Word: bronsonism
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...look a little passive," says Speed, promoter of street fights, peering at Chaney, who wants a job. It is the understatement of the century, for Chaney is Charles Bronson. Charles Bronson-the great squinched stone face himself, who looks like a push-up. The most popular actor in the world, and possibly the worst. We shake our heads at the French for liking him so much, along with Clint Eastwood, and Weudstoc (Woodstock), and the worst type of American AM music. A real hack...
...runs across his eyes at the beginning of the film. You aren't quite sure you've seen it, this tiny dilation, but in the first few moments, when a train whistle moans rudely from behind a curve of track in southern flatland and moves into view, a shabby Bronson leaning from the boxcar wearing a cap scrunched down...these few moments of Bronson, and the rustle in his expression when the train rolls by two wastrel children, the change in his eyes not greeting, or even acknowledgement, but only a quick passing of body heat...are some...
...fitting suits and anxious Depression faces crowded around the bare floor that serves as a ring. The bets are in, the bruisers battle: it's no holds barred-kicking, hair-pulling, and annihilating past the point of all reason; just don't kick a man when he's down. Bronson watches from a distance and there is no sign, no glimmer of what he thinks or feels...
Afterwards he appears from nowhere. The promoter, Speed (James Coburn) turns around and there he is across the table. The next day Bronson shows his stuff-one punch and the fight is over. Speed has got a partner, a real winner, and he's thrilled and jabbering. They split the cash and take the train to New Orleans, Bronson silent. "Any more questions?" he always asks. At the station he just leaves; he wants to check out the town. Not to worry, Speed, Bronson will find you when he needs the dough. He does, and the movie unfolds, Bronson...
WAIT A MINUTE. Charles Bronson? My friends and I used to go to Charles Bronson movies, every one, in bouts of cynicism when rejecting the most oppressive and sick manifestations of mainstream American culture carried too many bad associations with it and became too tiring to handle. A hippie backlash. It seemed like the only thing to do was tank up and join the fray. Bronson was surely one of the heavies: his chunk figure was the perfect vehicle for the fascist, amoral tactics he used to smash rival crooks, fight mercenary struggles, snare women by ignoring them. It wasn...