Bronson Inaction

There are some things you just would never expect to see together; people you can't imagine seeing in the same room or at the same table; books or DVDs that wouldn't seem comfortable resting alongside each other on the same shelf. It might not mean much to others, but for me another of those unexpected pairings consists of the images above and below. The two very familiar sights of Charles Bronson's carved-from-granite face and The New Yorker's title typeface seem as potentially combustible crowded together in the same frame as any of the explosives that Bronson's character, Arthur Bishop, uses against his gangland assassination targets over the course of THE MECHANIC (1972). Compared to other filmmakers, director Michael Winner never seemed to hesitate before putting up on screen images which common sense or good taste might dictate against: just look at the finale of THE SENTINEL (1977). With this far more tastefully unexpected combination of elements, Winner creates a brief respite from the unspoken but mounting tension between Bishop and fellow assassin Steve McKenna (Jan-Michael Vincent) while the two are in the air and en route to a hit in Naples. It also puts the stamp of unlikelihood on the threat posed by Bronson, one thing which might set him apart from the generation of action stars who took up his mantle in the '80s. Sometimes, for instance here, as well as in DEATH WISH (1974), Bronson could appear too gentlemanly and well-mannered to be capable of ruthless assassinations or righteous vengeance. Elsewhere, the same could hold true because of how initially beaten-down or humble his characters at first seem, as in BREAKHEART PASS (1975), HARD TIMES (1975), or even ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST (1968). To that quality is added, it goes without saying, is the absolutely convincing authenticity of Bronson's non-steroid enhanced physical presence. In any case, even if THE MECHANIC didn't have that brilliantly protracted 15-minute stretch at the start, or that just as brilliantly abrupt ending, it would still deserve a place in my heart for just possibly being the only place where you could catch Charles Bronson in the act of reading Pauline Kael.