Yeah. You gotta see this film. No, I mean like you gotta. Like now. So go do it, alright? Or else we got nothing', talk about.
Yeah, OK, I know, ain't the greatest film going', far from it, fact.
But hey, you like them late 60's - early 70's Land Arks they called cars? Everybody does, right? I know I do. Most my buddies do, too. I drove 'em. And you did, too. Huge Chryslers with massive Big-Block 383's with 'Purple Cams'. Awesome Plymouths rigged out with 440 Interceptors, headers, and dead quiet Imperial Mufflers that could stomp any one these dreary green electro-turkeys what they drive today.
These cars were big, fast, mean, and required a state the size, Idaho, there, pull a '180 at speed but so what? They were long, comfy, and powerful because they weren't smog motor dogs like them late 70s - early 80s rats, were they? Nor did cars in "Report to the Commissioner" need computer geek tricks to get out of their own way, the way these 'hybrids' that resemble elephant suppositories do today, right? They'd kick the snot out of any four-cylinder phony what thought he was hot stuff, couldn't they? That's why you see 'em, this film, isn't it? You know it.
And, hey, you like Industrial Archaeology? Is Urban Exploration your secret passion? You get off, spooking around inside boarded-up factories, power plants, and nut houses? Then you gonna dig this film. Why? Because it was shot during the depressed 70s when Manhattan hit the skids that them Coward-Piven commies greased up for them, special.
Decrevalent old buildings with bricks in need of pointing and windows that cried out for glazing were crowned by wooden water tanks that seeped rusty ooze, across whose roofs cops shot it out with thugs.
Junkies abounded. They drooled. They yammered. They accosted citizens who took out their aggressions on double-amputees who scurried about on roller-creepers. This in turn whelped to an entire genre of ghoulish Gahan Wilson cartoons.
Yaphet Kotto, the son of a Crown Prince of Cameroon - don't take my word for it, go look it up on this site, already, what, I got to do your homework too, crying out loud? - commands this film in which a young Michael Moriarity plays the reluctant detective.
And the Precinct House? Oh, you're one these kids, here, thinks 'The Job' is about cops who dress up in sexy leotards, whisper at one another in sterile luxury CSI suites while computers solve their cases?
Yeah. Well, think again. Wake up, smell the Kerosene, there, Poochie.
Real Precinct houses stunk like B.O., cigar smoke, junkie-sweat, cordite, and stuff ya can't write about here - use your imagination, if video games haven't erased it by now. Cops typed reports on ancient clattering Underwoods, using two fingers to do so, as arrestees who stunk like Hoagies bounced around inside cages next, the cops' desks, and caterwauled like moonstruck werewolves.
Dispatchers called cops on real VHF and UHF analog radios, not today's commie-punk '800 megahertz trunked digital' kluges that crash every time some Park Avenue socialite passes gas in the drawing room. From where I lived, Point Judith, Rhode Island, you could hear NYPD calls two hundred miles away. How'd I do that? 'cause my friend John S_____. up the road, Wakefield, was doin' it since Joseph Petrosino walked a beat that's how, and he showed me. You got any more questions?
Yeah. You gotta see this film. After readin' this, I think you maybe now understan' a little better how come, right? Am I right?
Paul Vincent Zecchino
Manasota Key, Florida
08 November, 2009
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