They put your hand in a drawer Hurt like a bastard. What makes it hurt worse, what makes it hurt more There you are. They just come up to you and say, "Look. You made a big mistake Now get your hand out there. When I was a kid in Sunday school, this nun - she used to say, "Stick your hand out.
She'd knock me across the knuckles with a steel-edge ruler. So one day I says, when she told me, "Stick your hand out" Same thing. They put your hand in a drawer. Just like a man snapping a shingle. You better, or neither one of us will be able to shake hands. They're new. Test firing's all they've had.
Air weight, shrouded hammers, floating firing pins. Just tell me what you want. You ever sell guns before? What do you want, a discount? I could sell 30 pieces tomorrow without even seeing you. I'll bet if I was to go down the shrine there and go to confession I'd get three Hail Marys, and then the priest would ask me confidentially He was a nice guy. I never been able to understand a man who wanted to use a machine gun.
Your best all-around item is the four-inch Smith. You can lift it, she goes where you point it. I'm talking about Split the difference. Discuss this script with the community: 0 Comments. Notify me of new comments via email. Cast member Alex Rocco , having grown up in a Boston suburb called Somerville, introduced Mitchum to a gang member called Howie Winter.
NOTE: For educational and research purposes only. Absolutely our highest recommendation. Reload document Open in new tab. Essential listening. The veteran actor recounts a lifetime of tall tales on the set of The Friends of Eddie Coyle. Peter Yates, the director, swaddled to his stringy gray helicopter hairdo in a bulky, fur-collared parka, flashes the V sign.
But contrary to common myth, Bob takes filmmaking very seriously. This will be the finest role of his career, I assure you.
The unit publicist—let us call him Portnoy in deference to his concordance of real and imagined complaints—is a thick-bodied, prematurely balding gnome who is not without interest.
For one thing, he is mortally terrified of Mitchum. The cop shrugs. Over at the Beacon Street boundary of the Commons, a sleek black limo driven by a bullet headed Teamster named Harry docks at the curb, and Mitchum alights, wearing pitch-black shades and a dark topcoat.
Mitchum is a massive hulk of a man, with a jowly face battered as a used VW bus. Silently, he shakes hands with Yates. As Yates smiles and begins to explain the setup, Mitchum glances around at the individual members of the crew, nodding, counting heads.
Portnoy flashes him a sickly smile. Does not see him. Mitchum, it turns out, looks at a lot of people that way. Mitchum studies the spectators, paying particular notice to several fetching college-age girls showing tantalizing expanses of panty-hosed shank and thigh between boot tops and coat hems.
An hour or so later, after Mitchum has spoon-fed his lines to Richard Jordan and departed for the day, Peter Boyle, Jordan, Portnoy and the writer are taking lunch together at a small French restaurant a few blocks up the slope of Beacon Hill. Stabbing a fork into his tossed salad, Boyle throws back his head and laughs raucously when Portnoy asks what effect the success of Joe has had on him.
Ah, yes—red wine for the three of us, please, and a bottle of beer for this scandal scribbler. Do you have Kronenberg beer? Yes, make it Kronenberg. Make it a six-pack, in fact. I acted in French in my last picture.
Opposite Genevieve Bujold, which was fun. Whom I despise, I might add. I was driving across the country stoned on several strange substances. I stopped to see the movie—I was too stoned to drive any further. I remember that Charles Bronson spoke only a few lines, and I was struck by that, because I was once into that silence trip myself. I was an early-Fifties Jesus freak. I was an acolyte in the Order of the Christian Brothers.
Yeah, yeah, I know—the Friends of the Winos. But I took it very seriously at the time. I pursued, you know, God, somewhat unsuccessfully for several years as a professional religious person, and then I forsook that life and took myself back to the world and, through a series of incredibly stupid errors, became an actor. Beautiful women throwing themselves at me. Ahead of me, I can see only more stardom with liberal doses of obscurity.
Laughing along, Portnoy capsizes a chunk of bread in the pool of orange sauce on his plate. Was that another fickle-fad impulse? I just sort of got out of it. I mean, if I want to do a bit about a dumb cunt—well, you see the problem.
Fonda and Sutherland are a little serious, yeah. Could be a lot of re-shooting on this baby. No way to know, really. I really like Mitchum. Long live the queen! But enough of this balderdash—what time is it? We were supposed to be back 20 minutes ago. Gesturing expansively, Boyle rises from the table. Yates was late this morning; we can be late this afternoon.
You know—Up your giggy with a meathook, Mary. Just like Robert Mitchum. Back on the Commons late that afternoon, a cacophony of church bells peal vespers.
A slight, clear-eyed man wearing Beverly Hills denim and a McGovern button on his coat lapel, Monash has the odd habit of raking a hand quickly through his long, thick salt-and-pepper hair to emphasize his points. I always relish being here. I find it a very deadening place.
I just wrote my wife a letter saying one of the things I will not do is live there, in California, at least not for awhile. It took me years of playing tennis to realize that I was getting tennis head instead of tennis elbow. Which one? Ah yes—How Brave We Live. How brave you are. Well, that book swiftly passed into, um, literary history. And there was another one, too—The Ambassadors.
I rather hoped readers would mistake it for a work by Henry James. No such luck, of course. I was always like a crazed hunter in the woods shooting anything that moved. My main task in writing the screenplay consisted of organizing the material already at hand. The dialogue in the book, which the critics praised so lavishly, is the dialogue in the film.
I have an extraordinarily good feel about it that scares me a little bit. I guess I would say that the whole test of the film is going to be in the first scene, in which we have two men—Mitchum and a young actor named Steven Keats—sitting down in a dingy cafeteria and talking to each other for several minutes about stolen guns.
Eddie is a hood himself, a free-lancer—one of the so-called blue-collar workers of the underworld. And Keats plays a cold-blooded, no-nonsense gun dealer. And for several minutes, the two of them talk very seriously about guns. Mitchum fits into the role amazingly well. I suppose we felt that Mitchum was too strong and, in a way, too good-looking. Too prepossessing, too forceful. It just happens. He simply does it. He imparts to the role a quiet dignity the character in the book lacked, I think.
Mitchum radiates a genuine presence. Above all, you can say about Mitchum that he is. Still, you have to remember that Robert Mitchum is a star. A star is a nut. Just as Fitzgerald said, the rich are different from you and me, and so are stars different from you and me. Mitchum is definitely different. For instance, I understand that Mitchum rarely, if ever, talks to reporters.
The next morning a cold, salt rain drenches Boston, and the film troupe sets up shop inside Pier Five, a high vaulted and echoing warehouse that juts out over the slate-colored waters of Boston Harbor.
Clammy as a tomb, the municipally owned building is blocks long, and its interior light is a perpetual dusky gloom because of its opaqued windows and skylights. The first shows Mitchum delivering a cache of hot guns to a bank robber and his mistress, played by Alex Rocco and Jane House. The location of the delivery is a Trotwood trailer, the long, unwieldy kind that takes the mobile out of home. At midmorning, while Yates rehearses the actors, electricians and sound men scurry in and out of the trailer, masking its windows with black gauze.
The weapon to be used is a long-barreled. A ghastly wax effigy of him has been prepared for the scene, which everyone carefully avoids looking at. Just before noon, Trina Mitchum arrives on the set. Darrach trailed Dad around for months in order to do a piece about him for Life. And Dad treated him like a friend—the whole family did. Well, sure, I went through that routine a little bit, I guess.
Just as much as anybody my age growing up in California and being exposed to those things. Author : George V. Higgins provides us with yet another searing and enthralling dissection of the Boston underworld. Higgins skillfully recounts the story of elusive Short Joey Mossi. You made a big mistake Now get your hand out there.
When I was a kid in Sunday school, this nun - she used to say, "Stick your hand out. She'd knock me across the knuckles with a steel-edge ruler. So one day I says, when she told me, "Stick your hand out" Same thing. They put your hand in a drawer.
Just like a man snapping a shingle. I guarantee that. You better, or neither one of us will be able to shake hands. They're new.
Test firing's all they've had. Air weight, shrouded hammers, floating firing pins. Just tell me what you want. You ever sell guns before? What do you want, a discount? I could sell 30 pieces tomorrow without even seeing you. I'll bet if I was to go down the shrine there and go to confession I'd get three Hail Marys, and then the priest would ask me confidentially He was a nice guy.
I never been able to understand a man who wanted to use a machine gun. Your best all-around item is the four-inch Smith. You can lift it, she goes where you point it. I'm talking about Split the difference.
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