Another day, another Robert Ryan masterpiece. Fuck slowly but surely; in giant unapologetic gulps, Mr. Ryan is becoming my go-to cinematic figure; a lowdown, nasty sumbitch who, like the sunrise, can be counted on to make your hair stand on end. He’s masculinity writ large, and it’s completely up in the air whether he’ll slit your throat or slap a kiss on you. Nice and hard, so it sticks. His gaze, a fixed glare; that is, when he’s not feeling sorry for himself and giving you the sort of waterworks display that leads to the bedroom. His lip, forever curled in a snarl, as if he long ago figured things out and is only waiting for you to catch up. Only you never will. He long ago wrapped this shit up, and he’s not about to accept a consolation prize. It’s either him, or oblivion. And with Barbara Stanwyck involved, we already have our answer.
Mr. Ryan is Earl Pfeiffer, the sort of gent who, in the midst of a coastal factory town (sardines, California style), insists on being a projectionist in a theater that may get around to changing its feature once every world war. He’s the good (and best) buddy of our resident sap, one Jerry D’Amato (Paul Douglas), a fisherman by day, romantic nitwit by night. See, he falls for the decidedly no-good Mae Doyle (Stanwyck), a wandering hussy who settles down only when the price is right. Even then, she’s but a dull Saturday afternoon away from picking up sticks. Give her this, though: she’s unfailingly honest, and she tells Jerry from moment one that she’ll only break his heart. And so she does, like every dame not nailed down.
Mae tried her best to stay independent, but unless those bills start paying themselves, she’s going to have to find a ready-made hearth to warm her hardened heart. And quick. So, against all better judgment, she accepts the lunkhead’s proposal. Cue the wedding, with smiles aplenty, then a baby, almost as if by fiat. Has to be a baby, just so there’s an extra set of feelings to trample over. Enter Earl, though he’s always been lurking in the shadows. He’s mad about Mae, as all men must be, and the last thing he’s concerned about is marital fidelity. He has needs, needs must be filled, and Mae will do. Furthermore, he makes a good case that she’s special, perhaps the only one in this whole godforsaken world, but we know the truth. Mae is breathing, and with that chest taking deep breaths, the die is cast.
You wouldn’t be off your rocker if you dismissed the whole summary as standard minor league fare for the genre, but Earl (and Earl alone) drags it across the finish line to the majors. Outside of being a fair dancer (and the most likely to drink factory toughs under the table), there’s nothing at all likable about him. He’s bitter, self-serving, and obnoxiously racist (check out his “impression of a Chinese”), and there’s a good chance that if you ran off with him, he’d be coming to you for support inside a fortnight. Given his chosen profession, he’s all Coming Attractions, and the main feature will only make you regret you bought a ticket. The worse he is, the more he’s desired. If you doubt me, I remind you that Marilyn Monroe is also on board, and she more than takes a second look.
But more about Earl. Consider this exchange:
Earl: Jerry’s the salt of the earth, but he’s not the right seasoning for you.
Mae: What kind of seasoning do I need?
Earl: You’re like me. A dash of Tabasco or the meat tastes flat.
The simultaneous lust and contempt practically burns a hole in the screen. He’s not finished. When Mae first meets him, he’s asked if he likes women.
“Take any six of ‘em, my wife included,” he snorts. “Throw ‘em up in the air. The one who sticks to the ceiling, I like.” And then this:
Earl: Mae – what do you *really* think of me?
Mae: [coolly] You impress me as a man who needs a new suit of clothes or a new love affair – but he doesn’t know which.
Earl: [stung] You can’t make me any smaller. I happen to be pre-shrunk.
Even with the menfolk around, he’s little different:
Earl: Like the show?
Mae: She’s beautiful.
Earl: Who? That celluloid angel you just saw? They oughta cut her up a little bit – she’d look more interesting.
Jerry: Cut her up?
Earl: Didn’t you ever wanna cut up a beautiful dame?
Jerry: No.
Earl: Jeremiah, you’re a simple man.
Give him this: he’s not covering up a damn thing. He’s so transparent, he practically disappears. He’s showing you every last skeleton, and he’ll even let you stay awhile to get more familiar. An open book when the term used to mean something. And Mae still can’t resist. Decency, love, even a little reverence (via Jerry), and it’s still not enough. She needs to be degraded. Smacked silly to feel alive. Absent a threat that he’s going to leave you hanging, she’d rather not. Earl the Pearl, dreadful to the last. 1952, 2002, eternity and beyond. He’ll be here, waiting. And he’s not walking away alone.
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