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On Tuesday, I climbed into the Wayback Machine for a visit to the Boston crime-movie classic that sowed the ground for a genre to come. “The Friends of Eddie Coyle” is grim, essential viewing, and essential Boston, too, thanks to a script that pretty much photocopies the George V. Higgins novel on which it was based. That’s Robert Mitchum above, and never has this lion of film noir seemed so defeated and so moving.
Something awful happened Tuesday, and, like you, I spent the following day in a haze of sorrow and rage. Because I put words to things for a living and to be able to process, that’s what I did. You don’t have to read it, but I had to write it.
Finally, a requiem for a tough guy.
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