The General (1998)

The General (1998)

Two books changed forever the way we view organized crime: Mario Puzo’s 1969 novel “The Godfather,” and Gay Talese's 1971 non-fiction book “Honor Thy Father.” Both reached beyond the mechanics of criminality and the cat-and-mouse with law enforcement but instead were told largely from the perspective of the criminal’s domestic life. Since then, almost all writing on the subject, fiction and non-fiction, for print or for the screen, has been influenced by these two works.

Puzo’s unintentionally glorified these rogues and clearly had the greatest impact. There’s an irony in this, because ultimately the souls of the fictional Corleone family suffered more, and faced greater accumulating violent tragedy, than the real-world the Bonanno crime family in Talese’s work -- but Puzo was obviously distracted by the trimmings of power, making his mobsters aristocrats enjoying life-styles not unlike the legendary Borgias (who inspired him) while Talese showed more interest in the daily grind of lives inhibited by constant surveillance and both amorphous and sometimes very pointed threats of death, it was far more about the continual pressure that results when every day’s work is a bet against one’s own liberty.

Both were about the American dream gone wrong, but somehow in Puzo made it still seem alright. And so, America ignores the moral of Puzo’s books because Puzo’s gangsters seem free, while for Talese’s gangsters, prison was almost a vacation.

It’s not really a surprise that the romanticism won in our cultural gestalt. Rebels are always appealing, and you can generally count on a successful crime boss, no matter how contemptible, to have certain facile -- but still irresistible -- virtues like charisma, fierce loyalty, and exceptional good management skills. On both sides of the law we live in a market-driven society, and there’s no denying that a really good gangster probably would be a fine business owner or CEO. Gangsterism is libertarianism without having to hide your true nature behind the hypocrisies of philosophical abstractions. Gangsterism isn’t really Ayn Rand’s triumph of the individual will, but it is no doubt that history demonstrates that “The Triumph of the Will” is often an ugly thing.

Our love of these villains has made their lives somewhat easier. There are real-world examples of major prosecutions in which evidence was trumped by popular image, like when one of the largest Mafia trails in history was derailed by the court-room antics, and irresistible charm, of mid-level thug Giacomo "Jackie" DiNorscio. This made him a folk hero and he ultimately was elevated to demi-god status because of a film about it, “Find Me Guilty” (2006); it’s a hugely entertaining outing by the great Director Sydney Lumet, but regulated to the bottom of that Director’s list of accomplishments largely because there’s something slightly sickening about the unapologetic triumph of parasites over even the most fundamental morality. While Robin Hood stole from the rich to give to the poor, the Mafia steals from everyone and keeps it all for themselves. The movie doesn’t waste the time trying to talk its way around that fact, it just makes the bad guys good by allowing them to be more charming than the virtuous.

John Boorman is also, undeniably, one of the greatest living Directors, also has a well-honed cynicism for the structures that buttress our society. He’s drawn to the Gangster Movie by his long documented anti-establishment leanings, but he does a daring thing, he embraces the charisma of these men with even less inhibition than most other film makers yet tried to do so without losing sight of fundamental and universal moralities. How well an audience thinks he succeeded in this will shape if they believe “The General” is a triumph, or a throw-away by a great Director like “Find Me Guilty” proved to be.

Boorman’s subject is real-life Irish mob-boss Martin Cahill, played brilliantly by Brendan Gleeson. Though plenty of fiction is woven in, the center of the film is agreed upon by most True-Crime Writers, that Martin was among the most likable of desperados of the modern age. Boorman wholly embraces Cahill’s charm and makes him a better family man than any of the Corleone’s even though his family is a decidedly atypical one.

Martin’s married to Frances (Maria Doyle Kennedy) but having a long-time affair with her sister Tina (Angeline Ball), has children by both, all live under the same roof, and all seem comfortable with the arraignment. Frances goes as far as to say that she’s lucky that he’s not screwing around with strangers.

The film further denies the often-leveled charge that Martin was up-to-his-eyeballs in Dublin’s devastating heroin trade, this defending is very likely wrong-headed. It is amusing that Boorman would go so far as to give his anti-hero such virtues when in fact Martin’s gang had burglarized Boorman’s own house -- they stole the gold record he was awarded for "Dueling Banjos," the hit single from Boorman’s earlier film "Deliverance" (1972). This movie includes that episode; when Martin gets the record home, he's pissed that it's not really made of gold.

But this isn’t heliography like the Lumet film. It’s ultimately a moral tale about the tragedy of self-delusion—Boorman encourages us to love Martin, because he really wants it to be tragic as we realize how badly Martin painted himself into a corner.

Martin wasn’t above violence, he’s famous for nailing men's hands to a pool table when they wouldn't talk, but even Irish law enforcement will admit that he didn’t leave a trail of bodies behind him like his USA counterparts or his nemeses in the IRA. He is presented as a man-child who couldn't outgrow his love of burglary (in scenes concerning his childhood years, Cahill is played by Eamon Owens of "The Butcher Boy” (1997) fame).

We are presented with character with a compulsive, even desperate, need to prove his manhood by beating the system even when there’s no real reason to — a good piece of real estate in the film is devoted to Cahill’s evolution from a poor young man in public-housing to a wealthy, and very self-satisfied, welfare cheat. This is best demonstrated in a scene where he’s trying to buy a house and is offended when he’s told by the agent can’t accept cash. He takes 80,000 pounds to the bank and purchases a bank draft. He puts the draft in his pocket and walks across the street to the police station, where he is in conversation with Inspector Ned Kenny (John Voight) at the very moment when his men approach the very same teller and rob her of all the money in her drawer. His lifetime haul is estimated at $60 million and he was on public assistance the whole time.

Martin sold himself to the public as Robin Hood and gave out some of his ill-gotten gains generously to a very select poor. Those who came to him for assistance were of his ilk, lying to him about all their tragedies to con some largess out of him. In an almost certainly invented scene, he is challenged on just that, and he responded, “It’s my version of paying taxes.” There are layers of meaning in that quip. Martin was proud of being a burden on a system responsible for things like schools and hospitals because he believes ultimately everyone is a thief, so he secures his moral comfort by giving to thieves to escape the reality that he’s stealing from honest people.

This is what the film says, and it is something that many other gangster films don't waste time with: When you steal, you are stealing from someone actually real, and even if you’re stealing from the rich, you are part of a cause-and-effect that trickles down the misery to the less advantaged a lot more reliably that Ronald Reagan’s “supply side” economics was supposed to trickle down the wealth. The film focuses on two heists, the first a spectacular jewelry robbery. In good Noir style, the film fetishizes the crafty planning, but once it succeeds Martin’s nemesis, Police Inspector Ned throws a wet towel on the joy by being enraged that as a direct result of the heist, 100 employees of the jewelry company out of work. Ned's actor Voight has a long history with Boorman and presents here with a flawless accent in the meatiest role he’s played in a decade.

Ned is a fictional character, an honest cop with a begrudging respect for, but even deeper frustration with, his inability to stop Martin’s gaming the system. More importantly, he represents Martin's suppressed conscience. Martin would be completely irresistible to the audience if it were not for Ned's reality checks. And in the end, Ned doesn’t catch Martin, Martin’s own life choices catch up with him.

The other job the film focuses on is a museum heist. In a nice touch, as Martin is stealing paintings from a museum, the camera pans over to a sign that reads: "Please do not touch the paintings." Later Martin demonstrates his provincialism by storing the masterpieces improperly, risking the valuable grab because he can’t conceptualize their preciousness.

These paintings prove his undoing, granting the Police more resources to take him on, breaking the bonds of loyalty in his gang, and most irreversibly, pissing off the IRA because word got around that he was selling the artwork to members of the Ulster Volunteer Force.

The most broadly accepted theory of Cahill's murder is that the enraged IRA ordered his 1994 assassination.

The film features beautiful black-and-white tones. It was originally filmed color stock by Seamus Deasy then digitally switched; as one reviewer pointed out, it was "so rich that the ski masks of burglars wind up looking like velvet." There’s also a cool jazz score by Irish saxophonist Richie Buckley.

Trailer:

The General Trailer 1998 - YouTube