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pulpit fictionFrom the pasture to the pulpit. The Sisters at the orphanage said “God moves in mysterious ways” but who, pray tell, does the moving for God? Back when I was living in Sunset Park and studying photography at the Art Students League, I worked part time for a Greek guy my old man knew from his bowling league. I’d read some history then, a little bit of poetry, liked Anthony Quinn pretty well— especially The Ox-Bow Incident (1944), Seminole (1953) and The Savage Innocents (1960)*— and of course I loved Last Exit To Brooklyn, and still do. Anyway, I laughed then and the name of the Greek’s business still cracks my ass up: Unmoved Movers.

* Before anyone asks about Viva Zapata! (1952), I ride with Lionel Stander, Abraham Polonsky, Joseph Losey, Jules Dassin and the others: fuck Elia Kazan (and Budd Schulberg), still, and On The Waterfront (1954) is still a lousy crime movie and schlock whatever else. Ya’ll want Rod Steiger, try Sidney Lumet’s The Pawnbroker (1964), also the greatest New York botanica film ever made. As for Lee J. Cobb, friendly witness… man, that’s a tough one. His work in Party Girl (1958) and Man of the West (1958) counts for much, I’ll say that. Or maybe I’m just giving it up for Cyd Charisse and Julie London?

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