Is Across the Bridge a Great Movie? Beats Me

I’m not sure if Across the Bridge is a great movie. I’m pretty sure it’s not. It might just be a good movie, not a great one. Then again, maybe it’s a so-so movie, and I haven’t noticed it. In any case, it’s a great story, I tell you what. Crackling tale. Sometimes that’s enough.

It’s a British production from 1957. Most reviewers would tell you it’s in glorious black and white, or luminous black and white, or gorgeous black and white, or something similar. I’m sure the producer would tell you the same thing he told the director: It’s in inexpensive black and white. Simple storytelling doesn’t really need color anyway. Why pay for it?

If it’s in black and white, and it’s got a crime in it, many would call it film noir. It’s got plenty of crimes in it, committed by all sorts of people, and it’s in black and white, but there’s barely a hint of noir in it. It’s a British production, so they didn’t call movies that anyway. Brits would have called it a Crime Drama, or something similar.

Film Noir is of course a French term, but the style really didn’t originate there. It got a workout in Hollywood for nearly 20 years. They used the dearth of light and the ton of dark in the movies to add suspense, or a feeling of danger. In a way, the shadows themselves became characters in the movies.

That’s good, because a lot of noir films were pretty bad, and the characters weren’t very interesting. They needed the assist that moping around in the dark added to their mystique. With the lights on, you might notice Alan Ladd was only four feet tall, for instance.

Across the Bridge isn’t like that. Rod Steiger plays Carl Shaffner, a wealthy, abrasive jerk, who made his money the old fashioned way: Two sets of books. For some reason or another, Steiger plays him with a German accent. I guess in 1957 England, that was enough to identify villainy to the audience. Or maybe Steiger couldn’t be relied upon to sound British to a British audience, and they didn’t want him to sound American.

The original (short) story is by Graham Greene, who is a very sneaky writer. If you’ve ever read any of his books, they wander along, simply telling you what happened, and then every once in a while, the lull is broken by some memorable turn of phrase, or a trenchant insight into the human condition. There’s a reason fireworks always look best after dark. Another Graham Greene story that is more closely aligned with American noir sensibilities is The Third Man. Got a femme fatale and everything.

Across the Bridge is no The Third Man. It’s smaller in scope, although it travels from London to New York to Mexico. Greene was very familiar with Mexico, having lived there for a time, and his greatest work, probably, was The Power and the Glory about the Cristero War in Mexico. Of course being a British production, London was London, New York was London with some cardboard skyscrapers outside the set’s windows, and Mexico was Spain, because the airfare was cheaper.

The director was Ken Annakin. Workmanlike director. He had none of the moviemaking dazzle in his haversack that someone like Carol Reed brought to The Third Man. Extreme closeups and the occasional Dutch Angle were about it. Annakin was well-liked and hard working. His filmography could be labeled “value for money,” including one movie actually called Value for Money. He worked for Disney, who was definitely a value for money kinda guy. He never hired hacks, but no one got rich working for Mauswitz, except Walt. Annakin did Swiss Family Robinson for Disney in 1960. It was a big hit, and made a pile of money. It’s one of those movies the people who run the studio apologize for now, because the Asian pirates aren’t the heroes. Ho hum.

Across the Bridge has an expanded plot compared to the short story (duh), which includes more of a backstory for the main character. There is a fascinating byplay between the ostensible villain, played by Steiger, a Scotland Yard man sent to fetch him from Mexico, played by Bernard Lee, and the Mexican police chief, played superbly by Noel Willman. Both policemen are like the married man who is propositioned by a particularly fetching prostitute. He protests, “I’m happily married, and I don’t fool around. I will, however, hold still while you do.”

There are many reversals in the plot, but none of them feel forced. It’s interesting to note that every single person in the movie, more or less except one, is behaving badly the whole time. They are all trying to get what they want, no matter how sleazy or corrupt the methods they have to stoop to to get it. Everyone’s connivances come a cropper when the worst of them performs what is no doubt the only decent thing he’s ever done in his whole life, and wrecks it for everyone.

So I’m not sure if I can tell you that Across the Bridge is a great movie. I can report we watch it about once a year. We enjoy watching desperate people doing desperate things, while a bunch of people who think they’re honest forget what honesty is. We might watch it to see Dolores, the abused pooch with the sad eyes, as she teaches the human race a little lesson.

I’ll leave it to you to tell me if it’s any good. I guess it can’t be great, because instead of pasting a clip from the movie here, I’ll just paste the whole thing. If it was great, someone would still be trying to make a buck off it.

 

We’re All Buster Keaton Now

Chaplin (1992) is an underrated movie. The producers lost their lobster thermidor-stained shirts on it when it bombed. Boo hoo. Robert Downey made a creditable stab at impersonating a person who was familiar to nearly everyone on the planet. Charlie Chaplin moved into that layer of the icon stratosphere where only entertainment sputniks and celebrity telstars whiz by. It must be hard to portray someone rocketing around the Van Allen belt (and suspenders) of celebrity while your name recognition is still flying at 30,000 feet.

Whatever its flaws, the movie was (is) a great encapsulation of a time and place. Movies that accomplish that reward occasional rewatching. I got to thinking the other day about Douglas Fairbanks Jr. (Kevin Kline) opining on the coming of talkies to the cinema, and what it might mean to guys like him and Chaplin. They put on greasepaint with a roller and brush, made big gestures, and relied on intertitles to deliver any dialogue.

In that scene, it’s just dawning on Fairbanks. He fears his party’s over. Chaplin poo-poos the idea. He is marinated in the milieu of the mime, and treated talkies like an internal organ someone was trying to insert in him while he was sleeping. He didn’t think he needed a second appendix full of words, and assumed his body (of work) could simply reject it.

It occurred to me that this kind of societal shift is exactly what’s happening with Chad, i.e.: Artificial Intelligence chatbots. The legions of people who have survived, and sometimes thrived in the nooks and crannies of the online world, are poo-pooing Chad in the same way Chaplin downplayed the coming of talkies. They talk endlessly online about the “slop” that Chad is gonna generate forevermore.

Merriam-Webster names ‘slop’ the word of the year

AI’s impact on our social media feeds has not gone unnoticed by one of America’s top dictionaries. Amidst the onslaught of content that has swept the web over the past 12 months, Merriam-Webster announced Sunday that its word of the year for 2025 is “slop.”

The dictionary defines the term as “digital content of low quality that is produced usually in quantity by means of artificial intelligence.”

If you’re a low-level code monkey, or a copywriter, or any number of other textual, image, and moving picture drones, you’re whistling past the graveyard if you think Chad ain’t coming for you. Well, it’s coming for your job, anyway. It doesn’t care about you. It doesn’t care about anything. You’re not being attacked. You’re being displaced. Disappeared. It’s a shame, really. If you were really being assaulted, you could gin up a GoFundMe page and get a few dollars for your troubles. It’s hard to get the same sympathy when you’re being replaced by a Dell Optiplex on steroids. No one cares much, because they’re adapting themselves to the new reality, and you aren’t. It’s easier when it’s not your ox that’s being gored.

You see, it’s a certain type of intellectual that’s getting their ricebowl broken. They know a little javascript, or how to write an SEO-optimized 750-word piece of drivel, or photoshop the background out of a thumbnail image of a cute top for a Shopify store, or maybe look up some arcane webhosting approach on Stack Overflow. It was on their resume for some reason when they got hired, so their boss expected them to fix it, but they didn’t know how. Chad knows how.

Many of them will stamp their feet, and leave drunken Reddit comments at 2 AM about AI slop until their phones run out of charge. It’s hard to charge anything inside a van down by the river. But no matter how they complain, Chad is not going away. There is a fundamental reconfiguration of cultural and technical production going on, and who’s gonna matter from now on. The people complaining about AI slop want you to shed a tear for them, but they didn’t give a shiny shite about all the people they helped wipe out by leveraging the internet and cellphones into a living while the oldsters complained.

I got to wondering if anyone else was getting the same vibe, that a big shift is happening right in front of us, a disquieting, amorphous wave that you can either swim in or drown under, take your pick. I discovered Jean Baudrillard. Never hear of him before. I doubt I’ll hear of him much going forward. Been dead for 18 years. He was a sociologist, or philosopher, or some similar kind of big thinker. He was interested in hyperreality. Really interested in it, I gather, because he made up the term.

Hyperreality is a concept in post-structuralism that refers to the process of the evolution of notions of reality, leading to a cultural state of confusion between signs and symbols invented to stand in for reality, and direct perceptions of consensus reality. Hyperreality is seen as a condition in which, because of the compression of perceptions of reality in culture and media, what is generally regarded as real and what is understood as fiction are seamlessly blended together in experiences so that there is no longer any clear distinction between where one ends and the other begins.

So instead of droning on and on, like I do, Jean summed it up pithily:

“Intellectuals are doomed to disappear when artificial intelligence bursts on the scene, just as the heroes of silent cinema disappeared with the coming of the talkies. We are all Buster Keatons.”
Jean Baudrillard (Cool Memories II, 1987-1990)

So Jean’s better at it than I am. He understood artificial intelligence before there was such a thing. But I’ve outlasted him, and can check up on his supposition. I’m still desolating the internet and various restaurant menus. I’m in a better position to judge what happens when “…what is generally regarded as real and what is understood as fiction are seamlessly blended together in experiences so that there is no longer any clear distinction between where one ends and the other begins.”

Where one ends and where one begins? I look at it the other way around. It begins with slop, and it’s going to end in tears.

The Genie of Everything

When you ask “Chad” (as we refer to Chat GPT, or any LLM) to make an image, a video, or write you a story or something, this video is a great approximation of what’s happening behind the curtain. Kutiman had LLMs figured out 16 years ago, although LLMs didn’t exist back then, and he had no inkling what was coming down the pike. Then again, it doesn’t matter why someone is right. There are no style points in right/wrong questions. Kutiman took bits and pieces of the internet, and made something transformational out of them.

There have been plenty of lawsuits filed against LLM outfits over copyright and trademark infringements. They’re all losers, at least to date. Don’t be misled by a ginormous settlement by Facebook for $1.5 billion or so, paid to a gaggle of authors.  That really wasn’t a lawsuit based on LLMs scraping the internet and re-using what they found in amalgamated forms. Facebook got caught using libraries of pirated books to train their bots, so they lost the case. Legally accessible stuff has never gotten a plaintiff a copyright win against any Chad that I know of, probably won’t ever, and shouldn’t, at least in today’s legal landscape.

The Fair Use Doctrine comes into play here.  Fair Use is a legal principle in U.S. copyright law. It allows people to use copyrighted material without permission in certain situations — typically for purposes like criticism, commentary, news reporting, scholarship, or research. It’s easier to skate on Fair Use if you’re futzing around with factual stuff, and/or the output is educational. Using only modest amounts of any particular pillaged work helps. If the final product isn’t likely to harm the value of the original work, you’re probably golden. But the key detail is that the output has to be transformative.

So what qualifies as transformative, you might ask? Well, I am not a law talking guy, so I’ll keep it as simple as I am. If you transmogrify the original work to say or do something new, add commentary, change its purpose, or make art out of the artless mess you found, you’ve transformed it. You’re probably in the clear, legally. Although if Disney sues you, being technically correct is no longer the best kind of correct. The kind of correct with 400 lawyers on speed dial is the best kind of correct these days. Remember, the courts can stay irrational longer than you can stay solvent. Facebook found that billion-and-a-half in their couch cushions. I doubt you can pull off that trick.

Regular humans don’t produce anything artistic or intellectual in a vacuum. People are just like LLMs. Everyone is magpie for information their whole life long. You might get your information in the library, or by watching Two Broke Girls, but whatever you know, someone else has already known it, unless you’re John Von Neumann, and he’s dead. Or maybe Tarzan. But even he picked up stuff from the apes, including fleas. Everyone spends their whole life integrating disparate, already experienced things into their daily activities. Intellectual work is no different than shoveling the driveway. You don’t invent a shovel before putting on your mukluks and heading out. And all your curses have been uttered before, believe me. By me for certain, and probably by several other people who slipped on the ice.

So now LLMs can synthesize all sorts of inputs and produce all kinds of output much faster than homo sapiens, or whatever species they hire to write the New York Times. I really can’t keep up with the pace of it. Here’s a video produced with a suite of AI tools from about five months ago:

There’s a heaping helping of uncanny valley in there, but the days of putting 13 fingers on two left hands is pretty much over. Homages, riffs, and little bits of ephemera are giving way to full-blown productions. That was inevitable. It’s a cinematic Rubicon, the same sort of paradigm shift that self-publishing books produced. I never would have been able to publish a book unless I could pull the self-publishing end-around on nineteen women named Heather at Simon & Scribner Random Penguinstein and Co., all chanting Boxwine Über Alles while typing my rejection letters. And, no, “the end-around” is not a euphemism, although it has plenty of potential.

Just a month after that last one, someone else posted a short Sci-Fi film that looks miles more detailed:

LYRA is a haunting, beautiful glimpse into a future where humanity is gone, and a lone robot walks the Earth. Prompted and produced by Top Notch Cinema, this 3-minute cinematic short was created using a suite of cutting-edge AI tools including MidJourney, SeedDance, 11Labs, Adobe Firefly, and Kling. This film explores themes of identity, memory, and what remains when everything else is gone. As AI tools evolve, we’re just beginning to see how creators will harness this power to tell deeper, more meaningful stories. This is just one example of what’s possible.

If you’re one of the nice folks hoping that any obvious synthetic qualities of AI-generated video and audio will eventually turn people off, maybe you should review the way the music industry adopted pitch-correction software to make singers out of mumblers. Pitch correction was designed to be undetectable, a Lilliputian fraud on the audience, but it took about fifteen seconds for the talent-challenged to turn it up to eleven, where the effect became obvious.

That example was from 27 years ago, by the way. Everything on pop stations has that robotic twang now. People prefer it, I guess. I think it’s like eating Hamburger Helper without the hamburger, but facts is facts.

Back to the videos. Of course 99% of AI video things are bound to be science fiction, or sparkly vampire bodice rippers. The people who produce them are the biggest consumers of the genres. They are bound to get high on their own supply. But they’re going to have a hell of a time trying to “tell deeper, more meaningful stories,” when they’ve never read one, never mind told one.

It’s a Director’s Cut generation. They will watch endless hours of “cinematic universes” filled with creatures named Glorp or Flapdiddle wandering the actual universe in search of new galaxies and a plot. I have no idea how many version of Star Wars are out there, but at this point I imagine you’re watching droids doing their laundry and defrosting their refrigerators.  Hell, even the original Star Wars barely had a plot.

That what Kutiman brought to the table, and why his thang was different than most. He was the first true prompt engineer. Each of the videos in his concatenation was A Thing on its own. He gathered them up, painstakingly I’m sure, because finding particular stuff on the internet sixteen years ago was no picnic. Then he used his own artistic and comedic sense to make something more entertaining than the sum of its parts. His work was transformative. It was His Thing.

Where’s it all going? Probably nowhere very satisfying. The amalgamated output of pablum is more pablum. Good writing is not to be found very often on the internet, or even on the best seller list. You certainly won’t discover its secrets on things like the Hemingway app. And I hate to break it to you, if you need that thing, you’ll never be a good writer.

So Chad is getting really powerful. I know it reads some good writing, because its bots beat the hell out of this website, for instance. But it has no idea what to make of it, and neither do internauts using various Chads to make videos. I explained it to Chad a long time ago, but he didn’t listen. Neither did anyone else:

Granpa told me all about the genie in the lamp.

It’s the oldest story ever and came from the land of the sand and the women with only eyes. It’s in there, the genie of everything, but you have to find him and let him out. Then he’s out and you have to figure what to do with him. Granpa says he’s wonderful but as dumb as a stump, just like all of us. He can do anything but doesn’t know what to do. He needs guidin’.  — A Thousand and One

Take that, Kutiman. I wrote that one 18 years ago.

The Ultimate Five-Chord Band

Yikes. This record is nearly twenty years old. Funny how time slips away.

Every decade for thirty years, Donald Fagen released a bit of a masterpiece. First, The Nightfly in 1982, Kamakiriad in 1993, and Morph the Cat in 2006. The H Gang swings, don’t it? And it’s a wonderful little flash fiction story.

Those three records form a trilogy. They’re a life’s work, in a way. The Nightfly is about being young and full of beans. Kamakiriad is about being midde-aged. Morph the Cat is about getting older and staring death in the face. There’s a song on Morph called “Brite Nightgown”, for instance. It’s about brushes with death, at least as far as anything Fagen writes is directly about anything.

What a marvelous magpie Fagen is. Picks up all sorts of odds and ends wherever he finds them. “The man in the bright nightgown” is an expression coined by W.C. Fields, of all people, to refer to the Grim Reaper. Donald has a Bachelor of Arts in English literature from Bard College, but you don’t learn stuff like that in school.

I remember that the expression was used to great effect in a superb movie about a play, or a play about a play, or a movie about a play that never becomes a play, or some such thing, you figure it out for yourself, called Barrymore.

What do you do when you’ve already done everything? Beats me. It’s apparently no fun waiting around for the man in the bright nightgown, though.

And When It Rains, the Rain Falls Down

We re-watched Dog Day Afternoon the other day. I don’t want to talk about the movie. I want to talk about the opening credits.

The movie came out in 1975. It’s depicting a real robbery that happened in 1972. The opening credits use an Elton John song released in 1970. If it’s not the most effective use of music in opening credits in a movie, it’s got to be close to the top. I’ll explain.

No one goes to the movies anymore, really. People still did in 1975, and the movies were still being produced to be seen by crowds of people in a darkened theater on a large screen. You had to stand in line, and buy tickets, have them torn in half fourteen feet later by a nonagenarian usher for some reason, and then fight for seats in the middle rows, halfway back. The lights would dim, the movie would play, and the opening music would produce a mood, transporting the audience from a tattered seat and a sticky floor to the time and place where the story begins. If it were done properly, which wasn’t a given, it became a shared, out of body experience.

Movies aren’t like that anymore. Movies were real competition for teevee back then. Now they’re indistinguishable milieus. Netflix makes movies, and shows them on your home screen. It’s like hiring the projectionist to direct the movies, because he’s watched so many. What the hell does Netflix know about making movies?

Sidney Lumet directed this movie. He made lots of movies, many of them really good, in addition to the various demands made by being P.J. O’Rourke’s father-in-law. He never won an Oscar for direction, but they gave him an honorary one for hanging around so long and putting so much money in the till over the years. Here are some:

  • 12 Angry Men
  • The Pawnbroker
  • Fail Safe
  • Serpico
  • Dog Day Afternoon
  • Network
  • Prince of the City
  • The Verdict

One thing I’ve noticed about good directors. They don’t look gift horses in the mouth. Some guys are loosey-goosey anyway, and let things happen all the time. Others are pretty strict about sticking to the script. But all good ones of both kinds know when they’ve stepped in something good, instead of that stuff you see on the sidewalk in those opening credits.

There’s a lot of these happy accidents, as it were, in Dog Day Afternoon. The reply to the question of where Sal wants to go when they escape was left blank on the script. Cazale ad-libbed “Wyoming,” and Lumet had to clamp his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing and ruining the shot. The “Attica” speech by Sonny (Pacino) was entirely ad-libbed, after the assistant director whispered the topic to Al as he was about to exit the bank to address the crowd. They hired hundreds of extras for the crowd scenes, but passersby started joining the crowd, and after a while, the whole bunch of them starting acting on cue like professionals. Lumet egged them on, and used all of it.

But maybe the happiest accident is the opening credits. Lumet was driven around New York in a station wagon, filming this and that, and it added up to a perfect encapsulation of the time and place that was New York in the seventies. Dirty, rundown, disintegrating, with people trying to live their lives in the disassembling city.

But that was just the visuals. It’s funny, but there is no music in Dog Day Afternoon, just random diegetic sounds, except the opening credits. Lumet originally didn’t intend to have any music score in the movie, but the editor was playing Amoreena by Elton John in the editing room, and Lumet decided to use it, soaring over the opening scenes of the city, eventually coming out of the getaway car’s radio to tie the whole thing together.

I don’t know why a strange song by a flamboyant London singer, who was trying and failing brilliantly to write his idea of American country songs, was the perfect fit to encapsulate that time and place, and set the scene for the audience, reminding them that they weren’t home on their couch anymore, but plunged into some nether world of Stockholm Syndrome and low IQ, fuddled robbers with an eclectic tastes in wives. But it was.

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