The Cobalt Screening Room Balcony

Oh yeah, definitely. They used Otto and Dorothy from the original show, but outside of that, each movie is unique within itself. They could have been released with alternative titles and few would take notice of them. I still have four to go--three and a half actually, because I watched a half hour of one last night--but I don't see them getting better.

The Whistler name just brought more people into the theaters. They're not awful, but they're far from good representations of the radio show. Otto shows up at the opening and closing, occasionally in the middle to narrate what's going on in Richard Dix's head, but for me Dix is a stick.
Jeff

I've been a sci-fi and comic geek for about 50 years. But you'd be amazed at how few of the comic book "blockbusters" I've ever seen. And what Hollyweird did to Starship Troopers and A Princess of Mars is just disgusting.

What about John Carter no one can explain that movie disaster

Well, today's epic is a step above *John Carter* even though we're not on Mars. So if you're going to try the series, Space, this might be a good introduction.

Post #461: If the still accompanying today's feature, *Mysterious Intruder* (1946), the fifth in *The Whistler* series, doesn't give you some indication of what you're getting into, well, then, just get some Windex and clean out your eye sockets, because Mike Mazurki's melodramatic mug is the most subtle thing about this film. Once more time Richard Dix steps into duty (and please note the serious wordplay involved in that statement when read aloud) as a relatively unscrupulous private defective--err, *detective*, Don Gale, who's hired by kindly old, feeble Edward Stillwell (Paul E. Burns), proprietor of a small music shop. Seven years ago he watched over a young 14-year-old Elora Lund who disappeared after the death of her mother. Now Stillwell wishes to find her, to give the young woman her valuable inheritance left with him by her mother. Ooh, the plot thickens. . . like molasses on a Michigan back porch in February.

Otto Forrest and director William Castle are back, upping the noir ante as Gale levels his gaze at securing the fortune for the missing young woman, taking out an ad in the newspaper and sniffing around while danger lurks. Figuring the old man won't recognize Elora today, her hires Freda Hanson (Helen Mowery) to masquerade as Elora, to root out how much of a fortune she's entitled to (it works out to $2.7 million today), and in what form it takes (and therein lies the interesting twist). Unfortunately, before Stillwell can spill the beans (or open the can of worms) he's murdered by a two-bit thief, Harry Pontos (Mike Mazurki) who's overheard Freda (aka Elora) and Stillwell talking, and decides to cash in on the deal himself, stealing a box with Elora's name written on it and kidnapping Freda as a hostage. Gale discovers the body, becomes the chief suspect, and leaks it to the press that Elora Lund is an imposter. Yup, and after that it gets complicated.

What follows is arguably the truest to *The Whistler* radio show format: The Whistler's shadow dips in and out, his sonorous voice commenting on the action, and in this case there is a good twist at the end. Some critics cite this one as the best in the film series, and it does have a couple good minutes in its 62 minute running time. Throw in Detectives Taggart and Burns (Barton MacLane and Charles Lane) in for character familiarity, and let Regis Toomey (as James Summers, manager of Freda Hanson's apartment building) drift in and out, and these recognizable faces help make the story a little easier to swallow.

Dix's Gale becomes a more textured, morally ambiguous character than Dix usually plays, which is another plus here, and his stoicism works for once as a jaded dick. Swirling ambitions and murky morality abound in *Mysterious Intruder* while the supporting cast are interesting enough to shoulder the load. Nina Vale as Joan Hill, Gale's secretary, give a little fire to her character, and Pamela Blake as the real Elora Lund (the only completely on the level character here, and she's in a sanitarium, plays her innocence cleanly. But Helen Mowery as Freda is the most watchable of all, with her femme fatale machinations and spitfire personality leading to a memorable turn.

It's a little campy, a little hammy, and the conventions of noir are in full swing, making *Mysterious Intruder* just a notch above the "okay" fare these Whistler adaptations allow. So if you watch this and decide to try the others, you'll find they are all firmly in the B-range, but sometimes the Bs offer a little taste of cheap honey.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Seamus wrote:What about John Carter no one can explain that movie disaster

That's the one I was referring to. The one saving grace for this particular debacle, was that the CG "beasts" were pretty much taken from the Frazetta artwork of the Ballantine release. Everything else blew chunks, then took a dump. Even the low budget adaptation from 2009 starring Traci Lords was better.

Post #472: Our Whistler-a-thon is inching toward its conclusion with today's feature, *The Secret Of The Whistler* (1946). So what's the secret? The secret is there is no secret, since the main character's wife knows what's going on. And this is the penultimate of Richard Dix's one hundred film career, number 99, before he would succumb to alcoholism at age 56 in 1949. Directed without the visual acuity or panache of William Castle who helmed many of these Bs, today's offering was directed by George Sherman with a more or less straightforward staging and no frills. The result is, again, okay, though not as compelling as yesterday's since the last line of the film makes no sense whatsoever.

But we do start off on an interesting note as wealthy socialite Edith Marie Harrison (Mary Currier) purchases a massive monument to her memory, knowing she is living on borrowed time. Her lackluster artist husband Ralph meanwhile is hosting a gay (that is, happy and carefree, not that there's anything wrong with that) cocktail party with the requisite sniping grinners adorned in their finery in his studio. There he meets Kay Morrell (Leslie Brooks, who basically screams golddigging man-eater since she only comes out at night, lean and hungry type), the model of Ralph's fellow artist buddy Jim Calhoun (Michael Duane). Called away from his festive martini swilling, Ralph rushes to Edith's bedside as she's just suffered another in her endless conga line of heart attacks.

Nearly drowning in silk and satin in her poofy bed and attended by the clock-stopping somber gaze of her faithful maid-in-black Laura (Claire Du Brey), morbidly plain Edith clearly controls the purse strings of her husband while lacking the physical allure of Kay Morrell. Listen: Do you want to know a secret? Do you promise not to tell? Ralph is going to take up with Kay. Surprised? You are? Then, obviously you haven't seen many movies or watched any soap operas in your time. Yes, within minutes he's hired Kay to "pose" for him, even though all his talent rests in his pretense of loving Edith. Well, the race is on And here comes pride up the backstretch, Heartaches are goin' to the inside, the race is on and it looks like Heartache, and the winner loses all.

But when Edith enlists heart specialist Dr. Gunther (Arthur Space) and she starts growing stronger, she visits Ralph's studio as a surprise and--surprise! She overhears her devoted husband and Kay planning their nuptials after Edith dies. Uh oh, Spaghettios, it looks like Ralph is going to be slashed out of the will and divorced penniless unless The Whistler can see into Ralph's motivations and let us know what we're already fully aware of--Edith has to be helped along before she can contact her lawyers.

*The Secret Of The Whistler* falls into the Whistler mold with occasional slinky shadows easing around the background while Otto Forrest cynically reads Ralph's thoughts, capping things off at the extended 65-minute mark with a twist and an inane last line of dialogue that confuses that twist and the audience, thus successfully undoing everything the film had led up to. Altering that last line could have made this film a contender, but somebody screwed the pooch on this one.

As always Richard Dix plays his part as a smarmy "devoted" husband pretty well, though his range of emotions still extends from A to B, for me. Leslie Brooks stands around looking fetching and basically cold hearted, flouncing around the cautious Jim, whom she casually calls Darling who warns her about her getting in too deep with Ralph, who pretends to be tortured but is just horny, hot and bothered--in only the most warm and supportive respectful way. And Mary Currier plays the betrayed cold fish with shades of sympathy, and Claire Du Brey lurks in the shadows--even when there aren't any, she brings her own--like the Harrison's upscale apartment is Manderley.
*******
But if you want a show that will hold you and your breath hostage, I'm going out on a limb here (since I'm only halfway through the series) to recommend Netflix's *The Haunting Of Hill House*. I won't say much about it here yet--I want to tip toe through it as I have four more episodes to go in the ten-part series--but I will gush enthusiastically over co-writer and director Mike Flanagan's incredibly measured and tense direction (some scenes last 20 minutes without a cut, Flanagan's camera swooping and circling in expert movement; what tenacity and power the actors must have exercised to complete such a feat, as a fete for the audience). Based on Shirley Jackson's 1959 novel, this is seriously spooky stuff that tightens the screws with every episode. Okay, enough of that for now.
*******
So okay, I hid a secret in today's commentary, for people who make it through to the end--a resounding three thumbs up for NOT *The Secret Of The Whistler* but a Netflix series with Season 2 coming up soon. (I'll finish the assessment when I finish the show.)

In the meantime, I've been practicing my Whistler theme so I can freak out people in Kroger next time I shop. Hey, I'm wearing a mask, so who can tell who's making that weird whistling sound anyway?
Enjoy.
Jeff

Hey Jeff, Ya mention cameras flying through scenes in your super secret preview. I've been thinking lately, about the amazing scenes we could have had in Noir, if today's camera technology was available then. Night scenes in black and white. Rain slicked streets or on the waterfront. Mist slowly playing around the feet of a trenchcoat wearing couple trying to slip away into the darkness.

Ah. Maybe I think too much.

I am with Space I envision steam powered drones floating along at the hands of noir directors who are hell bent on taking over the world through dastardly plans of mass indoctrination from excellent film.

Well, the drones are in full force today.

Post #473: This is our fond farewell to Richard Dix, as today's feature, *The Thirteenth Hour* (1946) is memorable for only three reasons: It is the penultimate entry in our *Whistler* series, it is Richard Dix's last *Whistler* outing, and it is his last movie, period, suffering a heart attack during the filming and dying a short time later in 1949. Without those caveats, *The Thirteenth Hour* does not distinguish itself in any significant way--no stylish direction, no big surprise twist beyond that of any cheap mystery, and no exciting denouement to speak of. Oh sure, it's only 66 minutes, but it's only moderately more exciting than an episode of *Jeff's Collie* in which Lassie tries to inform the town constabulary that Farmer Pete pitchforked his foot while baling hay, slipped backward over the water pump and fell into the well while bank robbers broke into his house to find the money Pete had stolen from the sugar beet truck hijacking scheme he masterminded.

Instead of that scenario we find truck driver Steve Reynolds (Dix in a sympathetic role for once) newly engaged to diner owner Eileen Blair (Karen Morley) who runs the place with her son Tommy (Mark Dennis). After one celebratory birthday drink to Eileen's honor, Steve trucks out into the night and into the path of a drunken driver who causes him to swerve off the road, demolishing a gas station. Steve's rival for Eileen's affection, motorcycle cop Don Parker (Regis Toomey), is right on the spot, arresting Steve for drunk driving even though Steve is stone sober, causing him to lose his license. Sinister Jerry Mason (Jim Bannon) tries to buy out Steve's line, but to no avail. Later when one of his drivers calls in sick and he can find no one else to cover the route, Steve throws caution to the wind, drives the rig himself and is hijacked by a masked man (no, not the Lone Ranger) who knocks him unconscious, speeds along the road and runs over Parker and his motorcycle before jumping from the truck, leaving Steve to face the consequences with a discarded glove missing a thumb. So there's no chance for hitchhiking.

Naturally, as is prudent in such matters, Steve goes into hiding, leaving the glove in the hands of his fiancee Eileen while trying to root out the thug who set him up. Enlisting the help of his buddy Charlie Cook (John Kellogg) to infiltrate Jerry Mason's truck line and hopefully catch him in commission of a crime, Steve dodges police while investigating the hinky hijinks of the trucking industry, presumably led by The Man With No Thumb. Charlie discovers Jerry is in the hot car trade, and the dragnet closes around Steve, who finds a cache of diamonds. I swear, this movie has more Macguffins than six Hitchcock movies, and about one-thirteenth of the suspense. Meanwhile, Officer McGillicuddy mis-deciphers Lassie's incessant barking to mean Farmer Peet's cold cuts delivery truck has pitched into a fork in the road, pumping gas and water into the bank, which is robbing the sugar beet farmers of proper irrigation and hijacking their profits.

*The Thirteenth Hour* is another one of those titles (the original being "The Hunter Is A Fugitive" which again makes more sense) that has only fleeting relevance to the story. It might as easily have been called "Keep On Truckin'," which would again make more sense. Or maybe "Death Hits A Pothole" or "Love On The Skids." In any event, it's a serviceable quickie and, in the words of the Beatles, "nothing to get hung about." Eileen and her son Tommy (who reads a hardbound copy of *Studies In Necophobia*, a nice nod to the first *Whistler* film) help the plot along in its routine unfurling and familiar cast of nasties. Dix seems a bit lighter in this one, actually smiling a couple times even though he's at the tail end of his career due to health and alcohol concerns.

And when it comes to DVD choices, the Sony packaging, while much more expensive for individual movies, is FAR superior to the Onesmedia "Collection" which is cheap, muddy and at times so marred by scratches, hideous cuts and lack of focus that you'll swear you're watching the films through the bottom of an unwashed 1937 Hires Root Beer stein. The Youtube copy accompanying this commentary is better, but still blurry in spots. So that brings us to our final *Whistler* story tomorrow, after which I'll be moving on to a couple nice Pre-Code entries known for their controversial subject matter with Mae Clark, Barbara Stanwyck and Jean Harlow. Good stuff, Maynard.

Oh, and everything worked out all right with Lassie: Mom Ellen Miller (Jan Clayton), Gramps (George Cleveland) and Jeff (Tommy Rettig) correct Officer McGillicuddy (Bonita Granville Wrather) to save Farmer Pete (Andy Clyde) from the well and bring him to justice with a sprained ankle and wet drawers. The Millers give the stolen sugar beets to the Church Bazaar and everybody thanks Lassie for being so on top of her game, rewarding her with a key to the city made of Milk Bone. So all's well that ends in the well. Ah, that life could be so simple.
Enjoy.
Jeff

ghemrats wrote:Well, the drones are in full force today.

I'm glad Ya cleared that up. I thought that buzzing noise was in my head.

Eagerly awaiting these next two. And trying to guess which flicks are the picks.

Post #474 (Still another from Palindrome Theater):  Today we bring down the curtain on the Whistler-A-Thon with the eighth and last in the series, and as movie adaptations go it's not too bad, though once again it does not end in The Whistler's iconic ironic twist, and it's the only Whistler film that does not star Richard Dix.  And that's okay, for Michael Duane (who to me looks like an intense Jack Haley) carries the load of today's feature, *The Return Of The Whistler* (1948). The greatest strength of this offering comes from realizing it was based on a Cornell Woolrich story, always a plus in the noir concrete jungle.

Even though its direction from D. Ross Lederman (best known for a slew of B movies and directing the *Captain Midnight* television series) is absolutely routine, the film does use The Whistler's shadow to good effect, sliding up the side of a car in a torrential rain storm and sneaking into a spotlit door at night.  But it's basically by-the-numbers otherwise, which is neither a criticism nor a strength, just a statement of existence.  As we open the story, Theodore Anthony ''Ted'' Nichols (Duane) and his fiancee Alice Dupres Barkley (Lenore Aubert, who is quite good) brave the elements to get married outside of town after a whirlwind two-day courtship.  While they learn that the Justice of the Peace they've selected has been called away, a dark limousine pulls up alongside their car and a shadowy figure raises their hood, obviously sabotaging their motor, before rocketing away into the night again.

Disappointed that they must wait until the next morning to be hitched, they find their car distressingly coughing and wheezing and finally sputtering out down the road, in front of a hotel with no vacancies.  But Ted finds the nightman (Olin Howland) receptive to a $20 bribe ($206 today, adjusted for inflation) and secures a single-bed room for Alice, leaving Ted to take his car to the local garage and stay there for the night.  When he returns to the hotel the next day, Alice is gone, having checked out that morning, leaving Ted foaming and spitting like his car.  And so in the first taut half hour of this 60 minute thriller we follow Ted unraveling the mystery with the help of private dick Gaylord Traynor (Richard Lane) whom he meets and befriends in anger and confusion.

The second half of the film draws some suspense when Ted and Traynor track down Alice, who we're led to believe is mentally imbalanced and cared for by her husband Charlie (James Cardwell), his mother (Ann Shoemaker) and a couple other relatives in their opulent mansion.  A more skilled director more firmly invested in the story could have wrought some real excitement from the set-up, and while there isn't so much of a twist as there is a plot development, *The Return Of The Whistler* bows out as the last of the series.  Critics and historians, as well as *Whistler* mavens, agree that Duane was fine if not very charismatic in the role, but the entire series lost unique appeal when Dix was sidelined. What I found most disappointing was the safe and sappy happy ending--The Whistler's radio appearances almost always held a dramatic tweak in the last minutes.

"Serviceable" is the only word for this entry, even though I've thrown a few hundred extra in for effect.  But I'm going to return to *The Haunting Of Hill House*, the Netflix series, for a rousing recommendation.  With only one episode to go in the ten-part series, I'm still invested and freaked out by its ratcheting suspense, terrific direction and set design, and complex character portrayals.  If the ending turns out to be a bust, it'll still hold up as some of the most compelling television I've seen since *Breaking Bad*--and for me, that's saying something.  

Sidebar: My wife steadfastly refused to watch *Breaking Bad* despite my insistence, bolstered by our son's enthusiasm, that it was required viewing for human beings.  I coaxed her into following *Better Call Saul*, and she begrudgingly started it and now has become a big fan. . . so much so that she now wants to start *BB* from the beginning.  Major win [salute to Noah Stoffel​ and Emily Williams​] there.  So now I'm on a new mission:  She will probably hate *Hill House* because she's not into supernatural stuff beyond *Charmed* and *The Good Witch*, but I'll keep you posted on my progress.  For everyone else--SEE IT!

And so tomorrow we will commence a set of features from Pre-Code Hollywood and classic features.  My hope is we can find some truly untouched morsels of fun to flesh out the variety.  I also have a Buster Keaton favorite stored up for the coming days, one that made me laugh so hard I was crying in the theater.  Not a pretty sight to leave you with today, but hey, the weekend will make up for it.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Here's one for my buddy Space. Holy crow!

Post #476: Welcome to Pre-Code Hollywood, folks. Over the next couple days I'll be commenting on films made before the Hays Code went into effect in full force in 1934. And today's feature, *Red-Headed Woman* (1932) starring Jean Harlow left me breathless until I could muster enough energy to utter "Cheezalou!" No, there is nothing cheesy in this little morality tale, just a narrative flow that allowed my eyes to grow wider with each passing scene until the final jaw-dropper. Evidently the finished cut was finally approved with seventeen cuts made to assuage the folks in the Hays Office. But even then. . . . Cheezalou!

Banned in the UK with a screenplay by Anita Loos (after F. Scott Fitzgerald and Marcel de Sano begrudgingly worked together on a first draft which caused producer Irving Thalberg to hire Loos to loosen it up with comedy), *The Red-Haired Woman* starts the ball rolling with maneating temptress Lillian "Lil" (Red) Andrews (Jean Harlow) trying on clothes and asking if they're too see-through (they are, and she gleefully buys them). Driven with a sense of ambition to get ahead at any cost, she cunningly sets out to seduce her boss William "Bill" Legendre Jr. (Chester Morris), whose wife Irene (Leila Hyams). is away for a couple days. For the first few passes Bill is upright and faithful, but Red is persistent and Bill buckles like a newborn deer trying to hoist a Norge refrigerator on its back.

As you can see from the clip accompanying today's commentary, for 1932 this is pretty steamy stuff. But the seductive cat and mouse and babytalk are just the precursors to Bill and Red's marriage, following a rather painful divorce from Irene, who eventually decides to give Bill another chance but too late. While it's advertised as a romantic comedy, and it does have its light minutes, the drive of the film is anything but comedic unless you are one to delight in the unrepentant wantonness of Red's character, followed along by her dear friend Sally (Una Merkel), who stands in awe of Red's brazenness. As supportive father William "Will" Legendre, Sr. (Lewis Stone) looks on at his son's moral whirlpool, Bill seems at some level to realize his wife sees herself as community property as she sets her sights higher in society.

One part social commentary as the less than cultured Red struggles to fit into the good graces of Bill's upper class cronies, one part comedy, one part sexual politicking, one part powerhouse performance from Harlow, and a dash of a scandalous unchecked denouement in which the "bad guy" gets away and indeed prospers--*The Red-Headed Woman* is 79 minutes of dynamite no matter how you wish to light the fuse, either from indignation, passion or surprise. When it was released, letters of protest from religious constituents in the South demanded the film be re-edited or scenes involving Jean Harlow's diaphanous and low cut wardrobe be excised, and Darryl Zanuck, executive producer at Warner Brothers, also complained that *The Red-Headed Woman* got the go-ahead while one of his films was denied. Editorials sprang up denouncing the film as "filth," saying, "pictures of this kind, instead of attracting customers to the theatres, will drive them away. Thus will they [motion picture producers] defeat their own purpose."

But more than anything Red's rather steady supply of willing men don't seem to have much trouble with her. When Will and Bill Legendre's wealthy and long standing friend and coal magnate Charles B. Gaerste (Henry Stephenson) "spends" an afternoon in his hotel room with Red while she's married to Bill, we see just how conniving she is. (Watch for a liaison with Gaerste's chauffeur Charles Boyer later, which suggests money isn't the only attraction Red finds in New York.) The group dynamics of the girl are one thing, but the casualness of her machinations is another, and that approach to life must have sizzled the garters off audiences in 1932.

And surprisingly there are ample opportunities for Jean Harlow to flaunt her svelte frame, including two scenes which come dangerously close to giving the audience a fleeting view of her upper frontal superstructure unmasked. Her energy and steamrolling tenacity literally trounce the men in this picture: Chester Morris is such a milquetoast spinal cracker that he hides in Daddy's office, leaving the old man to buy off Red so Bill won't have to, and Henry Stephenson is such a flustered old goat that his confrontation with incriminating photos of Red before his marriage to her is almost comical; what did he expect since she was doing the same thing to Bill with old Charlie?

Watch this for the madcap whirling dervish that is Jean Harlow and do your best not to wonder what's in her kiss that reduces men to Maypo. And don't go looking for a moral to the story (or morals in the story). It's one heck of a ride, whether you're in a taxi or the backseat of a Parisian limousine with a loving cup and a chauffeur to make the journey worthwhile.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Jeff, far be it from me to say "I told you so" but...

I TOLD YOU SO!

The pre-code era was a unique time. This was the end of The Roaring Twenties and deep into the Depression. And many of the movies represented the world at the time. They ranged from sordid to absolute art. I love to dig one up randomly from the era, that I've never seen and watch it just to see what happens.

Post #477: Another excursion into Pre-Code Hollywood offers us a romantic tale of wartime strife and the struggle to subsist in England. While considerably more tame that yesterday's fare, today's feature *Waterloo Bridge* (1931) still skirts the periphery of compromised life choices while dancing around the protagonist's plight. Tame by today's rugged standards, the film was edited dramatically to comply with censor boards in Chicago, New York City, and Pennsylvania, leaving it to languish in obscurity after its initial release for nearly fifty years. Chicago's board wrote, "Prostitution is a subject that neither our Ordinance nor Commissioner Alcock permits us to leave in pictures whether for an adult or a general permit. It is a clear violation of all our standards and also, we had understood, a violation of the underlying purpose of the [Motion Picture Production] Code." Yada yada yada.

Surprisingly, when MGM bought the rights to the property from Universal in 1939, they filmed a more sanitized, less tragic version of the story with Mervyn LeRoy as director one year later with Vivian Leigh and Robert Taylor in the wake of *Gone With The Wind*. Now that I've seen the original 1931 version with Mae Clarke and the mannequin-like porcelain first timer Douglass Montgomery, I'll be up for the remake purely for comparison reasons. But that's for another day.

Before this excursion, the only films in which I'd seen star Mae Clarke were *The Public Enemy* (1931) in which she is the recipient of James Cagney's forceful grapefruit kiss to the face and in *Frankenstein* as Henry Frankenstein's bride chased by Boris Karloff. Can't this poor girl catch a break? Evidently not, for as England is engulfed in WWI and times are tough for everyone, former chorus girl Myra Deauville (Mae Clarke) barely lives hand to mouth as an escort, a lifestyle that haunts her as the sympathetic star of this picture.

But during an air raid one night on Waterloo Bridge, the point of entry to the city for soldiers on leave to sow some wild oats, she meets 19-year-old American Roy Cronin (Douglass Montgomery), a fresh and innocent member of the Canadian Army. Dodging bombs and helping an old woman carry her basket of potatoes and cabbage to safety, Myra and Roy cautiously make their way through the night, the strafing of the city taking precedence over Myra's cruising for company. Roy sees her home to a cheap apartment, obviously smitten with her, for she is a lovely if weary and wary woman, as he's unaware of her background. They share a slight meal of fish and chips, Roy growing increasingly enamored of her noble attempts to find high spirits in her life, offering to square her back rent with landlady Mrs. Hobley (Ethel Griffies). But Myra refuses his offer and they part until he returns bearing flowers the next day.

Goaded on by Myra's friend Kitty (Doris Lloyd), Roy continues to pursue Myra, pledging his love and taking her to his family's country estate to meet his mother Mrs. Mary Cronin Wetherby (Enid Bennett), his step-father the hilarious if hearing impaired Major Fred Weatherby (Frederick Kerr) and his sister Janet (Bette Davis in her third film role). Plagued by self-doubt and self-recriminations though she's also falling in love with Roy, she privately confesses her war-torn lifestyle choices to Mrs. Wetherby, acknowledging her unworthiness to marry Roy and receiving a gracious absolution from the wealthy mother, who understands the awful toll the war has taken on everyone.

I won't divulge any more of the plot here, lest you take a chance with this lovely little romance freighted with tragedy. But its denouement is yet another jaw-dropper, its final shot before the fateful words THE END pop up on the screen a shock and a telling indication of the period's karmic lesson. Universal Pictures founder Carl Laemmle, Jr. bought the rights to Robert E. Sherwood's Broadway play, which lasted only 64 performances, produced the film with a low budget of $252,000, and gave director James Whale a 26-day shooting schedule. And Mae Clarke said of the film, "I knew James Whale was imported as one of England's very best and was aware of the great success of the play and film *Journey's End*. I wanted to meet Mr. Whale the way I would have entered college to begin learning. . . Our relationship was the adoration between a teacher (who was expert) and a pupil (who was most willing.) And our objectives became 'What did the author want? What did he not say and assumed we would? We could forget ourselves.'"

*Waterloo Bridge* is not a lurid, sordid affair, but a strong character drama focused on how we might become our own harshest and most unforgiving critics. Even the promotional material for the film's release in 1931 makes it clear this is not a potboiler: "As this picture unfolds on the screen, you will find no maudlin, mushy, run-of-the-mill story, but a triumph of human emotion depicting the glamour of an all-conquering love in the sordid surroundings of a great city." This promise is magnified in Myra's painful declaration to Roy's insistence that she is worth being loved: "I'd be ashamed to even introduce you to my people, if they were living, which they aren't. Thank God! And do you want to know why I'd be ashamed? Because my mother and father were a couple of drunken sots! And they lived in East St. Louis, that exclusion suburb! That's where I came from. I ran away and went on the stage because I was scared to stay in my own home! I was scared that one of them would kill me when they were liquored. That's how much aristocracy I am!"

Mae Clarke was certainly worthy of Oscar nomination, as she recalled with an interviewer in 1985, for she runs the full gamut of emotions, making her Myra a conflicted and sophisticated woman in trouble. "I think Whale saw something I know I had then, [in her role in (*The Public Enemy*]" Clarke later recalled, "and that was a basic confusion and insecurity I didn't mind projecting into my work. [Whale] wanted to see what you thought of it. He wouldn't say how to do it, he would tell you what was happening." As I mentioned first timer Douglass Montgomery fares far less well, taking special attention from director Whale who actually shut down production on the film for three days to coach Montgomery in his acting. Despite this, Whale brought the film in $50,000 under budget, so impressing producer Laemmle that he hired Whale to direct his next Universal feature, *Frankenstein*, which paved the way for Whale's success at Universal for years to come with *The Old Dark House* (1932), *The Invisible Man* (1933) and *Bride of Frankenstein* (1935), showing a lighter touch with *Show Boat* in 1936. (Sadly, Whale committed suicide in 1957 at age 67, drowning himself in his Pacific Palisades swimming pool after suffering from heavy drinking, a stroke, and depression treated by shock therapy.)

According to *Pre-Code.com*, "The real tragedy in all of this is how undeniably excellent Mae Clarke is in the main role. It’s rare to see a character so torn by desire and strained nobility, and her every mannerism and guarded smile is just that of a person so broken by the system that they’re mortally terrified at the chance of bringing another person to their level." The real kicker, of course, is the stodgy morality that does not allow Myra to be heroic for her vulnerability and persistence in the face of overweening judgment and the desperation that blinds her to the acceptance of others, freely given with love and respect for her essential humanness. Mrs. Wetherby's assessment that she is a kind soul and a good spirit are not enough to break the wall in which she's confined herself. And damn the censors who unfeelingly allow her to find that dream unrealized out of some weirdly perverted "moral" code. This is 81 minutes of soul searching.

So another big pat on the back to my buddy Space Cadet​ for coaxing me into further investigation of movies long lost to the archives. This is powerful stuff well worth a look and a thought. Another one tomorrow.

Jeff, I put my soapbox back in the closet. You just go explore for yourself and have a good time. Of course any you find which you'd like to recommend would be happily welcome.

I've raided Amazon and should have a nice supply coming soon. Tomorrow will be the last "official" Pre-Code piece I have until later in the week, but this is great fun. Soapbox or not, I appreciate the assist; I think we're workin' well together, pal.
Jeff

Well Jeff, our relationship has been a lot like Stan and Ollie for many years. Conveniently, both of us can switch from Stan to Ollie and back at the drop of a bowler.

At some point in the future, I may start recommending some silent classics. A few years ago, I was lucky enough to attend a performance of Metropolis, in a renovated 1920's theater, complete with a live orchestra. That was an amazing experience.

Post #478: Hotcha cha! I got my hands on the uncensored pre-release version of today's Pre-Code Hollywood feature, the notorious *Baby Face* (1933), which was almost yanked from distribution altogether until Darryl Zanuck, Jack Warner and members of Association of Motion Picture Producers (AMPP) wrangled a way to make the film more acceptable to mass audiences and the Hays Office. I have to admit, watching both, the pre-release version is superior, with its more controversial scenes left in and its original ambiguous ending retained. So today, dear friends, I'll comment on Barbara Stanwyck's unadulterated adultery of the original, noting what cuts were implemented and changes made as we go along. And holy schnikes, I can see why this caused such an uproar in 1933 when it was shot in 18 days at a cost of $187,000.

*Baby Face* is a slightly used moniker for Lily Powers (Barbara Stanwyck, who had input into the story), a hardened but spirited young woman stuck in a seedy apartment doubling as a speakeasy during Prohibition with her cigar chomping, disreputable father (Robert Barrat) in Erie, Pennsylvania. Clearly intimated is that Lily has been pimped out to customers since age 14 by her father to keep his business operating. Only her best friend Chico (Theresa Harris) and the elderly cobbler Cragg (Alphonse Ethier) who admires Friedrich Nietzsche are trustworthy in her eyes. So when Pop is killed in a fiery still explosion, Lily and Chico hop a freight, Lily securing safe passage from a railroad guard as only she knows how, being a coquettish flirt, and he becomes the first of (by my count) eight men she "charms" (as she unbuttons her blouse with a come-hither look) in her pursuit of success in the film.

Armed with a book of Nietzsche gifted to her from Cragg, she finds the Will to Power, ingesting the old man's message to her [this is the original, non-sanitized speech; the revision removes determinism, replacing it with soft homilies like "There is a right way and a wrong way. Remember the price of the wrong way is too great." Compare that sentiment to the original: "A woman, young, beautiful like you, can get anything she wants in the world. Because you have power over men. But you must use men, not let them use you. You must be a master, not a slave. Look here – Nietzsche says, 'All life, no matter how we idealize it, is nothing more nor less than exploitation.' That's what I'm telling you. Exploit yourself. Go to some big city where you will find opportunities! Use men! Be strong! Defiant! Use men to get the things you want!"] Whoa, Lordy Momma, those Friday nights. . . .

And using men becomes Lily's stock and trade. After the railroad bull, she and Chico make it to New York, where in the Gotham Trust building, she seduces the personnel worker to land a job. Director Alfred E. Green then coyly climbs the windows of the building floor by floor with each of Lily's conquests, moving on to the filing department where she begins an affair with Jimmy McCoy Jr. (a 25-year-old John Wayne), who recommends her for promotion to his boss. Up the ladder to the roof we go, methodically scaling the building. Brody (Douglass Dumbrille) relieves Lily of her entanglements with Jimmy, takes an active interest in her and under her spell transfers her to the mortgage department where they are caught (in the women's bathroom no less) in flagrante delicto by a rising young executive, Ned Stevens (Donald Cook). Weeping and claiming to be victimized by Brody, Baby Face, as she's now called by office regulars behind her back, finds herself in Ned's accounting department . . . and in his arms, presumably handling his briefs, even though Ned is engaged to wealthy Ann Carter (Margaret Lindsay), the daughter of the bank's First Vice President J. P. Carter (Henry Kolker). Are we having fun yet? In the morning, in the evening, ain't we had fun?

Maneuvering a way to have Ann catch them swapping spit, Lily tearfully tells JP that she didn't know Ned was engaged and takes up a mournful, self-recriminating posture on the old man's couch until he takes pity on her waifish innocence and sets her up in a swanky apartment plying her with jewels, wine and exclusive access to his, uhm, attentions, with Chico acting as Lily's maid. But here's where it gets fun. . . .

Distraught over his affair, and completely consumed--not with guilt but with lust--Ned tracks her down in stark panic, pleading with her to take him back as he cannot sleep without her (note THAT play on words) and must possess her completely. Oscar Mayer never made a wiener this big, brandishing a pistol and threatening to kill himself if she doesn't come back to him. Of course near-father-in-law JP Carter is in the next room preparing for a night's frivolity of slap and tickle, but tries to remain incognito, but. . . . oh heck, the jig is up. Lily stands outside the bedroom wondering how it will all pan out, and discovers--with two gunshot reports, she will need a pan and probably a big supply of Bon Ami to clean up this mess.

But wait! There's more! We're only halfway through. We still have the new bank president, Courtland Trenholm (George Brent), the grandson of Gotham Trust's founder and a notorious playboy, to contend with. With the bank in scandal and Lily preparing to sell her story to the newspapers for $10,000 (the equivalent of $193,875 today)--or maybe $15,000 if she can quietly extort a higher sum from the board of directors, negotiations begin. So I will stop here with the plot lines, as more possibilities open as swiftly as Lily's blouse and skirts, but why spoil your fun? Let's shift gears for a moment to showcase some of the differences between the pre-release and theatrical cuts.

First of all, the Nietzsche *Will To Power* material has been considerably softened, almost to the point of opposition, making Cragg a kindly old moralist rather than a gritty determinist. Lily's father is seen taking money from a customer to vacate the room so he can have his way with LIly. Lily is manhandled from behind by the patron, kneading her breasts like bread dough--and that's a first for me, seldom having seen an actor grab the heroine's breasts in film. The boxcar sequence has been edited as being deemed too racy as the pre-release cut shows Lily lying back on a bale of straw as James Murray's brakeman moves toward her and Chico sings *St. Louis Blues* across the car. In the theatrical version Cragg has inserted a letter to Lily in his book, a highly moral entreaty whereas the original had highlighted a passage from Nietzsche saying "crush out all sentiment."

But the biggest shift is the ending, which leaves no question in the audience's minds that Lily has returned to the steel town and its factories, proving the moralism that engaging in sex to make the grade will not pay dividends in the final analysis. It's a similar morality that made *Waterloo Bridge* such a striking gut punch, though here it's more of a traditional "happy ending."

Since Stanwyck was considered “an inventive partner in the sleaze,” often notations in the script advised “We go as far in this scene as the censors will allow.” The net result, whatever version you see, is indeed racy and controversial by the standards of the Catholic League of Decency, and Barbara Stanwyck's almost engulfing insouciance ("There's been an accident," she says straight faced when two men are killed in her bedroom) make this exciting viewing. Also powerful is the relationship between Lily and Chico, who is broken in her own way not sexually but culturally through the abuse and subservience thrust upon her by Lily's father. Lily values Chico as very much her equal, standing up for her and letting her in on her machinations. Theresa Harris said, "I never felt the chance to rise above the role of maid in Hollywood movies. My color was against me...my ambitions are to be an actress. Hollywoood had no parts for me," evidenced by the Code's insistence that minorities be relegated to stereotypical roles. Thus *Baby Face* broke more than merely sexual barriers, and its original cut was lost until 2004 when Library of Congress curator Mike Mashon found the original camera negative for the Warner Brothers film and compared it to a duplicate negative in the collection. He couldn’t believe what he had found, “It was a moment archivists live for. I knew in the first five minutes that this version was different. I can’t begin to describe the sheer joy of discovery, the feeling that I may have been the first person since 1933 to see *Baby Face* uncut.”

Like *The Red-Haired Woman* (1934), *Baby Face* is a real gender reversal film, suggesting female sexuality is just as rampant as the good old boys' network. Viewed as "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant" and selected for preservation in the United States Library of Congress National Film Registry, *Baby Face* was also named by *Time* magazine as one of the 100 best movies of the last 80 years. For its lean and fast paced 76 minutes (pre-release version; theatrical version is 71 minutes), it is a genuine piece of cinematic history burgeoning with prime talent. And Barbara Stanwyck--she's got the cutest little baby face . . . with a heart of platinum.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #479: Our excursion into Pre-Code Hollywood continues with a film that was nominated for Best Picture and won star Norma Shearer a Best Actress Academy Award, while skating around the delicate subject of infidelity and retributive sex.  It's a doozy, all right, with Norma Shearer successfully shooting down popular conjecture that she wasn't sexy or pretty enough to play the role, swaying opinion with a sexy photographic campaign in lingerie via George Hurrell's expertise, landing the role from MGM head and her husband Irving Thalberg, and successfully pissing off Joan Crawford for taking the role Crawford was heavily lobbying to play.  And so, against the advice of her maid who couldn't see Norma in a "bad girl" role, Norma Shearer, who was pregnant during the shoot, took home the Oscar.

Full Film Click Here
Yes, my dear friends, prepare yourself for today's feature *The Divorcee* (1930), also starring the formidable Chester Morris, Robert Montgomery, Conrad Nagel, Helen Johnson, and Florence Eldridge.  And despite its 1929 source novel *Ex-Wife* by Ursula Parrott being so "salacious" it was published anonymously, *The Divorcee* today could be broadcast during prime time on the Family Channel, though it would probably stimulate some discussion among the younger kids.

Jerry (Norma Shearer) and Ted (Chester Morris) are an idyllic couple (for the first twenty minutes of the film), becoming engaged at a mountain resort with a cluster of their upper class New York friends, including Paul (Conrad Nagel) who is crestfallen at their coming nuptials. It's a grand celebration with much drinking (remember it's Prohibition, though no one in this circle seems to pay any mind to it), but when they all leave to return to the City, Paul is schnockered but insistent that he drive down the twisting mountain roads at excessive speeds in a harrowing scene of daredevilry.  Off the road he and his three passengers go, disfiguring Dorothy (Helen Johnson) who is enamored of Paul.

Our scene shifts to two weddings: a sumptuous MGM-polished Art Deco church affair for Jerry and Ted, juxtaposed against a simple, stripped down hospital ceremony between Paul and a heavily bandaged Dorothy.  Fast forward three years, as Jerry and Ted are surprised by an impromptu party at their luxurious high-rise apartment by a number of the old gang--plus one hanger-on, Janice Meredith (Mary Doran), a "floating grass widow" [woman whose husband is away for extended periods) who "floats them and gets them," according to Ted's best friend Don (Robert Montgomery).  Uhmm, yup. . . I guess that's why Ted seems to out of sorts at the sight of her.  But when Jerry finds her wrapped around Ted in the kitchen, that cat is out of the bag, even though Ted insists his drunken one-nighter "didn't mean a thing."  Happy anniversary, honey.

"It didn't mean a thing"--the mantra of the movie, and it's accurate too: it didn't mean A thing, it meant A LOT of things. And that's what *The Divorcee* explores as Jerry runs the range of emotions while Ted is away on a business trip: hurt, betrayal, anger, frustration, disillusionment, numbness, and with good old Don around to watch after her, abandon.  What's good for a goose (to the marriage) is good for a gander (which Don does, and when Ted returns home to hear "I've balanced our accounts" Don hops the first ship to Nowhere Anywhere But Far Away).  In perfect double standard stupidity, Ted blows up, causing Jerry, heartbroken, still in love but shocked by Ted's hypocrisy, to conclude: "The looser they are, the more they get! The best in the world! No responsibility! Well, my dear, I'm gonna find out how they do it! So, look for me in the future where the primroses grow. And catch your man's pride with the rest! And from now on, you're the only man in the world that my door is closed to!"  Whoa!  You go, girl!

The transformation of Jerry from steadfast helpmate and perfect companion to glamorous social butterfly and accomplished flirt is a marvel to behold, while Ted spirals into self-pity and alcoholism, buffeted about by outrage and stinging rebuke ("Husbands should never be late. No, sir. You never know who's sitting on the bench, waiting to take your place when you fall out of the game," he whines at a wedding reception).  Norma Shearer's body language changes to accommodate her new attitude; she's in constant motion, restless, her hands never inactive but perpetually primping and rearranging herself--and I was reminded of the Gene Saks Leo Herman (Chuckles The Chipmunk) character in *A Thousand Clowns* (1965) who had to "keep touching myself to make sure I'm still there."  Her scene in the train car with one of her suitors, Ivan (Theodore von Eltz), is bracing with its insecurity.

When she reconnects with Paul, now merely existing in his marriage to Dorothy, a spark of life is reignited and we're ready to see Jerry's profound growth from the entire affair (perhaps not the finest choice of word there, but somehow it fits).  In cinematic terms their trip off the Catalina shoreline is metaphorically telling: Not only is it a location shoot, which was technically daunting considering they are in a small craft and acoustics were challenging with the water and wind (which proved no mean feat for her brother, sound recording director Douglas Shearer), not to mention lighting and camera mobility were of utmost concern--it's also dramatic that Jerry has been at sea without Ted, drifting to find herself, and here she is reminded of her early years, her innocence and trust intact.  Her movements are languid, her face at rest.

*The Divorcee* does not end there, but offers the truest measure of Jerry's "evolution" when she finds herself at the peak of Paul's triangle with Dorothy.  Yet this is not a seedy, gritty drama we've come to associate with Pre-Code films, but an adult reckoning and investigation of the sexual double standard that would rule Hollywood films after 1934, when the Hays Office all but stripped women of the right to equal treatment in film.  The great female roles like Shearer's Jerry--joining those of formidable women like Garbo, Harlow, Dietrich, Stanwyck, Lombard, Crawford, Davis and Colbert--disappeared to large degree, subjugated to supportive domestic roles, leading actresses today to complain in recent years that "there just aren't good meaty roles for women," due to the male dominated industry.  These Pre-Code films "balance our accounts," which makes them historically impudent but courageous and worth noting and studying.

Considering *The Divorcee* was filmed in 22 days *without a single second take,* which for MGM was almost unheard of, and Joan Crawford bitterly complained at losing several MGM parts to Shearer but "What do you expect? She sleeps with the boss," the film stands as a nuanced production worth watching closely.  And, calling all fashionistas, you should especially take note of the fashions by Adrian (Adrian Adolph Greenburg), who loved Norma Shearer for her ability to showcase his designs, complimenting her shoulders and frame as perfect for his vision; Adrian was a master of 1930s and 1940s costume design, working in over 260 films, renown for his gowns.  In fact Norma Shearer's Hurrell shoot employed a gown almost identical to the one she wears in the train compartment scene--dazzling.

Coming in at 84 minutes, under the strong Academy Award nominated direction of Robert Z. Leonard, *The Divorcee* is well worth your time, illustrating the grand polish of MGM during the depression.  It's simply a gorgeous film with great material.
Enjoy.
Jeff

George Hurrell was the master.

It sure is hot in here today.
Jeff

Space I agree that looks like a Eileen Gray coffee table very nice ....

Post #480:  Norma Shearer (up again for a Best Actress Academy Award) is joined by one Hoowah! of a cast in today's Pre-Code Hollywood feature--Lionel Barrymore (who succeeded in walking away with a Best Actor Oscar), Leslie Howard, James Gleason (who's been one of my favorites since I first saw him as Sylvester the cabbie in *The Bishop's Wife* 1947) and coming in fifth in the promotional listing--Clark Gable (in one of the 14 movies he made in that year).  With a plot involving premarital sex, alcoholism, murder, gambling, and threats of kidnapping, we proudly bring you *A Free Soul* (1931), the fifth most popular film of 1931, earning MGM a profit of $244,000 ($3.75M adjusted for inflation). So see, folks, sex, drunkenness and several of the seven deadly sins were alive and well and popular even then.

Banned in Ireland and voted "One of the Ten Best Pictures of 1931" by the Film Daily Nationwide Poll, *A Free Soul* explores the separation of the classes dramatically from the snobs' point of view: high society dowagers and their stiff mountebank husbands discriminating against even those in their "class" who stoop to be human, enjoying their lives rather than sitting around idly stapling their noses to the cavernous ceilings of their glistening apartments and passing judgment on everyone, including their own families.  Into this aristocratic asininity is born Jan Ashe (Norma Shearer) to her father Stephen (Lionel Barrymore), a high powered defense attorney.  Neither Jan nor Stephen sees anything but the backs of their family's heads as Jan is considered too frivolous and free wheeling (i.e., an individual with freedom of thought), while Stephen manages to stay in the family's company only through excessive drinking.

When Stephen successfully defends notorious gangster Ace Wilfong (Clark Gable) against a murder charge, and Jan finds him charming, compelling and mutually attractive, the stage is set for all manner of mischief, especially since Jan is recently engaged to the winner of the Mr. Bland White Bread Rich Boy Contest, Dwight Winthrop (Leslie Howard).  As luck (and the script) would have it, Jan breaks her engagement to spend time (that's a euphemism, friends, suggesting she spends several months--not to be blunt, but in sessions of congress) with Ace in his opulent secret digs above his gambling house where the drinks flow with greater clarity and speed than the Tittabawassee and her father sinks lower into alcoholism, both being disowned by the Family.  Jan is a real feminist in her interests here, reacting to Ace's dangerous proclivities: "You're just a new kind of man in a new kind of world."

[In one particularly racy scene, Jan lies back on Ace's bed in a negligee, stretching her arms out him and breathily stating, "Come on, put them around me," prompting a contemporary magazine to write, "Norma Shearer can well afford to look regal with all of us clamoring for her more loudly than ever. She wears this knockout negligee in *A Free Soul* which you must see. It's tangerine velvet, girls, with one of those trains that is simply 'tripping'!"  Designer Adrian surely went out of his way to adorn Norma Shearer in this film, augmenting dialogue like, "Men of action are better in action; they don't talk well."]

Ah, but when Ace determines that Jan is more than just a fling and asks Stephen for his blessing on their union, the irascible old lawyer sputters in an inebriated fit of pique, drunk on Ace's whiskey, and forbids the two to get married. Ace is okay to enjoy in a romp, but for heaven's sake, he's not on the side of the tracks of the people who own the trains. (Stephen says to Ace, ""The only time I hate democracy is when one of you mongrels forgets where you belong!  A few illegal dollars and a clean shirt and you move across the railroad tracks. Tell your boy to bring me some libations, and don't insult your guests!") So seeing her father spiraling out of control, Jan begs a bargain with her father: She will stop seeing Ace forever if he gives up the bottle--forever. So much easier pledged than done.  With Stephen's right hand man Eddie (James Gleason) in tow, father and daughter head for the mountains to cleanse their systems of what ails them.

Three months later, cured of their vices, they decide to return to the city, but on the way Stephen doesn't just slip off the wagon--he does a half gainer, disappears, and descends into skid row residency while Jan, despondent and broken hearted, returns to Ace who now vehemently insists she marry him, so much so that Jan finally sees Ace for the ruthless thug he is.  Fearing physical harm to herself and her family, she falls back in with Dwight, and the doody goes smashing into the air conditioner.

No more spoilers, but I can share with you that *A Free Soul* holds the Guinness Book of World Records for the longest Guinness Book of World Records (2002), the movie holds the record for the longest take in a Hollywood film shot in 35mm: 14 minutes filmed with six cameras in a climactic courtroom scene with Lionel Barrymore delivering a bravura speech which surely clenched his Academy Award.  His 2.5-minute monologue is powerful acting capped in melodrama, well worth admission to the film in itself.

There's some humor here amidst the social wrangling, underscoring the division of the classes when Ace asks his buddy Slouch to explain to Jan why the Hardy mob tried to fix him up: Slouch responds, "Well, the mug that was rubbed out, Miss, was a snoop of the chief's runnin' with the Hardy mob, slippin' us the lowdown. Hardy gets hep to it and he puts the rat on the spot. They nab the boss's 'kelly' and plants it. Your old man jaws him out and the Hardy mob grabs the typewriters and the ukeleles."  

But again, gowns by Adrian are a pivotal reason we recognize this film as a Pre-Code classic, for in addition to the drinking, open sexuality and "scandalous" suggestion that a woman could choose her own social path, the clinging intricately cut silk "Norma's gowns" were designed to be worn without undergarments, which is clearly visible in chilly sets of *A Free Soul." "The dress has to fit you mentally as well as physically," Shearer said. "You must imbue the clothes with your own personality." According to Movie Diva.com, "It was a mark of prestige that an actress could require 'Gowns by Adrian' in her contract. As head designer, Gilbert Adrian chose the films on which he wished to work, reporting only to studio heads Louis B. Mayer and Irving Thalberg. 'When Adrian made a sketch, no producer or director dared to change it,' according to John B. Scura, who toiled in the MGM wardrobe dept for 41 years. Shearer would get two versions of a gown, from which she could choose, a major concession, I’m sure."  Even Hedda Hopper noticed; "It was a form-fitting dress of white satin without a stitch on underneath. . . . it out-Harlowed anything Jean ever put on her back." Fashionistas, beware.

Directed by Clarence Brown who won Best Director, *A Free Soul* treads some of the same ground as Norma Shearer's previous film *The Divorcee* as this is designed as a follow-up, with Norma's sexual adventurousness and subtle eroticism taking front stage (though here she's a little more melodramatic in some scenes).  But one scene, done in one take, is powerful in its silence, as Jan stands before an ornate mirror, wistfully watching the petals of flowers in a vase disintegrate at her touch, leading her to look up, hair tousled, and see herself in a soul searching moment, just as her father walks into the reflection in the background, drinking in exhibition of who the two have become.  While Norma usually had herself photographed in left profile to cloak her slightly lazy eye, this full face view is a telling scene of measured microphysiognomy (revealing the inner self through a poignant close up).  Wonderful filmmaking.

As is customary in Pre-Code Hollywood films, the lilting narrative that today seems tame shifts gears (or train tracks) halfway through to elevate the conflict and require a more studied viewing.  *A Free Soul* does precisely that, and more, proving once again movies with character, strong plot and skilled talent will outlast even the most sophisticated special effects show that may look pretty but offer no substance.  I never thought I'd praise the time commanded by the social distancing and quarantined isolationism, but if it pushed me to discover films that have been around unviewed for decades, I guess something good can be found in just about anything. Give it a try.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #481: Boy, today's feature, *Three On A Match* (1932), is a rocket sled to Gritty Town, with an arc of wandering fortune lasting only 63 minutes as we follow the lives of three women from their early days in public school through their married and professional lives. Directed by Mervyn LeRoy (whom star Bette Davis called "a hack," and who returned the favor by disliking Davis's acting), the title refers to a WWI superstition that sharing one match to light three folks' cigarettes will doom one to death, since a match lit that long would signal an enemy of a troop's position. The three in question here are Mary Keaton (Joan Blondell), Ruth Westcott (Bette Davis), and Vivian Revere (Ann Dvorak) who, following a recap of the passing years in a montage, meet after ten years, rekindling their friendship.

It would appear time has been kind to the ladies, each prospering in her own way. Mary, once the troublemaker who very nearly didn't graduate from PS 62 and held a stint in a reform school, is now a well to do show girl, the toast of the glitterati. Ruth, being graduated from business school, is a stenographer living modestly without want. Vivian, voted the most popular girl in school, is now outdoing them all as the wife of a prominent, successful lawyer Robert Kirkwood (Warren William) with a movie-cute young son Robert Jr. (Buster Phelps). Lighting their cigarettes on one match, they bring one another up to date, with Vivian experiencing an intense restlessness despite the fact she has more money than God and her husband and son adore her.

Deciding she needs time away to commiserate with U2 as they sing "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For," she signs herself and Robert Jr. up for a cruise to Paris, leaving Robert Sr. to slog along at work making another million. Attending a going-away party onboard the ship two hours before departure, Vivian puts her son to bed and meets gambler Michael Loftus (Lyle Talbot) who persuades her to jump ship and accompany him in a life of wild abandon. In real film economy, she does just that after ninety minutes of meeting Loftus, moving in with him and cavorting like a drunken sailor. "I can tell you're a real woman, not one of those stuffed brassieres you see on Park Avenue. You've got all the works that make a woman want to go, and live, and love," the smooth talking Loftus tells Vivian. Worrying over the conditions of the boy's new life, Mary and Ruth wrest him away from Hot Mama, returning him to his father while Vivian sinks deeper into poverty and drug abuse. Whiplash alert: Ann Dvorak turns from Miss High Society to High Miss Insobriety in a snap, looking every bit as strung out as a wash line in record time.

Divorcing Vivian and marrying Mary on the same day, kindly loving Robert Sr. now seems to have the life he deserves, with Mary and Ruth carefully watching the boy. . . until Vivian returns, hat in hand, taking $80 (roughly $1,200 today) from Mary in support of the Loftus Fund For Paying Back The Loansharks. But Vivian and Loftus find the mob is less receptive to accepting $80 against the $2,000 (roughly $30,000 today) he owes, and so out of desperation Loftus is driven to kidnap the boy for ransom while Vivian sees having the kid around as merely an gross inconvenience. [This plot point was particularly controversial at the time of the film's release since the Lindbergh kidnapping was high in the news rotation. Though this one went through, studios later agreed not to make kidnapping films.]

Humphrey Bogart makes his appearance in his first gangster role as Harve, one of the ruthless mobsters holding Loftus responsible for the kidnapping and ransom, and he's wonderful in his small role. "Please don't hurt my mommy!" the little boy cries, and Harve responds, "I'll bear that in mind." I won't divulge the ending here, but seldom have I seen in Pre-Code Hollywood films a series of events so sordid and ultimately tense as the last ten minutes. This is no feel-good film, that's for sure. There are scenes with Ann Dvorak that would probably not be made today without haunting screams from children's rights groups, as little curly mopped Buster bears witness to his strung-out mother telling him to get by with well picked over hor douvres for dinner when all he wants is milk and bread. With a terrific supporting cast of Edward Arnold (as Ace), Jack La Rue (Ace's henchman) and Allen Jenkins (as Dick), with a very young Jack Webb as a schoolboy in 1919, this film sets the pace for Warner Brothers' classic gangster movies.

Warners chief Jack Warner wrote of Ann Dvorak in his autobiography, "I had seen her in *Scarface* [1932], and she had a dainty, unworldly quality that was rare in the actresses around Hollywood at the time. I brought her to Warner Brothers and in a five-year period she made nineteen pictures, including *G-Men* [1935], *Three on a Match*, *Midnight Alibi* [1934], and *The Crowd Roars* [1932]. Almost inevitably, she came down with the temperament disease, and when agents Myron Selznick and Charlie Feldman began double-crossing each other in a fight to get her, Ann ran away and took a slow boat to New York through the Panama Canal. I put her under suspension, and she never came back to the Burbank lot, which was too bad because she had a dazzling future until her quarreling agents snuffed it out."

Similarly, Bette Davis had less than sterling reviews for the film, frustrated by Warren William's constant advances which had followed him and her from prior movie roles. She said, Warners "put me in a dull 'B' picture called *Three on a Match*. My school friend Joan Blondell, Ann Dvorak and I were the unlucky trio, and Mervyn LeRoy was my next unsympathetic director. He kept talking of what a great dramatic star Joan was to become and I was glad for her; but his pointed references and indifference to me hardly encouraged me in my daily work. It seems that something in me created resistance in these men. There isn't the slightest doubt in my mind that they resented my background and my assurance. They were used to passive slates that they could scribble on. . . ." And director Mervyn LeRoy, looking back in moderate embarrassment, said, "They gave me three unknown girls in that one - Joan Blondell, Bette Davis and Ann Dvorak. I made a mistake when the picture was finished. I told an interviewer that Joan Blondell was going to be a big star, that Ann Dvorak had definite possibilities, but that I didn't think Bette Davis would make it. She's been cool to me ever since."

So the electricity on film was just as explosive off screen. Take these elements together, mix them in a cocktail shaker during Prohibition, pour them out in a dirty long-stemmed glass, and watch it all take fire before the match burns itself out.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #482: Quarantining may not be the finest morale booster around, but when it's forced due to a dead battery on the car and you're in a one-car family, and the need for groceries is pressing in, life's luster seems to evaporate that much faster. AAA is now on speed dial, as we're on our third new battery (no charge--which is a mixed blessing since each new battery costs us nothing, but none of them hold energy either) and on a first-name basis with the tow company driver ("Bud," as it turns out). So being a not so handy man, I've bought a battery charger myself and I'm ready to blow the shingles off our garage. But before doing so, I thought I'd offer my daily commentary on today's feature, *Female* (1933) with Ruth Chatterton, a Warner Brothers film with a revolving door of directors.

How fortuitous that today's feature deals with automobiles, specifically Drake Motors, whose owner and hard-headed tactician Alison Drake (Ruth Chatterton) also enjoys a revolving door of male employees whom she tires of after one evening and transfers them the next day. During the day she's as full of steel as her factories, but at night ("she'll only come out at night, lean and hungry type) Ooh, she's sitting with you but her eyes are on the door; So many have paid to see, What you think you're getting for free; The woman is wild, a she-cat tamed by the purr of a Jaguar. Money's the matter,If you're in it for love, You ain't gonna get too far." Or words to that effect. She has her butler standing ready with a tray of vodka, hot wired to an internal system indicating where in the house the drinks should be delivered. (“It was the custom of Catherine the Great to send Vodka to her soldiers in order to… fortify their courage,” explains James (Robert Greig) her faithful butler.

Tired of the assembly line of half-hearted lovers, including the enthusiastic George Cooper (Johnny Mack Brown) who is all but shellshocked that a woman can behave so callously as a man after a one-night stand, Alison breaks her own tradition of finding "dates" through her assistant and office manager Pettigrew (Ferdinand Gottschalk), she dresses herself down and saunters into a nearby amusement park. There at the shooting gallery she finds and, she believes, picks up a gallant gentleman Jim Thorne (George Brent) who shares the evening with her but refuses her entreaties to come home with her. Imagine their surprise when the next day Jim Thorne turns out to be the innovative engineer she has instructed her staff to poach from a competitor. And of course, since such a handsome employee should be conducting sensitive business with her only after hours, she invites him to bring his blueprints to her mansion that evening.

Surprise, surprise, surprise, Gomer: He rebuffs her again, preferring to discuss the intricacies of HIS designs and not Her designs on him. “I was engaged as an engineer,” he growls. “Not as a gigolo.” This doesn't sit well with Alison's assessment of men: “To me, a woman in love is a pathetic spectacle. She’s either so miserable that she wants to die or she’s so happy you want to die. […] You know, a long time ago, I decided to drive the same open road that men travel. So I treat men the exact way they’ve always treated women. […] I know for some women, men are a household necessity. Myself, I’d rather have a canary.”

But there's something about Jim that ruffles the canary's feathers. Pettigrew convinces her that some men are attracted to a woman "who looks up to him. Gentle. Feminine. Someone he can protect. That’s because Jim Thorne is strong. And rather primitive, perhaps. A dominant male, my dear.” So battleplans are drawn, Alison invites him to a picnic and wins him over by going all soft and gooey with a caramel center, prompting Jim the next day to burst into the office with a marriage proposal. We are the champions, my friends, and we'll keep on fighting till the end. . . . except the end comes in the next breath as Alison, in a stunning role reversal, tells Jim she likes things as they are, without the sacrifice of marriage. So Jim quits with the admonishment, “If you weren’t so pathetic, you’d be funny.” Oh bother, says Pooh.

But wait, there's more! When Drake Motors faces defaulting, contingent upon a New York bank deal or the competitors taking possession, Alison has to make a sharp choice: Get thee to a bankery or seek out Jim, who has returned to the shooting gallery to take out his frustrations on bunnies and bulls-eyes. Now, remember this is Pre-Code Hollywood, so we've seen our share of testicle-busting and egotism from a woman who has not yet paid for her aggressiveness. And since *Female* is a romantic comedy rather than a gritty melodrama with the subtlety of a medieval morality play, you might be able to guess what happens, but only if you're not into feminist fables of fortitude.

And Sweet Fancy Moses, the flagrant symbolism at the carnival will strike a major blow to "keep women in their place," when Jim sharpshoots his way back into Alison's heart and wins a valuable prize in doing so--not a stuffed cuddly bear holding a satin heart as you might suspect--but a baby pig! "Take Home A Pig!" the banners yell. And Jim does--a wriggling, squealing little scene stealer as he and Alison speed to New York in time to secure funding for Drake Motors, avoid a hostile take-over, and--hold your breath for this one--raise of family of nine children whom Alison will look after while Jim manages the company. Take THAT, Gloria Steinem.

I will now pause as you recoup your collective gasp.

*Female* held a budget between $260,000 and $286,000 to make and brought in $451,000 worldwide, even though as I cited earlier it had three different directors. William Dieterle (best known in the coming years for *The Story of Louis Pasteur (1936), the Best Picture of 1937 *The Life Of Emile Zola*, and *The Hunchback of Notre Dame* (1939)) was the original director who fell ill during production, replaced by William Wellman (who won the first Academy Award for Best Picture with *Wings* (1927). But Jack Warner was not pleased with the performance of the original actor of Cooper, asking Michael Curtiz (*The Adventures Of Robin Hood* (1938), *The Sea Hawk* (1940) and *Casablanca* (1942)) to reshoot that footage with Jimmy Mack Brown and do some touching up since Wellman was working on another picture.

Before its release, *Female* drew fire and ire from the Studio Relations Committee, a largely impotent group of enforcers of the Production Code. A letter from them to Warner Brothers complained, “...It is made very plain that she has been in the habit of sustaining her freedom from marriage, and at the same time satisfying a too definitely indicated sex hunger, by frequently inviting any young man who may appeal to her to her home and there bringing about a seduction. After having satisfied her desires with these various males, she pays no further attention to them other than to reward them with bonuses. And in the event that they become importunate, she has them transferred...” This salacious behavior was recommended stricken from the production, so Warners, ever mindful of their product, released the film intact, ignoring the recommendations. So in 1934 when the Breen Office rose to power, *Female* was yanked from distribution until the 1950s.

Weighing in at a mere 60 minutes, now eighty-seven years old, *Female* still kicks up her heels as a free-wheeling bit of fluffy fun.

Now that I've exercised my frustration into submission I'll go see what damage I can do to my car and garage. If you should see a shooting star over the city this evening, you'll know, like Alison, I wasn't totally successful.
Enjoy.
Jeff