Across the Pacific

A career soldier in possession of rank is kicked out of the American military, he attempts to enlist with the Canadian Forces, but word of his disgrace has travelled quickly (Humphrey Bogart as Rick Leland).

With nothing to do, and no local armed forces to fight for, he boards a ship heading west, hoping to serve a country oversees with resigned mercenary indifference.

With time on his hands, aboard the ship in question, he relaxes with some of the guests, meeting an adventurous maiden from Medicine Hat (Mary Astor as Alberta Marlow), and a bored professor who lives in the Philippines (Sydney Greenstreet as Dr. H.F.G. Lorenz). 

He soon discovers work is available although it's somewhat treacherous and controversial, but if he's willing to supply Lorenz with information he may have found a lucrative track.

The ship stops in New York, in Panama, where it's refused passage along the canal, stuck with nowhere to go unattached he's forced to make a critical decision. 

But does he betray the Allies and sign-up for colonial aggression?

Or will he remember his Native soil and dreams forged with less bellicose intrigue?

I'm so used to seeing John Huston films thoroughly unconcerned with the master narrative, taking place far underground with enticing nondescript wicked levity.

That it was strange to view Across the Pacific and see something much more patriotic, rah-rah, or at least directly concerned with world events of an imposing and nationalistic tenure.

We have a traditional troubled wayward confused embroiled protagonist, confidently navigating ineffable obscurity with courageous inspiring hapless tenacity.

But there's a secret, he may be unorthodox but he isn't out on his own, although his position is still rather tenuous reputed suspicions notwithstanding.

Perhaps Mr. Huston briefly flirted with a more traditional Hollywood career, and considered making standard films to cash in on predetermined trajectories.

But Across the Pacific's so over the top in the final moments that it seems like Huston's critiquing himself, going the extra yard to prove his ironic mettle even if he couldn't really care less.

Not about the subject matter, the mainstream story itself perhaps didn't generate alarm.

But about working within the ornate system.

The most peculiar John Huston film I've seen.

*According to the IMDB Vincent Sherman directed the final scenes. Perhaps Huston refused to do it. Bizarro either way. 

Key Largo

 *Spoiler alert.

An idyllic break far off in southern Florida, with fish to catch and an ocean to sit by things seem like they couldn't be better.

The bar is stocked, his hosts eager to see him, for he brings sought after news (Humphrey Bogart as Frank McCloud), of a son and a husband's final days in combat, they can rest easy, peace reassured. 

The hotel they've owned for quite some time has several additional guests, however, who have paid handsomely to be left alone and are none too fond of visitors.

Initial contact is rather abrupt the antagonism slowly but surely increasing, it's readily apparent that something disquieting has callously called and rascally roosted.

They were just hoping to quietly reside while they made their lucrative deal, having left the bright lights behind and travelled there by boat.

A hurricane approaches and the law keeps stopping by, in search of two escaped convicts who may be innocent of any crime.

Those visiting, those renting, those fleeing, those having lived there for many a year (Lauren Bacall as Nora Temple and Lionel Barrymore as James Temple), find themselves at the mercy of concurrent clashes socioculturally and torrentially bound.

The menace invariably metastasizes as Johnny Rocco (Edward G. Robinson) malevolently emerges, with enough time to exchange bits and pieces of fascinating troubled grandiose discord.

McCloud courageously counters with peaceful dreams inspired by World War II victory, Rocco testing his mettle forthwith, there's little McCloud can do in the foreboding fray.

Key Largo may be somewhat too blunt for fans of The Maltese Falcon, as the bellicose lack of subterfuge leaves little room for mystery.

If searching for frank exclamations boldly jettisoned with antiquated daring, Largo may prove rather sporting, nevertheless, if not too headstrong or overpowering.

Still saturated with humble belief multilaterally composed, competing psychological imaginations excavated from the same cultural bedrock.

A chaotic lament for guiltless freedom still wildly critiquing ethics duty bound, as dreams of a world reborn come to terms with extant realities.

Indigenous characters suffer in the background for they can't enter during the storm, and two of them are shot having done no wrong having taken refuge in a reputed sanctuary.

Duty does win out in the end and bucolic romance is bravely restored.

Not without having been assailed.

Competing beliefs, convergent ideologies. 

Under the Volcano

Lost in lounging Kazonned bitterness maladroitly grossly soaked through.

Cajoled intransigent declamatory renown, submerged and settled ripe repository.

Embellished cranky lewd itinerant coy romantic tidal yearning, grim gargantuan grouchy gurgle disembodied unconcern.

Rugged rapids constant thirst evasive rapt recourse insatiable, lucid rash unshorn ebullient wayward raucous exhibition.

Clad austere informative upbeat plaid imposed distraught decorum, quartered diplomatic engagements prim and proper pristine palate.

Abandoned perhaps misplaced paradigmatic imperilled logistics, rhapsodic infidelity satchels sordid crazed acknowledgement. 

Portly purpose in/animate poise discordant rest imbibed resuscitation, fate forlorn contaminant drawn spruced emboldened consummate elixir.

What a performance a ride a calling a cataclysmic egad catastrophe, tragic melancholic brinkspersonship, some of the best acting I've ever seen (Albert Finney as Geoffrey Firmin).

The question of sobriety remains unanswered cloaked in marigold misapprehension, like lathered erudite haze sorely spread in enigmatic disjunction.

Woeful discourse, sincere regret, sheer limitless august mourning, blended with reprieve albeit slightly as his cherished wife (Jacqueline Bisset as Yvonne Firmin) returns.

Yvonne once proceeded freely and then caught his wandering eye, the noble falling for the ingenue who knew nothing of his cozy cluster.

Which was forgotten some time ago in periodic stifled remonstrance, and replaced with unchecked revelling sold surpassing primordial bounds. 

Moments of rich endearing tenderness and bold adventurous distraction attempt to alter his rash behaviour with delicate daring calm.

But he can't forget the affair and proceeds with reckless frank credulity.

Like a comet that's lost its light.

Constellated swath exasper.