Call me a romantic, but I’ve always retained a soft spot for parents who hate their children. Especially mothers who hate their sons. Maybe it’s the violation of every norm and value we’ve come to expect, but just as pointedly, it’s the refusal to play ball. Tell me what I need to do, and I’ll insist on doing the opposite. Now let’s be clear: this is in no way an endorsement of abuse, neglect, or leaving a toddler roadside. All are crimes, and all deserve life, no parole as a starting point. In that sense, I do not applaud slaps, kicks, shots to the chops, or gentle pushes from rooftops. No, it’s the instinctive loathing I defend. Because, let’s face it: kids, whether in the crib or on the cusp of college, are hard to like. Impossible, in most cases. They’re loud, selfish, expensive, and have ruined more psyches than a thousand wars. And when so much of modern life has been sentimentalized into a gooey, mashed yeast of intolerability, finding the straight, no chaser emotion that is unvarnished disgust, well, that alone is a cause for celebration.
Which brings us to Mrs. Robey (Gladys George). She’s a mother, yes, to one Nick Robey (John Garfield), but she resents the reminder. Call her ma’am, miss, or toots, she’ll come running. Preferably if you have a bottle underneath your coat. But mom? First an eye roll, then a shrill dismissal. Yes, he’s mine, but he’s temporary. Decidedly so, given his chosen profession. Just wait a few days, his room will be available to the highest bidder. No sign of a mister – father, if you must – but that’s hardly my doing. He gave it the expected fortnight, but the crying never ceased. Still hasn’t as of last Tuesday. At the moment the film opens, in fact, Nick is still on the take. Conversation with mom is rare, clipped. Take this exchange:
Mrs. Robey: If you were a man, you’d be out looking for a job.
Nick: If you were a man, I’d kick your teeth in.
The warmth all but oozes from the page. But at least it’s real. She needs him to keep the burglars at bay, he needs three hots and a cot. Or maybe just a sandwich on occasion, given her limitations. Mama stops serving when the time clock gets punched. No hopes and dreams, or an embrace to start the day. Just a continuation of the previous night’s rage.
Nick’s mother appears briefly and at one point, only by phone, but she’s everything film noir promises to be, up to and including the idea that there isn’t anywhere to hide. It’s telling that after Nick murders a cop and goes on the lam, he doesn’t run back to the creature comforts of home. Instead, he seduces the dopey Peg (Shelley Winters) at a swim club and massages her painful insecurity to get through the front door. Soon, her entire family is present and he sees an opportunity. Exploiting the bonds he never once felt in his own life, he’s able to hide away and form a quasi-family of his own, albeit one based on threats, intimidation, and the promise of gunfire. He can even pull out the loaded weapon he always wished he could use on Mama Robey. He’s kinda sweet on Peg, too, if sweetness can be measured by walking the fine line between a quickie and a bullet to the temple.
While the story is very much a Nick and Peg affair (despite knowing he’s a killer, she’s ready to buy a car and drive off into the sunset with his sorry ass), Mrs. Robey is always present in the silences. Whatever Nick has become, it can be traced back to her. If he’s unschooled, boorish, and lacking in imagination, it’s all because she sought to stifle even the merest hint of decency from the opening bell. It’s unlikely she ever even took him to school. What’s the point, she might have roared, as she looked upon his two-year-old mug. He’s on the fast track to jail or the graveyard, so why spend the time? And now, when he’s an adult, when she might be able to do something for him, she’s out of ideas before the question is popped. Cage him, kill him, toss him in the trash. She can move on because she did so right after the hospital signed her discharge papers. I get it, you pulled him from me, so he’s mine. I dare you to make it stick.
As always with these minimalist turns, I’d like to see more. Much more, in Mrs. Robey’s case. Perhaps a sequel or series of portraits. After Nick dies – and he does, at Peg’s hand, because this is noir – are the ashes sent mama’s way? Is there a pre-paid plot she got for a song back when she first decided his fate? Maybe Peg will move in, regaling her with stories of how sex was extra special when Nick coupled it with rabbit punches. Or perhaps her character resonates because, as the cliché goes, less is more, especially when that less burns hotter than a universe of suns. In any case, what a sendoff for our man Garfield. Dead at 39, a toxic mix of alcohol, cigarettes, a weak ticker, and the stress of McCarthyism. And his one more for the road, a genuine treat. Dying in the gutter, unloved and unwanted, without even a mother’s love to send him to hell.
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