John Cazale’s Barbaric Squawk | The New Yorker
The list of offenses is long, but let’s start with his jacket. It is a rich shade of burgundy, the color of a bruise, and not remotely flattering to the pale body it covers. Throughout the pitiful non-heist in “Dog Day Afternoon” (1975), while everyone else in the un-air-conditioned bank sheds layers or unbuttons blouses, the jacket stays put, getting soggier and dirtier. The robber is still wearing it when he scolds a hostage for smoking. “If I die of cancer, it’ll be half your fault,” she teases. “No,” he mutters, echoing what some teacher or parent must have told him long ago, “it’s because you’re weak.” Everything about this character, who goes by Sal, is pathetic, unless it’s repugnant. There is no reason for us to sympathize with him, and therefore we do. The hostages do, too: just ...