A Review of ‘Public Enemies’ Dir: Michael Mann

Michael Mann has been one of the few directing voices coming from Hollywood in recent years. His immutable, high-octane style, invariably genre films have earnt him a reputation as a stalwart of action films internationally. It was with enthusiasm that I went for a late night viewing of Public Enemies, starring Johnny Depp. And with a measure equal to my expectation was I let down by the subsequent two and a half hours of celluloid that ran through the projector.

Though perhaps film is a flawed description, since most of the film was in effect shot digitally on the F23 camera, much to its detriment. The lush design, costumes and locations were severely let down by the poor camera quality and jerky camera operating. This is not to question the use of handheld films per se, but only when story requires it. Thus during the opening sequence this is completely excusable, but not during subtle romantic sequences such as the date between Depp and Cotillard early on in the film. Most objectionable, however, in regards to the camera work, is its function to distract the audience from the story and characters, rather than augment. This left me constantly wondering whether this movie was shot on a miniDV camera rather than supposedly state of the art digital cameras.

In regards to the screenplay, while the lack of exposition serves the mood and setting well, there is little character movement, and the Dillinger character is written with little of the forgiving Robin Hood personality of his legend. Coupled with a thin romance with a character who feels more like a plot device than a human being, and we have little scope for character empathy.
This is not to say that the acting is at all bad. The performances are well above par, with a notable comment for Stephen Graham (of This is England fame) as the psychotic Baby Face Nelson. Christian Bale is usually dry, but he never has been much of an actor anyway, and Depp naturally provides screen presence and charm.

Unfortunately by the time you are aware of the acting its too late. A sad disappointment from an usually able crafts-mann (pun intended).

The Prostitute - A Short Story - Part IV

Over the following days Jacob tried desperately not to discuss the events of that night. And yet his zeal, his ego and youthful indiscretion conspired against this intention. One afternoon, when at dice with a few of the other negro boys, the discussion turned inevitably to women, and indeed the stranger, who for the second week running hadn’t attended church. His revelation to the other young men was met with slack jawed awe or incredulous jeering, and continued until Clarissa ambled past the crowd of them, and into the telegraph office where they had congregated. A sombre silence fell over the boys as she walked past, and it remained a moment too long after she had walked past, for they had all seem distinctly the rather unsubtle wink that she had flashed Jacob as she passed. And once that moment of silence had passed, the jeering and back slapping began.

In the days that followed the other negro boys, or at least those with sufficient access to funds each made their right of passage to the room at the end of the long wooden corridor. And so the spark of rumour as fired on by the hearsay on the street corners between the Negros. Naturally it didn’t take long before the white farmers heard about the exploits of the young negros, and though many men tell themselves that theirs is not the ilk of such women, the stories recounted by the young boys beggared belief. And still they continued to church on Sundays, and the sermons from Reverend Quaid, and so days passed. Eventually the weakest among the farmers succumbed to temptation, hardly able to believe the debauched stories of the young negro boys. The first of these was Stephen, the blacksmith, whose small workshop sat opposite the saloon and so provided him no end of temptation until it was all too much to bear, and he made the homage to the Clarissa’s door.

And when it rains, so the saying goes, it pours; Stephen had made the trip, and recounted the events of strange lotions, the smell of cinnamon, vanilla and spices to the other men. This inflamed their curiosity and ardour to the point of no return, until slowly, over the next few months, nearly all of the men of the town made the journey into that, now notorious boudoir. This did not go unnoticed by the Reverend, whose disapproval became palpable at his weekly sermons. His focus on the story of Jezebel fell on dead ears, for men in the throws of such excitement are quite deaf to the preaching of the pulpit. Nor had the situation passed the wretched wives, whose loyalty bore into their hearts like daggers, and yet dared not confront their husband, but milled upon the subject at the weekly sewing circle.

Finally, after several months of this quiet façade, the wives gathered resolved that some action must be taken, and Molly was appointed the most appropriate to lead the action. As such Reverend Quaid was invited to the sewing circle. Quaid was a hawkish figure, with narrow spectacles that perched on the end of a thin and distinctly sloping nose. His beady eyes inspired more fear than admiration in the congregation, and his booming sermons on hellfire often led to the tears and bawling from the younger children.

“We must do something, “ Jenny ventured, “I haven’t been with Thomas for nearly three weeks,” she admitted, her cheeks flushed in equal measure with embarrassment and frustration. Jenny was the most recently wed of all the wives, the, nuptials having been completed only three months earlier, and presided over by the Reverend himself. For his part, Quaid’s presence at the sewing circle made the wives feel that a powerful ally had arrived among them, who might be able to help them win back the affections of their husbands.

So it was schemed, that they would make their way down to the saloon that very night, united and in a large group, for in this way they might be able to exert more pressure on the whore to leave the good town. And so they gathered themselves with as much spirit as they might muster and made the long and dark walk to the saloon. The sight of such a great many women caused any witnesses to pause and gawk, for these were women on a mission and who would only be stopped by God or the devil themselves, and woe betide any devil that crossed such a righteous mob. And so it was that they entered the saloon, fire in their eyes. This was no little shock for Old man Walker and his now many patrons, who say drinking and at cards in the wide space of the saloon. Quaid marched boldly to the bar, and demanded to know where the wanton woman was staying, and after much argument and making a riotous scene forced his way up to her room. Then followed a ridiculous scene, wherein Quaid burst into the room, only to find the mayor of the town, Mr Arbuckle, in flagrante with the tramp – much to dismay of his poor wife who was among the throng of the ladies at the door.

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The Prostitute - A Short Story - Part III

Jacob ran the errand to the hardware store though he was distracted by the events of the afternoon for the rest of the day. Such was his distraction that on his first run he came back with the wrong nails and was sent back, whereupon he purchased the wrong quantity. His mind circled, the smell of the perfume filling his mind more potently than a fever. As the evening drew in, Abraham noticed the distraction in his brother, but his illness had stolen his strength, and was forced to bed to recuperate. Jacob waited until late into the night, when he was sure that everyone would have been off to bed. The scent of her had been something not of his world, and his youthful energy wanted to take up the invitation. He gathered his small savings, and made his way quietly down to the saloon.

As he entered the half dozen patrons who were left in the bar at this hour were taken aback. Jacob, for all his bravado shyly scuttled through the bar, amid the sharp looks twelve eyes, fixed upon him. When asked what his business was, he revealed her was there to see Miss Clarissa. The barman dutifully called up, announcing the guest, a vicious frown growing ever deeper on his brow as he did so. He returned staring at the negro teenager, a look of disdain and envy in equal parts. Finally he nodded slowly, and the boy climbed the stairs and to the room. As he arrived, he knocked gently, with no answer. He knocked again, a little louder, and jumped at the answer that came from within, “It’s open.” His heart was beginning to pound much as it had done earlier that afternoon, and yet this time it seemed to fill him with an excitement that he had not experienced in his young life.

He crept to the door at the end of the long wooden corridor, and stood outside it. An age passed, his heart pounding so hard that he was sure she might mistake it for a knock and beckon him to enter. Finally he summoned all the strength in his arm to reach up and rap the three knocks at the door. Pause, and then her voice worked its way through the wooden door, delicate and soft. “Come in.” He turned the white door-knob, and stepped slowly into the room.

It was a simple room, clean and homely, with flower decorations on the bedclothes, a small side table with a basin and jug, and a dressing table. A small window looked out over the main street beneath, and the room was lit by the yellow gas light of the street outside. The dressing table contained all manner of jars, lotions, potions and so many bottles that it was a veritable apothecary. And strangely, the room was empty. At the far end, opposite the large bed, was a door that led to the bathroom, and a light crept from it into the bedchamber. It was the bathroom, and the sound of bathing could be heard, along with a gently hum of a female voice. Jacob stood in the room, almost at a loss as to what to do, for he daren’t touch anything or be as bold as to sit on the only chair. He shifted uneasily from foot to foot, looking at that point like a child about to be admonished by a stern teacher. His only comfort was the sweet serenade that was being hummed out to the warm night. “Hand me a towel, wont you,” came the interruption, breaking the spell that had caught his mind in it’s grasp. Suddenly shocked he looked around frantically for the towel that was laid out carefully on the fresh sheets. He grabbed it and stepped towards the bathroom door, sticking it through the askew door, in a somewhat ridiculous act of modesty. For her part, Clarissa was used to this false moment of guilt, and let it fall aside much like the water that dripped from her luscious skin.

She stepped out of the round tub, and carelessly dripping onto the floor, crossed the small bathing room to grab the towel nonchalantly from the intruding hand. As she took it, she let her hand come into contact with his, a warm and delicate touch. Shocked at the contact Jacob was excited into boldness, and peered into the bathroom. From behind the door, his view was partially obstructed, but he could make out the curve of her hip, bare and flickering in the candle light that filled the bathroom. Water ran down the skin in rivulets, caressing the firm curves beneath as it made its way down her slender legs, gathering in a swelling pool on the wooden floor. Once she was adequately dry, she turned and made her way out to the bedroom. Jacob was frightened back into the bedroom, as through being attacked by a wild animal. “Don’t look so scared puppy dog,” she calmed, her hair up and patches of wetness still flecking parts of her skin. She stepped towards him, taking his hand that trembled lightly into her calm grip, and led him over to the cool crisp sheets.

No description of the events that took place that night would ever do them justice, and as so it is suffice to say that it was there, among the cool sea of flower patterned sheets at the old saloon, Jacob became a man.

...to be continued....

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