The year is 1933. FDR has just replaced Hoover, the economy is still in the toilet, Hitler has consolidated power in Germany, and American women have declared that so long as money is tight and the job market even tighter, they’re going to fuck. A lot. They may or may not ask for first names. If there’s a workplace, they’ll ogle the new guy until he agrees to a quickie in the broom closet. A restaurant? Coffee, tea, or me in the prone position.
The halls of power? Pussy, tits, and legislation, in that order. Maybe there’s something about a global catastrophe that provides clarity of purpose. I may starve, but it won’t be for lack of cock. Skirts got shorter, shirts tighter, and the abortion industry overtook General Motors as the nation’s number one racket. In short, these were America’s salad days. Thank the stars there’s a man like Jimmy Cagney around to take advantage.
Cagney is Danny Kean, freshly sprung for the joint, only now he’s ready to go legit. A return to crime would be too easy; this man is going places, and back to the joint ain’t one of ‘em. He wants to be a reporter, only he’s not picky. The New York Times might be the endgame, but a rag will do in a pinch. Thank God The Graphic News is still solvent. Sure, he’s got a record, no actual work experience, and he talks like he might stab you in the throat, but the kid has pluck. Grit. And no shame about running across the street and into an active crime scene to grab a photograph that is sure to make headlines.
And so it does. You’re hired, son, with the promise of greater riches to come. Between jobs, he gives tours of the facility to up and coming students of the craft. Only they take one look at Danny and consider a change in profession. Here’s a man. A real man. So many otherwise decent chaps are selling apples curbside; this guy went straight from solitary to the peak of media. It’s but a short road from the printing presses to silk sheets.
And while sleeping with half the office is more than Danny could ask for, he’s still ambitious. Didn’t the boss promise $1,000 for the Pic of the Century, a photo of some dame in the midst of death via the electric chair? If that sounds too much like the real-life Ruth Snyder and her date with Old Sparky, you’re right. That broad had her husband axed back in the Twenties, which itself inspired Double Indemnity. Who knew there was an additional cinematic original? Impossible to pull off, given the security? Please. This is a man who avoided anal rape in the big house. Yeah, it’s Sing Sing, the biggest, baddest prison of them all, but don’t count out the likes of Danny.
So, Danny arrives on execution night, loaded to bear with all sorts of tricks up his sleeve. And pant leg. At the moment of electrocution, he snaps the photo. He’s home free, absent the oopsie in the parking lot. Resentful reporters give chase, but Danny worms his way out of it, thanks to a leap from a car going no less than 80mph. A little dusty, but alive. Picture delivered; he’s achieved journalistic immortality. Only he’s kinda sweet on an Irish cop’s daughter, and that cop let Danny into the death house without scrutiny. Not exactly the best way to win and keep your lover. He’ll have to prove himself all over again, which means he’ll be forced to use his underworld connections to catch some cop killers in the act. Over and done, friends, as you always suspected.
If there’s a hero to the piece, other than the loose broads in every scene, it’s Danny. Played by Cagney, he’s gruff, pushy, and defiant, which means he’s not above putting his hands on a woman to straighten her out. A fist to the face to keep her in line? Not once, but twice. Some lip lock in a dark corner to shut your yap? Please. Danny can do that blindfolded. Danny holds all the cards because he’s Jimmy Fucking Cagney. If he needed permission, he’d be in another line of work. One chick even declares, “I’m going to make you love me and like it!” Love, maybe, but entirely on Danny’s terms. Or consider this exchange:
- Allison: You know, you’re too good-looking to be shot.
- Danny Kean: You think so?
- Allison: For no particular reason, I think I’ll take charge of you.
- Danny Kean: You’re the warden. Keep in step, bedroom eyes.
Few men in the history of motion pictures had to do less. Walk into the room, make eye contact, deal signed. Even Cary Grant had to break a sweat now and again. But this is 1933. Revolution was in the air, and the bedroom was open for business. War would take half these folks soon enough.
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