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French heartthrob Alain Delon made his US leading man debut in this adaptation of Zekial Marko's novel "Scratch a Thief" about an ex-thief in San Francisco trying to stay out of trouble but fingered for the murder of a Chinese storekeeper by the police sergeant (Van Heflin) who hates him. Meanwhile, the thief's shady older brother (Jack Palance) is in town, needing the kid's help in pulling off a job. Ordinary crime plot given amusingly jazzy, frenetic direction by Ralph Nelson, who sets the scene with a flashy nightclub drum solo that is crazy-cool. Screenwriter Marko really lays on the '60s-era jive talk, some of it mind-boggling, while Nelson's quasi-European handling gives the picture an arresting look in vivid black-and-white. Some of the interesting supporting characters include a fey platinum-blond punk (years ahead of his time), plus Ann-Margret as Delon's put-upon wife. The talky lulls are given a boost by the slangy dialogue, and the location shooting in San Francisco is a big asset. **1/2 from ****
The River Thief torrent
Rafael reached the Suburban Bridge, one of the two means of egress fromthe Old City. The Júcar was combing its muddy, reddish waters on thepiles of the ancient structure. A number of row-boats, made fast to thehouses on the shore, were tugging at their moorings. Rafael recognizedamong them the fine craft that he had once used for lonely trips on theriver. It lay there quite forgotten, gradually shedding its coat ofwhite paint out in the weather.
With a smile and a nod to the powerful saint, as to an old friend ofchildhood, Rafael crossed the bridge and entered the arrabal, the "NewCity," ample, roomy, unobstructed, as if the close-packed houses of theisland, to get elbow-room and a breath of air, had stampeded in a flockto the other bank of the river, scattering hither and thither in thehilarious disorder of children let loose from school.
Twice he walked up and down in front of the striped window-panes of thebarbershop, without mustering the courage to raise the latch. Finally hesauntered off toward the orchards, following the riverbank slowly along,with his gaze fixed on that blue house, which had never before attractedhis attention, but which now seemed the most beautiful detail in thatample paradise of orange-trees.
The Júcar was rising. The waters, turned to so much liquid clay, lashedred and slimy against the buttresses of the bridges. People living alongthe banks followed the swelling of the river with anxious eyes, studyingthe markers placed along the shores to note how the water was coming up.
It rained day and night; and yet the city, from its animation, seemed tobe having a holiday. The young ones, sent home from school because ofthe bad weather, were all on the bridges throwing branches into thewater to see how swift the current was, or playing along the lanes closeto the river, planting sticks in the banks and waiting for theever-broadening torrent to reach them.
Under the shelter of the projecting eaves, whence broken water-spoutswere belching streams as thick as a man's arm, loungers in the caféswould slip along the streets toward the river-front; and after glancingat the flood from the scant protection of their umbrellas, would maketheir way proudly back, stopping in every drinking place to offer theiropinions on the rise that had taken place since their previousinspection.
The city from end to end was one seething storm of heated, typically"Southern" argument and prophecy. Friendships were being made andbroken, over questions as to whether the river had risen four inches thepast hour, or only one, and as to whether this freshet were moreimportant than the one five years before.
Meantime the sky kept on weeping through its countless eyes; the river,roaring more wrathful every moment, was now licking at the ends of thelow-lying streets near the bank, creeping up into the gardens on theshore, stealing in between the orange-trees, opening holes in the hedgesand the mudwalls.
Under the drizzle pouring from the sky and the streams tumbling from theeavespouts, the mob rushed along through the streets in a wild riot.Doors and windows flew open, and new voices were added to the deliriousuproar, while at every crossing recruits would come to swell theon-rushing avalanche headed for the Ayuntamiento. Muskets, ancientblunderbusses, and horse-pistols as big as guns, could be seen in themenacing throng, as though those wild forms were to compel the grantingof a petition that might be denied, or to slay the river, perhaps.
What did they want! They wanted the one remedy, the one salvation, forthe city: they wanted to take the omnipotent saint to the bank of theriver that he might awe it with his presence, just as their ancestorshad been doing for centuries and centuries, and thanks to which the citywas still standing!
Some of the city people, whom the peasants regarded as atheists, beganto smile at the strange request. Wouldn't it be better to spend the timegetting all the valuables out of the houses on the bank? A tempest ofprotests followed this proposal. "Out with the saint! Out with SanBernat! We want the miracle! The miracle!" Those simple people werethinking of the wonders they had learned in their childhood at theirmothers' knees; times in former centuries, when it had been enough forSan Bernardo to appear on a river road, to start the flood down again,draining off from the orchard lands as water leaks from a brokenpitcher.
Doña Bernarda had sent him out at the first sign of uneasiness in thepopulace. It was in circumstances such as these that her husband used toshine, taking the helm in every crisis, giving orders and settlingquestions, though to no avail at all. But when the river returned to itsnormal level, and danger was past, the peasant would remember donRamón's "sacrifices" and call him the father of the poor. If themiraculous saint must come out, let Rafael be the one to produce him!The elections were at hand. The flood could not have come in bettertime. There must be no false steps, no frightening opportunity away.Something rather must be done to get people to talking about him as theyused to talk about his father on similar occasions.
"Well, if there's water coming down from Cuenca," the priest answered,"we'd better let it come, and San Bernardo also had better keepindoors, at home. Matters concerning saints must be treated with greatdiscretion, take my word for that.... And, if you don't agree with me,just remember that freshet when the river got above the bridges. Webrought the saint out, and the river almost carried him off downstream."
The procession reached the river, crossing and recrossing the bridgesthat led to the suburbs. The flickering torches were mirrored in thedark edges of the stream, which was growing momentarily more terrifyingand clamorous. The water had not yet reached the railing, as at othertimes. Miracle! San Bernardo was at work already!
Then the procession marched to points where the river had flooded thelanes near the bank, and turned them to virtual ponds. The morefanatical of the devotees, lifting their tapers above their heads, wentout fearlessly neck high into the water: for surely the Saint must notgo in alone.
The curate began to feel the cold water creeping up his back, andordered the Saint inshore again. In fact San Bernardo was already atthe end of the lane, and actually in the river itself. His guards ofhonor were having a time of it to keep their feet in the face of thecurrent, but they were still willing to go on, believing that thefarther the statue went into the stream, the sooner the waters would godown. At last, however, the most foolhardy withdrew. The Saint cameback. Though the procession at once went on to the next road and to thenext, repeating the same performance.
The procession marched on for more than an hour still along the river.Then the priest, who was dripping wet and had exhausted more than adozen "horses" under him, forbade it to continue. Leave it to thosepeasants, and the nonsense would go on till dawn! So the curate observedthat the Saint had already done what was required of him. Now it wastime to go home!
Rafael handed his taper to one of his henchmen and stopped on the bridgewith a number of experienced observers, who were lamenting the damagedone by the flood. At every moment, no one could say just how, alarmingreports of the destruction wrought by the river were coming in. Now amill had been isolated by the waters, and the people there had takenrefuge on the roof, firing their shotguns as signals of distress. Manyorchards had been completely submerged. The few boats available in thecity were doing the best they could in the work of rescue. The valleyhad become one vast lake. Rowboats caught in the shifting currents werein danger of smashing against hidden obstructions; and it waspractically impossible to push a punt upstream with oars.
"Listen, Cupido; I have my boat right handy here; you know, the boatfather had made to order in Valencia as a present for me. Steel frame;hard wood; safe as a warship. You know the river ... I've seen youhandle an oar more than once; and I've got a pair of arms myself ...What do you say?"
In the narrow gorge between the Old City and the New, the swollentorrent swept them along like lightning. The barber used his oars justto keep the boat away from the shore. Submerged rocks sent greatwhirlpools to the surface and pulled the boat this way and that. Thelight of the torch cast a dull reddish glow out over the muddy eddies.Tree trunks, refuse, dead animals, went floating by, shapeless masseswith only a few dark points visible above the surface, as though somedead man covered with mud were swimming under water. Out on thatswirling current, with the slimy vapors of the river rising to hisnostrils and the eddies sucking and boiling all around, Rafael thoughthimself the victim of a weird nightmare and began even to repent of hisrashness. Cries kept coming from houses close to the river; windows weresuddenly lighted up; and from them great shadowy arms like the wings ofa windmill waved in greeting to that red flame which people saw glidingpast along the river, bringing the outlines of the boat and the two meninto distinct view. The news of their expedition had spread throughoutthe city and people were on the watch for them as they sped by: "Vivadon Rafael! Viva Brull!" 2ff7e9595c
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