THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 55

 Today's menu consists of two pre-codes, a B-movie starring a blog favorite, and a short best watched with the sound muted. Time to binge!

AFRAID TO TALK (1932): Just when you think pre-codes couldn't get more cynical, up pops Afraid to Talk. Bellboy Eddie Martin witnesses the murder of gangster Jake Stransky by fellow criminal Jig Skelli. What appears to be open and shut case becomes dead and buried, since Skelli has proof that the city's mayor, police commissioner, judges and the D.A.'s office were on Stranksy's payroll. Ergo, the bellboy has to take the fall. After hours of mental and physical torture, Eddie signs a confession. The Mayor and Judge, happy to collect kickbacks as long as mobsters are killing each other, want no part of this, and risk their own careers in order to free Martin. District Attorney John Wade, on the other hand, decides to arrange Martin's jailhouse murder to make it look like suicide. Your tax dollars at work!

Even for a misanthrope like me, Afraid to Talk was a disquieting 75 minutes. Not even the previously-discussed Vice Squad presents lawmakers in such a tawdry light. So much so that where it takes place is never made clear, since references are made to cities like Chicago, Detroit, and New York. (Pay no attention to Times Square's electric headline tickertape that's often seen.) Too, constant reference is made to protecting "the party" at all costs -- just don't ask which party. No wonder some Depression-hit jobless characters hope for a red revolution. The latter is due to Afraid to Talk's writer, Albert Maltz, being a real-life member of the Communist party. And we all know that lawmakers in Stalin's Russia were the most integrous of people.

Forget about the leads playing the bellboy and his bride; it's the bad guys (some pretending to be good) who own Afraid to Talk. Master character actor Edward Arnold, who could play nice guys when he wanted to, chews up the joint as Jig Skelli, the jolly gangster who enjoys bantering with the D.A. as much as he does killing off rivals. And speaking of the D.A., the underrated Louis Calhern is oilier than a tin of mackerel as John Wade, who marks the innocent Eddie Martin for death with the ease of ordering one of the countless cigars smoked here. And it won't be the last time you'll find yourself saying, "Oh my God!" either.

Yup, Afraid to Talk swings for the disreputable fences time after time. The only problems are its current so-so condition (yet another obscure Paramount oldie in need of a good scrubbing), and that it lacks the more downbeat alternate ending allegedly filmed for its European release. Even in its current state, though, Afraid to Talk puts to lie any talk about the "innocent days" of movies and how the studios were afraid to confront audiences with the hard truth about what their government leaders were (and still are) capable of. 

BONUS POINT: The corrupt cops giving poor Eddie the third-degree. Not that they're doing it, but how it's photographed in one take, the camera slowly tracking closer as the harsh overhead light swings lazily back and forth. We're spared seeing the subsequent torture, having to be content with hearing Eddie's agonized off-camera screams.

EAST OF FITH AVENUE (1933):  Sure, that "Grand Hotel of a New York boarding house" hype on the East of Fifth Avenue one-sheet is accurate. But it also feels like Columbia's answer to Sam Goldwyn's Street Scene, right down to the Gershwinesque opening theme. Both movies focus on the denizens of lower-middle class New York neighborhoods in a compressed timeline. Characters have money and family problems. But while Street Scene was a big budget adaptation of an acclaimed Broadway drama, East of Fifth Avenue is... well, like I said, a Columbia picture. 

No need to give the names of most of the characters or the actors. And while there are a lot of them -- the layabout poet, the elderly couple, the snake oil salesman among others -- two carry much of the movie. Kitty (Dorothy Tree) eagerly awaits the return of Vic (Wallace Ford), the fast-talking gambler who unknowingly knocked her up. And Vic does indeed show up -- with his wife Edna, a cracked Southern belle. It doesn't take long for Edna to get tired of the boarding house life, leading Vic to desperately find a thousand bucks to bet on a surefire 10-1 nag at the track. Kitty, still in love with him, borrows from the elderly couple, which sets into motion the climactic events that affect most of the boarders in different, shocking ways.

While most of the characters are more like caricatures, Dorothy Tree brings Kitty to life in East of Fifth Avenue's most believable performance, holding the story together during the goofy first half before it gets increasingly dramatic. Familiar utility actor Wallace Ford gives his typical wiseguy flair, only less grating than usual. Even better, he often gives hints of his better dramatic style that would dominate his future supporting roles. I came close to turning off East of Fifth Avenue (118 East 56th, to be exact) in the first half hour but was glad to stick with it, as it didn't necessarily play out as expected, especially with the elderly couple. It might not be a grand hotel but it's pretty good.

BONUS POINTS: By the end of the movie, you will have learned a dozen or so pre-code ways to say a woman is pregnant without really saying it. Best example: when Kitty is kicked out of a chorus line, one of the dancers sneers, "Say, I thought you had a lot of experience." To which Kitty replies, "Yeah, too much!"

THE SIX DAY GRIND (1935): Some not-so-good pictures are worth seeing just once
because they're short. Others, because they have historical significance. Still others because they're proof that what was once considered witty has aged like camembert sitting on the windowsill for a year. 

The Six Day Grind is all three. It's a one-reeler; it features genuine newsreel footage of the six-day bicycle race held in Madison Square Garden in 1935, an event at once fascinating and boring beyond human standards; and it stars the married comedy team of Goodman and Jane Ace, known on their radio sitcom as the Easy Aces. The couple were similar to Burns & Allen, with the long-suffering straightman playing off his scatterbrained wife. But while George Burns clearly adored Gracie and her "illogical logic", Goodman seems to have married the incredibly stupid Jane just to have someone to insult on a regular basis.

The "Ace High" shorts made for the Van Buren Studios in New York anticipate Science Fiction Theater 2000. In all of them, The Aces are at a movie theater, where Jane reads the opening credits in her Southern drawl, before commenting about the newsreel onscreen. Goodman needs to correct her throughout, eventually using his catchphrase, "Isn't that awful?" Well yes, it is, but not in the way he's implying. If these two were sitting near you in a real movie theater, you'd demand the usher throw them out on their unfunny butts. Comedians and writers alike held Goodman Ace in high regard back in the day, so either he was funnier writing for other people, or his style doesn't hold up.

But you know what? The bicycle race footage is fun to watch for 10 minutes. These guys zip around track at a lot of miles per hour, with the teams trading off riders in order to sleep and eat. Watch The Six Day Grind with a friend, turn off the volume, and make your own wisecracks. It'll be funnier than what the Easy Aces have to say. 

BONUS POINTS: During a break, biking champ Alfred LeTourneau sleeps in an "oxygen therapy service tent," allowing Jane to complain, "Oh, why can't he breathe the same air as the rest of us?" It's the closest thing to a funny remark she makes here. 

BETRAYAL FROM THE EAST (1945): Lee Tracy was nearing the end of his movie career and spending more time on stage when he made this patriotic drama based on the non-fiction book of the same name. In pre-Pearl Harbor Los Angeles, carnival barker Eddie Carter is approached by his old army buddy Kato -- you can guess his ancestry -- for information regarding U.S. military plans on the Panama Canal. When Carter approaches U.S. Naval Intelligence with his suspicions that Kato is up to no good, he eagerly accepts Uncle Sam's request to go undercover in the Japanese spy ring operating on the West Coast. Sure, it's dangerous, but's more exciting than bringing customers inside a tent at two bits per rube.

Hollywood was churning out anti-Japanese movies like ramen noodles during the War, usually making the "Japs" out to be barely one step above apes. Betrayal From the East goes in a slightly different direction. The spies are -- or at least pretend to be --respectful and well-mannered. And unlike the usual "ah so" characters of the time, Carter's friend Kato speaks perfect English without a trace of an accent. And while you might not recognize the names of the "enemy" character actors -- Richard Loo, Philip Ahn, Victor Sen Yung, Abner Bieberman (who wasn't even Japanese but could pass in a pinch) -- they fall into the "oh, that guy" category. Regis Toomey's eight-minute role as an American spy might disappoint his fans, but how many of them are there, anyway?

It wouldn't be a '40s spy drama without a little romance, so Eddie falls hard for fellow undercover agent Peggy Harrison -- who, as played Nancy Kelly, is about a quarter-century his junior. Her apparent death -- and later reappearance hanging out with German spies -- gives the movie an unexpected Vertigo-ish twist. (Her character's real death is genuinely unsettling.) 

No longer the motormouth from his pre-code days, Lee Tracy is now a little slower and paunchier. Still, his B-pictures like Betrayal From the East offer a welcoming presence for fans like me who wonder when he's going to get the look-who-we-discovered treatment by johnny-come-latelys like the New York Times and the Film Forum.

BONUS POINTS: Betrayal From the East is introduced by Drew Pearson, the muckraking political journalist whose newspaper column, "Washington Merry-Go-Round", was the talk of Washington. Over a decade earlier, his book of the same name was the basis of a great movie starring Lee Tracy. 

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GET YOUR KICKS ON ROUTE 101

 After attending a wedding in San Luis Obispo last week, my wife and I drove Route 101 through northern California and into Oregon. I took some snapshots, some the usual kind everybody does, and others that only a guy like me would. So, strap on your seatbelt and settle in. Be sure to watch out for falling rocks. 

While driving up the California coast, we made a stop at the Hearst Castle, the Mar-A-Lago of its day only classier and much, much larger; our guide pointed to a mountain peak that marked the end of its land, which was 35 miles away. This must be the only place where a groundskeeper would need to attach a portable gas pump to his John Deere. Check out the Castle dining room. Pity the poor guest who wanted to chat with the person at the far end of the table. 

These are elephant seals on the beach across the street from the Castle. No matter how many times you've seen them on TV, nothing prepares you for how bizarre they look in person with that big flap bouncing up and down in front of their mouths as they drag themselves around like living water balloons. Note the one passed out in the sand, looking like his skin is peeling from a sunburn. Did I say "bizarre"? Maybe I should have said repulsive. 

If you're ever in the mood to pay $15 for the silliest bragging rights you can think of, go to Leggett, California's Drive-Thru Park and drive through the Chandelier Tree. Like the elephant seals, looks can be deceiving when you're just looking at a photo. Cars must have been a lot smaller when the tree was mutilated in 1931 for the pleasure of travelers. Our Hyundai rental just about made it, while the car in front of us had to back out after just a few inches. Fifteen bucks, down the drain. Or is it chandelier?

After two days of relentless driving, we finally made it to Oregon. Every morning, its coast looks like a window shade that hasn't been pulled up all the way. While New York was sweltering in a heatwave, we had highs in the 60s during the day and low in the 50s at night. I wore a puffy vest over a sweatshirt over a t-shirt and it still wasn't enough. Wind, fog, clouds low enough to touch... why did we do this again?

Nobody in Oregon actually "goes to the beach" the way the rest of us do -- not even in the middle of summer. Instead, they bundle up in as many layers as they can get their hands on, and trudge on the sand in 40 mph winds for no reason other than to look at the huge rocks. Which isn't much of a reason.

On the other hand, there's always a chance you'll get lucky and see a small, dead octopus that's washed up on the shore. Speaking of beaches, all the signs excitedly list the kinds of birds that hang out there, but the only one you're guaranteed to see are seagulls no different than what you're used to. 

And the ornithologist who named the birds must have run out of ideas when it came to one particular breed that's black and catches oyster. It's called a Black Oystercatcher.  Never saw any of those. Maybe they moved on after catching all the oysters.

What's over 100 feet tall, is several centuries old, and has eight limbs but no trunk? Behold the Octopus Tree (no relation to the octopus corpse), the pride of Cape Meares. And if you're wondering how it got to looking like this, keep wondering. Nobody can agree if it was shaped like this by Native Americans or it just grew wacky on its own accord. I prefer one of its alternate names, The Monstrosity Tree, just because. 

You like lighthouses? Hoo boy, you'll get more than your fill, especially if you're married to someone who has to visit every single one of them, making what should have been a two-hour drive last three times as long. This is the Cape Meares Lighthouse, just a ten-minute walk from the Octopus Monstrosity Tree. And at a proud 38 feet, it's the smallest lighthouse in the U.S. As with almost all the other lighthouses we visited, it was decommissioned many years ago and replaced by a new one somewhere else. And as with the others, it now stands as a tourist stop/gift shop. 

While most motel rooms have a list of nearby restaurants and must-sees, our final stop offered a tsunami evacuation map. This almost came in handy since our area was expected to get slammed after the 8.8 underwater earthquake in the Pacific. Not only was our street an evacuation route, but the official safety gathering spot was just around the corner. Neither of these mattered because it was an 80-foot drop to the beach across the street, and the tsunami turned out to be a tsunothing. Still, a tsunami would have been an interesting way to wind up our Oregon visit instead of just driving to Portland and dropping off the car at the airport. 

Hope you enjoyed this little trip up Route 101. Just remember to dress for winter if you go in July and bring a life jacket if your overnight stays are near the beach. You never know what surprises are in store.

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 54

Having gone through my John Garfield, Alan Ladd, and 1950s Bogart phases, I'm currently diving into Lee Tracy territory. Oh, and there's another gangster picture with Boris Karloff before his move to Horrorwood, USA.

THE WRECKER (1929): There's something rather moving about the tinny
Tiffany-Tone overture from Tiffany-Stahl Productions, the little studio that couldn't. They sure tried hard, though, playing on the same level as the majors, either with Technicolor or releasing European pictures like The Wrecker, a UK-German drama, stateside. For the latter, Tiffany even added a synchronized musical score, sound effects and a couple of very brief moments of talk to entice U.S. customers.

The basic idea of The Wrecker is interesting if slightly farfetched. An unknown terrorist nicknamed Jack the Wrecker is causing trains to crash across the UK. Sir Gervaise Bartlett is concerned that his company, United Coast Lines Railway, will be next -- as well he should. His business partner, Ambrose Barney, is Jack the Wrecker, and the secret owner of the Kyle Motor Coach Company. See, Barney is determined to put the train business out of business in order to boost his bus profits. Bartlett's new board member (and nephew) former cricketeer Roger Doyle and secretary Mary Shelton are assigned to figure out who's behind the crimes. Maybe if they noticed Barney sneering with glee when the trains go boom and reacting with ennui at Bartlett's murder...

Let's get the cast out of the way before proceeding. Two of the leads, Carlyle Blackwell (Ambrose Barney) and Joseph Striker (Roger Doyle) were really Yanks. Everyone else is British and likely forgotten even in the UK. The only name that might ring a bell -- or, rather, that a nerd like me would recognize -- is Benita Hume (Mary Shelton), who later married Ronald Coleman. As for two supporting characters, Bartlett's footman Walter exists only to insult a bumbling detective with the only-in-a-British-movie name Ramses Ratchett.

What gives The Wrecker whatever cachet it possesses a century after its release are the train wrecks. Unlike other movies that used charming (i.e., unconvincing) miniatures, here three honest-to-gosh trains are destroyed, each more jolting than the last. These scenes pack a visceral jolt that no CGI today can equal because they're so obviously real. If you ever see The Wrecker, you'll probably forget the actors but not the action, which is reason enough to watch it. And be sure not to miss the Tiffany-Tone overture. It'll bring a tear to your eye.

BONUS POINTS: The Wrecker unexpectedly parodies the then-popular use of vocalized songs on the soundtrack during love scenes, as Ratchett continually interrupts Roger and Mary's canoodling. It's pretty funny, really.

BEHIND THE MASK (1931): The final Boris Karloff gangster picture during his brief spell at Columbia Pictures. And it's still only a supporting role! Here, Boris plays ex-con Jim Henderson, a member of a heroin-smuggling ring lead by the never-seen Mr. X. Henderson has brought his former cellmate Jack Hart into the fold as a chauffeur for another gang member, Arnold, who -- wouldn't you know it -- has a beautiful daughter named Julie. Dr. August Steiner -- the only person who seems to report in person to Dr. X -- recognizes Hart as an undercover federal agent. When leaving Hart to drown after picking up the heroin at sea doesn't work, Steiner decides that a little heart surgery minus anesthesia might do the trick.

As usual with movies of this time, there's a lot more that happens during Behind the Mask's 68 minutes, but you get the gist of it. The movie's general idea is good -- it's always interesting to see Class A drugs in pre-codes -- but the overall production is a little disappointing. Many of the events that either make no sense or are difficult to believe -- like Hart creating a dummy in about five seconds before he allegedly parachutes to his alleged death or Alice getting the upper hand on a gangster in a hospital -- happen offscreen and are explained so hurriedly that even the writer seems to realize it's all balderdash. 

Jack Holt (as Hart), a one-time leading man in silents now moving into character parts, doesn't have much presence, appearing a decade older than his 44 years. He's utterly outranked in recognition and talent by Karloff and his Frankenstein co-star Edward Van Sloane as Steiner. (Columbia's publicity department clearly did everything it could to convince audiences Behind the Mask was a horror movie.) As with her role in another Columbia Karloff gangster picture The Guilty Generation, Constance Cummings, as Alice, does little more than swoon over a guy -- in this case Hart -- although she unexpectedly saves his life at the climax. Behind the Mask doesn't equal the gangster movies Warner Bros. was releasing at the time but thanks to Karloff isn't a total washout. And you won't have to wrack your brain figuring out who Mr. X really is, either.

BONUS POINTS: A cylinder record player hooked up to a candlestick phone makes for the coolest answering machine ever.

THE NIGHT MAYOR (1932): By rights, The Night Mayor should have been an A-1 racy comedy, starting with the cast. Lee Tracy in the title role as Mayor Bobby Kingston, who spends more time romancing chorus girls than working in City Hall. (Any resemblance to New York Mayor Jimmy Walker is strictly deliberate.) Eugene Pallette as Hymie Shane, the chief of staff who'll do whatever he has to -- including attempted murder! -- protecting Kingston from a hostile press. And Evalyn Knapp as the mayor's current wisecracking squeeze, whose reporter boyfriend threatens to bring down the mayor on the front page of his right-wing newspaper.

Politics! The press! Sex! All the ingredients are there for a classic pre-code. So why is The Night Mayor such a disappointment? The overall idea is interesting -- while Mayor Kingston is a goodtime Bobby, he isn't corrupt, preferring to spend tax dollars on schools, playgrounds and hospitals rather than waste it on a symbolic duck pond and an unessential second airport. The only reason the morals committee wants him out on his butt is because of his dating habits and refusal to accept their bribes. 

Blame the script, then, which confuses cutesy dialogue with wit, and direction, which begs for Tacy's usual mile-a-minute patter instead of a performance more worthy of slow-poke Gary Cooper. And as for the sex... Kingston's new flame Doree Dawn won't make with the goods unless they middle-aisle-it. What is this, a '50s sitcom? 

And there lies the problem. The same way Friends was for people who thought Seinfeld too mean, The Night Mayor is for those who find pre-codes too icky. Track down Washington Merry-Go-Round on YouTube for a Lee Tracy political drama that delivers a real wallop. Even without the sex. And as for what happens to Doree Dawn -- let's just say the lesson for women 90 years ago was "Put out or shut up". 

BONUS POINTS: The too-brief moment when Lee Tracy shows off his tap dance skills -- back when you needed talent to be in the movies.

HI DIDDLE DIDDLE (1943): Depending on your tolerance level, Hi Diddle Diddle is either inane, riotously funny, or bizarre solely for the sake of being bizarre. Possessing the style of a low-rent Preston Sturges picture with the wackiness of the Hope & Crosby Road movies, it often seems like a first draft written under the influence of endless cups of coffee tempered with the occasional shot of I.W. Harper. And if you need an endorsement other than mine, Quentin Tarantino says it's his favorite comedy of all time. 

Yet for all that, Hi Diddle Diddle's story proper is nothing more than a typical late-era B-screwball picture. Sonny Phyffe is on 48 hours leave from the Navy to get married to Janie Prescott when they learn her mother Liza has lost her fortune due to a sleazy shyster. Through a series of nefarious schemes, Sonny's nouveau-riche father Hector recovers the money. That idea alone might be enough for any filmmaker. But it's what writer/director/producer Andrew Stone does that makes it, in that overused adjective, surreal. Wallpaper comes to (animated) life, the cast continually breaks the fourth wall, one of the supporting players is essentially said to be sleeping with the director... Stone seems to have wanted to do anything to distract the Homefront from the war going on overseas. He even provides a welcome twist on the ol' two-people-in-a-revolving-door gag. That takes talent.

In a zany-with-a-capital-Z movie like this, you need a cast that's game, and fortunately Hi Diddle Diddle has it, right down to the bit players. Adolphe Menjou puts over the nonsense in his usual suave manner in the role of Hector Phyffe; the way he keeps a stunned straight face when a woman's hat is shoved on his head is the funniest thing I've seen since forever. (OK, I'm an easy audience.) Billie Burke is her usual scatterbrain self as the mother of the bride. Dennis O'Keefe, soon to be a noir icon, surprises as the vacant-eyed groom whose sexual frustration as the wedding night is continually postponed somehow flew under the censors' radar. Future television-staple Martha Scott plays it straight as the bride (except for the scene where she and the others practice double-takes -- you have to see it to understand). Retired dramatic actress Pola Negri makes a surprise comeback as Menjou's second wife Genya, an egotistical opera singer who drives people out of a nightclub by singing an unwanted Wagner aria. 

If none of this arouses even a grin, then Hi Diddle Diddle is no way or shape for you. But if the Museum of Modern Art ever runs what they will undoubtedly refer to as "a forgotten classic wartime comedy", I don't want you crying that you couldn't get tickets, you hypocrite. If you can't wait for that hypothetical event, go here to see the restored version released in the UK, where it was retitled Try and Find It. If my history with recommendations is any indication, you'll probably try and lose it.

BONUS POINTS: The animated moments were provided by Leon Schlesinger Productions, better known as the animators on loan from Warner Brothers.

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THE SOON-TO-BE-LATE "LATE" SHOWS

My idea of television production was making sure
this was in focus every morning.

On my first day of Introduction to Television Production in college, I learned two things. First, I wasn't cut out for producing television. 

The second was even more important. After everyone settled into their seats, the teacher cleared his throat and spoke his first words. "What," he asked, "is the number one job of television?"

After a few seconds of silence, answers were offered. "Entertainment." "Information." "Bringing people together." 

When everybody had their say, the teacher once again cleared his throat. "The number one job of television is to sell advertising time." 

Don't cry for me, Upper West Side...

I bring this up as a way of pontificating about the cancellation of The Late Show with Stephen Colbert. On the face -- make that the CBS eye of it, it was terribly suspicious. You could say it stinks like Taylor Swift's dance routines. It seemed to confirm that the network was cowtowing to D.J. Trump. (Something about Paramount Global, which includes CBS, merging with yet another company -- what used to be called a monopoly but is now considered business as usual.) 

But you're not the CEO of CBS. He --a guy whose name, George Cheeks, is straight out of a Mafia comedy -- operates on a plane different than you or me.

And here's where I separate from the conspiracy theorists. From where I sit (the dining room table), the Colbert cancellation was likely just business. Nothing political. Certainly nothing personal. From Cheeks' perspective, he was giving good ol' Steve a year to clean out his desk. Pretty generous, wouldn't you say? 

No, you wouldn't. But he would, because he wasn't thinking how it would look to you. He's thinking, Everybody knows this is how business operates. Cheeks recently got rid of @midnight, the game show following Colbert, so he figures, Why stop there? Too, he's not replacing Colbert with, say, Shane Gillis. He's getting rid of the show, period. Your CBS affiliate will decide what goes on at 11:35 -- most likely reruns of How I Met Your Mother or Seinfeld, which will get higher ratings at the local level than Colbert has in the last few years.

CBS in the red, get it?

Here's some more business. The Late Show's annual budget including Colbert's salary is $100-million. According to the New York Times, the show's annual loss is $50-million, while it draws just two million viewers. How long would you be willing to lose 50-million smackolas on a product that had 500,000 fewer customers than the population of Brooklyn? Now pretend you're an advertiser. How long would you be willing to drop good money on a show with those kinds of numbers? Nothing personal or political, Steve. Just business.

I reached out to a friend who spent decades in the business side of network television to get his take on l'affaire Colbert. In lieu of texting a shrug, he wrote, "I just take it at face value. Late night used to be a cash cow, but now they all hemorrhage money." He added that long-running primetime programs get cancelled all the time, but "CBS just admitted reality. They don't need [The Late Show]." 

Over one and a half million Americans got laid off this past May, and everybody outside their families and friends continued to go about their daily routine. But a guy who earns over $4,000,000 a month to tell jokes and interview people who agree with him losing his job is suddenly worth slamming their breaks for. (Maybe the newly-unemployed folks can get their minds off of their current situation by watching a video tour of Colbert's $3-million mansion in Montclair, New Jersey.)

How will the rich middle-aged white guys live?

Show business being a hotbed of backstabbers and jealousy, there was a time when someone getting tossed to the curb would have aroused glee among rivals. But while Jimmy Fallon, Jimmy Kimmel, and Seth Meyers are outspoken in their sorrow at Colbert's fate, their unspoken words are, We're next. They know they're not needed.

Do you watch these guys other than on viral clips shown on morning news shows? Not if ratings are any indication, you don't. Not even the tarnished jewel in NBC's corroded crown, The Tonight Show, is immune. Under Jimmy Fallon's steady stewardship, Tonight can now boast of one million viewers. That's less than the total population of Rhode Island. 

Laugh it up, funnyboy. Your time is
coming.

Remember network executives panicking when the Tonight ratings dropped to
2.7-million under Conan O'Brien? Had the business model not changed since then, Fallon would have gone back to being a soda shill. Luckily for him, NBC is focusing more on its Peacock streaming channel, while The Tonight Show remains on the air because... well, because it has since 1952. Like the song says, Tradition!  

It'll be interesting to watch Colbert's numbers in the next 10 months. If there's a ratings bounce, he'll probably think Where were these people when I needed them? Well, not watching TV, which is what they'll continue not to watch once the novelty of a tuning into a sinking ship wears off. And if his numbers remain in the two-million ballpark, CBS will feel justified in getting rid of The Late Show. I'm unsure if this is a win-win or lose-win or lose-lose even more situation

If you're old enough to
remember Jerry Lester,
you're not alive to read this.

It's something everybody at the networks are aware of but nobody says out loud: late night is deader than Jerry Lester's Broadway Open House. Not like you'll see Stephen Colbert panhandling outside the Ed Sullivan Theater. Even as you read this, streaming platforms from Apple to YouTube are already renting Brinks trucks for the time he becomes a free agent next May. And as for viewership, even if Colbert brings in half of Conan O'Brien's current streaming numbers of 15 million downloads per month, it will still dwarf what he and the other late-nighters currently have on TV. 

Conan's five-year contract is worth $150-million. For Colbert, that might be a cut in pay, but it's still pretty good dough when the fanciest thing you wear to work is a set of quality headphones. And, like Conan, he'll work just once a week. Let me know if you still care after you get laid off.

Memo to all the angry Colbert fans cancelling their Paramount+ subscription: You realize, of course, that by doing this, The Late Show's ratings will sink lower, right? 

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TAKE A LID OFF IT

 

Someday I'll explain what this means.

As I gradually return to background acting work following a year-long hiatus, the time has come to take stock of where I stand. Or, more accurately, where I sag. The chin started turning to a pouch over 30 years ago, so that’s already part of my established look. My belly isn’t quite as taut as it used to be, although you’d have to see me in my underwear to make sure. And believe me, that’s not something you want to do.

 Unfortunately, the body parts that show the most wear and tear are where everybody can see them: the upper eyelids. Stuck atop my baby blues like garage doors in need of a good oiling, my eyelids at best give me the look of a wise elder about to impart great wisdom – but only when I smile. The rest of the time, the resemblance is that of a guy who’s about to get released from prison after a 15-year manslaughter rap.

This is no exaggeration. When I turn to my wife with what I believe is a neutral gaze, she’ll often ask, “Why are you giving me a hateful look?” She’s also informed me that I have a “hostile sneeze”, so maybe she’s just one of those super-sensitive types.

 So, between the background work and my wife fearing for her life, I’ve been considering the possibility of an eyelid lift. Now, normally I’ve been averse to surgery that has nothing to do with my health being at stake. I’ve seen too many lid lifts on celebrities who wind up with a perpetually surprised look of someone who’s been caught in a compromising position by their spouse (not that I would know from personal experience, mind you).

 On the other hand, as an adolescent I wore braces and had warts removed from my hand. A few years later, two wisdom teeth were yanked out. Not long afterwards, my upper gumline was temporarily pulled back in order to have the bone underneath shaved down to something other than simian size. Since then, my face and scalp have been sliced and diced and sewn and stapled by dermatologists and skin surgeons.

 Had I not undergone these procedures, the only job I would have been suited for was scaring people into paying their bookies when required. Ergo, these weren’t cosmetic changes as much as they were humane.

How I look, and how my wife sees me.

Up to now, the closest I ever came to getting traditional cosmetic surgery was getting a dose of Botox to fill the vertical chasm between my eyebrows. That is, my wife ordered me to get it because “it makes you look angry”. (Remember what I said about her being super-sensitive?) When I asked my dermatologist her opinion, she said it could be done, but warned it came with possible side effects… like blindness.

 Sounds like a deal-breaker, right? Yet upon informing my wife that I could go from nearsighted to no-sighted, she replied, “Wait, let’s think about this.” I don’t recall what her point of view was at the time, unless it was an angry-looking husband.

 On the other hand, the chance of blindness after lid lifts is extremely rare. Something that gave me pause, though, was learning the lids would start sagging again in five to seven years. This might seem totally expected. But what if, say, a gastrointestinal surgeon casually informed you before gall bladder surgery, “Just a heads up, you’ll have to go through this routine in five years”? Suddenly what sounded normal is now as good a reason as any to jump off the gurney.

"Normally, it would cost $5,000. But for you,
I'm giving the $3,500 special!"

 Something else worthy of consideration is, while eyelids are pretty small, the cost for
the lift can be pretty big, ranging from $2,000 to $12,000, which is a rather wide range. To make another unnecessary comparison, this is like the highway speed limit being anywhere from 25 to 150 MPH depending on what the traffic cop lurking behind the trees decides.

 And don’t expect your insurance to pick up the tab just because you need a makeover before your trip to Naples. Your vision needs to be blocked by at least 30% for that kind of coverage. As of now, my wife estimates that I’m at roughly 20%. Sure, I could close my eyes an extra 10% during the consultation, but the surgeon is likely to see through that ruse (no pun intended).

 Could I afford to pay for the surgery out of pocket? Technically, yes. But that kind of money has been reserved for an emergency, like buying an 82-inch 8K television with the four-year protection plan. But what good would such a device do me if I can’t even see?

 It appears then that any cosmetic surgery outside of a mani-pedi is out of the question. Until my eyelids drop to half-staff, I will continue to be either a wise elder or hateful husband depending on the circumstances. On the plus side, such a look might elevate me from background to character actor. On the minus – it won’t do anything to change my wife’s point of view.

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 53

 It's an all-star Early Show spanning 24 years of movies and television, with gangsters, reporters, doctors, and juvenile delinquents ready to entertain, threaten, and shill for the sponsor.

THE GUILTY GENERATION (1931): Gang boss Tony Ricca pays an unexpected visit to his son, a promising architect who's changed his name from Marco Ricca to John Smith in order to hide his parental heritage. Wanting to make amends with his son, Tony promises to set him up with his own architectural business. Marco/John wants nothing to do with him or the whole dirty world of yeggs, tommy guns, and bootleg giggle water. So what is he to do when learning that the girl he falls in love with, Maria, is the daughter of Mike Palmero, another gang leader who's also Marco Ricca's chief rival? 

There's no reason to delve further into The Guilty Generation's story. Just think of Romeo & Juliet mashed with Little Caesar. Now picture Ricca padre e figlio played by pre-Frankenstein Boris Karloff and 24-year-old Robert Young.  Now we're talking Entertainment with a capital ENTER, whether either of them seems Italian or not. (Karloff's attempts are limited to one-word sentences like "grazie" in his British accent).

Too bad The Guilty Generation never lives up to what it promises in the first reel, since Karloff is barely seen again. Apparently, Columbia Pictures decided it was best to give dialect actor Leo Carillo (If You Could Only Cook) the bulk of the movie as Mike Palmero with his "whatsamatter with you, eh?" routine on full display. It's only when Palmero learns that his son has been knocked off by Ricca and finds out John Smith's real identity that Carillo's performance gets serious. Like, real serious.

Constance Cummings isn't given much to do as Maria Palmero except moon over Robert Young and show embarrassment by her brother Joe's drunken antics. Leslie Fenton (The Hatchet Man) jumps into Joe's role with nasty gusto, lashing out at his father and whoever else strikes his fancy.  If Karloff and Carillo had switched roles, The Guilty Generation wouldn't have been guilty of overpromising and underdelivering. 

BONUS POINTS: The startling way Mike Palmero's mother prevents him from interfering with his daughter's happiness still startles nearly a century on.

CLEAR ALL WIRES! (1933): 

From roughly 1932 to 1934, movies were awash in zany political satires, mocking capitalism, communism, fascism, and in the case of Clear All Wires!, journalism. And during that time, you couldn't have a fast-talking, double-crossing, woman-chasing reporter played by anyone other than the great Lee Tracy.

No stranger to faking his own kidnappings, twisting the news to guarantee headlines, or double-crossing his rivals, Chicago Globe reporter Buckley Joyce Thomas and his right-hand man Lefty fly to Moscow to cover the 15th anniversary of the Russian revolution, promising top officials that Pres. Roosevelt will recognize the communist government if they just sit down for an exclusive interview. Faster than you can say dobroye utro tovarishch, Thomas is hanging with Stalin, a commissar, and a disgruntled Marxist who wants to overthrow the current Communist government. But just as Thomas is making room for a Nobel Prize, the head of the KGB learns that his attempted assassination was arranged by the reporter. Not for real, mind you, just for the headlines. Tell that to the firing squad.

Few movies at the time of Clear All Wires!' release were so relentless in satirizing real-life politics and culture as is done here. (Would you expect to see a sight gag involving Stalin?) Yet instead of dating the movie, it oddly feels contemporary in its topical, SNL-style. It's easy to picture young men at the time wanting to become newspaper reporters due solely to the way Lee Tracy makes the job seem so damn fun. Other than that firing squad, that is. 

With James Gleason as the side-of-the-mouth-talking Lefty and Una Merkel as Thomas' ex-lover (and current girlfriend of his editor), and, of course, Lee Tracy's rat-a-tat delivery, Call All Wires! is a banger of a comedy offering an impressive number of big laughs. Highly recommended especially for those unfamiliar with its sadly forgotten star. Maybe I should run a Lee Tracy retrospective in my living room sometime.

BONUS POINTS: As with the Humphrey Bogart picture Sirocco, the dialogue heard in opening scene with Thomas chatting with an Arab chieftain could be taken from a similar interview today.

BEDSIDE (1934): X-ray technician Bob Brown becomes a physician the old-fashioned way: buying the medical diploma off of a washed-up doctor-turned-morphine junkie going by the name of John Smith. (Can't anyone come up with a better alias?) By hiring a real doctor to do the heavy lifting and a PR rep named Sparks, Brown soon becomes the toast of New York society hypochondriacs. But as his lack of medical knowledge and the junkie doctor catch up with him, Brown learns that a piece of paper doesn't make you a real doctor -- especially when he's expected to perform brain surgery on his nurse.

By 1934, Warren William had made a career of playing scoundrels, cads, and scalawags, but his quack role in Bedside takes the bedpan. He gambles away the $1500 his girlfriend Caroline lent him to finish med school; turns away from examining a sick child because he can't be bothered with her; spends more time clipping his photos from newspapers than most doctors do on the golf course; and comes thisclose to killing a patient. And when he isn't at the office -- and often when he is -- he's gambling and drinking his life away. Even I started to find the guy despicable, and I love Warren William.

You know who else loves him? His nurse Caroline (Jean); his medical partner Dr. Wiley (David Meek, the actor who always is meek); and his PR pro Sparks (the ever-reliable Allen Jenkins). The only person on to him is the hophead who sold him the med school diploma (David Landau), and who continues to haunt him by returning uninvited for his morphine fix. (By the end, he's rubbing his nose and talking a mile a minute, indicating that he's become a cokehead, too.) To see a Warren William character brought low due to his own misbehavior isn't all that unusual. But what is, is how low a louse he eventually becomes, and how you wind up rooting for the law to catch up to him. Don't see Bedside before your next annual check-up. And if you do, ask the doc if he knows how to correctly perform a simple suture. You'd be shocked to learn how some so-called medical professionals don't.

BONUS POINTS: Director Robert Florey goes in for a little German expressionism in the climactic scene with Landau taunting William in the o.r. 

THE ELGIN HOUR: "CRIME IN THE STREETS" (1955): This live television play might have introduced every juvenile delinquent cliche of the '50s. The angry young teen out to murder someone just because. His overworked mother blaming herself for how he turned out. His frightened little brother. The Italian immigrant who owns the corner malt shop and whose son is part of the neighborhood gang. The social worker who understands that the kid acts the way he does because he's had a rough life and wants some attention.

You've seen it all before, somewhere or another. But per usual with productions like this, its creators and cast that make it worth 60 minutes of your time. Script by TV legend Reginald Rose, direction by Sidney Lumet. Robert Preston as social worker Bob Wagner. Former Warner Bros. star Glenda Farrell as Frankie's mother. Future Oscar-nominated director Mark Rydell as gang member Lou. Future musician/songwriter/Brian Wilson collaborator Van Dyke Parks as Frankie's little brother Richie. And as the incorrigible Frankie, the future incorrigible director John Cassavetes. All this and the original Elgin Watch commercials!

As good an actor as Cassavetes was, it must have been kind of a stretch for the 26 year-old to play the eight years his junior Frankie. He doesn't look 18 but is convincing enough as one kicked around by life to age beyond his years. Only Mark Rydell (also 26) rivals him in striking looks and talent as the crazy-eyed Lou, who appears headed to the psych ward instead of prison.

As with many 1950s TV productions, Crime in the Streets presents old school stars going toe to toe with young Method-era whippersnappers.  No question Crime in the Streets is dated but is still a good example of a time when TV presented live plays with top-notch New York talent before everybody moved to Hollywood and got as many takes as they wanted with video tape. Meh.

BONUS POINTS: When Frankie and his gang synchronize their watches, it gives us a chance to see a close-up of -- guess what -- Frankie's Elgin watch. How do these ruffians afford them? Oh wait -- they're on sale this week at your local department store!

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