THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 61

 Two features and one short from the early 1930s, and one game show from the 1950s. You've never heard of these, and will likely never see them. That's what I'm here for.

THE HOT HEIRESS (1931): Just another of those pictures where a construction worker accidentally lets a hot
rivet go flying through a rich woman's bedroom window, setting a fire... in their hearts! Can they overlook their class differences in order to build a path to the altar? Or will the girder of love collapse under the strain of disapproving friends and family? 

It took three days to make it through this 79-minute musical comedy, and even then, it was strictly for historical reasons. The Hot Heiress was the first movie with a score by Richard Rodgers & Lorenz Hart and a script by their longtime Broadway collaborator Herbert Fields. And while they were played up in the big time in the original trailer, the result is Blah City. There isn't one genuinely funny piece of dialogue to be found here, and as for the score, the most memorable song is titled "Nobody Loves a Riveter but His Mother". This, from the duo who wrote "My Funny Valentine", "Isn't it Romantic?" and "Where or When." As with Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur's Once in a Blue Moon, there's something about the movie industry that can bring out the worst in the most talented people. (Rodgers & Hart would redeem themselves two years later with their score for the brilliant Paramount musical Love Me Tonight.)

Another bit of interest is The Hot Heiress was made at a time when audiences were sick of musicals that opened on an almost weekly basis since 1929. Many of them wound up being released after the numbers were left on the cutting room floor. The literally spotty condition of two of The Hot Heiress's three songs suggest the same thing happened here and were only put back when it was eventually sold to television in the 1950s. The one number that appeared to make it to its original release? That ridiculous riveter/mother song. If you're interested, you can catch it here following the credits. Don't be surprised if you find yourself humming it to yourself for the next day or two, whether you want to or not.

BONUS POINTS: Ben Lyons, the leading man, was briefly a studio exec at 20th Century-Fox in the 1940s, when he discovered Norma Jean Mortenson and changed her name to Marilyn Monroe.

GUILTY HANDS (1931): If you watch just one great Lionel Barrymore movie (trust me, I know what you're thinking), Guilty Hands
can't be beat. A decade away from his wheelchair-bound, thunder-and-lightning, batten-down-the-hatches delivery, he proves himself to be the equal of his brother John, and superior to most other movie actors of his time. In a mere 69 minutes, Lionel runs the gamut of emotions, from cynical, loving, philosophical, and murderous, never once making the wrong move. 

The set-up of Guilty Hands is ripe for drama. Former D.A.-turned-defense attorney Richard Grant is appalled that his daughter is going to marry his client, the debauched Gordon Rich. Fully aware of Rich's sordid love life -- including a 16-year-old girl who jumped out of his 24th-floor apartment -- Grant promises that he will commit the perfect murder in order to prevent the wedding. Grant, in turn, swears to return from the dead to exact revenge. Both men succeed, without the help of anything other than a clever idea and simple science respectively.

There's a solid supporting cast to be found in Guilty Hands, including Alan Mowbray as the foul Gordon Rich who gets what's coming to him; Kay Francis as the sidepiece who sticks with him during his constant philandering; and Madge Evans as Grant's young, innocent daughter Barbara, who's dazzled by her libertine fiancé. (Her playful relationship with her dad gives one pause today, as it occasionally appears to border on incestuous.)  With plenty of pre-code situations and dialogue (one wonders what Grant has in mind when warning Barbara that her wedding night to Rich will be "a horror" she'll never be able to shake), and, of course, Lionel Barrymore's surprisingly natural performance, Guilty Hands is one more obscure early talkie that needs to be rediscovered.

BONUS POINTS: In no other film does Lionel look exactly like John from scene to scene.

BOO (1932): Following 

a disgusting dinner of lobster and a glass of milk, a dope falls asleep reading Dracula, leading to nightmares accompanied by a "funny" narrator. When things wrap 10 minutes later, you could swear you just had a nightmarish experience. 

Universal Studios' Boo

anticipates the 1963 TV series Fractured Flickers by using clips from other movies while dubbing in silly narration ("He better keep away from the casket, or he'll be coughin'" is just one of a dozen or so puns we're forced to listen to.) It's kind of surprising that Universal allowed Frankenstein to be openly mocked here, an act that strikes me as sacrilegious. Oddly, instead of clips from Bela Lugosi's Dracula, Boo features Nosferatu, the 1922 German version of the story, which few Americans had seen up to that time. 

What gives Boo interest today is that it features two minutes from the now-lost 1930 horror movie The Cat Creeps. (Last month, seven more minutes were discovered.) Of course, its dialog here is obliterated by the irritating narrator, making it an even more frustrating watch. To those of us who went to college in the '70s, Boo dredges up memories of "midnight shows" of wacky shorts and TV clips made hilarious under influences legal and otherwise, but tedious when older and sober.

BONUS POINTS: In its defense, Boo seems like a parody of the similar MGM shorts produced and narrated by Pete Smith. If you don't know who he is, consider yourself lucky.

LAUGH LINE (4/16/1959): 

The obscure game show Laugh Line's concept is pretty simple. Viewers at home sent in descriptions of New Yorker-style cartoons which were re-created by actors.  A panel of comedians then re-arranged the actors and provided a new caption. Get ready to laugh, America!

A show like this depends on quick wits and a lot of luck to put it over. Laugh Line's merry-makers are Orson Bean, Dorothy Loudon, and Mike Nichols & Elaine May, all of whom are enveloped in a near-constant cloud of cigarette smoke. While talk-show stalwarts Bean and Loudon are at home in this setting, Nichols & May seem like, well, sophisticated comedians stuck on a game show featuring commercials for aspirin and ingrown toenail medicine -- the kind of thing they parodied in their nightclub act. While Laugh Line puts their improv experience to good use -- Nichols comes up with a funny idea for one of the "cartoons" immediately -- I couldn't help but think he and May were doing this strictly for the money. And who could blame them? 

Presiding over the hoped-for shenanigans is Dick Van Dyke, in one of the many, many pre-sitcom TV series he hosted in the 1950s, and that few people are alive to remember (other than Elaine May and Van Dyke himself). As he was on Mother's Day, Van Dyke is silly and non-threatening, as is Laugh Line itself. There are some funny moments -- it gets better as it goes along -- but not enough for it to have lasted more than two months. The commercials are fun, however. 

BONUS POINTS: Within a year of Laugh Line, Dick Van Dyke and Nichols & May would become Broadway stars in Bye Bye Birdie and An Evening with... respectively.  A year later, Orson Bean starred in the stage musical Subways are for Sleeping. A year after that, Nichols would direct Dorothy Loudon in the off-Broadway show The World of Jules Feiffer. They don't make game show panelists like that anymore.

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NO COMMENTS

 

And sexist humor was always good for a laugh.

There used to be a newspaper comic strip called "They'll Do It Every Time", in which its creator Jimmy Hatlo explored the frustrations the average reader allegedly experienced every day. 

If Hatlo were still around, he could do nothing but sketch podcasters, talking heads, and other opinion-makers every time Donald Trump makes a rude, thoughtless comment. Trump's recent "tribute" to Rob Reiner and his wife is the latest and perhaps most egregious example.

Moments after his statement hit Truth Social, the shocked responses -- many from Republicans and Trump-supporters -- ricocheted around the internet, damn near drowning out everything else that was going on (other than TMZ's increasingly graphic descriptions of the murder).

This was, of course, what Trump expected. Desired, even. Can't you see him and Stephen Miller rubbing their hands with glee, giggling Look, they fell for it again! All the real-life things that have tarnished the president lately -- again, you couldn't miss them -- immediately vanished. All people could talk about now was his utterly predictable Truth Social post about his show biz "enemy".

Now take a step back. Imagine if each 6:30 network news anchor discussing the Reiner murders had ended the report by saying, "In response to the shocking news, President Trump posted on Truth Social..." And they proceeded to read, word for word, his entire statement while showing it onscreen. Then, after a brief pause, going to the next segment, which reported on whatever the latest real-life Trump scandal was happening.

And imagine CNN doing that throughout the day, once an hour. Now imagine, say, Morgan Freeman reading it on next year's Oscar broadcast. And Billy Crystal doing the same on the Golden Globes. 

What could Trump or his fans do? Whine that they were, uh, reading his words? Of course. And they would look really stupid in doing so.

That's the whole point when it comes to Trump. You don't need commentary. But, like the man said, they'll do it every time.

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HOME ON THE RAGE

But 67 years drunk on his own ego.

 What it is it about celebrities who never keep their promise to move when
things don't go their way? Whether it was Alec "Not-So-Sharpshooter" Baldwin planning to hoof it from New York to Beverly Hills in order to avoid paparazzi, or Lena Dunham and Barbra Streisand not wanting to live under the reign of Trump, these wealthy wastrels are at heart too damn comfortable in their mansions, townhouses, or co-ops to actually stand by their tough words.

Apparently having a tub without a shower is what
makes it rustic.

The latest in this parade of forget-what-I-said-before hypocrites is Ellen DeGeneres, who, with wife Portia De Rossi, left the good life in Beverly Hills for the farm life in the Cotswolds. That is, if you consider a $29-million mansion a farm. 

Ellen and Portia made the mistake of moving to the UK last November. "Mistake" in that they arrived just in time for heavy rains and chilly temps. How much do you want to bet that Ellen got so used to California warmth that it never occurred to her that other areas of the world -- of the USA, for God's sakes -- have weather more akin to "classic" winters? 

Look, she's feeding chickens!
This must be a farm!

You can always tell how serious people are when they proclaim how they're "moving" from one country to another for political reasons. If they're desperate and broke, they're willing to hike hundreds of miles with kids on their backs or risk their lives on leaky boats for just a chance at freedom. And they keep it on the downlow. 

Rich celebrities, on the other silk-gloved hand, broadcast their intentions behind a keyboard or to a friendly reporter. Ellen DeGeneres is the only one who actually went through with it, but nobody -- nobody -- expected it to last. Not when she and the missus had to don heavy outerwear when walking out the door the last few months. 

But just to make sure it wasn't all for naught, Ellen's selling the old lean-to at a 50% mark-up from what she paid. Like Peter Thiel, she's one of the few gay people you can hate without ever being accused of homophobia. Now that's equality!

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THEY DON'T SAY POTATO

People thought they were made 
from Classics.

 I don't know if it's proud ignorance or the acceptance of junk food as the main staple of the American diet, but here's the latest news flash. Forty-two percent of people polled had no idea that Lay's Chips were made from potatoes. Now the company has to splurge on a total "rebranding" of their number one selling product by putting an image of a potato on their potato chip bag. 

Just what kind of chips did these people think they were eating -- casino? Micro? Cow? Dumb question. It doesn't matter what they thought because they didn't care. All they knew was crispy, salty goodness! It's opioids for the tastebuds, and just as healthy.

Campbell's felt obliged to tell their
customers they weren't eating
the real thing.

Some of them might not have eaten them had they known those chips were made from a vegetable. Why else would Lay's put the phrase "Potato Chips" in the font size usually reserved for "Reg. US Pat. Off."? Hell, you can buy them at Staple's, which isn't exactly a farmers' market.

Lay's Tatergate incident came on the heels of the Campbell's Soup cybersecurity chief getting fired for being recorded claiming that their product was highly processed "bio-engineered meat" for "poor people". (His racist comments about Cambell's Indian employees were just the icing on the chicken noodle.)

Yet his comment on the quality of the soup isn't necessarily off the mark. My childhood memory of Campbell's Soup is that the major ingredient, no matter the flavor, was salt. And as for it being the food of "poor people" -- that's because poor people either can't afford or have no access to fresh ingredients to make their own soup. 

The higher quality canned soups are out of their reach as well. Rao's chicken noodle soup can run up to four times the cost of Campbell's -- you tell me what they're going to buy even if the government wasn't cutting their SNAP benefits. 

Will Lay's see a spike in sales once they start slapping a picture of a potato on their bags? Probably not. People either buy chips regularly or they don't, no matter what the label looks like. And most don't look at the ingredients of anything they eat, which was lucky for those who ate mock turtle soup back in the day. Imagine a picture of the main ingredient on the Campbell's label:

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THE NEW YOUNG MAYOR, HE AIN'T WHAT THEY USED TO BE

The right-wing nightmare: a Muslim guy, two
women, and New York City.

A couple of weeks ago, I turned on the TV and what to my wondering eyes did appear was Zohran Mamdani making a statement at the site of the 1964 World's Fair in Queens.

It had been so long since the election -- three days? -- that I suddenly remembered, Oh yeah, this is going to be our next Mayor. 

Mamdani had shaken up the political word, the Democrat establishment, and -- best of all -- Mario Cuomo by winning the second-hardest job in the world (after President of the United States or, in the current admiration's case, the President's spokesperson explaining why it was OK for her boss to call a female reporter "Piggy"). 

The next time Mayor-Elect Mamdani appeared on my TV screen was when he was in the Oval Office standing next to the (literally) sitting president. Trump was remarkably affable, far different from the late-night social media-scribbling madman we usually know him as. He was funny in his own way, as he was when David Letterman dropped into see him unannounced at Trump Tower three decades ago.

Mamdani looks down on Trump.

Mamdani, on the other hand, appeared determined to prove that he was up for both the job of Mayor and holding his own with the Big Mouth-in-Chief. It was gratifying seeing this 34-year-old Ugandan-born, Socialist Muslim winning the office Maro Cuomo so ravingly, knavingly, cravenly craved. 

It's easy to picture the former Governor thinking back on what he should have done. Maybe a return to the time he created his father's unofficial campaign slogan against Ed Koch, VOTE FOR CUOMO, NOT THE HOMO. Targeting Zohran's beard, VOTE FOR MARIO, NOT THE HAIRY-O would have had the classic Cuomo wit. 

Are they sure it wasn't paid by Ted Cruz?

Stupid? No more than deliberately mispronouncing Mamdani's name every
chance he had, or the way his campaign briefly released an apocalyptic ad predicting a Mamdani administration would be the dream of pushers, pimps, drunk drivers, and wife-beaters (the men, not the undershirts). And it was AI-generated! Damn you for putting so many hungry New York actors out of work!

Going forward, then, Mario Cuomo will be known not just as the former Governor of New York forced to resign over sexual harassment claims, or the loser of both the New York' Mayoral primary as a Democrat and the election as an independent, but the guy who made Curtis Sliwa appear Churchillian. Possible next move: cohosting his dopey brother's basement podcast. WATCH THE CUOMOS, NOT MARIA BARTIROMO!

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 60

Two more obscure European movies take their place alongside a pre-code political drama and a legendary early talkie that marked the beginning of the end of one of the most popular silent actors of his time.

HIS GLORIOUS NIGHT (1929): You might not have heard of His Glorious Night, but if you're a fan of Singin' in the Rain, you're definitely aware of it. You know the scene when Gene Kelly's character bombs in his first talkie while moaning, "I love you, I love you, I love you"? This movie was the inspiration. To quote Paul Harvey, now you know the rest of the story.

The mockery inflicted on Gilbert at the time of His Glorious Night's release was unfair and cruel (even if he over enunciates the word "cruel" with two syllables throughout the movie.) Yes, the love scenes between Gilbert and leading lady Catherine Dale Owen are overwrought, and in need of rewrites. But contrary to legend, Gilbert doesn't have a squeaky voice. Rather the deep resonance that his silent movie roles implied, he sounds like a normal person. Too, the romance genre he specialized in during the silent era became a thing of the past in favor of musicals, gangster pictures, and wisecracking comedies.

So after nearly a century of being buried in the MGM vaults, the biggest realization of the recent restoration of His Glorious Night -- a truffle of a trifle about royal love lives, mix-ups, and the like -- is that it's a comedy. It's supposed to be funny, and, when Gilbert and Owen aren't pitching woo, they're funny, too, as are the supporting characters, including Owen's mother and a perpetually squabbling couple who appear throughout. Shout out, too, to Gustav von Seyffertitz, hilarious as the nervous, confused police commander. I laughed out loud a good half dozen times during His Glorious Night, and always on purpose. 

The production's problems lie not with Gilbert but the technical crudeness inherent in early talkies, along with the pedestrian direction by Lionel Barrymore. Had Ernest Lubitsch, the master of the sophisticated sex comedies, called the shots, His Glorious Night would have turned out better all around, and maybe have given John Gilbert a better transition to sound. His later movies, like the edgy pre-code Downstairs, proved he was as good as many of his contemporaries. His Glorious Night might not be glorious but doesn't deserve the negativity from by wiseasses who don't know any better. (You can tell what kind of a life I lead when I sob Leave John Gilbert alone!)

BONUS POINTS: Gustav von Seyffertitz's pledge, "I know nothing!" would later be echoed by Sgt. Schultz in Hogan's Heroes. Must be a German thing.

THE BILLION DOLLAR SCANDAL (1933): At a time when it seems like the 1% can
get away with anything, up to an including murder, it's nice to see when one of them gets it, even if it's only in a pre-code picture. The big money scandal here involves the fleecing of the American taxpayers by a group of oil magnates led by John Masterson. His live-in physical trainer, ex-con "Fingers" Bartos", turns states evidence against them at the behest of a crusading newspaper publisher. Knowing their lives will be ruined if Bartos testifies before a closed-door Congressional committee, Masterson and his pals hire a fixer named Carter B. Moore to keep the guy's yap shut. And by fixer, I mean hitman.

The one-sheet on the right implies that The Billion Dollar Scandal is based on a true story, although my research can't confirm it. This doesn't prevent the movie from being an interesting slice of life drama when Depression-era audiences had it in for the uber-rich who never seemed to pay for their crimes while petty transgressors like Bartos and his pals Ratsy Harris and Kid McGurn spent years up the river simply for lack of a good lawyer. Almost a century later, the oil barons portrayed here are as hateful as any of today's tech billionaires -- they boast of their illegal behavior and how they're out to help only each other while screwing over the rest of America.

Robert Armstrong (the poor man's Victor McLaglen) kind of overdoes the "dese and dose" routine as Fingers, who will do anything to protect his kid brother, right down to trying to break up his romance with Masterson's daughter Doris -- which Masterson himself is trying to do as well. Still in pre-MGM befuddled character days, Frank Morgan shows what a good dramatic actor he was as the despicable Masterson, the oily oil oligarch who destroys people's lives simply for sport. Wardrobe and slang aside, The Billion Dollar Scandal resonates that the wealthiest among us will always pull society's strings because no matter how much money they have, it's never enough.

BONUS POINTS: The Billion Dollar Scandal is one of the few movies where I recognized damn near everybody. In addition to Frank Morgan (The Wizard of Oz) and Sidney Toler (the Charlie Chan Monogram mysteries), and dozen or so character actors, there are representatives from a slew of classic horror movies of the time: Robert Armstrong (King Kong), Edward van Sloan (Dracula), Olga Baclanova (Freaks), and Irving Pichel (Dracula's Daughter). For me, this is cinematic comfort food.

SZIRUSZ (SIRIUS) (1942): Recently I was in the mood for a 1940s Hungarian time-
travel/romantic-comedy/sci-fi musical. Lucky me, I stumbled across Sirius. See what happens when you wish hard enough? 

Count Tibor Akos is taken to 1784 Austria in eccentric Professor Sergius's mini-rocket. Still dressed in his era-appropriate costume party outfit, Tibor spends his time at a royal party, where he falls in love with Italian opera singer Rosina Beppo, and insults everybody else. Tibor's misbehavior climaxes in a duel with his own great-grandfather. As Tibor is wounded, Sergius returns in time to bring them both back to 1942 Hungary.

Other than the shockingly diaphanous slips worn by ballerinas in a dance sequence, there's nothing in Sirius that wouldn't have been out of place in a Hollywood movie of its time. Tibor continually mentioning future events to the baffled 18th-century royal court; the only-a-dream copout; and the climactic reveal of Sergius's daughter being Rosina's lookalike great-granddaughter (which anyone familiar with old movies would have predicted before the mini-rocket even took flight to the past). 

Well, so what? Sirius is a charming, witty movie, similar to Leslie Howard's time-travel move of a decade earlier, Berkeley Square, only with laughs. Even when Sergius is carted off to the bughouse, babbling about how he stood beside Atilla the Hun and witnessed the creation of earth on his travels, you want to believe the men's adventures. That whole "explanation" of how the mini-rocket crashed after two seconds in the air? Hungarian goulash, if you ask me!

BONUS POINTS: Viewers can come up with their own ideas of a 1942 Hollywood version of Sirius. Fredric March insults the royal court of 1784 Germany while falling in love with a French opera singer played by Alexis Smith. Alan Mowbray as March's great-grandfather, George Zucco as the nutty professor -- why didn't Warner Bros. buy the American remake rights?

KRAKATIT (1948): Attention, fans of science fiction, film noir, obscurities, and all-around strange stuff. The year American studios were churning out detritus like The Babe Ruth Story and My Dog Rusty, the Czechoslovak Film Company released Krakatit, a production that anticipated the atomic bomb scare of the 1950s the hallucinogenic 1960s, and the all-round paranoia of 1970s. And to make it that much more futuristic, it's based on a 1924 novel, long before Robert Oppenheimer had even heard of a place called Los Alamos. 

Krakatit's opening scenes could be right out of a typical Hollywood film noir of the time. A dangerously ill unidentified man has stumbled into a hospital. Strapped with an oxygen mask to stay alive, he falls unconscious, leading to a flashback that carries the rest of the movie. He's a scientist named Prokop, and has developed Krakatit, a weapon (named after the Krakatoa volcano) that makes the A-bomb look like a water balloon. Falling ill after a small sample blew up in his lab, he had given the formula to a friend.  In short order, Prokop receives a letter from his colleague's girlfriend... stumbles to the home of a village doctor... is approached by a strange man named Carson acting as a representative for a country wanting the formula... creates another bomb made out of cosmetics...  and experiences still more adventures, climaxing with Krakatit destroying several European capitals. 

Is any of it real? Are they dreams? Hallucinations? Hallucinations of dreams? Dreams of real events? Real events made hallucinative through his illness? Take your pick, folks. All I can tell you is that Krakatit  doesn't resemble any other movie of its time. 

Karel Hoger gives Prokop a haunted, guilty demeanor throughout, ashamed of his "talent" for creating explosives out of anything handy.  Worthy of mention is Eduard Linkers as the chatty, nattily-dressed Carson. His lighthearted performance is similar to the pre-Bilko Phil Silvers during his movie days, and gave me a smile every time he appeared onscreen. Had Krakatit been made in Hollywood by an independent studio like Monogram with a larger than normal budget, it would be considered a movie landmark, and the greatest American sci-fi noir (if there is such a genre) ever made. 

BONUS POINTS: Four years before the publication of the novel Krakatit, its author Karel Capek wrote the stage play R.U.R., which introduced the word "robot". This guy was really on to something.

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 59

A rare entry with three European movies and only one American. Good Lord, am I becoming a movie snob? 

ALRAUNE (1928): Something must have been in the Riesling during 1920s Germany, when movies about young women driving men literally mad with desire were all the rage --Pandora's Box, Diary of a Lost Girl, and The Blue Angel to name three. The more obscure Alraune adds a little bit of Frankenstein to the mix, as Prof. Jakob ten Brinken decides it would be cool to inseminate the sperm of an executed murderer into a streetwalker. You know, just to see what happens. 

If the original one-sheet on the right hasn't already tipped you off, the mad prof's "creation" -- named Alraune -- grows up to be a sexed-up young lady who can't help but leave a trail of half-crazed men (and one suicide) in her wake.  Eventually, she discovers who (or what) she really is, and, in revenge, gradually comes on to her "Papa". You know, just to see what happens. Like father, like daughter!

Famed German actress Brigitte Helm isn't exactly beautiful but gives Alraune the same literally mesmerizing sense of control over men as she did in Metropolis. She even stares down a pack of male circus lions into submission while in their cage. No wonder guys stand no chance with her -- not even her "Papa", played by Germany's premiere movie actor of the 1920s, Paul Wegener (The Student of Prague). Looking more like a 1950s Soviet official than a professor, Wegener's gradual decline from brilliant but nutty scientist to jealous, semi-incestuous would-be lover is one for the books, adding yet another sick layer to the story.  If you're a man, watch Alraune with the one you love some evening. You know, just to see what happens.

BONUS POINTS: The name Alraune is also a plant that, in mythology, grows where a hanged man's semen dropped to the ground, and grows into the shape of a human. Warning to gardeners: When pulled from the soil, the alraune allegedly lets out a scream that can kill you.

SMARTY (1934): "That was just awful", said my wife after watching Smarty. How could she not enjoy a pre-code comedy about a woman deliberately provoking her husband to respond with physical violence? And then eventually does the same thing with her second husband? When the little wifey tires of hubby #2, she returns to hubby #1 and manipulates him into slapping her twice, while he promises to beat her. And as any woman would do, she melts in his arms, kisses him and whispers, "Hit me again" as Smarty comes to its romantic end. Swooning yet? 

There's stuff in between, but you get the general idea. One of the last pre-code productions (by about six weeks), Smarty was made for Depression-era audiences to delight in the dysfunctional behavior of the idle rich. Vicki, the wife, is emotionally cruel, while husbands Tony and Vernon lack any self-respect. Its arch tone, slamming doors, and attempts at satiric sophistication probably worked in its original stage play incarnation, but as portrayed onscreen, you want to slap the hell out of all of them. As with Blood Money's Frances Dee yearning for "a good thrashing", Vicki isn't just asking for it, she's demanding it. What was up with women 90 years ago anyway?

God knows how, but Joan Blondell, husband #1 Warren William (the King of the Pre-Codes), and husband #2 Edward Everett Horton manage against all odds to create laughs from time to time.  Laid back co-stars Claire Dodd and Frank McHugh are their bemused friends enablers who egg on these sadomasochistic relationships. If emotionally cruel women and self-loathing, physically abusive men are funny to you-- as they apparently were in the UK where it was retitled Hit Me Again --Smarty is the romcom you've been aching for. 

BONUS POINTS: In today's parlance, Tony is triggered by Vicki's use of the phrase "diced carrots", which, while never made explicit, seems to be in regard to a part of his anatomy.

TO THE PUBLIC DANGER (1948): Say, remember those scary 15-minute movies
you had to watch in drivers ed classes back in the day? The ones where people do stupid things like drinking heavily before hopping behind the wheel? Well, years before that, a British movie studio got the bright idea to make a similar kind of picture and releasing it to cinemas. Don't forget the popcorn!

On-the-outs couple Fred and Nancy fall in with the charming Capt. Cole and his drunken mate Reggie at a local pub. In short order, Nancy and Cole get frisky while all four knock back whiskeys for the next couple of hours. The fun continues in Cole's car, as he drinks from a flask and lets Nancy take the wheel from the passenger side and -- BAM! Did they just hit someone riding a bike? No one can agree. Cole decides to stop at another pub where they get even more hammered, leading him to beat the crap out of Fred before continuing their joyride. One of the passengers eventually escapes this hell on wheels while the other three see it to the bitter end.

Sound a bit thin for a feature? Correct call, as To the Public Danger runs just 43 minutes, the perfect length for a brisk double bill. But there's nothing that screams "relaxing day at the movies" here. The first half is essentially 20 minutes of watching our "heroes" becoming progressively drunk, while much of the claustrophobic second half puts you literally in the driver's seat of an out-of-control auto. (The climax is genuinely terrifying.) While its short running time prevents To the Public Danger from wearing out its welcome, it would have been even better with Alfred Hitchcock calling the shots while the actors were drinking them.

BONUS POINTS: The twist ending is a genuine surprise, isn't a cheat, and is kind of funny in a way. Just not for the characters.

POPIOK I DIAMENT (ASHES AND DIAMONDS) (1958): 

Poland, V-E Day, 1945. Two members of the Polish resistance, Maciek and his mentor Andrezj, hang around a hotel waiting to assassinate a high-ranking Communist official. But as the hours pass, and a celebratory dinner for their target gets out of control, Maciek gradually falls in love with a barmaid, forcing him to question both his assignment and the choices he's made in his life that have led him to this pivotal moment. 

 I hadn't heard of Ashes and Diamonds until fairly recently. Word on the street -- OK, online -- was that it was one of the greatest movies ever made. And having finally gotten around to see it, I'd say it was one of the best looking movies ever. Its black & white cinematography and deft staging (as in a bombed-out church) were impressive as anything I've ever seen.

If there's a problem with Ashes and Diamonds is that it never looks remotely evokes 1945. Everything is strictly 1958, especially its 31-year-old star Zbigniew Cybulski as the philosophical assassin Maciek. Cybulski was for good reason considered the Polish James Dean -- only, to my eyes, a far better and more original actor. Like Dean, Cybulski was an icon of his generation who died in a violent accident, although making it to 40 rather than signing out at 24.

From his first moment onscreen to last, Cybulski is the real deal. Without aping Brando as so many of his contemporaries did, he seems to be creating something brand new right before your eyes. No, I was never convinced this character was actually around in 1945 -- not with that haircut or those cool lightly-tinted sunglasses he rarely removes -- but ultimately it didn't matter. 

For while appearing more modern, he (and the rest of the fine cast, for that matter) made the Eastern Europe political subplots that much easier to understand, the way modern-dress Shakespeare does for me. And in doing so, many if the movie's scenes might have already become permanent fixtures in my memory. Perhaps giving Ashes and Diamonds a second spin one evening will place it on my own imaginary Top 100 list. It's certainly more than worthy of just one viewing. 

BONUS POINTS: Cybulski's last moment onscreen features the most remarkable pieces of acting I've ever seen. It's highly unlikely any young actor could equal it today.

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MOUSE-KA-TORN

 With the focus on New York's mayoral race taking up the recent news cycles, you might not have heard about the murder of a local superstar. His violent death at the hands of an unknown assailant was important enough to be mentioned in all the papers, and the front page of at least one of them:

Scabby was no toy to be tossed around in a kiddie pool. At approximately 15 feet tall, he was a familiar presence to New Yorkers for two decades. Local unions would make sure he appeared outside businesses that didn't hire organized workers. No one was safe from Scabby's threatening red eyes: construction sites, museums, or, in the case of the murder scene, Babbo, a pricey Italian restaurant. 

Pizza Rat didn't care if the guy who made
the slice was non-union.

Frightening to anyone meeting him for the first time, Scabby eventually became something of a mascot to the city, like his cousin Pizza Rat, Mr. Met, and the New York Pigeon. People who would otherwise run screaming in the opposite direction when a real rodent crossed their paths became used to Scabby turning up unexpectedly. Over time, they even considered him one of the family. (Many New Yorkers who've lived here long enough feel the same about real rodents whether they like it or not.)

If reports are correct, the police responded to the murder scene as if responding to free samples at Krispy Kreme. After examining Scabby (no word if they notified the coroner), they bumrushed Babbo, looking for the murder weapon. Fortunately for the $100-lasagna-chomping customers, the cops had a description that sounded like an employee. 

Maybe if the union reps weren't so busy flirting,
Scabby would still be with us.

Too late! The suspect escaped into the kitchen (just like in the movies!), which the police didn't search. The demand that Babbo owner Stephen Starr turn over the security camera footage was met with a You got a subpoena, copper? 

I would love to be on the phone conversation when this goes down:  

D.A.: Your honor, I'm here to request a subpoena for security footage of a murder.

JUDGE: My God, who is the victim?

D.A.: Scabby.

JUDGE: What?! 

D.A.: Scabby. The Rat --

JUDGE: I know who he is! 

D.A.: Yes, your honor --

JUDGE: You got me out of bed for this shit?!

D.A.: I'm sorry, your hon--

JUDGE: You're not even union!

This would be a cool
replacement.

It's not like a replacement can't be bought, although giant inflatable rats don't come cheap. According to the New York Post, Scabby cost $7,000. But if they don't mind a smaller model, a 10-foot tall version can be had for just $1,590. A human sized style, at six feet, is a steal at $500 -- but as it's imported from China, tariffs will add a couple hundred bucks at checkout. Tariff or no, the Chinese quasi-slaves who make the rats would be happy to help unionized workers in America, I'm sure.

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WORD FROM THE WEISS

Bari Weiss and the guy who competes with his
son as to who can masturbate the least.

 I have no dog in the fight between Bari Weiss and the rest of the journalism
world. Her recent promotion to editor-in-chief of CBS News is admittedly quite the jump for a former New York Times columnist-turned-online news editor. Impressive stuff for a 41 year-old woman in a world of grey-haired men. 

And it isn't her age or gender causing controversy. Weiss is considered by many to be right-wing. My only exposure to her has been on Real Time with Bill Maher, where she seemed to be a centrist whose views didn't necessarily bend leftward -- certainly nothing like the reactionary harridan she was often made out to be. 

Don't forget people who iron, too.

The main gripe against Weiss is that she's had it with "legacy media", i.e. the old-school news outlets who, let's face it, are no longer groundbreaking, unless that ground is their graves. As NPR reports, "Weiss paints a picture of two increasingly powerful extremes — 'an America-loathing far left' and a 'history-erasing far right' — and says the majority of 'smart, politically mixed, pragmatic Americans' who fall somewhere in between are not being well served." 

The most trusted pipe in America.

This is not too far off the mark, but the far right hates America in its own ways, too. And I would add that the overall ratings drop for the 6:30 network news isn't just due to audience distrust. Who needs to wait until the early evening to watch four-minute recaps of perhaps a half-dozen big stories of the day when you've got several cable news networks going further in depth all day? it doesn't matter who's running the show; the days of CBS Evening News getting 53-million viewers are deader than the White House east wing, so good luck with any shake-up turning things around.

CBS News employees line up for the mandatory
Bari Weiss hug.

But what really irritates the hell out of me is Bari Weiss's offer to act as a shoulder to cry on:

“This is just such an enormously difficult day for so many people who have given years of their lives to this company,” she said during the morning editorial call, according to audio reviewed by The Independent. “And I’m sorry, and I want to support everyone in whatever way I can,” she added. “My door is open, whether I’m sitting up here or downstairs.”

Hey thanks, Bari! Does that "support" include paying their bills until they can land a new job in an industry focused more on laying off workers than actually reporting the news? 

The more you look at Ellison's face, the more you
want to punch it. Hard.

If you're wondering how Weiss started calling the shots, she was hired by David Ellison, the plutocrat running something called Paramount Skydance which also falls under the CBS New umbrella (or vice-versa; I've never understood big business). Ellison sent out an email to his 1000 underlings (100 of which worked for the news division) who are now out of a job: 

Yippee! I'm so good I'm
getting fired!

In some areas, we are addressing redundancies that have emerged across the organization. In others, we are phasing out roles that are no longer aligned with our evolving priorities and the new structure designed to strengthen our focus on growth. Ultimately, these steps are necessary to position Paramount for long-term success. 

We are deeply grateful for your hard work, professionalism, and resilience during this period of transition. We remain confident that Paramount’s best days are ahead, and we’re committed to building a strong foundation for the future.

Goddamnmightydamn, how I hate hate HATE business mumbo jumbo doubletalk that attempts to make the now-unemployed folks understand that this was necessary -- not for them, mind you, but the ORGANIZATION. 

The capper, of course, is how grateful he is for their hard work, professionalism and resilience. So grateful that he's letting them go. I would have far more respect for Ellison had he said, We want to save money. You're in the way. To quote CBS News legend Edward R. Murrow, good night and good luck. 

On second thought, maybe it's better I don't respect him at all.

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