Jack O'Connell - The Skin Palace

Rumors, of course, proliferate in the absence of concrete fact. And we here at Underexposed are committed to quashing rumor and proliferating truth. And all for one simple reason that is, ultimately, our credo: Terrence Propp’s work is the most perfect key we have found yet to unlock the primal, sensual, carnal heart of humankind, to halt and reverse the devotion taking place in each of us. Godspeed.

Even on Musuraca Avenue they’re a strange sight: Jakob and Felix Kinsky leading a single-file parade of Grey Roaches. The Roaches are all dressed in requisite gang colors, a loose facsimile of the standard uniform from a century ago in the Talmud schools of Old Bohemia — black-on-black wool suits, white cotton shirts, the thin black ties that Felix has had customized with a print design of tiny grey cockroaches. Jakob is dressed similarly, and he’s got his ever present Seitz 16 mm up on his shoulder. Felix can’t stand the old style of dress. We live in this country now, he thinks, we should act like the natives.

“Are you nervous?” Felix asks, feeling smug and a little wired.

“I hate to disappoint you,” Jakob said, “but there’s always the chance he got the money together.”

Felix gives a barking laugh. “I can see why your father has left collections to me. He won’t have the money, Jakob. It’s not going to happen that way. You better prepare yourself. You’re going to have to use the Roaches tonight. You better be ready to give the word. Or find someplace else to sleep tonight.”

Jakob stops at the corner, looks at his cousin through the Seitz, shoots a few seconds of film.

“Don’t worry about me, cuz,” he says. “I always do what I have to do.”

They cross the street onto Ruttenberg, the Roaches staying in an ordered line like some sacred and retro fire drill. They’re the oddest muscle in Bangkok Park these days, but they’re proving themselves as disciplined and dangerous as any of their rivals. They’re more quiet than the Granada Street Popes. More stable than the Tonton Loas. Free from the internal strife that seems to constantly grip the Castlebar Road Boys.

The Roaches are led by Ivan “Huck” Hrabal, a sixteen-year-old refugee out of Poric just before the plague and the blockades. Huck lived for a month in the hull of a freighter, subsisting on tins of bootleg caviar and a found sack of half-rotten oranges. He’s a confirmed knife man, could give the city’s chief pathologist a pang of professional envy. His only weakness is his barely concealed passion for his second in command, Vera Gottwald. No one seems to know a thing about Vera G’s past. She simply showed up at the St. Vitus one night; Papa Hermann gave her a meal of beetroot soup and smoked curd cheese and turned her over to Felix.

Huck and Vera supervise a flock of eighteen sanctioned meatboys, grooming them into a cadre of warrior monks for the day when, as Felix promises, the city will exist solely for the benefit of the Family Kinsky. For now, the Roaches keep busy with a routine of standard gang-biz: extortion, black marketeering, pharmaceuticals, and the usual hit-and-run work necessary for making and occasionally expanding the Kinsky territory.

“Jakob, admit to me that you don’t have a clue,” Felix says, goading his cousin, aching for him to reject tonight’s errand. “You’ve never done this before.”

Jakob mocks himself and says, “I’ve seen movies.”

“You and your goddamn movies,” Felix yells and grabs his cousin’s arm, jerking them both to a stop. He spits on the ground, stares at the Roaches as they go rigid and look to their feet.

“This isn’t some movie, you little putz. You’re going to have to draw some blood tonight. Look at you. You brought your goddamn movie camera. What the hell are you thinking, Jakob? What is wrong with you? Your father is offering you everything. A year from now we could be ready to knock over the Iguarans. What is your goddamn problem?”

Jakob stays silent for a second, staring at Felix’s face, then he starts to nod, and, without any trace of anger or humor, says, “You would make a tremendous character actor, Felix. Honestly. The loose cannon. The simmering pot. The audience watches, knowing from the start he’ll explode. The cog the script could always pivot on. You know the type I mean? A James Caan, perhaps. If Caan were born in Maisel. And dressed badly.”

Vera can’t help but laugh, a throaty squeal that erupts and vanishes in a single breath. And though Felix doesn’t turn around to glare at her, Huck knows she’s made a terrible mistake. Because though what Jakob has said is funny, it’s also true. And at some later point, when this tiny incident has been forgotten by all, Felix’s button will get pushed. And then he’ll decide to act on Vera’s disrespect.

Felix stares at Jakob and says,” Do you want me to hold your camera?”

Jakob smiles and says, “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

They walk a final block to their destination. Felix motions Bidlo and Krofta around to the rear of the storefront. Huck and Vera separate and move to opposite corners of the street to watch for the unlikely arrival of any independent muscle. Jakob takes a moment to focus the Seitz on the gorgeous neon marquee hanging out above the sidewalk:

Citizen Jane’s Underground Videos

The Best in Noir Entertainment

Tonight’s Discount: “Gun Crazy” (1950)

Then he moves his focus to the door of the shop, which has been entirely papered with hand-out flyers asking for any information concerning the disappearance of the little girl named Jenny Ellis.

Felix taps him on the shoulder.

“The owner is ‘Sweet Jane’ Firbank. He’s a real head case. Dresses in the women’s clothing. He’s a month late in collections. Papa said he clears his account tonight or we let the Roaches loose. You understand that, Jakob? You think you can follow this?”

“Felix,” Jakob says, “there’s a point you honestly shouldn’t push me past. You don’t know me anymore.”

“I know all about you, Jakob. You wouldn’t know real life if it bit into your skinny little ass.”

Jakob rests the Seitz back on his shoulder, then slowly, gently, he touches his cousin’s face, brushes a thumb against Felix’s cheek as if dusting something away.

“Maybe,” Jakob says, “you’re more Elisha Cook Jr. Especially around the eyes.”

He turns and enters the video store, leaving a confused Felix saying, “Who are you calling Junior?”

Jakob stands inside and lets himself be shocked by the detail and imagination that’s gone into the store’s decor. The small rental shop perfectly mimics its product. It’s as if the best noir set designers of the forties had gathered and pooled their talents to make a shrine to their chosen genre. The lighting is stolen straight from German Expressionism — artificial, harsh, and capable of throwing monstrous shadows. There’s a row of metal, conical fluorescents suspended from the ceiling, perfect interrogation beams, looking like they’d been stolen from the most brutal police sweatbox in history. Like they came with a gross of rubber hoses. The fat Venetian blinds hung in front of the windows are somehow backlit, so that even at night they toss a grid of sliced illumination across any inhabitant’s face. The black cast-iron shelving that serves as display racks for the videos gives the feel of prison-issue furniture. The floor is a cold, urban red-brick. There are neon signs, electric blue-white numbers, mounted and glowing at the top of each display case to show the films are grouped chronologically. Jakob walks to the first shelf and picks up the display box for the 1927 release Underworld. He closes his eyes and tests himself — directed by von Sternberg, lensed by Bert Glennon — opens his eyes and looks on the back of the video box to prove himself right. He walks to the opposite wall and picks up the most recent release in the store, Castle Oswald, but before he can close his eyes, a voice sounds.