For the man who would eventually create two of the most iconic characters in screen history (three, if one is inclined to include Cobra, which I am), it was a most inauspicious beginning. Subway Thug #1. Not even the dignity of a proper name. No real identity, just a faceless goon bent on giving Woody Allen a hard time. So deep background, he’s in the official register as “uncredited.” Five years before he shook up the world with Rocky, and he didn’t even merit a thank you. Rumor has it he wasn’t even paid. A pack of cigarettes, now get the hell out of here. And yet, the start of something special. From here, a packed subway in 1971, to the future glories of Hollywood. A nobody to box office champion. I’ve never heard Woody say he alone is responsible for the rise of a leather-clad creep who became Sylvester Gardenzio Stallone, champion boxer and Vietnam avenger, but he’s getting my support nonetheless.
Though Sly spoke not a word, he made one hell of an impression. That face, carved from cement, betrayed none of the ambition he took to his filthy mattress each and every lonely night during those days of belly-churning unemployment, but somebody took a second look. Maybe a third. One scene was all it took. Assault an old lady with a crutch, then pin the Woodman against a subway door. Simple, clean, efficient. To his credit, he never pulled a pistol or took a cheap shot. His glare was enough. He could have pummeled Woody into powder, but he settled for intimidation. After all, he’s not about to take being tossed out by the likes of this guy. He has a rep to protect, and collecting overdue bets wouldn’t go so easy if the neighborhood learned he was bested by a short Jew with glasses who barely registered at a buck-o-five.
The key to any blink-and-you’re-gone role is whether or not someone, somewhere wants to know more. Regrets you didn’t get a little more time to shine. Asks a question or two about your background. Wife? Kids? Just sprung from Attica? More than likely, yes, this particular thug on this particular day went straight from chasing a guy with chutzpah to the local watering hole. A cigarette or two, then a line, and maybe he wakes up with a bruise or two in some alley after getting fresh. His days, undoubtedly numbered, and full of one ridiculous scam after the other. Maybe his number comes in and he sleeps real good some night. Fancy, like. Maybe he heals up in time to score some waitress down by the docks. The possibilities are endless, if by endless you mean dead or in jail. Again. For what seems like the hundredth time. You’d have more on the menu if you didn’t have to resort to knocking over little old ladies just trying to get home.
Fifty-four years later, Bananas lives on for any number of reasons (prior Unsung Howard Cosell is a big one), but I’d like to think at least part of its enduring appeal has to do with being the origin story for a true Hollywood underdog. Proving the old maxim that grit and determination can in fact win the day, even if the graveyards are littered with dreams dashed and failures realized. For every Sly, there are a million waiters, escorts, and parking lot attendants who spend their days insisting they’re but an opportunity away from Shangri-La. But here, in a Woody Allen satire of political revolution, is a larger-than-life cultural powerhouse who, for a time, saw 90 seconds of screen time as better than oblivion. And so it was. John J. Rambo started here. Marion Cobretti. Hell, even Joe Bomowski from Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot is forced to pay his respects. And all because the greatest comedic filmmaker of his time said that yes, this lump of a man, dopey and dangerous, was just the right fit to burst into a subway car and scowl. To the manic score of Marvin Hamlisch, no less.
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