“You’ve only gorn an’ done it.”

KISS THE BLOOD OFF MY HANDS is the finest title ever conceived by human typewriter, I insist.

If you don’t believe me, try coming up with another variant on the VERB / BODILY FLUID / PORTION OF ANATOMY schema that isn’t utterly gross or ludicrous. The least offensive one I can manage is BLOW THE SICK OFF MY SHOULDER.

So director Norman Foster and the film’s gaggle of writers (one for nearly each word of the title) are clearly onto something. Although I think they miss a trick by not having any of the characters in the film actually SAY THE TITLE. Whenever anybody SAYS THE TITLE in a film, either Fiona or I, if we’re watching at home, generally cry, “He SAID THE TITLE!”

(I think it dates back to an anecdote about FACE / OFF. Nick Cassavetes was improvising in a scene with Nicholas Cage, and Cage said “I wanna take his face… off.” Cassavetes freaked. “He said the title!” he thought to himself. “I can’t let him get away with that! I’m gonna say the title too!” So he comes back with, “You wanna take his face…off?” and then they go on like that for like an hour until John Woo gets tired and has them start shooting at stuff. Or something.)

Anyhow, there’s a bit where Burt Lancaster, playing a war-troubled yank adrift in Hollywood’s version of London, punches an artificial fertiliser salesman by the name of Widgery and then, fleeing the scene with Joan Fontaine, punches a copper. Well, what could be simpler than to have big Burt, when hauled before the judge, plead, “But your honour, I didn’t mean to hit him, I was just trying to get him to KISS THE BLOOD OFF MY HANDS.” It could work.

But Burt, being less imaginative perhaps than myself, an award-winning filmmaker, doesn’t come up with any convincing excuses of this kind, and is sentenced to a flogging. At this point we wondered about the film’s jurisprudential accuracy. Did they practice flogging in post-war Britain? I mean, as a legal sentence? I Googled the words “History of English flogging” but the stuff that came up wasn’t really very educational, so I’ll forget the research and go with my gut instinct: no they bloody didn’t. Somebody just wanted to shoot a gothic s&m scene with Burt. Which is fine.

For all its fogbound atmos, the film struck me as quite French in a way, rather than being American or British — it has the doomed romantic feeling of the pre-war poetic realists, very close to film noir already. It can’t quite end as perfectly as it might because it’s trapped between the commercial dislike of unhappy endings (nearly ALL great noirs have unhappy endings, and it was a very popular genre, so why does anybody worry?) and the Production Code’s insistence that crime must not pay. So it has to contrive a vaguely unsatisfactory hopeful ending, in other words it hedges its bets all over the place.

But it’s a pleasure to watch Norman Foster’s stuff, with its Wellesian dutch tilts (Foster directed JOURNEY INTO FEAR with Welles at R.K.O.) and chiaroscuro flourishes. Foster is a considerable noirist in his own right — his MR. MOTO films are glossy, shadowy and hugely fun, and he would carry his canted angles with him right onto the ’60s Batman show. The film is as lopsided as those angles, with an odd structure and shaky character motivation at times, but it’s affecting because Big Burt is such a lovable lunk, Joan Fontaine always does nervous and troubled extremely well, and despite what nearly everybody has said about this film, I think actually make a great onscreen couple. My theory — IMDb reviewers notice that something isn’t working in this film — it’s the script! — and ascribe the fault to the unusual screen pairing. But that pairing is one of the film’s strengths. This is exactly why asking your audience for advice can be dangerous. They’re pretty brilliant at feeling when something’s wrong, but they’re not trained at identifying what it is. I, of course, being an award-winning film-maker, get it every time. That’s probably why I’m unemployed.

Anyway, the French poetic realist thing — Robert Newton, playing a black marketeer called Harry, is not a bit like Harry Lime, but as he insinuates himself into the protags’ lives and practically insists they murder him, just by being so damn evil all the time, he is very much like classic murderee Jules Berry in LE JOUR SE LEVE, I think. “You were born to be murdered,” Trevor Howard tells Joseph Cotton in THE THIRD MAN, and it’s true of Newton in a different way. He pushes his luck, see. You can’t leer like that while Joan Fontaine’s around and not expect Burt Lancaster to completely kill you.

Wait a minute, here’s one:

FLICK THE MUCOUS OFF MY NIPPLES.

Yes. I’d definitely watch that.

About these ads

15 Responses to ““You’ve only gorn an’ done it.””

  1. The closest I could come to a title that adheres by your rules — and I *wouldn’t* want to think about the physical calisthenics that would prompt it — is BLOW THE DANDRUFF OFF MY DENTAL WORK.

  2. A few favorite titles:

    A Taste of Honey a Swallow of Brine

    The Voyage of the Viking Women on Their Way to the Land of the Sea Serpent

    The Incredibly Strange Creatures Who Stopped Living and Became Mixed-Up Zombies

    Rameau’s Nephew by Diderot (Thanx to Denis Young) by Wilma Schoen

  3. I’ve always had a soft spot for Oh Dad, Poor Dad, Momma’s Hung You in the Closet and I’m Feeling so Sad. But I’ve never seen it.

  4. Saw it AND the origianl play starring Jo Van Fleet, Austin Pendleton and the great Barbara Harris. Wonderful stuff. Arthur Kopit went on to script Altman’s Buffalo Billand the Indians and wrote the libretto of Nine — the stage musical version of Fellini’s 8 1/2

  5. Chris — how about Wring the Spinal Fluid out my Beard?

    Kopit didn’t script the Altman, I think — he wrote a play and Altman and the lovely Alan Rudolph adapted it.

    All Fellini films should be turned into stage musicals.

  6. There was a rather gruesome mid-80s documentary about African wildlife that David Chute dubbed Lick the Blood Off My Paws.”

  7. [...] who also made JOURNEY INTO FEAR for Orson Welles and Mercury Productions, and Shadowplay favourite KISS THE BLOOD OFF MY HANDS (A.K.A. STEAM THE SEMEN OFF MY SPATS, and BLAST THE LINT OUT MY NAVEL). In interview, stuntman [...]

  8. “Wipe the Dribble Off My Chin”? “Vacuum the Wax From My Ears”? “Squeeze the Pus . . .” Oh, never mind.

    As regards the flogging, Burt’s character was sentenced to a prison term, and received a few lashes as punishment for . . . I don’t remember exactly, but it was something you shouldn’t do in prison. Corporal punishment was used in British prisons until 1962.

    In response to David Ehrenstein: The full original title of Roger Corman’s 1957 Viking epic is actually “The Saga of the Viking Women and Their Voyage to the Waters of the Great Sea Serpent,” usually shortened to “Viking Women and the Sea Serpent.”

  9. Wow, didn’t know we were so whip-happy.

  10. Just saw this for the first time last night, and in a gorgeous 35 mm print! How about…

    MOP THE SPITTLE FROM MY KNEES?

    BRUSH THE BILE OFF MY BACK?

  11. Slap the sweat from my scapula?

  12. SLURP THE SEEPAGE FROM MY SEPTUM?

  13. Sneeze the snot from my spinal column?

  14. PUSH THE PUKE OFF MY PACKAGE?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 356 other followers

%d bloggers like this: