WHICH HOST GOT PULLED OFF THE AIR?

On Fox & Friends on Wednesday, Sept. 10, Brian Kilmeade, one of the hosts, said that one way to deal with mentally ill homeless people who wouldn't accept services was "involuntary lethal injection, or something. Just kill ‘em.”

On Jimmy Kimmel Live on Monday September 18, the host said, "We hit some new lows over the weekend with the MAGA gang desperately trying to characterize this kid who murdered Charlie Kirk as anything other than one of them and doing everything they can to score political points from it."

Memo to Stephen Colbert, Jimmy Fallon, and Seth Meyers: Run Kimmel's entire monologue on your shows this evening. Or better yet, read it aloud. You've got the courage to do that much, don't you?

                                                                  *************

AND THE LOSERS ARE...

 

People probably fell for this
gag, too.

Am I the only one who realized from the get-go that Nate Bargatze's Boys & Girls Club donation stunt at last weekend's Emmy Awards was just that: a stunt? Apparently so, seeing how everyone from a Time magazine columnist to the sorehead in Variety condemned it, the latter calling it a "clumsy exercise in celebrity humiliation." 

That was the whole idea! Nate, like Ricky Gervais, knows that the home viewers enjoy celebrity humiliation, clumsy or not. This was just his way of proving what everyone outside show business already knew: actors will deny children an hour of playing softball if it means hearing themselves yammer at an awards ceremony. 

The critics were so busy not getting the joke that they missed entirely a far more important component of the Emmys, one that has been growing for years but gone unmentioned, like a family's problem child turning into a career criminal. Outside of Saturday Night Live, Abbott Elementary, reality TV, and late-night talk shows, no network series has a chance of winning anything. Because they're not even nominated. It's cable's and streaming's world now; we just watch it.

Do the networks consider the irony of giving over three hours of primetime to honor TV shows other than their own? Now that's celebrity humiliation. They might as well come out and admit, "We know we suck, but look who's hosting the Emmys!" And having Nate Bargatze definitely helped, seeing that the ratings were up 8% this year, with 7.4 million people watching. Sure, that's down a staggering 15 million from its all-time high in 2000, but a win is a win, even when it's a loss.

As my friend the former TV exec explained to me, the networks still air the Emmys because don't want to admit defeat -- even though they're defeated year after year -- and the show provides great ad revenue for one night. Plus, they get to promote their own streaming platforms where they still don't get any nominations.

Little did Kevin Spacey know
the title also referred to his
career.

When Netflix debuted House of Cards in 2013, making it the first series to have an entire series' episodes available at once, my immediate thought was Network TV suddenly seems old-fashioned. For sure, it's not going anywhere any time soon, as it's making enough money to survive. But as with late-night talk shows, the networks seem to still exist due to habit rather than quality. 

Back to last weekend's Emmy "celebrity humiliation". Even though the winners' long-winded speeches dropped Nat Bargatze's donation by tens of thousands of dollars, by the end he more than doubled his original pledge to $250,000. CBS didn't even match that, kicking in a measly $100,000. Maybe times are tougher for the networks than even I realized.

                                                                 *************

TAPPING MY LIFE AWAY

But I'd buy the Philco Predicta
if I had the room for it.

Unlike the typical caricature of an out of touch boomer, I embrace new technology as I do a warm, wooly blanket on a cold winter's evening. 

Up to a point.

While I was more than happy to get rid of the old turntable in favor of a CD player, give away the analogue TV in favor of hi-def, and upgrade from VHS to DVD to Blu-ray, I took my time when it came to phones.

The only reason I acquired even a flip phone was because of the embarrassment I suffered knowing that my tech savvy adolescent daughter and tech averse wife each already had one. And even after they jumped into deep end of the iPhone pool, I refused to take the next step until background work made it imperative. 

To display my independent thinking, I went for the Motorola Android, a choice I've continued with since. Why spend a drop a few extra Benjamins on a device that did everything a droid was capable of? 

I'd have kept using this, just out of spite.

Well, almost everything. The iPhones definitely had better cameras (did you ever think you'd have to think about camera quality when purchasing a phone?) and, eventually, NFC -- short for Near Field Technology, or what we commonly refer to as tap to pay. 

Having neither the higher quality camera nor NFC never bothered me. The droid photos were good enough. And what was the big deal about tap to pay when I was already doing that with credit cards? 

Plenty big, apparently. Once my wife upgraded to iPhone 76 or whatever it was, I couldn't get through a day without hearing her swooning about it. Whether it was getting on the subway, a shopping spree at Sephora, or lunch with her gym friends, it was always the same reaction: I just LOVE using tap to pay! It is so GREAT! The last time she demonstrated this kind of enthusiasm was our wedding night. And that was when I picked up the dinner check.

"I successfully waste my time scrolling
 the internet.  A+."

I was still happy with the plastic money, and would still be using it if my droid
hadn't reached the end of its life. After studying the choices on Consumer Cellular, I recently went for the Motorola Edge 2024. A year behind the times, to be sure, but it came with a better camera, longer battery life, and, at last, the near-orgasmic NFC.

In what is either a sign of the times or my social life, the first thing I did with my phone was not making a call but loading my credit cards onto the Google Pay wallet. Like a skeptic encountering a spoon bending shaman, I demanded proof of NFC's alleged magic by trying it myself at Fairway.

The place where my life was forever changed.

After running my supplies through the self-checkout, I brought the phone to the P.O.S. terminal (that's short for Point of Service, so get your mind out of the gutter). I hadn't believed my wife when she told me how much faster tap to pay was until it was my turn. I don't think I was even within five inches of the thing when the green check mark came up confirming my purchase. I mean, it felt like the phone jumped out of my hand.

Suddenly, I was a convert. I hurried down the block to City Swiggers to pick up a few non-alcoholic beers for the weekend. Faster than you can say "O'Doul's", bam, payment accepted. This madness continued for the entire weekend as I looked for any excuse to go shopping as many times a day as possible. And every time I returned home, I deliriously told my wife, I just LOVE using tap to pay!  It is so GREAT! 

The 21st century handshake.

It got to the point where I was ready to buy a new pair of sneakers just to use the damn thing, until remembering there were already a half-dozen others in my already-overcrowded closet. But no worries! Maybe now that NFC is available phone to phone, I can find somebody who owes me money -- or vice-versa! Never has debt been so exciting.

Hey Jeff Bezos! Any chance you can make it possible to make a purchase on Amazon with tap to pay? Think of this way, Jeff: the next time I refer to you as a P.O.S., you can take it as a compliment.

                                                           *********************

SPOT THE DIFFERENCE!

REPUBLICAN REACTION TO POLITICAL VIOLENCE THEN:

Trump Mocks Nancy Pelosi’s Husband, Paul, After Brutal Hammer Attack As Crowd Cheers

Donald Trump Jr. shared a picture of a hammer and a pair of underwear on social media, with a caption that read it was a "Paul Pelosi Halloween costume."

Senator Ted Cruz, Republican of Texas, Congressman Clay Higgins, Republican of Louisiana, and right-wing commentator Dinesh D’Souza all mocked the attack over the weekend in social media posts, in some cases suggesting without evidence that it was part of an elaborate cover up.

J.D. Vance, the Republican candidate for Ohio Senate, is calling it a "problem" that an attack on House Speaker Nancy Pelosi's husband has become a political issue, saying the focus should be on the immigration status of the alleged assailant.

REPUBLICAN REACTION TO POLITICAL VIOLENCE NOW:

Trump blames rhetoric from the left for political violence after Kirk murder

Vice President JD Vance posted on the platform before the announcement of Kirk's death, first asking for prayers for Kirk, then adding, "Dear God, protect Charlie in his darkest hour."

"We ask everyone to pray for [Kirk] and his family. I'm just going to ... state the obvious here. This is detestable," House Speaker Mike Johnson said.

Gee whiz, what could have changed in three years?

                                                                          ***********

THE ENCHANTED CO-OP

 I was going to submit this piece to NPR's Next Avenue until federal funding cuts were putting it to bed permanently. Since I couldn't find any other senior-related sites that paid for submissions, I figured if anyone was not going to give me money, it might as well be me. 

Ever since Thomas Edison released a 26-second short called The Kiss in 1896,
people have flocked to romantic movies. Nothing moves audiences like two people who meet, fall in love, and confront seemingly insurmountable obstacles before winding up in each other’s arms.

Then there are even rarer occasions where people claim to identify with the onscreen lovers. Not me. Oh, I appreciate a well-made romance but have never lost myself in the reverie running into an old flame in Casablanca, standing at the bow of a doomed ocean liner, or dating a mermaid who looks like Daryl Hannah.

That feeling would change, however, after being married half my 69 years. Appropriately, it was a silent movie made a century ago, when filmmakers were unafraid to display their hearts proudly on their sleeves, and audiences enjoyed having a good cry. Which is why I watch movies like that after my wife has gone to bed.

The movie in question, The Enchanted Cottage, all but demands that you keep a box of tissues close at hand. War veteran Oliver Bashforth, his body twisted and maimed in battle, his eyes sunken and hollow, leads a hermit-like existence in a small town where nobody knows him. Laura Pennington, a homely spinster, enters his life as his housekeeper, leading Oliver to eventually propose marriage. Not out of love, mind you, but to stave off loneliness.

But on their wedding night, the two magically see each other’s beauty, and fall deeply in love. It’s only when Oliver invites guests over are he and Laura reminded they’re as homely as ever. And one of those guests is blind! (Never let a sightless person run his sensitive hands over your face.)

With their magic spell broken, Oliver and Laura go to bed dejected, depressed, and otherwise defeated. Yet upon awakening, they once again see each other’s true beauty. No longer willing to be controlled by what people say about them, the couple are determined to face the world as they are, knowing in their hearts that beauty is far more than skin deep.

Corny? Like a farmer’s market in the middle of summer. Old-fashioned? Get out the whisky and bitters. Effective? On a corny, old-fashioned sucker like me, for sure. There’s something ethereal about silent movies like The Enchanted Cottage that makes it seem like you’re experiencing a dream come to life. In a time where cynicism seems to be life’s default setting, something so unabashedly romantic is startling in its innocence.

Was it possible to replicate that feeling in real life? I got the answer some days later.

My wife Sue and I had spent the afternoon walking around lower Manhattan looking for home supplies I didn’t know we needed. It was the kind of hot, sticky humid day that New York City happily offers its residents every August whether we want it or not (and we never do).

We must have looked pretty beat when stepping into the crowded subway car for our ride home. A younger couple – like, by roughly 45 years – insisted on giving up their seats for us. While my wife is always happy to accept this offer, I tend to refuse, taking it as an insult instead of an act of kindness. I mean, what do they think I am, a senior citizen?

This time, the 85-degree heat and 90% humidity made me think twice. Actually, I didn’t have to think at all, seeing that I pretty much collapsed in the seat barely before the young man was entirely on his two feet.

Sue and I didn’t find it necessary to say out loud what we were thinking: We. Are. Old. We had a good run as an attractive, energetic young couple for many years, but there’s no stopping the wrinkled hands of Father Time.

That evening when getting into bed, we talked about our day – mainly how we didn’t buy what I knew we didn’t need. As we turned on our sides to face one another, a strange thing happened. As I gazed to Sue, I said in astonishment, “You look just like you did when we were dating!”

“So do you!” she replied, equally stunned. Whatever ravages of time were there earlier in the day had vanished. Suddenly we were no longer seniors. We were now the age when we met almost 35 years earlier.

Our eyes locked, as we lay stunned by what was happening, caught up in the near mystical moment, delighting to be in our thirties again, feeling the promise of a long, shared life still before us.

We were reminded how beauty is right in front of us when seen through eyes of love. And despite the occasional bump life places in front of us all, love and, yes, beauty are always there. All you have to do is look for it.

Now, it’s not like we think we’re living in a black & white silent fantasy. Last I looked, Sue was facing another birthday. As for me, I still can’t take ten steps on a humid day without panting like a Newfoundland dog in Bali Bali. But those bumps disappear when we arrive home once more. Our enchanted co-op always works it magic on us.

A good air conditioner in the living room doesn’t hurt, either.

                                                      ****************

THEY'LL GIVE YOU A WRING

 

An establishment Democrat in prayer.

For all the grief Democrats are getting from friend and foe alike, you have to give them credit for one thing: when it comes to opposing Donald Trump, nobody is better at wringing their hands.

He wins the 2024 election? Wring their hands. Appoints conspiracy theorists to his cabinet? Wring their hands. Sends armed military to the streets of Los Angeles and Washington, DC? Double-wring. (The only reason Trump hasn't sent tanks into New York is because we don't do handwringing when punching back is an option.)

But it's not just the human jack-o'lantern in the White House making Democrats wondering What do we do? Now it's the chance of a genuinely popular Democrat becoming Mayor of New York.

Memo to Democrats: times are changing.

By now, Zohran Mamdani needs no introduction -- unless it's to Andrew Cuomo who continues to deliberately mispronounce his name, or to Eric "Turkey Trot" Adams, our current delusional mayor who currently polls at 9%, eight points behind GOP nominee Curtis Sliwa (he of the red beret). Mamdani himself currently polls seven points higher than his Democrat rivals combined.

So what is the official Democrat response to Mamdani's Obama-like popularity here? Hand wringing, of course. As of now, none of the party old guard (emphasis on old) has endorsed him. 

Their worries are threefold. 1) The young guy is a threat to their stranglehold on the party. 2) He's a Socialist Democrat. 3) He'll scare away potential disaffected Trump voters by associating all Democrats with the hammer & sickle.

To address their concerns: 1) That's the point. 2) Vermont keeps re-electing socialist-Democrat Bernie Sanders. 3) That red train has left the station. 

Good luck changing their minds.

Focusing on number three: A recent Gallup poll finds 93% of Republicans approve of the president and his antics. Ninety-three percent! That's one-third of the country. And we're not even including Trump's congressional lapdogs.

To Chuck Schumer, Hakeem Jeffries, Kathy Hochul and the other Democrats who continue to cry We need to get Trump voters on our side, I ask them if they ever read a history book or even remember events during their own lifetimes.

Benito and his babe seeing the world
differently after he loses his base.

Italians didn't execute Benito Mussolini and his sidepiece before hanging them upside down because a fascist-lite candidate from a (non-existing) opposing party ran against him.  Hitler didn't kill himself because German voters wanted to vote for a different Nazi without a funny-looking moustache. 

Let's move on to the U.S.  Lyndon Johnson didn't abstain from running for re-election and Richard Nixon didn't resign from office because they felt shame for their actions. 

Does anybody see a pattern here? Only Trump can defeat Trump. The same goes for his acolytes. 

This is what upsets Republicans.

Mamdani's race, religion, and politics will have nothing to do with how Republicans vote nationwide. Nor will Gavin Newsom's admittedly funny trolling. It's only when GOP policies really start having an effect on them, whether it be regarding their health, tariffs, deregulation, or seeing their employees swept up by masked ICE stormtroopers will they even begin to realize they might be in trouble. 

Say, I've got an idea for the Dem establishment: Support the candidates that excite their voters! I mean, it worked for Obama (after trying to get him to drop out in favor of the utterly unlikeable Hillary Clinton). Meanwhile, they'll just have to accept the fact that they will never get the vote of people like these:

 Somewhere, Bobby Kennedy is looking down at his idiot son and wondering, This is what I got my brains blown out for? 

                                                                   ***********

PAINT IT, BLACK (TRUMP 2025 REMIX)

 

I see a big wall 

and I want it painted black,

To make it really hot 

and turn Latinos back.

I see the Mexicans 

Each time I look outside,

We're going to sweep them up 

and take them for a ride.

I see a line of men 

and they look almost black,

They're taking all our jobs, 

they're going to get the sack.

Democrats will wring their hands 

but will not do anything

G.O.P. is scared of me, 

they treat me like a king.

I look inside myself 

and see my soul is black,

My fans all love that, 

they will never give me flack.

Right until my dying day 

they'll always vote for me.

They'll paint that giant wall 

and do it all for free.

No more will my white land 

go turn a deeper brown

We're going to paint that wall 

and turn them right around.

If I talk tough enough, 

they all will disappear

I'll rule by force and greed, 

fill everyone with fear.

I see a big wall 

and want it painted it black

To make it really hot 

and turn dark people back

I see the Mexicans 

each time I look outside,

We're going to sweep them up 

and take them for a ride.

I want to see it painted, painted it black,

Round them up, send them back.

I wanna see them all

Blotted out from our land.

I wanna see it painted, painted, painted,

Painted black...

                                                 *****************

BREAKING NEWS: 8/22/2025

The FDA advised Walmart customers in a press release not to “eat, sell, or serve certain imported frozen shrimp” from an Indonesian distributor, BMS Foods, due to possible contamination with the radioactive isotope, cesium-137.

"In our defense," a company spokesman said, "anyone who buys shellfish at Walmart is asking for trouble."

Attorneys for Aviva Copaken sued United Airlines, saying that their client Copaken flew three times this year and paid to reserve a window seat. “On each of the three occasions, she was disappointed to discover that her ‘window’ seat did not have a window at all,” the suit said. “She paid between $45.99 and $169.99 to select the ‘window’ seat on each of those flights.”

Company spokesman Harry Lillis said, "This person falls for the 'no window seat' gag three times in a row, and we're the problem?"

In related news, Delta Airlines was also sued for selling windowless "window seats" to passengers.

In response, a Delta spokesman told reporters, "The way our planes have been in accidents lately, you think they'd be grateful not to look out the window."

A new, 8-CD edition of the Beatles Anthology collection has been announced, adding to the seemingly never-ending releases from the band that broke up 55 years ago.

An Apple Records spokesman said, "This is further proof that the magic of the Beatles reaches across generations to find people willing to spend ridiculous amounts of money every time we regurgitate the same stuff with new packaging." 

Hallmark eliminated 30 jobs on Wednesday in an effort to “transition our workforce to meet the needs of the business today.”

In an internal memo, Hallmark CEO Sid Davis told staffers, "On the other hand, this is a wonderful chance to create a whole new line of 'Sorry you lost your job' cards."

New York Mayor Eric Adams was said to be "shocked" when learning that campaign aide Winnie Greco tried three times to give a reporter a potato chip bag filled with cash, claiming it was a "cultural gesture" rather than a bribe. 

Adams said, "I will not stand for anyone in my administration eating potato chips when dried kale is much healthier!"

Rock star Jack White has unleashed a blistering takedown of Donald Trump,
labeling the president a “low life fascist”.

On his Truth Social account, Trump responded with, "I AM NOT A LOW LIFE!"

                                                                                                                                                                                    ****************

DEAD END

 

If anyone has enjoyed my contributions to Next Avenue, I'm sorry to say that the
piece that was just posted will be my final one. Due to the federal cuts to PBS, the site is shutting down in the coming months; they aren't accepting any more freelance pieces until then.  

But hey, at least Elon Musk gets a tax cut, while all the rubes who voted for Trump to "shake up Washington" get to pay more in taxes, as well as losing nearby hospitals, forking out more for meds, and everything else that was obvious to anyone with a half a brain. Meanwhile, I lose my occasional 300 bucks per submission. Yes, all in all a good trade-off. 

Appropriately, the piece concerns aches and pains:

The Human Barometer | Next Avenue

                                                                             *************

THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 56

 The genres are all over the map today -- Western, mystery, horror, and film noir. Each has a twist from the usual movies of their type, making them stand out either for the good or like a sore thumb.

LAW AND ORDER (1932): The year is 1890. Ex-lawman Fame Johnson, his brother Luther, and two sidekicks Ed Brandt and Deadwood, mosey into Tombstone, Arizona, where the residents are terrorized by the crooked sheriff and a gang of cattle rustlers. (Stop me if this is starting to sound vaguely familiar.) Fame is talked into become Tombstone's marshal, a development the galloots don't take kindly to. When Ed Brandt is shot down in the middle of Main Street, Fame and his posse decide it's time to meet up with the bad guys for a gunfight at --

Oh, you know where. Law and Order is a barely fictionalized version of the shootout at the O.K. Corral, with only the date and names changed. This doesn't negate the fact it's a topnotch Western -- high praise from a non-fan of the genre like me -- and, for my money, better than the more highly regarded My Darling Clementine, the 1946 version of the story directed by John Ford. It's about 30 minutes shorter, too, earning it an extra gold star.

I wouldn't be surprised if the star of Clementine, Henry Fonda, studied Huston's performance in Law and Order, as the two are often eerily alike. Of the two, I prefer Huston, one of the great movie actors of his time who doesn't get enough respect these days, and whose stage work didn't prevent him from being wholly natural in the entirely different style of movies. Watch how he makes dimwit killer Andy Devine (younger and thinner than you've ever seen him) feel good about his execution by reminding him that he's the first person to be legally hanged in Tombstone. You'd want to be arrested by a guy like Fame.

All of the supporting actors, especially Harry Carey as Ed Brandt, evoke the Old West more realistically than other studio Westerns of the time. Their clothes are often covered in dirt and dust and grime; they use the same towel to wash their faces and clean their shoes; their eyes reflect the deaths they've witnessed and participated in. Further making it a must-see, Law and Order (written by Walter Huston's 26-year-old son John) was recently restored for a 4K Blu ray, making it look and sound as good as it did nearly a century ago. Maybe better. Like I said, I've never been into Westerns, but Law and Order is one I'll return to more than once in the future. 

BONUS POINTS: The use of Universal's famous crane used in the 1929 musical Broadway, especially during the astonishing climactic shootout. And don't miss skinny Walter Brennan as the guy who sweeps out the local saloon. At age 38, he was toothless even then.

THE GHOST CAMERA (1933):
Good Lord, man, where has this delightful, fast-paced, 64-minute "mystery narrative" from the UK been hiding all my life? With a little tweaking, The Ghost Camera could pass for one of Alfred Hitchcock's early British talkies.

Finding a camera in the back seat of his car, John Gray develops the film hoping to identify the owner. Instead, one of the shots has captured a murder -- a photo which, along with the camera, quickly goes missing. John tracks down a woman in another photo, Mary Elton, whose brother Ernest vanished days earlier with the camera. As John and Mary follow the other photographic clues, they find the scene of the murder just as the police find Ernest. While the evidence is stacked against Ernest, John inadvertently saves the day when finding the real culprit.

If only all British "quota quickies" were as good as The Ghost Camera, starting with the twisty, occasionally risqué script by H. Fowler Mear (there's a British name for you!). I was and continue to be unfamiliar with Henry Kendall, who is memorable as John; he's like the prototype of the young Hugh Grant mixed with Edward Everett Horton. In one of her earliest roles, the nearly unrecognizable pre-Hollywood Ida Lupino is appealing as Mary, who seems to be hiding a very important secret. She's supposed to be 20-ish but, if Lupino's birthdate is correct, was actually 15! Well, people aged faster then, that's for sure.

Along with Lupino, there are a couple of other yet-to-be famous names found here. John Mills plays Ernest as the innocent guy who looks guilty, as when he makes his first entrance into the courtroom, twitching and stumbling like he's already being led to the gallows. The pitch perfect editing in that scene -- and throughout The Ghost Camera -- is the work of future director David Lean. Everyone in fact gives their all to what was intended as just another bottom-of-the-bill picture but today should be considered as an unjustifiably overlooked bit of British cinema.

BONUS POINTS: Upon entering the ruins of a 12th-century castle, a nervous Ida Lupino says the surroundings give her "a case of the jimjams", a phrase I hope to re-enter into everyday conversation.

CRY OF THE WEREWOLF (1944): Universal pretty much had the lycanthropy lore to
itself, first with Werewolf of London and, later, The Wolfman until Columbia got into the game with Cry of the Werewolf.  Columbia made an unexpectedly nice switcheroo by casting a woman, Nina Foch, as the hellish human hound. And in a regrettable example of genetics, Foch's Celeste is a werewolf by birth, courtesy of her late mother. Celeste is determined to rip the throats out of anyone connected to a museum featuring proof of her heritage. Such a loyal child!

Yet Cry of the Werewolf doesn't veer too far from what people were expecting. Celeste is the leader of an Eastern European gypsy "family" which apparently took a wrong turn outside Budapest and wound up in New Orleans. Further confusing things, two of the movie's characters are British, while nobody has a Louisiana accent. It's actually rather surprising that this mishmash doesn't include a Nazi professor trying to breed his own werewolves to unleash in America. Maybe Monogram already tried that gag.

If you recognize Nina Foch, Barton MacLane (as the gruff police lieutenant) may ring a bell as well. If not, you won't recognize anybody in the cast, even if the romantic leads deserve a negative mention. Stephen Crane -- not the guy who wrote Red Bad of Courage -- has the presence of stale popcorn. His onscreen honey, Osa Massen, was probably Columbia's answer to Republic's Vera Hruba Ralston, right to the hard-to-pin-down accent and relentless state of confusion.

Despite my japes, Cry of the Werewolf is ultimately a perfectly watchable B-movie war weary audiences were desperate for to provide any kind of distraction for an hour. Save it for when all you can find on TV is junk -- in other words, any evening.

BONUS POINTS: Washing out of show business after only two more movies, Stephen Crane found his calling by creating the Kon Tiki restaurant chain. Another round of Zombies, Steve!

                                                         

DEUX HOMMES DANS MANHATTAN (1959): Ahh, the comforting pre-credit
sequence of so many '50s noirs: Times Square at night seen through a car's rear window, with the familiar ADMIRAL TELEVISION APPLIANCES neon sign in the background, accompanied by a lonely trumpet wailing like a lost child. Then the title appears: DEUX HOMMES DANS MANHATTAN. Hey, what they hey? A credit reading SCENARIO ADAPTATION ET DIALOGUES? What gives? 

Well, it was inevitable that the country that coined the phrase film noir would give it a go. And the set-up is actually a good one, updated for the geopolitical age. Moreau and Delmas, respectively a French reporter and photographer both stationed in New York, prowl the city one night investigating the disappearance of France's delegate to the United Nations. They track down the married man's known girlfriends but gain little useful information. The French friends are ready to give up until they learn of the attempted suicide of one of the delegate's sidepieces -- an event that takes their investigation to another, unexpected level. And, say, what's the deal with the car that's been tailing them all night?

All the elements are there for a classic noir. The problem with Deux Hommes dans Manhattan lies with writer/director Jean-Pierre Melville (who also plays Moreau). In his attempt to emulate an American movie genre, Melville exaggerates noir style to the point of laughability. Reporters wearing sunglasses in the office. Slutty women spouting "tough" dialogue that's actually inane. An obnoxious trumpet blast every time the mystery car behind them turns on its headlights. It's like a Cordon Bleu-trained chef using all his culinary knowledge to replicate your grandma's simple coffee cake by tripling the amount of ingredients and throwing in some others because they seem right.

Moreau and his costar Pierre Grasset do their best to emulate American anti-heroes, right down to the trench coat, fedora, and world-weary conversations. The French actresses are fine, but their American counterparts -- mon Dieu! Melville must have cast most of them for no other reason other than they worked cheap. It's always nice to see '50s New York in movies, but Deux Hommes dans Manhattan doesn't do it any favors. 

BONUS POINTS: Several location shots are plugged both visually and through dialogue in what appears to be product placement. The Capitol Records recording studio on East 23rd, the Pike Slip Inn, the Oven and Grill Diner, the Ridgewood Rathskeller... all now vanished but preserved in the movie. Well, at least it was good for something.

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