BATMAN, Vol. 1, No. 518 (Moench / Jones; DC, 1995)

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Every Wednesday morning, I make a blind pull from Siri's (randomized) choice of one of the 20 alphabetically-organized shortboxes that constitute my comics collection, (re-) read it, write about it, and publish the resultant review/memory/whatever. Earlier installments live here.

(Box03): About time I landed on something good: a fast-paced, Moench / Jones Black Mask jam from what's held firm to the title of my favorite Batman run (Vol. 1, 515-552) for the last 28 years. There's something about the brazen creepiness of this run that's been unmatched in the years since – in the main Bat-book, no less: that gothic, macabre vision of Gotham ripped straight from Moench and Jones's Elseworlds collaborations; the post-KnightsEnd / Troika / Bruce Wayne's return all-black suit with yellow oval (my favorite Bat-suit; so underrated – wish it had caught on AND that there had been a settled way to draw it; even Jones gave up a couple of issues in; the B:TAS–meets–Hammer-meets-Pre-Code-Warner-gangster-films villainy (Black Mask, in particular is at his most deliciously unhinged)… I've little doubt that a good chunk of my affection for this run is how great it felt having Bruce back behind the cowl after the exhaustion of the Jean Paul period (and the brief PRODIGAL, Dick Grayson period) – that such a risk-taking and surreal creative team was picked to spearhead the post-return era is a testament to O'Neil's Bat-genius – but that affection source doesn’t change the truth that each panel is a distillation of everything I love about the character. Thank you Tyche; applause, applause, applause.

IN A LONELY PLACE (Ray, 1950)

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(Directed by Nicholas Ray from a script by Andrew Solt and Edmund H. North, adapted from the 1947 novel by Dorothy Hughes; starring Humphrey Bogart, Gloria Grahame, Frank Lovejoy, and Martha Stewart . Released August 1950; watched 2023w17 via Criterion Channel)

As a Bogart fanatic, that I hadn't seen LONELY PLACE until this week is among my great shames – at least when I remember having not seen it. Now that I've seen it, my shame is both eliminated and magnified: along with TREASURE OF THE SIERRA MADRE, this is Bogart at his finest, his underrated talent as an actor – like Harrison Ford, his closest modern corollary (there's a reason why Ford played Bogart's role in the SABRINA remake), Bogart has a tremendous range and can inhabit almost any role: he is an artist of far more talent than the roles that made him iconic allow him to be – on full display.

As for Gloria Grahame? One of the best: Laurel oozes sex in her first appearances and expertly plays it as layer by layer the truth of herself is revealed in what has to be one of the most toxic and tragic relationships ever captured on film (as great as Bogey and Bacall were in their on- and off-screen pairings, I doubt this film would be as much of a classic had Bacall played the part of Laurel – though never underestimate Lauren Bacall); I'm not a relationship counselor, but I can confidently say that meeting by providing an alibi for your unknown and volatile neighbor accused of murder isn't among the healthiest ways to meet.

One thing that really stands out and defines the film: each of the doomed turns was from a shit/dickish decision Bogart made: to give Mildred cab fare instead of taking her home himself – let alone read the book himself; to ignore that last phone call because of his paranoia and rage, a phone call that could have saved – though probably not – a whole lot of trouble. She told you not to rush her, Dix.

So so good; a cinephile's shame is at an end.