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Since we’re looking at months and months of coronavirus lockdown, I’m figuring I might as well wear a face mask with a sense of style. I’m thinking either (a) Jasper Johns American flag or (b) black with white polka dots.

There are two reasons why I’ve never seen Anthony Mann‘s Raw Deal (’48), and why I’m not all that inclined to see it later today, despite the obviously high-quality cinematography by John Alton.

Reason #1 is that it’s never been a highly rated film — it’s basically regarded as a programmer and nowhere close to the level of Detour or They Live By Night or Gun Crazy. Reason #2 is Dennis O’Keefe, who plays the lead character, Joe Sullivan. O’Keefe was a decent actor but he simply didn’t have the X-factor — one look at the guy and you’re thinking “meh, second banana, doughy-faced, no snap.”

The most striking actors in Raw Deal are Claire Trevor and Raymond Burr.

John Alton‘s lensing achieved a certain elegance, for sure. The author of “Painting With Light” (’49), he believed that “studio lighting must always simulate natural light in texture and direction.” But he mostly shot programmers. Like O’Keefe, he was a respected second-tier guy. He worked steadily in the ’30s,’40s and ’50s (his last significant feature was Richard Brooks‘ Elmer Gantry) but he was a “house” cinematographer and not a name-brander.

When I think of Raw Deal, I think of the teaser-trailer for the 1986 Arnold Schwarzenegger film of the same name. Opening copy crawl: “They gave Schwarzenegger a raw deal. (beat, beat) Nobody gives Schwarzenegger a raw deal.”

Lewis Beale says: “Last night my wife and I watched the 1948 Anthony Mann noir Raw Deal. Solid film, kind of over-heated plot, but what makes it more than worthwhile is the immaculate b&w cinematography by the great John Alton. Every frame of this film could be mounted and put in a museum.”

HE’s most beautiful b&w films (random order): Citizen Kane, Manhattan, The Silence, The Hustler, Out Of The Past, Hud, Cold War, Ida, Odd Man Out, Only Angels Have Wings, The Lighthouse, The Train, Wings of Desire, Schindler’s List, Wild Strawberries, The Best Years of Our Lives, The Grapes of Wrath, Ed Wood, Judgment at Nuremberg, The Big Heat, How Green Was My Valley, Rebecca, Psycho, Notorious, Stardust Memories, The White Ribbon, Hour of the Wolf, Raging Bull, The Elephant Man, Dr. Strangelove.

Others?

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I just can’t fathom why a rich actor would choose to wear a schlubby normcore T-shirt. He could wear the coolest Calvin Klein or John Varvatos three-button T-shirt…some kind of cooler-than-shit creation with a little style, something he bought in Milan or London or at a tag sale in Marin County. What’s the point of looking like some average dude from Worcester or Scotch Plains or Clearwater when you’re Ben fucking Affleck? To what end? To prove to himself that he’s average common too, just like him and the same as you?

I was in this normal-seeming dream, and then it suddenly turned into a nightmare. I was a kind of gladiator in ancient Rome, and yet I was speaking to friends and acquaintances like it was 2020 America. I was dressed like Victor Mature in Demetrius and the Gladiators, and I was at some kind of party and telling people in a no-big-deal sort of way that I would soon go into the arena in a one-on-one against an opponent. The goal, I explained, would be try to hack off my opponent’s arm with my sword, or vice versa.

As the moment approached I was suddenly seized by a horrific realization that this was not just some idle fantasy but something real. I suddenly stopped being Victor Mature and became Woody Allen in Love and Death, whining and moaning in a high-pitched voice about losing my left arm and suffering terrible pain. What was I thinking? I have to get out of there and run for my life. I’m not a trained gladiator. I’ve never fought anyone with a sword and I sure as hell don’t want to cut anyone’s arm off…good God!

Then I woke up. It was 4:20 am. I had suddenly become Jimmy Stewart as he came out of his Carlota Valdez nightmare in Vertigo.

I’m presuming that the arm-hacking is a metaphor for what the coronavirus plague is doing to life in Los Angeles…to life everywhere. To calm myself down I picked up the phone and twitter-surfed for a couple of hours. I finally got back to sleep around 7 am.

In 1966 three major films competed for what was then called the Best Foreign Language Feature Oscar — Claude Lelouch‘s A Man and a Woman**, Milos Forman‘s Loves of a Blonde and Gillo Pontecorvo‘s The Battle of Algiers.

Which is the most admired by today’s standards? Easily The Battle of Algiers followed by Loves of a Blonde. The Lelouch film is an effectively made, slow-burn romantic drama, and a fairly big hit stateside. Which film won? The Lelouch, of course.

“People often complain about undeserving films that won the Best Picture Oscar or deserving films that failed to win it,” a journo pally wrote this morning. “But no one really talks about bad foreign language calls. I didn’t do any research on the matter, but there must be a few.”

The only blatant wrongo that comes to mind is when Roberto Benigni‘s Life Is Beautiful (’98) elbowed aside Walter Salles‘ Central Station (ditto). This happened during the 71st Oscars, which were handed on 3.21.99.

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24 year-old Marilyn Monroe presented the Oscar for Best Sound Recording at the 23rd Academy Awards telecast, which happened at the RKO Pantages theatre on 3.29.51. She had scored with noteworthy supporting performances in 1950’s The Asphalt Jungle and All About Eve, but her big career breakout was two years away. She was generally regarded as a possibly interesting actress, but probably not much more than a sexy flash in the pan.

Notice how intimidated she seems at the podium — eyes down, not a hint of personality or casual humor, read the copy and get off. And poor Thomas T. Moulton, who accepted the Oscar on behalf of All About Eve, didn’t even get to say thank you at center stage. The camera doesn’t even get to see his face. Monroe walks over and hands him the Oscar at stage left, and they’re both gone before you know what’s happened.

From N.Y. Times editorial titled “Profiting from a Pandemic?“. Headline copy: “At least two senators engaged in suspiciously timed stock sales. All stock trades by members of Congress should be barred.”

“Crisis often brings out the best in a people. As the coronavirus spreads its devastation, countless Americans are stepping up to perform acts of heroism and compassion, both great and small, to aid their neighbors and their nation.

“Then there are certain not-so-inspiring members of the United States Senate.

“Richard Burr, Republican of North Carolina, and Kelly Loeffler, Republican of Georgia, are in the hot seat this week, facing questions about whether they misused their positions to shield their personal finances from the economic fallout of the pandemic, even as they misled the public about the severity of the crisis. According to analyses of their disclosure reports filed with the Senate, the lawmakers each unloaded major stock holdings during the same period they were receiving closed-door briefings about the looming pandemic.

“These briefings were occurring when much of the public still had a poor grasp of the virus, in part because President Trump and many Republican officials were still publicly playing down the threat. Instead of raising their voices to prepare Americans for what was to come, Mr. Burr and Ms. Loeffler prioritized their stock portfolios, in a rank betrayal of the public trust — and possibly in violation of the law.”

I’m feeling a bit woozy as I read the latest reports from Italy’s Lombardy region. 627 dead over the last 24. Roughly 500 died on Wednesday. Medical workers can’t keep up. 80something percent of the dead were over 70. Bodies piled high, loaded into military trucks, authorities overwhelmed. More than 4,000 dead so far — more than any other nation — and “nearly 6,000 new infections were confirmed [over] the past day, bringing the total to more than 47,000 cases.”

Excerpt: “Daniela Confalonieri, an Italian nurse in Milan, said the situation was so dire that the dead were no longer being counted. ‘We’re working in a state of very high stress and tension,’ Confalonieri told Reuters. ‘Unfortunately we can’t contain the situation in Lombardy. There’s a high level of contagion and we’re not even counting the dead any more. Look at the news that’s coming out of Italy and take note of what the situation really is like. It’s unimaginable.”

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An apparition standing in grassy weeds on the other side of a river. No words, movement, gestures. Like a mannequin, and in bright sunlight yet. And then she’s gone.

All my life I’ve felt vaguely creeped out by this scene in Jack Clayton‘s The Innocents (’61). Alas, your typical horror fan wouldn’t so much as raise an eyebrow if a director had the nerve (or the foolishness) to insert something like this in a contemporary fright flick.

“Quietly unnerving” lost its currency a long time ago, I’m afraid. I’m not sure it ever had any real currency to begin with. Today’s elevated horror genre (Personal Shopper, Hereditary, A Quiet Place, The Babadook) demands bigger jolts. The only recent films that operated close to this level were Robert Eggers‘ The Lighthouse and The Witch, and even they dealt crazier cards than Clayton did.

The woman in the weeds (i.e., “Miss Jessel”) was played by Clytie Jessop.

There’s also a moment or two with Quint at the window. He was portrayed by Peter Wyngarde, who died two years ago.

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INT. Steven Spielberg‘s post-production office on West Side Story. Spielberg is at his desk, reading a hardbound edition of Dostoyevski’s “The Brothers Karamazov.” A rap-rap on the door. Spielberg looks up — it’s his longtime visual collaborator and West Side Story dp Janusz Kaminski.

Kaminski: Steven?
Spielberg: Janoo!
Kaminski: You good? The assembly looks great!
Spielberg: (gestures) Siddown.
Kaminski: Somethin’ up?
Spielberg: (exhales) I’ve changed my mind about West Side Story looking like a standard Kaminski…desaturated milky colors, shafts of light through windows, all that crap.
Kaminski: No!
Spielberg: Sorry, bruh, but not this time. I want vivid, real-world, life-like colors. I want the dance scene where Tony and Maria meet to have the same red colors that Robert Wise and Daniel Fapp went with.

Kaminski: But we almost always shoot with my faded palette! You agreed to stick with it.
Spielberg: I’ve changed my mind.
Kaminski: But we released an image last summer that had my grayish-beige scheme! You approved it!
Spielberg: It was just a photo. It’s not binding.
Kaminski: Wow.
Spielberg: I’m the director, Janoo.
Kaminski: I feel betrayed.
Spielberg: Adapt or die.
Kaminski: What about the Vanity Fair piece with the new photos? They’re grayish milky. I approved them.
Spielberg: I scrapped them. The Vanity Fair photos reflect the new approach.
Kaminski: Have you at least told Anthony Breznican about this?
Spielberg: I’m not making a big deal about it. Breznican doesn’t write for American Cinematographer. He probably won’t even notice the difference.

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It’s been years since I stood next to an adult Hereford steer as he took care of business. I’ll leave it at that. It’s called “getting out of your element.”