Desperado Donald at the Last Chance Saloon

I love old movies. I spend an inordinate amount of time watching crime movies from the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s.  Film noir is like mother’s milk to me.

There comes a point in many of those movies when the serial criminals are reaching the inevitable end of the road.  Their crimes become more petty.  Their desperation starts to show.  They unravel.  Self-doubt begins to creep in, and they overcompensate to offset that doubt.  Their deception becomes more obvious.  They take greater risks for much smaller rewards.  They do increasingly foolish and blatant things in an attempt to evade the consequences of their lives of crime but, in so doing, they only place themselves in closer proximity to those consequences.

Next comes the ubiquitous ride-or-die vow that they won’t get caught. “No matter what, I’m never going back to the big house!” It’s often followed by a retreat to a hideout in some remote mountain cabin or perhaps a car chase where the criminal crashes his car while being pursued…