Always leave the room on a high note. George Costanza knew it, the best and brightest live it, and Joe – just Joe, thank you very much – sure as hell had it coursing through his veins. The ultimate mantra, guaranteed to leave a lasting impression. Stick around too long, the warts begin to show, and you’re almost certain to follow a bon mot with a colossal dud, wiping away whatever good feeling you’ve managed to generate. Timing, as the saying goes, is all.
In Hollywood, where star power only reaches a chosen few, at least be the sort of actor who burns bright then disappears. James Dean that shit up to the hilt. Make yourself a John Cazale. Sticking around might keep the rent paid and your IMDb credits long, but will you be remembered? Will anyone care? Back to Joe. I’ve seen Marty a dozen times. It’s among my all-time favorites. Every scene is a keeper. But who comes to mind most often when everything threatens to fade away? Joe. Packed with meaning yet lacking a firm identity. One scene, one pitch, one chance to make it all last. You better believe he deserves the honor of a tribute.
Let’s be clear: Ernest Borgnine’s Marty is the hero of the piece, and he’ll remain that way forevermore. Loveable lugs just don’t grow on trees, you know. He’s proof positive that while reality is a stinker, on occasion one of the ugly guys can make good. Loneliness can have a reprieve. Sure, it’s the stuff of fairy tales, but as Papa once opined, isn’t it pretty to think so? All that said, we still need Joe. Every friendship group does, in fact. He’s just the guy to counter the good feeling with a little grit. Chase away the sentimentality with some of the rough stuff. Remind the fellas that sure, we all want a dame now and again, but never lose sight of the facts. Whatever they bring to the table, at bottom they’re little more than the shortest road to trouble. And they’d better be at least two decades our junior.
We’ll quote Joe in full for necessary context, but also because it’s one of Paddy Chayefsky’s finest hours. Masculinity on the uptick for a change. An unapologetic retort to feminism’s humorless grind. Because yes, any Saturday afternoon is made better by exploring the finer points of Mickey Spillane:
“…so the whole book winds up, Mike Hammer, he’s inna room there with this doll. So he says, ‘You rat, you are the murderer.’ So she begins to con him, you know? She tells him how she loves him. And then Bam! He shoots her in the stomach. So she’s laying there, gasping for breath, and she says, ‘How could you do that?’ And he says, ‘It was easy.’”
Simple, brutal poetry. Ape-like, but who likes to quote a gentleman? After another friend hums in agreement, Joe continues:
“What I like about Mickey Spillane is he knows how to handle women. In one book, he picks up a tomato who gets hit with a car, and she throws a pass at him. And then he meets two beautiful twins, and they throw a pass at him. And then he meets some beautiful society leader, and she throws a pass at him…”
Unadulterated machismo, sure, but who among us doesn’t believe it? All of life reduced to an opportunity to fight off the broads. Upright or prone, it’s the stuff dreams are made of, and not a man alive or dead hasn’t wished it so. More to the point, it’s the sort of magic the Marty’s of the world simply cannot obtain, so they’ll have to keep plugging away until the similarly afflicted cross their path. Marty just doesn’t have the strength. In that sense, Joe is the devil on Marty’s shoulder, reminding him that sure, you can get a plain-looking girl now and again, but even she might head in Spillane’s direction depending on how the wind blows. Just keep one eye open.
It’s difficult to know what will happen once Marty settles down, but one unavoidable fact remains: Joe ain’t invited to the wedding. He’ll be the pal who floats away with the compromises of matrimony, and Marty’s better half sure won’t want anyone giving the big guy any ideas. Had he any Spillane tomes on the shelf, they would be the first thing cleaned out in favor of some scented candles. Poor Marty will no longer eat alone, but he’ll be embarrassingly civilized. A butcher by day, but you’re going to have to give up your bowling night. And that bar is decidedly off limits. But Joe will endure. Sure, he’ll strike out from time to time, but it’s a big city. Success only has to cross our paths now and again to justify the struggle. And he’s but a phone call away.
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