Brute Cojones

Anthony Quinn had been an overly familiar figure for a long time by the time I came to know his face, and it is an insult that he was cast for Zorba the Greek, whatever argument you want to feed me about bankability, or whether or not he passes for Mediterranean, with Spanish blood running in his veins. Man from Del Rio translates as follows: peasants want the good life just like anyone else. It is an early version of his mentally disabled boxer in Requiem, except that in Rio he is allowed his heritage, and sexually kept in his caste, learning lessons about the battle scars of dueling contests. The dowager is not quite sold on Quinn who taught himself how to be a gunfighter who escapes the vortex of destruction, but when you look at his casting, it may make you wonder: he played a founding Arabic tribal leader (against O'Toole), a fascist, a CIA administrator, various godfathers, the scapegoat Colonel in Lost Command, and exactly who-the fuck buys Quinn as a hardened French officer who prevailed over the Vietnamese?

It is a business, I know, but it doesn't mean I am to be denied the pleasure of a certain degree of annoyance. I also hated him as the mayor of Axis collapsed Italy after Mussolini, not that he didn't fit the role. Zingaretti might have given Quinn a blood transfusion during the older actor's end of life respiratory failure. Where is the substance in celebrity? Why is the Screen Actors and Screen Writers Guild so powerful? And why do I enjoy an abstract straight to syndication thriller like The Marseille Contract of 74? I like this transitional movie for its veracity in the realization that scores need to be settled outside of legal frameworks. Quinn and Caine are intermediary figures here, certainly not the black irony of Hannibal Lector, for this is Jeffrey Dahmer territory, now an inside joke on HuffPost Live, our relationship to the worst aspects of our own predation (why not feed people like Dahmer to lions?)

The Marseille Contract is mostly chic brutality-- not entirely-- Quinn is now the old man who is supposed to diddle his dick under a desk--and there is actually a transference. The star on the rise, as represented by Michael Caine, nothing special in his Cockney blood, but Hollywood now controls who exactly is a pedigree, transfers to Quinn's Old Bull a sense of how to be cool, with the requisite distance to drop James Mason like a rack of seasoned ribs to be smoked. Violence is an argument, despite my predicament, my scars inflicted from it, and my likely probability of collapsing under pressure to it, in its fatalistic, reverberating consequences. How Presby has treated me is also a force of argument. A simple eviction notice is more straightforward, hence what do these HUD protections amount to? Look at how fearful I am of their next move, how much pressure I'm putting on myself to say I want no more.

This isn't about housekeeping. I never denied I need assistance, but a Medicaid paraprofessional and a good domestic aren't one and the same. There may be more about Del Rio later. It is a marque role for a player already seasoned by 58.