The Cobalt Screening Room Balcony

Post #500: When I was a kid my folks bought books by Munro Leaf for me: *Reading Can Be Fun*, *History Can Be Fun*, *Arithmetic Can Be Fun* and *Ferdinand The Bull*, which led to my early belief that *Arithmetic Can Be Bull*. But I guess he never wrote *Number Crunching Can Be Fun*, though my friend Jeff Bennett requisitioned that and revised it to suggest "Accounting IS Fun." None of that conditional stuff--it was a fact. So in that vein, today's feature will begin in after a moment of accounting for myself.

Yes, this is my five hundredth consecutive daily commentary on films you may not have heard of or seen. How does that break down exactly? Since I have recorded them all in a Word document, I can tell you this little diversion amounts to 508,277 words (not counting those I'm writing now), spanning 1100 pages, the equivalent of short Stephen King novel. (I just hope it hasn't brought to you a similar aura of horror.) My long suffering wife calls herself a computer widow since, despite countless entreaties to stop this madness and get something IMPORTANT done (like watching *The Good Witch* marathon on the Hallmark Channel with her), I have persevered. So thank you for all the hearts and thumbs you've sent my way, giving me the illusion that someone is actually reading these frantic explosions of thought.

Now, casting those self indulgences aside, for today's feature, once again leaving Pre-Code Hollywood for a short respite, we lurch up to 1949 with a film director Alfred Hitchcock considered a failure, *Under Capricorn*, moving Hitchcock to vow never to make a period costume drama again. Similarly, star Joseph Cotten was known to have referred to the film several times as "Under Corny Crap," which made Hitchcock so angry he did not use Cotten again for several years. It was ranked #90 in that year's box office ratings, and a torrid love scene between Michael Wilding and Ingrid Bergman was interrupted by a howl of pain when a heavy camera rolled over Hitchcock's foot and broke his toe. Additionally, *Under Capricorn* suffered from audience expectations as the director focused more on a Technicolor love triangle set in 1831 Australia than a suspenseful thriller for which he was known. Even the publicity department tried to miscast the promotions as a chilling Hitchcock classic, which it was not.

Still, French critics thought *Under Capricorn* ranks among Hitchcock's best (but then they really like Jerry Lewis too) and one of the top ten films of all time. Hitchcock himself admitted he made the film for only one reason: Ingrid Bergman. "I made it for Bergman," he has said repeatedly, fully cognizant of what he called "errors," which included Bankers Trust Company, which had financed the film, repossessing the film, which then was unavailable until the first US network television screening in 1968. During the filming Ingrid Bergman had begun her affair with Italian auteur Roberto Rossellini which would result in her pregnancy, causing a terrific scandal in America, hampering acceptance of the film. Hitchcock also felt the screenplay by Hume Cronyn, at that time an inexperienced screenwriter, also was a liability.

So what's all the hubbub, Bub? As a longtime Hitchcock aficionado (if not maven), for me *Under Capricorn* is a very mannered, stylish drama, even as it may seem atypical of the director's canon: It was his second Technicolor film, after *Rope* (1948), critics complained that there was no suspense until 100 minutes in (the film runs 117 minutes), the score by Richard Addinsell is lush and constant, it was an independent English film produced by Hitchcock's short-lived Transatlantic Pictures, and its setting in Sydney, Australia in an International Gothic approach which is more melodramatic and romantic than it is a taut thriller. Does that suggest, as some assert, it's Hitchcock's "worst" film? I don't believe so--it's just different from what people have come to expect from him.

The story revolves around the institution of a new governor, Sir Richard (Cecil Parker), of New South Wales, which is teeming with rough ex-convicts from the British Isles. Accompanying him is his charming but somewhat idle yet cheeky second cousin the Honourable Charles Adare (Michael Wilding, who carries much of the film quite capably). Against the expressed wishes of Sir Richard, Charles takes up with wealthy businessman Samson Flusky (Joseph Cotten), whose past as a convicted murderer bears down on him like a yoke. His wife, Lady Henrietta (Ingrid Bergman), alluded to through whispers and innuendo, is believed to be alternately a victim of chronic illness, am aristocratic drunk, or mentally imbalanced. Yet over dinner at Flusky's invitation, Charles recognizes her from his childhood days in Ireland as a friend of his sister and takes an empathetic interest in her which grows into love.

On those bones of the story Hitchcock has plied a thoughtful examination of class structures, loyalty, the inescapable burden of the past regardless of station in life, guilt and shame (notice how reticent Henrietta is to maintain eye contact with those around her), and religious allegory. Flusky's mansion bears the greeting from an ancient Aboriginal language, "Minyago Yugilla," an allusion to Jesus asking Mary at His tomb, "Why weepest thou?" (John 20:15). Penitence weighs down the air of the mansion as a heavy Shroud of Turin. So Hitchcock's strict Jesuit upbringing is in full mode here, though in the Master's hands it's found largely through a close study rather than a commanding thump.

But under Charles's tutelage and care, and Flusky's simmering jealousy masquerading as indifference, Henrietta regains some of her Irish spark, through baby steps taking control of the house's servants away from the ubiquitous Milly (Margaret Leighton), housekeeper and scheming insinuator into Charles's affairs. Milly operates very much like the wraithlike Mrs. Danvers in *Rebecca* (1940), though Hitchcock was roundly criticized for allowing such a beautiful actress to portray such an "unsympathetic" character; people saw it as a step down for the actress. Personally I believe her haunted beauty is exactly what makes her such a deeply textured character in this leisurely paced period drama. Milly clearly capitalizes on the mark of Cain Flusky bears for his having spent seven years in prison before his present prominence--he was a mere stable boy in Ireland, and she also came from modest beginnings, thus creating a palpable shared culture which Henrietta, being from the upper class, could never begin to comprehend. And so she wields her domestic power in an attempt to bring the mighty down to "their" level. Love be damned--class is cash.

And so we see the clash of wills--the people we were vs. the people we are; love and loyalty vs. broken spirits and jealousy; the pull of family vs. social justice; the burden of guilt vs. the redemption of truth, even as the truth in Sydney will not set you free as much as doom you to deeper pain under the eyes of the law. All nicely studied under a microscope in sweeping ten-minute takes that made cinematographer Jack Cardiff encounter some jaw-dropping technical obstacles--how to follow clusters of people through several doorways and navigate around the actors without stopping the scene. Ingrid Bergman especially excels in a long tortured monologue while the camera follows her every movement in a take extending beyond six minutes. Now THAT'S Hitchcock.

Absolutely, the final denouement is pure cinema, surely exciting those who have waited "patiently" for 100 minutes to find scenes of suspense that first brought Hitch to the attention of cineastes. Go into *Under Capricorn* (incidentally, the Capricorn horoscope symbol is a goat signifying sexual energy and desire, and the Tropic of Capricorn bisects Australia, hence the title) with no preconceived notions of what "a Hitchcock movie" is or should be, and you might be pleasantly surprised. Though its budget was between $2.5 and $3 million, recouping only between $1.5 million and $2.6 million, rendering it a box office failure, you might come away pleased to see another side of the Master of Suspense.

Tomorrow we start Post #501 unless there's a *Good Witch* marathon extended after Labor Day.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #501: Today's feature, one of my top five favorites of all time, has so much written about it, I'm not going to be exhaustive in my commentary--just sprinkle a few ideas out to convince you it's one of the closest-to-perfection thrillers I've ever seen. Yes, it's Alfred Hitchcock's *Strangers On A Train* (1951), the final picture from Robert Walker who died eight months after its completion, and the film debut of Marion Lorne (who plays Bruno's mother in the film and may best be remembered as Aunt Clara on *Bewitched*). It is also Raymond Chandler's final screenplay for Hollywood, even though very little of his influence remains in the finished product. (He and Hitchcock hated each other, to put it mildly, Chandler referring to the director as "that fat bastard" as Hitchcock was exiting his car.)

The premise is simple, if you haven't seen this film (which should be required viewing for human beings): Guy Haines (Farley Granger), a champion tennis player with political ambitions, happens to meet Bruno Antony (Robert Walker) on a train one day. Bruno, an ingratiating, charming rich boy (who we learn in actually a manipulative sociopath), engages Guy in conversation, sharing his odd schemes and fanciful observations. Within minutes he casually mentions how he's learned Guy is married to an unfaithful harridan Miriam (Laura Elliott) who stands in the way of Guy's intentions to marry Senator Morton (Leo G. Carroll)'s debutante daughter Emily Morton (Ruth Roman).

Perhaps Bruno could help: What if two strangers met on a train and switched murders--Bruno would kill Miriam, Guy would reciprocate by killing Bruno's autocratic father (Jonathan Hale), and nothing would connect the two crimes, leaving them both free to pursue their own interests. Guy humors Bruno and his mad plans and swiftly disentangles himself from further conversation.

. . . Until Bruno follows through on his scenario, kills Miriam, and badgers Guy to complete their transaction by sending him a gun and hounding him wherever he goes. What follows is masterful suspense, tension building to a fever pitch, unusually effective cross-cut editing, dramatic camera angles, quiet menace vs. growing panic, and some wonderful acting from all involved. When I first saw this film in the early 1970s, just starting my admiration for Hitchcock's craft, I literally sat at the edge of my seat during the final twenty minutes of its 101-minute running time, not prepared for how suspense could be so effortlessly stretched and ramped up.

Later, studying the film's copious themes and motifs, I found my admiration for it doubling, then tripling. A small sampling of subtextual elements and repeated images include the following (without much detail so you can discover some of the brilliant juxtapositions yourself without ruining your fun):

*Criss-crossing, double crossing--everything from camera angles, emblems on cigarette lighters, leg crossing (which initiates the first encounter with Bruno and Guy), train tracks, blackmail, tennis games, and the list goes on;
*Eyeglasses suggesting a form of blindness or truth seeking;
*Doubles--as in games played in a tennis match and the doppleganger effect (Guy and Bruno, Miriam and Barbara (Pat Hitchcock, daughter of the director), drinks on the train, Hitchcock carrying a double bass onto the train, two women at a party delighting in devising murders for sport, etc.;
*Polar opposites working as Yin and Yang (the Unity of Opposites) as Bruno is active and Guy is passive, etc.;
*Allusions to guilt and innocence and collusion as when Guy enleagues himself with Bruno outside his apartment when police arrive, ducking behind the iron grating to join Bruno "behind bars"; Guy wearing tennis whites, Bruno dressed in dark suits--with a grasping lobster claw tie clasp designed by Hitchcock himself for Bruno;
*A politically motivated homophobic subtext designed to comment on the "hysteria [that] was targeting homosexuals along with Communists as enemies of the state.... The U.S. Senate was busy investigating the suspicion that 'moral perverts' in the government were also undermining national security — going so far as to commission a study, Employment of Homosexuals and Other Sex Perverts in Government," according to film historian Robert L. Carringer. Guy "stands in" for victims of a homophobic climate in "a parable quietly defiant of the Cold War hysteria sweeping America."

Also knowing that a final sequence taking place on and near a runaway carousel with an elderly carnival working crawling under its frame will heighten your tension. Hitchcock claimed it was the most dangerous stunt he'd ever filmed, as the old man would have been literally decapitated had he raised his head three more inches. Watching him stop to wipe his nose while the buzzsaw platform whizzed over him is a rare and heart-thumping scene. Hitchcock never attempted anything like it again.

Run, don't walk, to find this film if you haven't seen it. It never fails to excite and intrigue. And if you're interested in researching this more, you will find encyclopedic material on it as even Roger Ebert describes it as one of Hitchcock's finest forays into suspense. Two words: Fan tastic.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #502:  I am beating my head right now as I just spent three hours fashioning one of the better commentaries I've written in some time. . . only to lose it just as I was ready to post it.  It was a lengthy discussion of today's feature, *Forbidden* (1932) starring Barbara Stanwyck, Adolphe Menjou and Ralph Bellamy.  It is also the third film Frank Capra directed with Stanwyck, whom he asked to marry during the production (she didn't).  Borrowing liberally from a Fannie Hurst work, Capra wrote the story and tossed it over to Jo Swerling to embellish. See the great clip here: https://vimeo.com/248784550 and another here:



In good conscience and in penance for my own stupidity, I can't spend the next two hours replicating that fine piece I lost, so I'll merely say, this is a "Woman's Picture"--that is, a film tracking the travails and trials of a disenfranchised woman who yearns for a great love, only to be continually kicked in the teeth even unto the final moments.  But because it's Frank Capra, it's lyrical, lovely, emotionally resonant backed by fabulous on screen talent and a beautiful unfurling of plot with visual panache and Capra's signature smoothness.  One day I might reconstruct all the neat points I dredged up, but for now, I'll merely say: See it. Put it in your queue and enjoy its 83 Pre-Code Hollywood minutes, but wait for the final shot which is not only a gut punch but a poetical statement of social judgment.  Damn, I hate losing documents.
Enjoy the film.
Jeff

Sorry to hear about the disaster Jeff. Doubly so, because I'm a huge Barbara Stanwyck fan. Especially her work from the 30's through the 50's.

Maybe this one will help soothe your Stanwyck monkey, Space.

Post #503: Like yesterday's feature (*Forbidden* 1932), which I believe is far superior to this earlier Frank Capra offering, *Ladies Of Leisure* (1930) benefits from Barbara Stanwyck's transformative portrayal of Kay Arnold, a self-admitted "party girl," to a class conscious sacrificial lady, and from some fabulous dialogue prepared by Jo Swerling, who initially dismissed the Capra script as "putrid piece of gorgonzola, . . . inane, vacuous, pompous, unreal, unbelievable – and incredibly dull." I feel reasonably confident you'll agree with me that we're lucky Swerling stuck with it, as it is a nice addition to the Pre-Code Hollywood oeuvre.

As I mentioned yesterday (but you didn’t get to read because it mysteriously vanished into the ether), “Women’s Pictures” were tooled to the masses of women who frequented the theaters, wishing to escape the confines of the Depression. Such films focused on disenfranchised characters who dealt with dashed dreams and personal disasters dealt through social conditioning and fantasies of acceptance, women who by circumstance were forced to make tough decisions or gaily throw all caution to the winds and kick up their heels, usually at the risk of paying some dire moral price. Some of these films were sappy soapy operas of suffering, some were “scandalous” flouting of social convention rife with adultery, sexual adventure and skimpy clothing (which the men in the audience compelled themselves to tolerate in the theaters), or some were tales of sacrifice in the face of male domination, at times ending in violence. This was the time before the Hays Code, and limits were being tested.

*Ladies Of Leisure* is the first pairing of Frank Capra and Barbara Stanwyck, who became a force of nature during this time, starting off slowly in her career to become a much revered actress who was adored by all who worked with her. She was a woman who respected all, and gave her all, usually in the first take where she exhibited rare strength and passion.

Capra, who was disinclined to cast her as Kay in this film, came to admire and love her, actually wishing he could propose to her, though both he and she were married at the time. But Stanwyck presented challenges, as Capra said:

“Stanwyck gave her all the first time she tried a scene ... All subsequent repetitions, in rehearsals or retakes, were pale copies of her original performance. This was a new phenomenon – and a new challenge, not only to me, but to the actors and the crews. I had to rehearse the cast without her. The actors grumbled. Not fair to them, they said. Who ever heard of an actress not rehearsing? ... On the set I never let Stanwyck utter one word of the scene until the cameras were rolling. Before that I talked to her in her dressing room, told her the meaning of the scene, the points of emphasis, the pauses ... I talked softly, not wanting to fan the smoldering fires that lurked beneath that somber silence. She remembered every word I said – and she never blew a line.”

During the production of their third film, *Forbidden*, Capra did propose, though he was rebuffed, and they went on to make a fourth and fifth film together, the last being *Meet John Doe* (1941). But today’s feature started it all with the story of wealthy heir to a railroad dynasty Jerry Strong (Ralph Graves), an aspiring artist who despises but tolerates the decadent cocktail parties and social gatherings befitting his station. Escaping a typical raucous riotous soiree marked by drunken abandon of reason and taste, hosted in his studio penthouse, he gets a flat tire out in the suburbs, only to witness a young woman (Stanwyck) rowing away from a similar party onboard an anchored yacht.

Mascara dripping, clothes disheveled, gown strap carelessly rent from her and sarcasm being her best companion, Kay Arnold immediately establishes herself to Jerry as a “party girl”—that is, the girl you call when you want company at a party (toned down for censors from being a prostitute, now merely an escort, in the old world sense). Her brassiness and forthright manner—aided by her decision not to heist Jerry’s wallet—endear him to her, and allow him to see a simmering hope in her, the very trait he’s been searching for in a model for his next painting. And so begins their awkward romance in which social classes clash and burn, the perfect Capra theme.

Pluses and minuses level *Ladies Of Leisure* into a simple playing field critically. The plot is fairly rudimentary for films of the time—boy meets girl, social classes interfere, girl is crushed but sacrificial, exhibiting more pure morality than the upper class, and yada yada yada (my way of not exposing the narrative lest you lose some of the fun of watching it unfold). So in that regard, it’s routine. Another BIG drawback is Ralph Graves, our “romantic” lead. He holds all the charisma of head of brown lettuce. He is largely dispassionate, playing his emotions so close to the vest they are actually behind him, and though Stanwyck is glowing, natural, spontaneous and downright lovable, Graves lives up to his name—and we all know that a grave is just one long rut. He’s a rutter, all right, and he just about sinks the whole movie, looking like a 1920s Arrow Shirt ad—stoic, plasticene and boringly staid. We could set off a bomb in his pants and he’d never turn around to see what the noise was all about.

Barbara Stanwyck, a luminous 23 years old, brings everything to the picture, and Capra, along with cinematographer Joseph Walker, captures her natural beauty with soft halos of light that illumine her glamorous profile and elegant neck as she poses for Jerry. But he also somehow manages to bottle her fiery enthusiasm and erotic tension (which scarcely registers with her co-star, which is infuriating) and her dare-to-dream boldness, transforming her from a brash party girl to a full blooded, full bodied unpolished diamond.

Along the way we also have two terrific supporting characters who add levity and effortless grace to the proceedings. Kay’s best friend, roommate and fellow party girl Dot Lamar (Marie Prevost) unself-consciously mocks her own figure (which ain’t hay) with some of the best lines in the film. Constantly self effacing, Dot is a pragmatist with a generous spirit that flits through her life and the film with happy lightness. When Kay dredges up the adage that you can’t have your cake and eat it too, Dot gaily rejoins, “Aw, baloney! Sure you can have your cake and eat it. . . . Have two cakes.” It is her buoyancy that keeps Kay from becoming a tragic statistic.

Balancing the scales is Jerry’s foppish friend and perpetual partier Bill Standish (Lowell Sherman), whose sharp wit pulls him away from being an obnoxious drunkard but a charming tippler with a fondness for Napoleon brandy. “Ah, Josephine,” he greets Kay one morning while swirling his drink. “Ever done any posing before?” Kay responds, with a striking glance of truth, “I’m always posing.” Egged on Bill spars, “How do you spend your nights?” to which Kay responds without a beat, “Re-posing.” Though Bill thrives in the world of Jerry’s most reckless bottle smashers tossing full bottles of wine off his balcony on the innocent passersby, he nonetheless staggers with purpose and elan as he flirts with and invites Kay to join him on a cruise to Havana whenever she wishes. But even then he is not threatening, advising Jerry, “Well, most men never get to be 18. And most women are over 18 when they're born.”

So tune in *Ladies Of Leisure* for these moments of sparkling wit and take Jerry on a cruise to Havana and dip him in the ocean on the way over. It’s Capra’s third talkie and as such shows the director early in his manipulation of sound—a trait that will become of increasing importance and refinement as he matures as a filmmaker. To Capra sound was just as important as the visuals, and his use of sound perspective (voices of characters in the distance are more muted, as we see the scene from the foreground character) is well ahead of his time.

But some of the staging comes off as theatrical, too obviously derived from a stage play, and as intriguing as the early vertical tracking shot of Jerry’s penthouse may be, it’s so obviously a model crowned with puppets for partygoers that it is a bit distracting. Still, Capra’s juxtaposition of expansiveness and confinement when viewing Jerry’s studio and Kay’s shared apartment makes for a beautiful statement of environmental differences.

Capra’s manipulation of suspense in the final fifteen minutes is worthy of Hitchcock’s cross editing style, and even though Harry Cohn’s threadbare budget of this Poverty Row Columbia picture is in evidence, *Ladies Of Leisure* is still worth an investment of your 99 minutes, a long film by 1930s standards. Come for the party, stay for Barbara Stanwyck and Marie Prevost. They make the party worthwhile.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #504: Oh, that funny, foxy Marlene Dietrich, always on the prowl to steal a film away from her co-star, in this case Academy Award winner Ray Milland, who was not enamored of today's feature or the mischievous Marlene, in *Golden Earrings* (1947). Preparing for her role as Lydia, a high spirited gypsy during World War II, Ms. Dietrich studied with gypsies for several weeks in Paris, ensuring her role would be given proper authenticity. She chose her own wardrobe, lighting, make-up, and insisted on performing barefoot through the entire production. Though she found Ray Milland odoriferous in his physicality and in his acting, she took every advantage to steal the film from him--and succeeded.

Milland plays British Major General Ralph Denistoun, who tells in flashback how in 1939 he and American Richard Byrd (Bruce Lester) were held hostage just before war was officially declared in Germany. Dispatched to procure the secret formula for a poisonous gas from its inventor, German scientist Professor Otto Krosigk (Reinhold Schünzel), they escape a Nazi farmhouse to split up and meet at Krosigk's home in Freiburg. Stealthily making his way through the Black Forest, Denistoun encounters a gypsy (Dietrich) who disguises him by tanning his hide and bestowing on him two golden earrings ("When you wear those Golden Earrings, love will come to you"), successfully turning him into her charge and love interest. With Nazis in close pursuit the frisky Lydia and her newfound "Liebchen" methodically make their way across the countryside, slowly growing closer emotionally with each pass.

When they reach a gypsy camp led by Zoltan (Murvyn Vye in his screen debut), Denistoun finds himself in conflict with the gypsy king and former lover of Lydia in a spectacularly staged knock-down competition for Lydia's hand. Following the brawl, Zoltan befriends Denistoun and accepts him as a "brother." Meeting with Byrd, now dressed as a native German bicyclist, Denistoun pretends to read his palm to avoid German notice and is surprised to predict a shortened life line for his comrade, seeming to have adopted his own "inner gypsy." Together they hatch a plan to contact Professor Krosigk, whom Byrd knows personally, and secure the formula to ensure Nazis don't get their hands on it. But this plan is far easier plotted than executed, as Denistoun's cover and the gypsies' help can insulate him just so much in a home populated by German officials swarming around the Professor.

*Golden Earrings* is assisted in its rugged authenticity by the sensuous power of Marlene Dietrich, professionally submerging whatever conflicts she may have had with Milland. On screen their chemistry is electrifying and romantic, even though off screen their relationship was anything but. Dietrich constantly taunted Milland to steal his limelight: In an early scene, hunched over a fire on which Lydia is simmering a fish stew, in take after take, Dietrich reached into the pot to emerge with a fish head which she popped into her mouth, sucking out its eyes, removing the fish and then following director Mitchell Leisen's "Cut," forced a finger down her throat to expel the eyes, while Milland blanched more each time she repeated the action. She reportedly also would reach under her skirt as to scratch away lice, then offer Milland bread from the same hand.

Privately she intimated that Milland has secured the part due to the openly homosexual Leisen's apparent attraction to him. Since Milland was a steadfast, notorious homophobe, after a time he refused to work with the director out of concern that Leisen might make a pass at him. But the karma gods were in full force, following lunch one day as the crew failed to put out the fire fueling the water in Lydia's cauldron, and thinking it had cooled since the last shoot, Dietrich reached in, suffering second degree burns, but finished the scene nonetheless. The critics were not as hot as the pot for the film, but it still pulled in $2.9 million for Paramount, confirming that even after a three-year absence Marlene Dietrich still entranced her audiences. Of course the theme song "Golden Earrings"' being recorded by the number one recording star Bing Crosby didn't hurt either, though the song is sung by Murvyn Vey, fresh from his theater appearance in *Carousel*, in the film. No one seemed to share Milland's concern that Dietrich, two years older than he, was "too old" for the part. It surely didn't enter my mind, as she is full of fire, spit and vinegar.

The movie reportedly earned a "Condemned" rating from the Catholic Legion of Decency, which certainly didn't hurt the box office draw, for showing the British Officer and firebrand gypsy woman cohabiting in the comfortable confines of a ragtag wagon festooned with pillows and authentic gypsy tapestries. And as it turns out, because there was a labor dispute raging during the filming, the actors' taking up residence on the set so as not to cross picket lines, led to Dietrich's quite capable playing of the zither for the film, though her beginner's practicing was a constant source of irritation early on. But the result is captivating, imbuing the romantic strains of the story into submission. Oh, I suppose the romance is a little clunky by today's standards, but who cares? The whole thing comes off as a charming narrative during the dark hours of twentieth century wartime.

Milland, as I mentioned, did not want to make this film, since he felt it was too soft after his performance as alcoholic Don Birnam in Billy Wilder's *The Lost Weekend* (1945), and technically, the dialogue is a little goofy as the stiff and veddy propah British officer fends off the advances of the uninhibited Lydia:

Lydia: Oh! Geliebter! Liebling! The water spirits have sent me my very own Welshman! You are a gift! (Attempts to unwrap him.)

Col. Denistoun: Madam! Do try to control your… urges! (Struggles.)

Lydia: You are so cute! Come! Let me pierce your ears!

But somehow Dietrich makes it work, causing more than one male audience member to seriously question the resolve of the Colonel. She is playful, accommodating, accepting and pretty darned hot to trot, looking better than younger actresses of the age in her cascade of dark hair and entrancing eyes. Are you looking for historical accuracy? Hit the road, Jack. How about cultural sensitivity with a sharp examination of gypsy life in Nazi Germany and the atrocities visited upon them? No way, Jose--these gypsies are Broadway veterans, and a happy carefree bunch at the same time, dancing, whirling, laughing, fighting one another in brotherly affection. Bothered by an English officer who has pierced ears? Lighten up. It's a romance whose conclusion is told before we even start the real narrative in flashback; you know Denistoun is not going to die. No spoilers.

For all the nitpicking you want to enjoy, there's a whole different set of pleasures to be had in *Golden Earrings*. And they start and end in Marlene Dietrich. As I've stated in earlier commentaries, until I actually sat down and investigated why so many considered Dietrich such a major talent, I didn't care for her, having formulated second- or third-hand opinions based on her androgynous *Blue Angel* snippets and the caricatures, like Madelyn Kahn's Lili Von Shtupp in *Blazing Saddles* (1974), so prvalent in our culture--dead, monotoned singing and an air of superiority. But that's not the sum total for me anymore; I count myself now as one of her fans, and this film is one of the reasons for my conversion. See if it works for you. It's a lovely, enjoyable trip in a covered wagon.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #505 (A precursor to Palindrome Pictures today): Let's get the statistics out of the way first: Today's feature was the sixth highest grossing films of 1933, the American Film Institute ranks it at #5 on their 100 Funniest Movies Of All Time and #60 on their Greatest Movies of All Time and #85 on their Greatest American Films lists, it's the only movie in which the four Marx Brothers sing together, it inspired Samuel Beckett to include a scene in *Waiting For Godot*, it was Zeppo's last film as he was tired of being the butt of so many jokes, and Benito Mussolini banned it in Italy because he felt it made fun of him. It is also one of the funniest Pre-Code Hollywood films I've ever seen, getting better every time I watch it. [Fanfare] I give you the anarchistic madness of the Marx Brothers in *Duck Soup* (1933).

One of the few films in which Chico does not play the piano and Harpo is not gifted with a harp solo, *Duck Soup* was considered a box office disappointment at its release. When asked what "Duck Soup" meant, Groucho quipped, "Take two turkeys, one goose, four cabbages, but no duck, and mix them together. After one taste, you'll duck soup the rest of your life." No, if you go looking for a rational explanation of the title, relax and enjoy your soup, because early working titles for it were *Grasshoppers*, *Cracked Ice* and *Firecrackers*.

But firecrackers weren't just in the proposed title; they were in action on the set. Director Leo McCarey, who is credited with Pinky's scissor-cutting, the classic lemonade stand meltdown with Edgar Kennedy, and Chicolini's breaking into Mrs. Teasdale's mansion, as well as filming the famous mirror sequence. But McCarey really didn't want to make the film, saying, in 1967, "I don't like (*Duck Soup*) so much...I never chose to shoot this film. The Marx Brothers absolutely wanted me to direct them in a film. I refused. Then they got angry with the studio, broke their contract and left. Believing myself secure, I accepted the renewal of my own contract with the studio. Soon, the Marx Brothers were reconciled with (Paramount)...and I found myself in the process of directing the Marx Brothers. The most surprising thing about this film was that I succeeded in not going crazy, for I really did not want to work with them: they were completely mad." Despite this opinion, Groucho considered McCarey the Marxes’ only first class director.

Groucho also had high praise for Margaret DuMont (Mrs. Teasdale), considering her the “fifth Marx Brother,” though she consistently bore the brunt of Groucho’s classic insults ("I could dance with you till the cows come home. On second thought, I'd rather dance with the cows when you came home" and my favorite, “Married. I can see you right now in the kitchen, bending over a hot stove. But I can't see the stove.”) "She was a wonderful woman. She was the same offstage as she was on it -always the stuffy, dignified matron. She took everything seriously. She would say to me, 'Julie, why are they laughing?'"

But audiences in 1933 in the midst of the Great Depression, even though desperate for a laugh (which is where *Duck Soup* exceeds expectation), the film is pure, unbridled absurdity. Critic Gerald Mast writes that "The Marxes' Paramount writers and producer enjoyed destroying the very conventions of their craft and the aesthetics of their employers, creating films with deliberately irrelevant plot twists, incongruous sight gags, inconclusive conclusions, red herrings, faceless and forgettable supporting players." And in such a political environment of upheaval, FDR’s policies provided a solid platform that people were not ready to abandon; absurdity and sharp political satire of the sort doled out in *Duck Soup* were in very short supply with limited appreciation.

For the two or three of you who might not know the “plot” of this indispensable classic, a little rundown wouldn’t hurt, and when you’re run down, it wouldn’t hurt to track down this masterpiece for a little lift up. Wealthy dowager Mrs. Gloria Teasdale (Margaret DuMont) who underwrites the budget of the nearly bankrupt country of Freedonia accedes to fund $20 million to the country if they will allow the ascension of Rufus T. Firefly (Groucho) as leader. Naturally he causes more havoc than order as he deals with two spies, Chicolini (Chico) and Pinky (Harpo), sent by the ambassador of the neighboring Sylvania, Trentino (Louis Calhern) who is trying to discredit Firefly and annex Freedonia. Slapstick insanity ensues in the most delightful manner possible.

Setting his political philosophy to song, Firefly sings, “If any form of pleasure is exhibited, report to me and it will be prohibited! I'll put my foot down, so shall it be... this is the land of the free! The last man nearly ruined this place he didn't know what to do with it. If you think this country's bad off now, just wait till I get through with it! The country's taxes must be fixed, and I know what to do with it. If you think you're paying too much now, just wait till I get through with it!”
Eased on top of this skeletal structure are the best comic bits and dialogue you can find. Taken individually they delight; take together they strafe the audience with such rapid, rabid fervor that you look forward to repeat viewings so you can pick up on jokes and asides that passed while you were laughing. Its pace is frenetic, jokes building on themselves, insults being flung so casually you’ll want to employ them yourself, and energy slowing down only when Lt. Bob Roland, Firefly's secretary and straight man (Zeppo) sits down to croon a love song to Vera Marcal (Raquel Torres), a femme fatale who is working for Ambassador Trentino.

But when Freedonia goes to war with Sylvania, all the stops are pulled out, and government itself takes a drubbing. “But there must be a war. I've paid a month's rent on the battlefield. . . . You're a brave man. Go and break through the lines. And remember, while you're out there risking your life and limb through shot and shell, we'll be in be in here thinking what a sucker you are.” In battle Groucho inexplicably between shots changes his uniform five times: A Union soldier's uniform, a Confederate general's uniform, a boy scout troop leader's uniform, a Revolutionary War-era British general's uniform, and a Davey Crockett outfit. There is no dignity or sacred cow above ridicule, as evidenced by the film’s release. Even so, Groucho asserted, "We were trying to be funny, but we didn't know we were satirizing the current condition. It came as a great surprise to us."

Though the film debuted in the town of Fredonia, New York, its mayor objected strenuously to the procurement of its name for the film (another “e” was inserted in the fictional country to assuage criticism), writing to the Brothers: "The name of Fredonia has been without blot since 1817. I feel it is my duty as mayor to question your intentions in using the name of our city in your picture." Groucho replied in writing, "Your Excellency: Our advice is that you change the name of your town. It is hurting our picture. Anyhow, what makes you think you're Mayor of Fredonia? Do you wear a black moustache, play a harp, speak with an Italian accent, or chase girls like Harpo? We are certain you do not. Therefore, we must be Mayor of Fredonia, not you. The old gray Mayor ain't what he used to be."

Today, some prints have been edited for racial sensitivity, while most prints remain untouched. The pre-war anthemic show stopper borrowing from “negro spirituals” of the time, specifically "All God's Chillun Got Wings," was spontaneously added and revised during filming (no account of it is evident in the script) to read:
They got guns,
We got guns,
All God's chillun got guns!
I'm gonna walk all over the battlefield,
'Cause all God's chillun got guns!

This, along with the constant poking fun at patriotism (After being told the pinned down troops need backup, Pinky wanders the battlefield with a sandwich board proclaiming, “Join the Army and See The Navy”), underlies the Great War cynicism drifting through the public of the Great Depression.

Singling out one scene or measure of dialogue as a favorite becomes an almost insurmountable task, so let’s just suggest the entire 68 minutes will fly by, probably causing you to seek out other magnificent Paramount classics with the Marx Brothers like *The Cocoanuts* (1929), *Animal Crackers* (1930), *Monkey Business* (1931) and *Horse Feathers* (1932). For me the Paramount films, of which *Duck Soup* is the last before the Brothers moved to MGM, are the rapid-fire hits, with MGM gloss like *A Night At The Opera* (1935) and *A Day At The Races* (1937) (both paid homage by the rock group Queen as album titles) are in the running, while later pictures shine less brightly for me.

As Mrs. Teasdale said about Rufus T. Firefly, “Notables from every country are gathered here in your honor. This is a gala day for you.” And Rufus replied, “Well, a gal a day is enough for me. I don't think I could handle any more.” I can handle a lot more, maybe not gals but certainly Marx mayhem.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Even a lesser Marx Brothers film is worth your time.

When I was a teen I worked afternoon shift at a factory to earn coins for school. I would get home and my Dad and I would watch all the old movies on a PBS channel that played Marx Brothers, Chaplin, Laurel and Hardy, Keaton, W.C. Fields etc. My Dad would laugh so hard to these movies. Done well they were perfect entertainment before bed sitting with a bowl of cereal each, watching in a darkened living room.

Good old days my friends not a care in the world back then, so these movies have that special memory for me.

Post #506: I'm taking a small liberty with my offering today, as the screenplays by Rod Serling differ slightly from play to big screen, and for my purposes and tastes the television production surpasses the film, which runs a little over twenty minuted longer than the original but adds little to its power. Today's feature is *Patterns* originally run *live* January 12, 1955 on *The Kraft Television Theater* to such acclaim it was performed live again on February 9, 1955, an unprecedented move for live TV. It was adapted by Serling for film one year later with Van Heflin playing the Fred Staples role replacing Richard Kiley, though Everett Sloane, Ed Begley, Elizabeth Wilson, and Ronnie Welsh reprise their characters. In both the film and TV production Fiedler Cook directs (it was his first feature film). *Patterns* remains a powerhouse performance, winning Serling his first of six Emmy Awards. And it still holds up wonderfully, perhaps with greater relevance today.

Since I arrogantly believe that this should be required viewing for anyone in business, I consistently used it in the early weeks of my ethics class, asking students to weigh in on the management style into which Fred Staples (Richard Kiley on TV, Van Heflin on film) was thrust. What are the costs of profit and expansion? Are humanism and altruism obsolete, weaknesses, antithetical to growth and economic viability? What moral underpinning justifies or rationalizes overt cruelty and indifference, and are those actions in evidence, or are they misperceptions or shortsighted escape valves for the naive?

Since I arrogantly believe that this should be required viewing for anyone in business, I consistently used it in the early weeks of my ethics class, asking students to weigh in on the management style into which Fred Staples (Richard Kiley on TV, Van Heflin on film) was thrust. What are the costs of profit and expansion? Are humanism and altruism obsolete, weaknesses, antithetical to growth and economic viability? What moral underpinning justifies or rationalizes overt cruelty and indifference, and are those actions in evidence, or are they misperceptions or shortsighted escape valves for the naive?

At the heart of the story are the offices of Ramsay and Company, an industrial corporation overseen by an acidic, acerbic Walter Ramsay (Everett Sloane, who may have inherited some of his bluster from Charles Foster Kane). As the story opens a new man in town, Fred Staples (Richard Kiley/Van Heflin), cherry picked from Midwest anonymity by Ramsay himself, tentatively enters his new office, working in partnership with the elder Ramsay veteran Andy Sloane (aka William Briggs in the film, both played by Ed Begley). Sloan is an affable fixture as a vice president, having worked for Ramsay’s father who started the business. Little does Fred realize he’s been earmarked for replacing Sloane, who in Ramsay’s eyes has grown stolid, staid and indecisive, deficits to company progress.

In confronting Ramsay after a homey dinner party, Staples learns of his position and feeling guilty tries to argue in Andy’s favor: “He’s a good man, Mr. Ramsay.” But Ramsay remains faithful to his mission to oust the twenty-year veteran of the company who is now 56, drinking in the privacy of his office to find some strength, and suffering with an ulcer under Ramsay’s constant belittlement: “Was a good man. And grandfather clocks were good clocks, and Stanley Steamers were good cars, but you can’t run them in competition today.” Later, confronting Andy once again, Ramsay ladles on his management strategy, “I respect thoughtful judgment. . .Think beyond the tongue-clucking phase. . . you can’t run a business on thank-you notes. . . [or] as a soup kitchen, like a welfare comfort station. I can’t stand this preoccupation with morality; you can’t be constantly churchlike.”

Serling himself said of *Patterns*, “This is the morality of the fringes, the plowing under of human dignity in the name of progress, and the mass-production attitude toward the individual because his goods and services happen to be efficiently produced by mass-production methods. This is morality’s shady side of the street. The patterns of which this piece speaks are behavior patterns of little human beings in a big world — lost in it, intimidated by it, and whose biggest job is to survive in it.”

The ease with which we cast Ramsay as the ultimate evil is challenged, though, when tragedy enters the building, and we are forced to ask ourselves if Andy Sloan is not complicit in Ramsay’s hard edge. As vice president, shouldn’t he have with wherewithal to keep the company moving forward? Has he allowed his tenure with the company to insulate his thinking that he no longer has to perform? And is Ramsay genuinely goading him into quitting, or is he at some level attempting to light a spark under Sloane, to rejuvenate him and his abilities? Of course, with clowns to the left him, jokers to the right, here is Fred, stuck in the middle with you.

It’s a thorny issue that Serling explores with real passion, especially in its closing act when Fred’s morality and Ramsay’s perpetual drive stand nose to nose with one another. “You’re not a human being period, you’re a freak,” Fred drills. “You’re an organizational model with no compassion for human weakness.” But Ramsay has his side as well, and to see the two clash and explode is a measure of Serling’s gift as fabulist of modern morality.

Critic Tom Shales said of the kinescope you can watch accompanying this commentary, “Except for the use of terms like ‘mimeographed’ and ‘teletype,’ little about the drama seems dated, unless one is of the opinion that corporate politics and boardroom bloodletting no longer exist. . . With minimally judicious scene-setting (shots of clocks, a building directory, a switchboard) and a rapid introduction of characters, Serling pulls a viewer almost immediately into his story, a tale of corporate morality—or the lack of it—and such everyday battles as the ones waged between conscience and ambition.”

It’s a grand ensemble piece with snippets of opinion from the lesser minions of the Ramsay & Co. staff, including a young pre-*Bewitched* Elizabeth Montgomery who tosses in some grace-note rhetoric to speed the story. Ed Begley’s tortured portrayal of Andy Sloane is certainly a sympathetic attention getter, a fine crumbing counterpoint to Everett Sloane’s tyrannical Ramsay, even though he is graded enough to show some sheltered remorse for his character’s tirades. At age 46 (ten years below Begley’s “over the hill” Andy) Heflin seems out of place in the film as the “young” “production engineer by training, industrial relations expert by instinct” that Ramsay desires for his empire.

The film opens up the television production to provide vaster, opulent board room footage, a visit to a bar and some lines in the Sloane home. But I prefer the close claustrophobia of the television production, providing a more intimate and personal look into the principals’ lives. The transitions employing closeups of clocks and switchboards may be a bit more clunky, but for me that’s part of the charm, and knowing what we’re viewing was live enhances the spirited camaraderie and professionalism of the actors.

*Patterns* strikes me as a reminder of how slick and manufactured, at times even facile the majority of our television programming is today. There is some sort of rugged energy being expended as Serling’s masterful dialogue unspools in moments of tension—and even though this play offers not *Twilight Zone* moment of unbridled surprise, it does leave us with much to consider. So break the pattern of pandering pablum of today and step back to enjoy the sweat of spontaneity resting alongside your Kraft-Parkay’d bread slice.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #507: Okay, really, the trailer for this nice comedy is a little hyperbolic, saying it's prime material to induce hysteria. Not here, but it is pleasant and offers some gentle smiles and chuckles. Today's feature is the first in a couple Joe E. Brown and/or Alice White films I've been saving up, and this one is based on a Damon Runyon tale, so fun is its guide. *A Very Honorable Guy* (1934) is just beyond Pre-Code Hollywood and doesn't have an offensive bone in its contention, outside of an outrageous premise filled with typically colorful Runyon characters.

Running in at 62 minutes, "Feet" Samuels gains respect wherever he goes, for he is a man of principle who has never broken his word. But such honor does not bestow upon it riches in the material sense, because Feet doesn't have much in the word beyond bunions and corns. His flighty girlfriend, Hortense Hathaway (Alice White), is fickle, dating Dr. Snitzer (Robert Barrat) who can shower her with trinkets and baubles. And after a misunderstanding, poor Feet is put on ice until local mobster Joel Baldwin (Alan Dinehart), aka The Brain, bails him out by having him sign a promissory note for $500, payable within a month. Penniless and distraught, Feet decides his only option is to sell his body to science for $1,000, which will pay off Brain and leave him a bit of spending cash before his final corporeal payment comes due.

There are no takers in the medical community--save Dr. Snitzer who wants to use plaster casts of Feet's skull for medical supply business to universities and other medical practitioners. When the doctor checks Feet's references for his honorable character, The Brain underwrites Feet's integrity, giving our hapless hero one month to live it up before surrendering his life and head. As will happen in situations like this, Feet's fortunes change: gambling bets pay off big time, luck changes at every turn, and within days Feet is rolling in the deep pockets stuffed with more money than he can count. Naturally Hortense falls back in love with him, Brain is paid off, and honeymoon bells, followed by the clucking of the dream of settling down on a chicken farm, are ringing in the future. . . . unless he can somehow renege on his impending death--either by the doctor or by The Brain who stands to benefit (sadly) from his deal.

Directed by Lloyd Bacon, one of Warner Brothers' most prolific and profitable directors whose style was largely invisible, *A Very Honorable Guy* is a fast paced comedy with the wide-mouthed Joe E. Brown, whom I find funny just by looking at him, populating Runyon's universe of "honorable dishonorables" who can switch allegiances of bad guy to good guy and back again within the same frame. These types of films would have a hard time getting funded today, as Feet is so clearly tied to his moral code; he's inflexible when it comes to standing by his word, an intractably steadfast believer in the dignity of his word, even if it means going to his grave to honor it. And we believe it from the get-go.

While Joe E. Brown plays Feet fairly straight, he is so likable and limber that you can't help liking him. He even engages us with his trademark "Heyyyy" at the picture's closing. Alice White, Warner Brothers' answer to Clara Bow, is flirty, flinty and cute, though opportunistic. Once a script girl for Josef von Sternberg, later working for Charlie Chaplin, Alice was at one time recognized as a singular talent, receiving more than 30,000 fan letters a month. *A Very Honorable Guy* was her first film in her "comeback" after she rocked Hollywood with a sex-triangle scandal involving British actor John Warburton and producer Sidney "Sy" Bartlett. She accused Warburton of beating her so badly she needed reconstructive surgery on her nose, and Warburton rebutted, informing the press that Alice and Sidney hired two thugs to disfigure him. Though a grand jury refused to indict Alice or Sidney, the bad publicity hurt her reputation. Alice married Sidney in 1933 and tried to make a comeback. "Knocks make you stronger," she said that year. "My chin ought to be scarred. But it's tough, it can take 'em. I like beans so if I had to eat a tin-can diet it wouldn't kill me."

At the other end of the spectrum, Joe E. Brown was married only once, to Kathryn Francis McGraw in 1915 until his death in 1973. A staunch supporter of American troops, long before Bob Hope made his famous tours of wartorn stations, Brown invested much time at his own expense, to entertain troops in the South Pacific, Guadalcanal, New Zealand and Australia, as well as the Caribbean and Alaska, as well as entertaining at the Hollywood Canteen. Returning to the U.S., Brown brought sacks of letters from servicemen to their families, making sure they were delivered by the Post Office. Weather conditions never deterred him as he continued to entertain the troops in hospitals, sometimes doing his entire show for a single dying soldier, signing autographs for everyone. For his services to morale, Brown became one of only two civilians to be awarded the Bronze Star during World War II. Truly a very honorable guy both on the screen and off.

In the next few days or so I'll be commenting on more Joe E. Brown and Alice White films, which are always comfortable comedies, the type we can use today when we seem to be drowning in a river of cynicism. A steady diet of these oldies might just provide a little hope that we can still be engaged by uplifting innocence. I know I am.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #508: All right now, see? Nyah nyah, before *Little Caesar* (1931) came roaring at the audiences hungry for gangster films, making Edward G. Robinson a household name to be feared, see, there was today's feature, *The Widow From Chicago* (1930), the first of four contracted films (at a flat rate of $35,000 per film) with Robinson under the First National (Warner Brothers) brand. Originally slated to be a musical (?) starring Alice White, this film has been shorn of any singing whatsoever, making it a short 64-minute crime picture with Neil Hamilton (Batman's Commissioner Gordon) as an escaped and presumed dead torpedo. Since audiences at the time hated musicals, they got bullets.

It's a long forgotten escapade, largely due to its being eclipsed by the studio's classic *Little Caesar*, which was Robinson's next starring role, interrupted between the two films by a golfing short in which he played himself. (Between 1930 and 1931 he starred in eleven films and two shorts.) In this one Robinson is preparing for his Enrico Bandello role (coming in two months) as Dominic, a top gangster and nightclub owner, who is waiting for the arrival of "Swifty" Dorgan (Neil Hamilton), a hood from Chicago. Meanwhile, onboard a train carrying Dorgan, Detectives Finnegan and Jimmy (John Elliott and Harold Goodwin) make a play for Dorgan, who escapes by jumping off the train at a bridge crossing, presumably to his death.

Since Dominic has never met Dorgan, Jimmy goes undercover to pass himself off as the hood. Unfortunately, Dominic makes him and has him executed, much to the horror of Jimmy's sister Polly (Alice White) who immediately disappears only to resurface in Dominic's offices as Swifty Dorgan's widow, infiltrating Dominic's empire with vengeance on her mind. But the story takes a twist during her negotiations with Dominic when Swifty appears from hiding, nearly blowing Polly's cover. Intrigued by her wide eyes and coy demeanor, Swifty plays along with her to discern her plans while Dominic grows suspicious.

Alice White takes top billing in this picture, and as usual her perky spunk carries her through the film's rough spots. As Polly, she's perhaps the only character on screen who can make fun of Robinson's short and stocky frame and his tight-fist of a face--and get away with it. She plays well against the towering Neil Hamilton, so much so that we're not altogether sure that he's truly a bad guy or just an incredibly soft gangster with ambitions to settle down with the first cute girl who bats her eyes at him. Frank McHugh plays moderately comic relief Slug, one of Dominic's men, who would have worked wonderfully well had the film retained its standing as a musical. Now it feels more like a truncated transition film from silents to talkies--which it is basically.

Robinson is the breakout here, swaggering and smoking and generally looking menacing, trying out some of his signature moves that he would later play to grand effect in greater films. But 1930 press clippings played a real game with the audience; Jay D. Bee's column in the *Ogden Standard Examiner* boasted, "Everyone knows Scarface Al Capone, the Chicago gangster. That is just why one of the studios figures it a good idea to have him in a picture. It is rumored that he will appear in *Widow From Chicago*, one of Alice White's future pictures. Looks like it would be a good idea to stay away from that one and show studio executives we don't want gangsters in moving pictures." And promotional posters' copy beckoned, "You can't resist *The Widow From Chicago*. She'll take you for a ride to romance. Shoot you full of thrills. And slay you with love. You've never seen such rapid-fire love racketeering in all your life."

Yes, of course it's hyperbolic copy, and no, Al Capone does not show his scarred face in the film, and as entrancing as Alice White might be (her career took a serious tumble around the time of this film), she's not so hot that she'll melt your socks, unless you're Neil Hamilton who is not the least bit menacing or hard nosed as he's supposed to be. But historically *The Widow From Chicago* is worth watching for Robinson's prowling and posturing. If your expectations are high upon hearing this is squarely in the midst of the Pre-Code Hollywood era, save your juices as there is no hectic violence, no sexual tension heating up the screen with even as much heat as a Taco Bell Mild Sauce, and not one furiously questionable moral dilemma. It’s a watered down Slurpee with just a hint of flavor. And, heck, it's only a little over one hour, so relax and enjoy your popcorn, see? Nyah, nyah.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Hey Jeff, look at this.
https://shop.tcm.com/the-marx-brothers-silver-screen-collection/025192175831

Aha, beat you to it. I have the Marx Brothers Silver Screen 6-disc set. great investment.
Jeff

And do you have this?
https://shop.tcm.com/rita-hayworth-the-ultimate-collection-12-legendary-performances/683904634993

Well, of the twelve, I have seven. . . I must be slipping. Lovely Rita, meet us, maid. . . . nothing will come between us. . . .
Jeff

This site is gonna get me in serious trouble with She Who Must Not Be Angered.

Search the word "collection". I figure that search alone is gonna cost me about a grand over the next few months.

Post #509: From what I've been able to determine, the star of today's Pre-Code Hollywood quickie Alice White lived up to the title of today's feature, "Playing Around" (1930), as during her career the five foot three, ninety-eight pound spitfire was involved in sexual scandals that basically put the kibosh on her career. Starting out forty pounds heavier as script girl and secretary for Charlie Chaplin, Alice and her spunky personality drew a lot of attention. “I was so stubby and fat and pink-looking that everybody there called me ‘Peter Rabbit.’ I had no thought of becoming a movie actress,” White recalled in 1958. “One day, the still cameraman had a new lens he wanted to test, and he said, ‘Peter Rabbit, how about posing for me?’ So I put on an act with gestures … [and] the pictures turned out fine. When Mr. Chaplin saw them, he said, ‘Peter Rabbit, you ought to go into the movies.'”

Flash forward to 1933 after a string of moderately successful pictures, including today's, in which she made a name for herself as a coy, sometimes brassy helmet blonde with huge eyes and a Betty Boop voice. In 1933 she was involved in an affair with British actor John Warburton who, at a Beverly Hills party, “. . . beat me up all over the street and grabbed me by my hair,” White said in her testimony to a grand jury about Warburton’s alleged attack. “It’s a wonder I didn’t die.” Allegedly in retaliation White and her longtime boyfriend, banker-turned-actor-turned-agent-turned-screenwriter Sy Bartlett (who were exonerated) hired two LA men to rob and disfigure Warbuton. After Bartlett and White's short marriage of a year and a half, roles dried up, and in 1949 she married Jack Roberts of Columbia Pictures and filed for divorce eight years later, citing he “called her vile names, threw things around and was carrying on with other women," while he alleged she had participated in wife swapping.

So "Playing Around" seems the perfect vehicle for Alice, playing Sheba Miller, a cloche hat wearing young woman who feels she can do better in the romance department than her faithful dog of a soda jerk boyfriend Jack (William Bakewell who has all the cheap appeal of a stale Aunt Jemima pancake). When Jack can't afford much more than a couple of glasses of buttermilk at the swanky Pirate Den nightclub and suggests they leave, Alice balks and enters a contest at the club judging patrons' best legs. (Ah, those were the days.) She wins the contest and a loving cup, as well as the attention of smooth talking gangster Nickey Solomon (Chester Morris), who never seems to have enough scratch to cover his extravagant tastes. And we're off to the races.

Sheba's father (Richard Carlyle) sympathizes with Jack, who works the counter at Pa's drug store, as he likes the affably bland suitor and wishes he'd marry Sheba, but he also knows Jack is prideful, unwilling to make the marital leap until he can provide Sheba with a solid income. Meanwhile, Nickey wines, dines and prepares to schmooze his way into Sheba's good graces (and other unmentionables) as he slyly sidesteps his lack of funds, though he plans a big score within a couple days--by robbing a local drug store (Dum Dum DUMMMMMM) and shooting the owner if need be.

This is another 66 minute First National Picture (Warner Brothers by any other name) that provides director Mervyn LeRoy the opportunity to work with Alice a fifth time and to stage a couple lavish musical numbers with a large cast of dancers and singers, while Alice sings one ditty "You Learn About Love Every Day" at her acceptance of the cup. And Marion Byron is on hand as Maude, a world wise telephone operator, who elevates her brief time on screen into something memorable, attractive and funny, a real highlight all too quickly dismissed. Alice White never won any Academy Awards for her acting, especially when she was exhibited as merely an integer to get the story told, as she is here, but when she is allowed to cut loose a bit and move beyond her pouty mouth and anime-sized eyes in a role in which she can play a flirtatious minx she can be quite the little firecracker.

As "Playing Around* unfolds we fall into the cliche ridden convention of tenement girl trying to break free of what she deems poverty (Jack's $35 per week job) in favor of a better, more luxurious life, and Chester Morris's Nickey, all slicked back hair and seamy smiles, promises just that wish fulfillment. While some Pre-Code films were pushing the limits of women's power and escape to glamour, many were just exercises in misogyny, touting lines like "Women can’t be expected to judge human nature like us men!” And this is one of them. Some of the light moments show two neighbors Mrs. Fennerbeck and Mrs. Lippincott (Ann Brody and Nellie V. Nichols) hanging out their wash and gossip overlooking the alley, commenting in broken English on how Sheba is faring with the men in her life.

Considering this was filmed in 1929 and released January 19, 1930, it's historically interesting as a very early talkie, even mentioning how Sheba and Maude might take in an Al Jolson movie, "All talking, all singing, all weeping." LeRoy keep the pace light and fast, the musical numbers are well choreographed, and Alice is fun to watch as she grows enamored of Chester Morris's smooth maneuvers, but it's clear Sheba will end up with the vanilla good guy Bakewell, so despite a twist in the final twenty minutes it's a pretty color-by-the-numbers narrative. Even so, "The Princess Of Pep," as Alice was called, is cute enough to make the hour fly by without any lingering after taste. . . or memorable impact.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #510: No, you've not tuned into *Drugs Change A Person*, a documentary on the physiological shifts that take place when people watch nothing but pharmaceutical commercials for an extended period of time. It's actually the opening scene from today's feature *Riptide* (1934). And I'll bet you can't guess who the actors are in this, either: Herbert Marshall is on the left, and Norma Shearer is on the right. Now, seeing this, you might be led to believe that *Riptide* is a screwball comedy--and it is, for about twenty minutes. Then the plot demands that it lurch into drama mode for the remainder of its 92 minute running time, which completely caught me off guard frankly. But historically it's been named as Evita Peron's favorite film when she was a teenager, so it's got that going for it.

As you can see from the trailer, MGM was putting a lot on star Norma Shearer, and she was more than ready to assume that big star mantle. Though technically it's a Pre-Code Hollywood film, its being made for 1934 just barely squeaks by the rabid censors with its sexually adventurous Mary (Shearer, braless) floating around the room in a busty gown by Adrian and her couch encounter of the third kind with Tommie Trent (Robert Montgomery) filmed behind the back of the divan with Tommie hovering over her. Hoowah! No X-ray glasses bought from the back of comics are needed to see what was going on there. And in typical Pre-Code fashion, party girl Mary, who has clearly known (in the Biblical sense) a roster of players including her husband-to-be Lord Philip Rexford (Herbert Marshall), must be made to pay for her myriad dalliances. While girls just want to have fu-un, there is a price to pay.

Lord Philip and Mary meet cutely incognito, dressed for a party as Insect Man and Lady Sky Bird (which was actually left over from DeMille's *Madam Satan* (1930). Deciding not to attend the affair in such ludicrous outfits, they make a date to see one another after changing clothes, and bazinga! They find they are two attractive people, though Lord Philip is a stuffy boorish aristocrat and Mary is a whoope-ti-do single. And, hitting it off splendidly, they marry as we jump ahead five years to see them happily wed, though Philip travels a great deal, leaving Mary with their daughter, nannies and domestic albeit luxuriously rich household duties with maids. Finally growing weary of waiting for the Lord of the manor to return, Mary and his Aunt Hetty Riversleigh (Mrs. Patrick Campbell) vacation in Cannes, where Mary reunites with her old party pal Tommie.

Now, don't get your knickers in a knot yet, because even though the two get schnockered, they share only one discreet kiss before Mary whisks herself away to her hotel, with Tommie chasing her, his motor roaring at the innocent intimacy that reminds him of better days. But Mary is married and will not allow herself to slip back into her hay-making while the moon is shining. Desperate to get to her, Tommie attempts accessing her suite by jumping balconies, only to miss the final landing and plummet a couple floors through the overhanging canopies into the hotel's nightclub. Naturally the tabloids seize on the perceived infidelity of Lady Rexford and trumpet the news in lascivious detail, even though nothing untoward actually occurred between Tommie and Mary. But Lord Philip is a stodgy old gas-releaser who thunders his displeasure with Mary, despite her claims of innocence and rationalizations that he knew her past when he married her, AND accepted it.

Thus, *Riptide* coils down into a demonstration of male superiority and double standards with Philip demanding a divorce, custody of the child and Mary's presence cemented in the social pillory. Escaping his bluster and arrogance, Mary escapes to Aunt Hetty. . . and who just happens along but Tommie, to help her pick up her pieces, or at least handle them. Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished, and since Mary is trembling on the cusp of singlehood once again, 'tis a consummation resolutely realized. . . . Until Rexford decides to give her another go. Oh cursed spite that ever she was born to set it right. . . .

Not to be sexist at all, but I've been trying to articulate the reason Norma Shearer is such a draw to me. While not in any way traditionally pretty or glamorous, her posture and self assuredness (as well as her metaphorical seduction of Adrian, who considered her frame perfect for his creations) hold me enrapt by her performances. And like her role in *The Divorcee* (1930) which this film follows steadfastly though less excitingly, she etches women's roles with a passion and equality that is fascinating to me. (Incidentally, I strongly recommend Gavin Lambert's wonderful biography, *Norma Shearer* for its literary fullness and meticulous insight.) In a fine essay by Danny at Pre-Code Hollywood.com, Norma's impact is explored in this snippet:

"I think that’s what draws me to Shearer even in a lame movie such as this. Unlike the robot Crawford or the sphinx Garbo, Shearer had this earnest push to clarify and redefine what a woman was on the screen. She’s a woman with layers, with desires she can’t articulate but that must be respected, even in a creaky script like this. She can oscillate between being sexy, silly, vulnerable, or strong, but, underneath, Norma is always those, and powerful at it to boot."
Well said indeed.

One element of many Pre-Code films that consistently smacks me in the head is the provincial happy ending (?) tacked onto the films. In the case of *Riptide*, not meaning to give away so much but. . ., the most convenient, rather than "honest" or refreshing (my words), denouement tends to shoot my appreciation in the foot. I see the rekindling of Mary and Philip's union--in literally the last seconds of the film--so cheesy, so upended and *wrong* as to reward Herbert Marshall's stubborn wrong-headedness in his viewing of male-female relationships (which might be described as women as avatars with no rights or emotions worth validating). It is surely one of the few Pre-Code films that does not reward the second-billed star (Robert Montgomery) as "winner of the girl's affections." And for me, that's what sinks *Riptide* despite some interesting humor, arresting performances from Shearer and Montgomery, and capable but flat direction from screenplay-writer Edmund Goulding (who was replaced by Robert Z. Leonard for the last two-and-one-half weeks of filming).

Media packets advertised with the copy, "AM I IN LOVE WITH TWO MEN? I've played a man's game....in a woman's way! My heart has been bruised...but it's all in the game when you're caught in The Riptide." So we applaud Norma Shearer's pushing the boundaries toward equal judgment, but give the raspberries to the prevailing code (not the Hays Code specifically) that would have a woman pay for trying to live in equanimity with men. It's so reminiscent of Archie and Edith singing, "Those were the days. And you knew where you were then, girls were girls and men were men." If only the men weren't such recalcitrant boobs whose behavior was patted on the back. . . .
Enjoy.
Jeff

Norma Shearer had, in my humble opinion, charisma. Beauty is easy. It can even be painted on. But charisma is a presence which can't be learned. And it doesn't require physical beauty to work it's magic.

And I suddenly need to find a copy of Madam Satan.

*Madame Satan* is coming up later this week/end.
Jeff

Post #511: Spunky, spirited, dedicated, hard nosed, totally professional and Oh so easy on the eyes--No, we're not writing about Bob Woodward, we're holding up the heroine of today's feature *Smart Blonde* (1937), Glenda Farrell as Torchy Blane in her first of seven appearances as the wise-cracking journalist (two more Torchy Blane films were made with Jane Wyman in the lead, which put the kibosh on continuing the series). Completely and unilaterally harmless, the series follows our intrepid reporter through a collection of murders and such ably assisted by her boyfriend and Police Lieutenant Steve McBride (Barton MacLane), a crusty but benign cop with a goofy chauffeur Gahagan (Tom Kennedy, the only actor to appear in all nine films), who likes to write poetry and play with the siren.

Directed by Frank McDonald, this one streaks out of the gate and doesn't slow down for any of its 59 minutes. It's fast action, fast talk, fast driving and fast and loose with facts (no police lieutenant would drag his girlfriend into every single crime scene with him AND offer her a ride while he's at it; that's just dumb procedural judgment, especially if bullets are going to fly everywhere). But it's the B-movies, gang, and as long as there's a story to be unraveled, Torchy will be there, logic aside.

She's one gutsy little fact checker, as our introduction to her shows her speeding alongside a train in a cab, jumping out at a crossroads and hopping onto the back platform to interview "Tiny" Torgeson (Joseph Crehan), a Bostonian friend of Fitz Mularkey (Addison Richards), who's getting out of the questionable shade of his Million Club, gambling enterprises and sports venues. Much to the displeasure of local gangsters who bid for the whole malarkey, Fitz has sold his whole empire to his buddy Tiny--for less money that the gangs have offered. On the train Torchy discovers Tiny plans to play it all straight, on the up and up, so Fitz can marry his high society girlfriend Marcia Friel (Charlotte Wynters) and become all respectable-like.

But as Torchy and Tiny get into a cab Tiny is shot and murdered (how convenient for Torchy and her story). Since the case is plopped in Steve's lap, Torchy accompanies him to the Million Club to break the news to Fitz, who is devastated and filled with revenge, though Steve cautions him against retribution as it would endanger his impending marriage. Meanwhile Torchy learns from the club's hat check girl Dixie (Jane Wyman, who plays it beautifully and with great humor) that the club singer Dolly Ireland (Wini Shaw) was in love with Fitz and that Fitz's right-hand man and bodyguard, Chuck Cannon (Max Wagner), was angry about losing his job.

So the suspects line up and the bodies fall, and Torchy and Steve bicker, fight, wise-crack, jump into cars, jump out of cars, open doors, close doors, burst in on one another, fight about going to dinner and make up while a group of extras parade in and out of the story. I will admit I had a hard time telling a couple couples apart, and felt a little rushed as there is very little character development. But, hey, look: These B-pictures are equivalent to a one hour episode of *Murder, She Wrote*, *Diagnosis Murder* or *Chickey Gilbert, Amateur Detective, Soda Jerk and Substitute Paper Boy*. (Okay, that last one isn't really a show, but if it were it would be a formulaic lightweight like all the other detective shows on TV with interchangeable parts.)

And as such, Torchy Blane movies are redeemed by Glenda Farrell whose energy and appeal are not to be dismissed. One of the most endearing and appealing aspects of Glenda Farrell's portrayal is her unique articulation skills, like those we saw in *Hi, Nellie* (1934), her fast talking abilities clocking in at a rate of 400 words in 40 seconds (really!). The Torchy Blane pictures were cranked out almost as fast--nine films from 1937 to 1939, the second in the series *Fly Away Baby* (1937) chomping at *Smart Blonde*'s heels only six months later. According to Richard Harland Smith, "In a letter to *Time* magazine in 1988, Superman co-creator Jerry Siegel admitted that he and partner Joe Shuster had based Clark Kent's Daily Planet colleague and love interest Lois Lane (who made her *Action Comics* debut in June 1938) on the indefatigable Torchy, with Glenda Farrell the physical model and the character's surname cadged from *Torchy Blane in Panama* (1938) star Lola Lane." Joanne Siegel, the wife of Jerry Siegel and the original model for Lois Lane, also cited Farrell's portrayal of Torchy as Siegel's inspiration for Lois.

Based on a series of *MacBride and Kennedy* stories by Frederick Nebel, Torchy was originally a man, Kennedy, who would not have fit the Hays Code of behavior since he was a hard drinking unrepentant alcoholic. The author of thirty-seven novelettes between 1926 and 1937, Nebel became the second best writer (after Dashiell Hammett) for the famous *Black Mask* pulp. When pressed about changes made to his characters, Nebel stated, "Hell, they always change the stuff around. But I don't mind--as long as I don't have to make the changes." And so some small film history was made when Farrell was cast by director Frank MacDonald when Warner Brothers scooped up the rights for Nebel's stories, *Smart Blonde* coming from Nebel's "No Hard Feelings." Farrell said, "So before I undertook to do the first Torchy, I determined to create a real human being—and not an exaggerated comedy type. I met those [news-women] who visited Hollywood and watched them work on visits to New York City. They were generally young, intelligent, refined and attractive. By making Torchy true to life, I tried to create a character practically unique in movies."

According to USC's Annenberg School for Communication, studying positive journalist role models in film, "The question wasn't how could Torchy Blane care about a numbskull policeman like Steve McBride. The issue was that in the 1930s, she really had no choice." And it's this liberated chutzpah that gives Torchy her edge in film after film, leading her to say, "Hold-ups and murder are my meat. Here's the open sesame that swings wide all portals - my press pass" and cops on the beat knowing her stamina to say, "Quit kidding, Torchy. You ain't no lady. You're a reporter."

Tough but pliable, hungry for news and a steak dinner, Glenda Farrell excels in her role, one-upping her boyfriend and staring murder down the barrel of any gun. I think this is one franchise I'm going to enjoy following. . . if I can just speed up my hearing ability to catch everything she says.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #512: Welcome to a double dose of ironic male superiority as Steve MacBride (Barton MacLane, misspelled in the trailer's propeller introduction) puts his girlfriend right once again: "Oh, Torchy, you're a nice kid and I'm sorry you didn't have a little better luck but running down criminals is a man's job. It takes a masculine mind and years of experience to crack these cases." Yes, Torchy Blane (Glenda Farrell) is back in the second of the series in today's feature, *Fly Away Baby* (1937), upending the male ego with her ability to uncover the shady truth. Released six weeks after the Hindenburg disaster, this one offers some great footage in a dirigible hovering over the city as Torchy participates in a race around the world.

For people interested in vintage aircraft, *Fly Away Baby* is a treasure trove with a tragic history. The Pan Am clipper shown taxiing for takeoff, a Martin M-130 named "Hawaii Clipper," was lost on July 28, 1938 between Manila and Guam with its entire crew of nine and six passengers missing beyond any trace. Five years later the Pan Am clipper they are shown boarding, also a Martin M-130 named the "Philippine Clipper," on January 21, 1943 crashed into a mountain due to bad weather at 2,500 feet near Ukiah, California en route from Honolulu to San Francisco. In this case nine crew members and ten passengers were killed. And if that's not enough, a recurring five years later, the DC-3 seen in the film disappeared into the Bermuda Triangle on a flight from San Juan, Puerto Rico to Miami.

Now don't let that trail of destruction dissuade you from enjoying the film, which is another bright and breezy affair as Torchy upstages Steve in the investigation of jeweler Milton Devereux's murder and the heist of his diamond collection. Almost immediately finding the murder weapon before Steve can push his hat back on his head, Torchy discovers the victim had a nasty confrontation with Lucien "Sonny" Croy (Gordon Oliver), a rival reporter, son of his paper's owner, and unlucky gambler/boyfriend of the icy nightclub dancer Ila Sayre (Marcia Ralston), who gives him an alibi at the time of the killing. Discovering cryptic notes Croy and Devereaux left on a restaurant menu, Torchy joins Croy and ANOTHER rival reporter, gloryhound Hughie Sprague (Hugh O'Connell), on an around-the world race as a publicity stunt. Toss in "Orville" ('That's not my name") Gahagan (Tom Kennedy), recently resigned from the force to take up private sleuthing, for comic relief, and you've got a brisk travel agenda.

Complete with the prototypical airplane shadow following the route over world maps, last seen in the Indiana Jones films as an homage to this technique, *Fly Away Baby* clips along with Glenda Farrell's rapid-fire delivery and tenacious prowess traveling across the Pacific, Asia, and Europe with stops at Honolulu, San Francisco, Hong Kong and Stuttgart, Germany. Based on journalist and *What's My Line?* panel regular Dorothy Kilgallen's actual flights with two other journalists in an around the world race, *Fly Away Baby* cribs the gist of Kilgallen's experience while obviously augmenting it with murder and intrigue, though Kilgallen contributed to the script. Actual historical footage of the Hindenburg and sets painstakingly replicated from its interior make this B-film a great deal of fun, and the final action sequence aboard the dirigible in which all mysteries are revealed and the baddie learns how justice is meted out (there's hamburger all over the highway), is as good as any A-budget feature.

Frank MacDonald is back as director, a task to which he's ably suited, as he was hot on the trail of the first Torchy film five months earlier. There are plenty of twists and turns, and some nice macho posturing ("Orders say no reporters, male or female... especially female!" says Gahagan seconds before he's easily sidestepped by Torchy). But Glenda Farrell holds her ground and knows when to launch a hard right cross to the male ego: “You always told me to play up the feminine angle in my stories. A woman doing anything is good copy. Here I’d be [a woman] against two men and I’ll beat them too.” Author Joe Saltzman said, “Blane went after fast-breaking, sensational stories as aggressively as any newsman. Her scoops were usually in print before her male counterparts figured out what was going on. She was no sob sister, no gushy old maid, no masculine-looking lady.”

*Fly Away Baby* is proof of that and a darned pleasant way to spend a trim 60 minutes. It's one movie you could watch on a plane that would not have you scrambling for a parachute to end the misery. Funny, fast paced and fervently feminist in a non-confrontational way, this is blue sky joy--but the biggest mystery remains: Will Torchy ever get to savor a porterhouse on the ground?
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #513: Well, it is officially 42 days until the election, it's the first day of fall, and people are celebrating the decision to let kids wear masks on Halloween during the Covid plague. Shouldn't they be doing that every day they're in contact with others? Oh, that's right, The President says Covid, being a discriminating disease, doesn't infect people under 18. . . even as scientific community calculates a good 10% of all falling prey to it are precisely that group. So in honor of razing the land of plenty, we offer today's feature, *Earthworm Tractors* (1936) starring the great Joe E. Brown. It's a really good time for big mouthed comedians.

Joe plays Alexander Botts, a self-proclaimed super salesman of anything, who plans to marry Sally Blair (Carol Hughes) just as soon as he can hit the big time, though he's been relegated to selling cheap little sundries for a huge net profit of three dollars after a month. Determined to score big, Alexander starts sending letters to the Earthworm Tractor Company in Earthworm City, Illinois, where the president H.J. Russell (Charles Wilson) is impressed enough with Botts' expansive claims and nerve to send one of his salesmen George Healey (Gene Lockhart) to interview him. It doesn't go well as Healey mistakenly swigs from a bottle on Botts' dresser, thinking it's whiskey--it's not, it's shoe polish, incapacitating him. Alexander gleefully takes his place with a prospect, mishearing the customer's name, Jackson, with Johnson.

En route to sell Mr. Johnson a tractor (of which Potts knows less than zero), he stops to help a young woman, Mabel Johnson (June Travis) whose car is steeped in the mud. Comic disaster follows when Alexander extricates the young lady's car, discovers her name is Johnson, and accompanies her to meet her father, Sam Johnson (the curmudgeonly Guy Kibbee), a churlish hypochondriac with bad hearing and a worse temperament. Johnson hates all things automotive because he lost money on his car wedged firmly in swampland. And so it is Alexander Botts to the rescue, tooling a gigantic bulldozer into the swamp, demolishing everything in its path.

This is the large scale comedy best viewed through the eyes of 1930s spectacles. The set pieces with our hapless hero negotiating mass destruction (lamp posts, bank windows, automobiles, trestle bridges) scream novelty and slapstick, but never fail to amuse, even cause some laughter out loud. It's the sort of comedy Buster Keaton beautifully mastered, eliciting "Oohhs" from the audience as surely as guffaws. But Joe E. Brown was never a stone face, his rubbery features bouncing from joy, pride and excitement to embarrassment, realization and disappointment sometimes all within the same scene. His gestures are delicate, his fingers twiddling and embellishing simple movements with a flourish that are both comical and meticulous.

Guy Kibbee is irascible, a perfect negative nelly for Joe E. Brown's effusively positive Alexander, and June Travis fills in for some sweet romantic jealousy while believing in the wayward salesman. Caterpillar provided four diesel RD model tractors for use in the movie, and part of the action was filmed inside the Caterpillar East Peoria plant. To honor the company the film premiered in Peoria, the first time a film had been premiered outside Hollywood or New York.

Alexander Botts is the creation of William Hazlett Upson, a *Saturday Evening Post* writer whose work for the Holt Caterpillar Service Department from 1919 to1924. According to Upson, Alexander is “an extrovert. He likes people. He sincerely wants to help the customer. He never puts across a sale unless the customer will benefit. He has courage, resourcefulness. He never holds a grudge. He is, in short, a good egg.” Between 1927 and 1975, Upson penned 112 Botts stories, one of which, "I'm A Natural Born Salesman," published in the April 16, 1927 edition of the *Post*, formed the basis for *Earthworm Tractors*. Joe E. Brown literally threw himself into the role, performing his own stunts and learning to drive a Caterpillar crawler for authenticity during filming. He told one reporter at the time, “A guy that rides a mule is known as a muleskinner. . . . I guess as long as I wrangle Caterpillars I must be a ‘Catskinner.’”

For the sheer fun of watching 68 minutes of unrelenting comedy, *Earthworm Tractors* is goofy, silly fun for the entire family, and if you've never watched Joe E. Brown (who is best remembered for his delivery as Osgood Fielding III of the final line in Billy WIlder's *Some Like It Hot* (1959), "Well, nobody's perfect!") you are in for a treat for he's a non-stop animated cartoon of a man. In the next couple weeks I'll be featuring a couple films based on his real-life love of baseball in a trio of films he made glorifying America's pastime. Stay tuned because he's always a joy to watch. And one more thing: Let's be careful out there. You never know when some guy with a huge mouth might want to shake your house to its foundation.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #516: At times the nightly news proffers opportunities to smile, though in recent months there has been little to tug the corners of my mouth northward while my brow has fallen victim to southward gravity. Chanting by crowds of people shaking angry fists skyward seldom lowers my blood pressure, but last night I indulged a not-so-guilty pleasure of relishing another's umbrage at hearing "Vote him out" in rhythmic cadence. And in today's feature, the frustrated fist shaking directed heavenward and plaintive eye rolls to the firmament delighted me even more, because *Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House* (1948) dealt hilariously with a crumbling infrastructure that would be moored up by the time it was over.

Cary Grant and Myrna Loy (She Of The Beautiful Eyes) are picture perfect as Jim and Muriel Blandings, desperate to escape the sardine can of their New York apartment to allow some breathing and elbow room. While Muriel secretly plots to invest $7,000 ($74,500 in today's bucks) by tearing down a wall and refreshing the crowded box they presently inhabit, Jim, an advertising executive pulling in $15,000 per year (or $160,000 today), yearns for the renovation of a 170-year-old Connecticut manse on a 35-acre plot. Historically reaching back to the Revolutionary War, the place just needs a little sprucing up to become their model home. Against the advice of their friend and lawyer Bill Cole (Melvyn Douglas at his urbane best), the Blandings pay five times more than the going rate to secure its purchase. Dreams are pricey affairs, after all.

But the whole shebang rests on a decrepit foundation, and the Blandings discover it will be more cost efficient to raze the place and rebuild according to their exacting specifications. Hiring architect Henry Simms (Reginald Denny) to design and supervise the construction of the new home for $18,000 ($191,500 today). Between building delays, changes in floor plans, picky contractors and mounting costs that keep today's Property Brothers in business, "the old Hackett Place" is one floating disaster after another. At the same time Jim has to somehow wrap his mind around a successful campaign for WHAM brand ham which has left a long trail of decimated ad agencies attempting to sell the thing. Add to that Jim's mounting suspicions that Muriel is engaging in an affair with Bill, and Murphy's Law becomes manifest on the screen.

While everything goes cattywampus, Myrna Loy rises above it all, her most pressing engagement being the decision of what color and decor to infuse in each room. “First, the living room," she tells the painters. "I want it to be a soft green. Not as blue-green as a robin’s egg, but not as yellow-green as daffodils. Now, the dining room. Not just yellow–something bright and sunshiny. If you send one of your workers to the grocer for a pound of butter and match that, they can’t go wrong.” Patiently the painter turns to his co-worker, “Got that, Charlie?” And Charlie nods. “Uh-huh. Red, green, yellow, blue, and white.” The clash of reality and visions of grandeur is the heart of the film, giving Cary Grant ample opportunity to huff and bluster in his inimitable manner while Myrna Loy takes everything in stride. They are, in my mind, an ideal couple whose chemistry solidifies the heart of this wonderful comedy, their third and final teaming in the movies.

Based on the real life experiences of Detroit's own Eric Hodgins, author of the original novel, the house still stands in New Milford, Connecticut. According to the *Washington Post*, Hodgins and his wife began construction in 1939 with an initial estimate for building at $11,000 which rose to $56,000 to finish and nearly drove him Hodgins into bankruptcy. After living in their dream house for only two years, they were forced to sell in 1945 for $38,000 to John Allard, a retired Air Force general. As a publicity stunt the studio built 73 replicas of the Blandings' house (two in Michigan--Detroit and Grand Rapids) across the United States and raffled them off. A replica built in Ohio is presently on the market for $260,000. As for the home seen in the film, in 1948 RKO forged a deal with neighboring Fox Studios who had 2,000 acres of dramatic landscape in the Malibu hills that served as their location ranch. (For cartographers its coordinates are 34 degrees 5' 41"N 118 degrees 42'43"W on the old 20th Century Fox Ranch, now part of Malibu Creek State Park, used as administrative offices and looking not a whit like its original splendor. Decode your answer now)

Hodgins' book was a best seller, and he made $200,000 on the film deal, with which he attempted to buy back his original home but was unsuccessful. In 1953, the house was sold to Ralph Gulliver who gave it to his son Jack in 1972. In 1980, the house was sold to the author and composer Stephen Citron and his wife, the biographer and novelist Anne Edwards. Finally in August 2004 it was sold for $1.2 million.

Perhaps the greatest reason *Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House* is such an amiable treat lies in the camaraderie between the actors. In her autobiography, Myran Loy said, "Oh, that was a joy, sheer heaven from beginning to end. Our director, Hank Potter, who had done theater, worked in sequence, which was nice. . . That picture was as smooth as glass. It just worked--the characters, the whole thing. It was a picture that I thoroughly enjoyed. Since Cary was sure of me and my methods by then, we worked well together; our acting styles meshed and we had fun in the process. He was very sweet to me, a charming companion full of information and humor and hilarious stories about his early days in America as a Coney Island stilt walker. . . . And wonderful Mel (Melvyn Douglas), bless his heart, managed to excel in an extremely difficult situation, because the script had him playing off us without really being a part of us."

Similarly, Cary Grant spoke highly of his co-star: "Myrna kept that spontaneity in her acting, a supreme naturalness that had the effect of distilled dynamite. She really became the perfect wife. Melvyn Douglas and I used to talk about it on *Blandings*. All the leading men agree--Myrna was the wife everybody wanted. The only problem we had was her photographic memory. She seemed to look at a page and know her lines and mine. It was harder for me. 'Careful,' I told her, 'you'll make me look bad on the set.'"

According to Benjamin Schwarz of *The Atlantic Monthly*, "she managed always to be wryly intelligent and bemused, and to deploy what Italo Calvino called her 'lucid self-possession' while also introducing an effervescence and hint of carnality into onscreen wedded life. Labeled the screen’s 'perfect wife,' Loy preferred Gore Vidal’s description of her movie guise: 'the good-sex woman-wife.'" She also lobbied strenuously for the rights of black actors and roles in films to be conducted with dignity, and she took on the role of the Co-Chairman of the Advisory Counsel of the National Committee Against Discrimination in Housing. In 1948 she became a member for the U.S. National Commission for UNESCO, the first Hollywood celebrity to do so.

I cannot recall a more balanced portrayal of marital comedy than this film. The quibbles and disagreements ring absolutely true and loving, and the film rose to prominence at its release as many couples firmly understood the challenges of home ownership during the post-war housing boom. If it's been a while since you sat down with this warm screwball comedy, check out the link accompanying this commentary and set aside a good 93 minutes of terrific film. It'll take you away from the distresses of the next thirty-some-odd days of expectation.
Enjoy.
Jeff