52 Pick-Up-John Frankenheimer

Elmore Leonard is one of the more underrated authors that I rarely hear people talking about when referencing those who hold a supreme amount of reverence. To date, I have only read one novel of his, Rum Punch, which would find itself in celluloid form under the title Jackie Brown. I have a few other titles of his, but, due to tides of literacy guiding me in a more non-fiction direction this year, I have yet to crack another of his novels. 52 Pick Up is the second adaptation of Elmore Leonard's novel that was released in 1974, the first being The Ambassador, which I have yet to see. This adaptation, with the screenplay written by Elmore himself, was a rather strange odyssey through many twisted paths of an underworld labyrinth where the walls are constructed in sleaze and fortified with greed. Rum Punch, as a novel, I strode through with ease. Tarantino's adaptation, though, was rather arduous to follow at times but was ultimately very enjoyable. This is mainly because of two hallmarks of style, in which manic pacing is the steez, coalesced, to demand that the viewer keep up or get left behind. In 52 Pick Up, where a small hooded gang blackmails a construction magnate for regular payments of ransom money or else they would release a videotape of his affair and completely disgrace his public image, I found the methods and interactions to be a little far-fetched, by both the criminals and the victim. The elements just didn't add up for me. The pre-requisite of sociopathic tendencies to engage in extortion and murder for money, the natural collapse of criminal circles due to mistrust, greed, power-punch executions, immunity to trauma-inducing episodes, criminal anxiety, and cat and mouse evasions were all there (and performed very well I might add). John Glover as the avarice-drunken ringleader, Clarence Thomas III as the crews stone-cold-blooded torpedo, and Robert Trebor as the shook underling way in over his head—were all terrific, and, so far as I am concerned, were aces in their places and Roy Scheider and Ann Margaret were as great as ever. So no complaints on my end in regards to casting. It was the interactions and the results that left a sour taste on my cinematic palate when it came to the meat of the story. Number one, unless you're in a well-established criminal enterprise like La Cosa Nostra, long-term extortion, as is this crew's goal, is too far-fetched. Hoods, as disorganized as this crew of flunkies was, all carry the common ailment of being short-sighted and do low-level hijacks like liquor store hold-ups and home invasions for temporary monetary gain until they are either shot or caught. This is too brazen of an act for such a low-level crew to be believable, as is seen in the proceeding party scene where the bricks of mistrust are already being mortared. Number two, if they are asked by the audience to be believed as an upper-echelon band of thieves, then they wouldn't have been so easily manipulated by their victim. They had the heartless means to be able to squeeze Harry Mitchell into a subservient cash machine, but rather than enact upon this matter, they allowed him to play each other into a hall of mirrors where each reflection staring back at themselves was an image of mistrust. When you have no qualms about dipping into sadist behavior, then you play that card without hesitation. This can be seen executed with amazing brilliance by characters like Anton Chigur in No Country For Old Men, Neil McCauley in Heat, and Robert Shaw in The Taking of Pelham One Two Three. Criminals communicate in the most baseless of lexicons and know no other language besides force and violence. So I found it hard to believe that Alan Raimy would sit down and go through Harry's financial records and then buy the fact that he wasn't worth what they believed him to be. No. When a mark tells you they don't have the money, real criminals know that, in order to make them get it, you simply crank up the temperature. "Managers know better than to fuck around, so if you get one that's giving you static, he probably thinks he's a real cowboy, so you gotta break that son of a bitch in two. If you wanna know something and he won't tell you, cut off one of his fingers. The little one. Then tell him his thumb's next. After that he'll tell you if he wears ladies underwear."-Mr. White. I rest my case. From this point going forward I just found the inter-crew deceptions and dueling cat-and-mouse games completely unbelievable. Nobody would wander into someone's house (twice) absent of any legal or lasting physical ramifications. No criminal who is strengthened up to be the maniac cowboy, able to sniff out a mutiny before it is ever enacted, would have fallen in demise to Raimy's obvious setup. And if a ringleader of superior intelligence like Alan Raimy could orchestrate such intricate traps for his prey, he wouldn't have been so easily duped as to succumb to a car bomb. A decent attempt at '80s neo-noir, good casting, and great acting. But in my opinion, too much asking in the realm of verisimilitude for the price to be paid with a watch. Stars: **1/2

Verdict: Skip

Cousins: Cop, One False Move, Reservoir Dogs, The Treasure of Sierra Madre, Jackie Brown