even remotely able to keep her conquests straight. She’s dopey, deranged, and as easy as a Sunday morning, but she’s just about the only one who’s going to add an ounce of life to this two-bit town. Weekends usually bring bingo and maybe a stroll to the fishin’ hole. Now, we’ve got a murder to solve, and a jail cell not inhabited but the town drunk for a change.
Naturally, this being the world Delores hath wrought, her assignations eventually get her own brother killed, and, at last check, pretty much put the kibosh on that factory that had a chance to bring the unemployment rate to under 1 in 3. And, had the Klan had its way, Tibbs would have been buried in some earthen dam, giving the FBI yet another reason to visit the Magnolia State. All because some white teenager couldn’t keep her legs closed. Given that, must I insist on an Unsung? Isn’t this tart really more suited to be an Asshole of the Cinema? A fair point, but absent her character, there isn’t a movie. No movie, no Steiger, inhaling mounds of cotton with every bellow. No Ray Charles anthem, sending us home. Her penance will be a dozen kids by a dozen men, all running the streets with abandon. On this night, let her bask in a job well done.
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