Baby Boy Frankie

The strongest impression left by director/star Allen Baron's 1961 Blast of Silence is that the fabulous postwar years are gone, fini, kaput. The gritty 60s have arrived, and Manhattan is grimy, garish and awash in human as well as inanimate litter -- the 60s in which transvestite hookers started knifing U.N. diplomats in Times Square. Into this nascent cesspool travels tired hitman Frankie Bono; he comes by train, through a dark and endless tunnel which seems to symbolize either the birth canal or the human condition -- or both. He's a full-time loner (like Vince Edwards in the somewhat similar Murder by Contract) out to do a job, collect and move on. But he happens upon some old acquaintances from his childhood in an orphanage and succumbs, clumsily, to some human contact. This proves his undoing. The ending takes place in a desolate shore not unlike the Staten Island locations of Sorry, Wrong Number. Blast of Silence is amateurish and "personal," in the style of the John Cassavettes films that would soon follow -- products of that edgy, verbal New York culture of jazz boites and improvisational theater. It's no masterpiece, but it's worth seeing for anyone tracking the turns the noir cycle took in its last, dying years.

A hard-boiled, uncompromising study of a professional hit-man, "Baby Boy" Frankie Bono. The beginning of the film is menacing; a pitch-black screen and pounding percussion driving a cynically vicious narrative, "remembering, out of the black silence you were born in pain . . . born with hate and anger built in . . . a slap on the backside to blast out a scream!" A small light becomes visible amidst the black like a moving bulls eye on a target and all of a sudden amidst a crescendo of noise you realize you've been on a train in a tunnel and are now being "blasted" out into the world. But it's like being born into a sewer because this world is seen through the eyes of our killer. Frankie Bono is played by Allen Baron (the director himself) who's appearance and acting style are vintage Robert DeNiro. Frankie has the misfortune to run into a girl for whom he once had affection, and for the first time in his career, he's having 2nd thoughts about his profession, but a killer who doesn't kill gets killed. Frankie's on a one way street that cannot go on forever. Unforgettable film.

Yeah, rememberin' da time when you was a kid and saw this movie on late night TV. Even then you was wise that it was a shabby-lookin' lowdown no-budget job and the cast was not so good lookin' -- but that's OK, you liked it that way. These was the kinda people you could see all around you, every day in da neighborhood, downtown, on the street corner, in the subway. Yeah, this looked like life in the city, but wit' a special kinda danger, a certain mystery. You ain't never forgot this movie, didja? Oh, you didn't remember what it was called or who was in it, but it stuck wit' ya and bounced around yer brain like the beatin' of a conga drum in a Greenwich Village beatnik club. Didn't think it would ever catch up with ya, didja?

Ya seen it again tonight, huh? The actin' still ain't so great and the people still ain't so good-lookin'. But that's OK, 'cause it's still the coolest damn thing ya ever seen. Ahh, Hollywood is for saps. You want somethin' gritty and dark, don't ya? 'Cause that's the way you like it.

Rememberin'.

Blast of Silence (1961)

In some ways, the filming and the cool grey timbre of this film are so singular and evocative, you really have to watch it. In this way it reminded me of a gritty, New York version of the 1958 Elevator to the Gallows (set in Paris). They both have some of the most beautiful, evocative scenes of people just walking the streets of the city, day and night. In "Blast of Silence" you get taken to several parts of New York, unedited, shot with a simple but elegant intuition for the place. This is a movie by New Yorkers about New York.

But the plot, about a lone killer on his last dubious assignment, is a strain. Beyond the convincing despondency and isolation of the leading actor (Allen Baron, from Brooklyn, who is also the director), the cast struggles to be relevant. The one other shining performance is the gun dealing and rat lover, played by Larry Tucker with a kind of relish for the unsavory dirty aspects of his part. Great stuff.

If you accept that the story isn't much, by itself, and watch it for the scenes of the city, for the impressions of ordinary New Yorkers at the time of Kennedy's election, you will be really wowed. Right from the first shot, the low budget hand held camera on a train in a tunnel, going on and on until finally finding the light of day, to the last scenes in a a light, windy, driven snow in the Meadowlands, it's a thrilling, original ride. The filming has a gritty, everyman quality that seems to come right from art school without the affectation. It really is worth it just for the scenes, and the urban scenery.

Saw this one a few weeks back on the big screen at the American Cinematheque and it has stayed w/ me. Baron was about as short and homely as leading men get but somehow in this bleak and uncompromising piece he's effective (particularly in voice-over). Some striking cinematography (especially the wonderful opening train sequence) and a few long takes (Baron walking an entire rundown city block of a sidewalk with no other business, the stirring snowy pier finale) are memorable. Also good is the sleazy fat bearded character actor whose name escapes me (he also appeared in Fuller's SHOCK CORRIDOR around the same time).

There isn't a lot of humanity in BOS though, and the one moment when Baron opens up to the girl he has befriended, he gets slapped hard with cold reality. A well done scene but it only piles on to the disaffection and malaise already permeating this movie. Don't expect to laugh much or take a date; the proceedings rarely stray from deadly serious. This is a movie full of lapsed morals and betrayal but you can take heart that the system remains firmly in control at the chilling end of this downbeat but solid late entry in the noir cycle.