Rogue Cop
Rogue Copi is perhaps seeing itself as a "film noir", much in the vein ugly fat US chicks see themselves femmes fatales in the greasy mirrors of their own minds. In reality it is a hammy exercise in hamitude worthy of hanging in the pearly arches of the Heavenly Grocer's. You've never seen beefcake like this, even the script suffers from what's evidently the residue of multiple passes of teenagers editing it to make it sound tougher and harsher and edgier and memorable and great and good and so following.
George Raft, that iliterate ham, is supposed to be a crook, see, except he has a girl and a boss. This somehow makes sense. I don't see how, but then who the fuck am I (other than a guy who actually did all the shit these doofuses playact, and more). Anyway, the girl loves him but she's a lush (you lush) for reasonsii and then he doesn't love her anymore so he kicks her out except then he wants to kill her. Wouldn't you expect the crook would kill any girl he wants to kill before kicking her out ?
Then there's the "action" packed scenes of "fighting", you should see that thing, it's surreal. Pink Flamingoes has more of a handle on human sexuality and Toyota makes better underwear than these dorks manage to credibly represent conflict -- with the caveat that Toyota isn't actually trying to make underwear. They make cars. It's not fucking clear what Roy Rowland makes.
Blondy would be okay, on her own, she has some pretty decent outfits for the `50s. I dunno if you do MSTK at home the way lamers do karaoke at the bar, but if you do, I absolutely recommend this black fecal pearl of "noir" as an agar.
PS. Oh, I forgot all about the rogue cop title character. He's this dude who isn't a rogue cop who has a brother who gets killed and banzai ensues. It all makes sense because religious principles and also no tits so yeah. Problem ?
———- 1954, by Roy Rowland, with George Raft, Robert Taylor (the track athlete) and Janet Leigh (J L Curtis' mother). [↩]
- Mostly, the naive reasons girls who never lived imagine to be controlling. In which vein, the first time we went to the seaside, five year old-me prepared an anti-crab weapon through twisting every other tooth on my 5 cm wide plastic rake toy at a 90 degree angle. Because this'd be useful for fending off crabs or something, thought a 5yo who never saw a crab. [↩]
