REMAKE, REMODEL

 

Soon to become the Paramount Apartments?

What happens to a company town when the company leaves? Detroit provides an answer. Los Angeles could be next.

You may have heard that the Ellison family has threatened to move Paramount and Warner Bros. from Hollywood to the more welcoming corral of Austin, Texas if the merger isn't approved. 

Everybody sing: Hooray for Bayonne-wood!

It's not like the movie business hasn't been moving for years anyway. Paramount has already signed a 10-year deal to use soundstages at 1888 Studios in -- what the? -- Bayonne, New Jersey when construction is finished in 2028. Its art deco design will hark back to the movie industry's golden age -- which, if you want to get all technical, started in New Jersey.  The area on which it stands includes 22 acres of the surrounding harbor, where even more stages will be constructed on barges. Beat that, Burbank!

View of downtown, fully furnished,
move-in-ready.

I have no dog in this fight. Yes, I have a good friend in L.A. who works in "the industry" but I believe (or hope) he's been working steadily. And it isn't like Universal, Disney, and the others will fold their gilded tents overnight and move out. Yet if you scroll through enough videos of what downtown Los Angeles looks like these days, you'd think the place was dead already.

Television production has already been sneaking out the back door. It seems like for every series filmed in L.A., there's another filming in New York, New Jersey, Canada, or, in the case of the Fox sitcom Going Dutch, Ireland. Yes, it's cheaper to film an American TV series in Ireland than keeping the all-American cast in L.A. Want to hear something screwier? The show takes place in the Netherlands. 

Ship to shore no more.

Risk-averse studios being so fond of remakes begs the question: Could Hollywood remake itself? Such a thing can be done. I know, because I come from a town that was forced to do such a thing: Newport, RI.

Rewind to 1973. Pres. Richard Nixon orders the Navy Base closed after 143 years of patriotic service. Somewhere between 14,000 to 18,000 jobs were lost, sending local unemployment up 20% and costing a billion dollars to the economy. Even the Secretary of the Navy, hauled before Congress by Sen. John Pastore, admitted it wasn't necessarily a good idea. Officially, it was a cost-cutting measure, but suspicious locals claimed Nixon was still ticked off Rhode Island voted for Hubert Humphrey in 1968. 

Newport as I don't want to remember it.

Newporters went into a panic. What would they do without all those swabbies throwing their money around at the bars, tattoo parlors, and hookers? (I don't know for a fact there was sex trade in Newport, but where there's a horny military man...)

As the last ship sailed, the locals took a second look and realized that in depending only the Navy Base and summer tourists, they had allowed much of the city, especially the downtown shopping district, go to seed. 

Almost makes me want to visit the old place again.
Almost.

Over the next few years, the downtown area underwent a radical transformation. Rickety storefronts were razed, replaced by shiny new businesses. A new road made transportation easier, streets were cleaned, and shoppers returned.

As tourism gradually became a year-round business, Revolutionary War-era houses were restored and repainted, to resemble their original selves. The long-gone Jazz and Folk Festivals returned, this time on sunny afternoons along the water, all ages welcome. No longer was the Newport Creamery the epitome of fine dining, not with all the classy restaurants popping up along Thames Street. Even my crumbling old high school was rebuilt. 

Ignore this, however.

Newport completely remade itself -- and it took a potential disaster like the Navy Base to

do it. 

Now I'm not comparing my hometown to L.A., even if it does have something called NewportFilm, described as "A year-round documentary film organization presenting screenings, filmmaker conversations, and educational programs." But if those provincial folks could revitalize their city, surely the cosmopolitan Angelenos are capable of something similar. A brand-spanking new Navy Base could do the trick! 

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A GALA DAY IS TOO MUCH

What has the Met done to
deserve this?

If you're unfamiliar with the Met Gala, consider yourself lucky. Ostensibly a classy, high society fundraising event for New York's Metropolitan Museum of Art's costume division, it has devolved over the years into a fashion freak show for celebrities, B-listers with big followings, and the incurable viruses known as Kardashians. 

For this, we have Anna Wintour to "thank". Wintour, whose windshield-sized sunglasses and official job title as Vogue magazine's "Global Chief Content Creator", offer a hint at how insecure the poor woman is. (Watch the documentary The September Issue to see how her medical and professorial siblings look down upon her. It almost makes one feel sorry for the fashionista.)

The Gala occurs on the first Monday of May, although next year's event has already made headlines for the wrong reasons, seeing that it was going to honor fashion designer John Galliano. I'm not sure anyone outside his industry had heard of him until 2010. That was when, within a day or two, he allegedly insulted a Jewish museum curator and an Asian man, and definitely delivered his infamous "I love Hitler" routine. Definitely, because it was caught on video. And saying it in Paris, the city of Nazi collaborators? The chef's kiss.

Forget about loving Hitler; this guy
was to be honored for his fashion
sense?

In short order, Johnny-boy -- whose own fashion style seems to be "expensive Halloween costumes" -- lost his job at Dior and was put on trial for antisemitic abuse. The usual excuses for his behavior -- "work-related stress" and "multiple addictions" -- were trotted out like a past-its-prime racehorse. To my eyes and ears, that video shows a guy with zero stress, even if it is the wine slurring.

After a two year "self-loathing" penance, Galliano got a gig at Oscar de la Renta, thanks to the intervention of -- guess who! -- Anna Wintour. In the intervening years, he returned to the good graces of the fashion world because, y'know, he draws nice clothes and dresses like a drunken pirate. 

So Wintour decided that enough time had passed to honor fashion's most outspoken asshole -- which is no mean feat -- especially since he had gotten the Anti-Defamation League's "resolve and not repeat the sin" blessing in 2013. In announcing the Gala's honor of Galliano, Wintour said: 

“There is no one more deserving of an exhibition of this scale than John Galliano. [...] He’s a great designer and his career isn’t defined by a moment—something that he will live with for the rest of his life. The exhibition won’t shy away from any of the darkness in John’s past. It’s part of what has shaped him. The show will take in the full arc of his career and grapple with all of it.”

Kanye on the runway.

Saying "I love Hitler" and telling Jewish people they would have been gassed is part of what shaped him? Well goddamn, Anna, that's right up there with Kanye West's c.v.

But wait, there's more! Wintour forgot that her Galliano wingding was going to happen on Holocaust Remembrance Day. Since this is the fashion world, it's unclear whether such a gaffe is ironic or appropriate.

"Hello, Page Six? You'll never guess what
that old bat is up to now!"

By now, you're probably wondering why nobody at Wintour's office didn't mention that this event might not be a good look for her, Vogue, or the Met museum. If you've seen The Devil Wears Prada 1 or 2, you already know the answer: her underlings were too afraid. So they did the next best thing by making off-the-record-cover-their-asses phone calls to the New York Post. 

Deciding that this wasn't the kind of comeback he was hoping for, Galliano Galliano's lawyer put out a statement announcing he was bowing out so as to not "place the Met in a difficult position" -- showbiz for Don't fire me, I'll quit, it's a better look for me. 

For the love of God, somebody please throw a pie
at their faces.

And as for Anna? The woman who said no designer was no more deserving of
the honor? Her official statement on the Met's site says, "John's decision that the exhibition devoted to his work should not take place at this time is very courageous and a measure of the man he is. I believe this is the right decision, and both he and the Museum have my full support" -- showbiz for Let him take the fall for my stupid decisions, it's a better look for me. 

So who's the second-most deserving designer Wintour could honor? Hey, Kanye West's side-hustle is fashion design, maybe he's available. 

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THEY SAY THE NEON LIGHTS ARE BRIGHT...

More like "oldest shows still running".

While waiting for my bulgur and millet porridge to heat, I took a break from
listening to the UK news and turned my attention stateside. Specifically, NPR's 25-minute deep dive that can be boiled down to Whatsamatter with Broadway, Anyway? The two people interviewed were a lawyer and a "Broadway sensitivity specialist". 

Well, there's your answer. Producers shell out good money on shysters and people who create fancy-sounding job titles that nobody can understand. Well, that and A-list movie stars (Denzel Washington, George Clooney) and B-list pop singers (Mel B, JoJo, and others you haven't heard of) getting paid sky-high salaries, leading to outrageous ticket prices which go sky-higher via Ticketmaster, StubHub, and other bandits.

Other problems mentioned were the plethora of revivals, the dearth of new quality plays, and stars needing to take time off due to "exhaustion" -- or what Alan King referred to as "the rich man's disease."

They didn't even have time to change out of
their pajamas.

Exhaustion -- hah! If only they went through what the Four Marx Brothers did in 1929, filming The Cocoanuts in Astoria during the day, then doing Animal Crackers onstage in the evening. And three of them had to commute from Long Island for the pleasure of driving themselves to the brink of nervous breakdown.

High salaries and yet another revival of Death of a Salesman aside, allow me to offer my own problem, at least with musicals: nobody writes great songs anymore.

It seems like a dream now, but there was a time -- early 1930s to mid-1960s -- when musicals featured songs that became hits. Irving Berlin, Cole Porter, George and Ira Gershwin, Rodgers & Hart, followed by the likes of Lerner & Lowe, Rodgers & Hammerstein -- giants of the theater world whose music became part of the American landscape like Mt. Rushmore. 

My toes are tapping already.

Somebody can correct me, but it seems like the last time a Broadway show tune
song became a massive hit you couldn't escape was "Send in the Clowns" from A Little Night Music in 1973. Only the most rabid theater fan could name any song from Wicked, Maybe Happy Ending, The Great Gatsby, The Lost Boys, Two Strangers, and whatever else was running lately. The only shows with familiar songs are either based on movies (The Lion King) or are of the jukebox genre (Just in Time). 

Giants one roamed Times Square.

If you want a real shock, go the YouTube page of filmmaker Max Hechtman and watch his "supercuts" of the 1961 and 2021 movie versions of West Side Story's production numbers. You'll know the songs immediately and will probably recall most if not all the lyrics. Now imagine what opening night audiences at the Winter Garden felt in 1957. That's what happens when you have Stephen Sondheim writing the lyrics and Leonard Bernstein composing the music. 

Wicked can run from now until climate change burns down the Gershwin Theater. The movie version can be remade as a CGI cartoon and turned into a streaming series, and none of the songs will have the massive cultural impact as any one of West Side Story's numbers. 

Maybe next time NPR wants to figure out Broadway's problems, they can interview the ushers -- you know, the people who watch the shows night after night. They might have a better p.o.v. than the sensitivity specialists. 

Irony alert: "Send in the Clowns" is the one Sondheim number I never liked.

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 73

 As the world marches further into self-destruction, I retreat further into cinematic and televised obscurities. Do you blame me?

DER KAISER VON KALIFORNIEN (1936): One of the more bizarre moments in motion picture history, German actor/director Luis Trenker brought his cast and crew to the U.S. in order to film Der Kaiser von Kalifornien, the biopic of the German-born John A. Sutter, whose trek to California in the mid-19th century led to the eventual discovery of gold in them thar hills, and the expansion of the nation's territory.

But this being a Nazi-endorsed picture, calling it a "true story" would be a stretch, seeing that the real Sutter came to America to escape debtor's prison, and looked more like Edward Arnold (who starred in Sutter's Gold the same year) than the handsome Trenker. Nor did Sutter have two young sons who were shot down by his one-time friend. And there's no mention here of Sutter enslaving entire Indian tribes and, when that didn't work, engaging in genocide. Best not for the German movie public to be reminded what was happening at home, I guess.

The whole idea behind Der Kaiser von Kalifornien seems to be that it was a strong, noble German cowboy who turned the arid deserts of the Golden State into a lush paradise through hard work, wisdom, and paternal leadership, only to be brought down by greedy rivals. (You know they're bad because they hang out with black women.) 

Der Kaiser von Kalifornien is more of an interesting piece of cinema history rather than cinema itself, little different than your average forgotten Western from the time, other than Deutsch sprechen cowpokes. It even features the old saw of a spirit leading Sutter to America and, at the end, into the Great Beyond. A shame the spirit didn't have the foresight to tell him how that world war was going to turn out for the fatherland.

BONUS POINTS: Look carefully at one scene and you'll see an automobile speeding in the distance.

PLAYHOUSE 15 ("PARTNERS IN LAW") (1953): For those who found Playhouse 90 too long, the one-season anthology series Playhouse 15 was the answer. So much for the internet being the cause of short attention spans. 

In this episode, legal partners Phillip Manning and Arthur Saunders have survived a train accident. Phil's okay, but Arthur has amnesia. Phillip tells a former client, Dr. Yardley, to perform a fatal brain operation on Arthur -- because if he regains his memory, Arthur will tell the authorities that Phil stole money from a client and hid evidence that the doc was drunk during a previous botched surgery. That way, Arthur dies "accidentally", the doctor keeps his practice, and Phillip can run away with Arthur's wife. Phillip even suggests the doc find a fly-by-night mortuary to get rid of the body! Boy, if I'm ever in a jam, I know just who to call.

Playhouse 15's "Partners In Law" is impressive for packing in a complex story in such a short runtime, as well as the number of times Arthur rubs his head when repeating his I-can't-remember-a-thing mantra, and the ease with which Phillip tries to convince the surgeon to destroy Arthur's memory for good, The doc's response -- "You'd have to remove so much [brain] tissue that you'd reduce the individual to an imbecile!" -- made me think that just taking this show seriously would do the job.

Yet everything about Playhouse 15 -- the overwrought dialogue, melodramatic acting, and especially the music -- gave me a quarter-hour of warm, comforting nostalgia of childhood afternoons in front of the TV watching old reruns while drinking Cocoa Marsh. Such moments mean more now than they did then. 

BONUS POINTS: Bart Robinson, who plays Phillip, appeared in Woody Allen's Sleeper as Dr. Orva.

ANYONE CAN WIN (8/11/1953): Don't be fooled by the hyped-up announcer's promise of Anyone Can Win being "fabulous and exciting". It's just one of a billion stupid 1950s game shows created to give celebrity panelists a paycheck, and a host to crack wise. 

The twists here are that celebrities Laraine Day, Jackie Cooper, and Wendy Barrie are joined by a mystery guest disguised as Hairless Joe, a character from the "Li'l Abner" comic strip, and that the host is "Li'l Abner" creator Al Capp. (Gee, I wonder how they convinced him to take the job.) But as with many game shows of its time, Anyone Can Win has rules ridiculously complex yet sound like they're being made up on the fly. Something about questions, answers, lights, buzzers and phoning somebody at home to see if they can identify who's behind the Hairless Joe mask. 

Anyone Can Win's frenetic atmosphere is heightened by the audience. You see, they're divided into four groups, one for each panelist. Whoever wins will allow their group to split the money earned. Talk about greed -- by the end, these folks actually scream out the answers to the players, which should be against one of the show's 75 rules. 

While Al Capp tries keeping things relatively sane, Laraine Day throws a fit when one of her answers isn't accepted by the judges. And she ain't kidding -- Day is such a big baby that they give her the win just to shut her up. Maybe they were afraid her husband, New York Giants coach Leo Durocher, would come by and beat them with a baseball bat. The way Anyone Can Win operates, it wouldn't have looked out of line.

BONUS POINTS: The commercial for Carter's Little Liver Pills, before the feds forced the company to remove "Liver" from its name. Which makes sense, since according to the spot's "doctor", the stuff was for constipation.

I'LL DO ANYTHING (UNRELEASED ORIGINAL EDIT) (1994) A rare floppo for writer/director James L. Brooks, I'll Do Anything was filmed as a musical with most of the songs composed by Prince, with Carole King and Jackson Browne chipping in one each. Following a disastrous sneak preview, Brooks cut the musical numbers, did reshoots to cover what was lost, and released it as a straight romcom, receiving reviews ranging from sympathetic to hostile.

Recently, somebody uploaded a bootlegged workprint of I'll Do Anything's musical version onto the internet. Forget about a cast made up almost entirely of non-singers (read about At Long Last Love to see how that kind of thing turns out). The problem is the story -- or, rather stories. Nick Nolte is an out of work actor in Hollywood suddenly given custody of his bratty young daughter while romancing production assistant Joley Richardson. Meanwhile, Albert Brooks is a self-centered movie producer who can't commit to Julie Kavner, the owner of a company that sets up sneak previews for studios. Memo to Hollywood: nobody cares about your problems. Nor do they find the movie business as fascinating as you do. And when in hell will you learn that LOUD, BRATTY CHILDREN ARE NOT AND NEVER HAVE BEEN FUNNY. 

This is why the musical version of I'll Do Anything is interesting in its daring, even as it took me five hours to slog through its 140 minutes. Not that the numbers are particularly good. It's just that, well, if there's a chance of your movie being a debacle, you might as well swing for the fences as James L. Brooks does here. 

In other words, give the lead role to an actor with the comedy chops of Richard Nixon! Hire songwriters lacking musical comedy experience to write the score! Make sure only one of your actors (Tracy Ullman) can actually sing! Have your dancers jump around instead of dance! Without these gaffes, I wouldn't have made it past the first 20 minutes. 

BONUS POINTS: I'll Do Anything would have been made for a far better, funnier romcom focusing on Albert Brooks and Julie Kavner. Maybe somebody can edit out the Nick Nolte throughline and fill out the rest with A.I. 

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BACK IN THE UK THEY ARE

 Has it been six years? Why, it seems like yesterday that Harry and Meghan turned royal tail and fled their no-show jobs in the UK for their no-watched shows in the US. 

It was just a little over a year ago when Harry told the BBC, "I can't see a world in which I would bring my wife and children back to the UK at this point." 

Well, it appears Harry found a good ophthalmologist to clear up his eyesight. Or was there something else that changed his and the little lady's collective minds? 

It couldn't have been the weather (the UK seems to ping-pong between chilly grey skies and record-breaking heat with nothing in between). Or the possibility of a welcome-home celebration from the family Harry said were racist. Or positive coverage from the press he referred to as "dweebs and crones and cut-rate criminals and clinically diagnosable sadists". 

Here's another rhyme: Take the hints, prince.

Could it be they're counting on the goodwill of the British public? Not with 2/3 of the nation having an unfavorable view of them. One former Royal security chief I saw interviewed claimed that the real negative number is 85%, while 20% are dangerous enough to be considered genuine threats. Let me tell you, if that's the way my fellow countrymen felt about me, I'd take the next dogsled to the North Pole. 

So what in the name of McVite's Digestive Biscuits would bring Harry and Meghan back facing that kind of hostility? Well, according to the Sun front page, they're doing it for the kids. in fact, the tykes are already enrolled in a posh private school. This makes this whole "sudden" decision to move back something of a big question mark. Because if that enrollment process was anything like what we had to go through for our daughter's public school, then Harry and Meg must have started filling their U-Haul last spring. 

With a name like Dickie Arbiter, he should be
judging neckwear rather than royals.

The usual talking heads -- make that grumbling heads -- on the Talk TV channel have become distracted from taking target practice at Prime Minister Andy Burnham in favor of returning to what they call "the gruesome twosome" (a nickname right out of a Hanna-Barbera cartoon circa 1962). Their theories regarding the end of Megxit range from the couple's American business failures to losing their Hollywood friends to sensing the end is near for King Charles. 

Then Harry & Meghan could take
X-rays of their heads to see if
anything's in there.

Not that Harry and Meghan want to be around for the funeral. According to the hosts, they just want to win back British hearts in order to force big bro William to make amends with them. Otherwise, they'll set up a rival "royal court" down the road, the way John Lennon formed the Plastic Ono Band to record "Cold Turkey" when the other Beatles rejected it. 

So much speculation over the most prominent yet dullest couple of the 21st century! At least William and Catherine are having their thrones warmed up by Papa and Stepmom. Harry and Meghan are returning to nothing more interesting than giving speeches at schools, hospitals, and military bases (which are paying rent to the royals). And as for the kids' education, I bet there are plenty of good private schools in or around Montecito. No need to travel 6,000 miles to learn about how well-equipped British troops lost the Revolutionary War to a ragtag band of rebels.

So what is behind the big move? Let's put the question to Google's AI function and see what it says:

Prince Harry and Meghan Markle's planned relocation back to the UK is directly linked to hitting a six-year non-residency milestone that clears them from major British tax liabilities. Financial and tax experts note that their return coincides perfectly with the completion of six full UK tax years abroad (from the 2020/21 tax year through the 2025/26 tax year).

Huh. Maybe there's something rattling in their brains after all. Hope the working class doesn't mind taking up the slack.

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 72

 
These four movies live up to the phrase Now I've seen everything. Whether you want to see them is another story.

THE BLACK STORK (1917): If The Very Idea presented the funny side of eugenics, The Black Stork is shocking in its casually positive perspective. Named for the animal that allegedly kills the newborns it deems unhealthy, The Black Stork is based on the career of Dr. Harry J. Haiselden, a surgeon infamous for doing likewise to human babies. Despite Haiselden's notoriety, his movie counterpart, Dr. Dickey, is presented as a hero doing God's work. And if you want proof, when the doctor goes to work on one unfortunate newborn, Jesus cradles the baby's soul in His arms upon its death, so there.

The story, about a man carrying a "defective" gene via his grandfather's "unclean" housekeeper, is extended an extra half hour or so by the mother's nightmare of how her newborn's child's life will turn out if he lives: ostracized by children, rejected and mocked by society in adulthood, killing the surgeon who let him live, and eventually fathering a whole brood of "unfit" kids with what used to be referred to as a downtrodden woman. And in The Black Stork, people unfit to live include those with Down's Syndrome and epilepsy. Oof.

Not once are society's visibly horrified reactions to these people considered out of line; instead, it's those people's fault for living. In order to give The Black Stork a documentary feel, authentic "deformed" children and adults are featured exploited, with Dr. Haiselden himself playing the hero eugenicist! Re-released in 1924 as Are You Fit to Marry? with an additional framing story, The Black Stork played the grindhouse circuit until the early 1940s, when Hitler made the concept of eugenics less acceptable for (public) endorsement.

BONUS POINTS: Henry Bergman, who plays "The Defective" in the mother's nightmare about her child's future, would go on to better things as a regular co-star and assistant director for Charlie Chaplin.

THE DEVIL'S ASSISTANT (1917): The long-forgotten, barely-known-in-his-time Harry Pollard careened between directing mainstream studio pictures and exploitation dreck involving the usual cinematic sins -- drugs, sex, and Satan. The Devil's Assistant combines all of them in a two-reel (cut down from its original five) whirlwind of madness. 

Oh wait, madness is the fourth sin here, suffered by our heroine Marta upon the birth of her baby. She's being treated by the evil Dr. Lorenz, the man who has secretly loved her forever, eventually turning her into a drug slave under his spell. During an attempted rape in a thunderstorm, the roof caves in on them, sending the shamed Marta brief to Hell for a look-see. But maybe it was only a dream, as her husband Jack rescues her from the clutches of the late Dr. Lorenz. (Jack had been dallying with Marta's friend Marion, but we'll forget about that.)

Other than not explaining what happened to Marta's baby -- it isn't clear whether the kid died at birth or went the way of the black stork -- the 30-minute hack job done on The Devil's Assistant's later rerelease doesn't matter to the story. Movies like this exist strictly for shock moments, like Lorenz briefly turning into Satan at Marta and Jack's wedding, Lorenz's chauffeur leering with approval at Lorenz assaulting Marta (probably the creepiest moment in the whole show), and the red-tinted visit to Hell.

Like the similar scene in Spencer Tracy's Dante's Inferno, The Devil's Assistant passes this off as a moral lesson rather than the cheap thrill it really is. But give director Pollard credit for attaching two phony heads and a cheap pair of wings on a real dog to create Cerberus, even if he looks no more evil than the participants in the canine costume contest in our neighborhood every Halloween. All things considered, The Devil's Assistant, even in its barely-rescued-from-self-destruction condition, is a morbidly fascinating psychoactive experience. But the only lesson you'll likely learn: if your current PCP sports a goatee and sinister smile like Dr. Lorenz, find yourself a new one.

BONUS POINTS: Say what you want, but there's something creepy about Death being portrayed by a guy in a skeleton costume and hooded cape.

IMPRESSIONS OF DISRAELI (1931): We're all used to celebrities making political endorsements. But the 15-minute Impressions of Disraeli takes it one step beyond by starring George Arliss as the famous 19th-century Prime Minister promoting Britain's Conservative Party. 

Mind you, Arliss never comes out and says, "Vote the straight Tory ticket!" Instead, he recreates a few of Disraeli's speeches that explained what the Conservatives stood for and why they were better than the Liberals. And what's fascinating is that they appeared to support equal rights, freedom of speech and justice for all, where no class was better than the other -- you know, liberal ideals. The closest he comes to sounding "conservative" is when he endorses tariffs, but only against countries who impose their own. If this is what the current American conservatives were like, I could sleep better at night.

By 1931, Arliss had portrayed Disraeli on the London and New York stages, as well as a silent and talking movie. As far as audiences were concerned, he was Disraeli the way Hal Holbrook was Mark Twain. And, gosh darn it, Arliss really pulls it off. Not that I was around during Disraeli's lifetime (1804-1881) to know for sure. Arliss' make-up and hairstyle appear closer to the real thing than in his 1929 bio talkie, which makes me think he applied it here himself, as he likely did onstage. Never seen in the US (and, for some reason, repeating one speech twice in a row), Impressions of Disraeli is riveting historically and artistically -- this is as close as you'll get to knowing what George Arliss was like onstage. Like anybody but me cares.

BONUS POINTS: The movie is introduced by Conservative Party leader and future Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin (I had to go online to learn who the hell he was).

BOOM (1968): Tennessee Williams' Boom (the exclamation mark exists only in the posters, not the credits) encapsulates everything wrong with "edgy", "stylish" movies from the mid to late 1960s. Bad dialogue, gaudy color schemes, camera movements that call attention to themselves, and an A-list cast wallowing in trash, led by Richard Burton, Elizabeth Taylor, and Noel Coward. Oh, what a free trip to Italy and a good paycheck will do to some people! 

Taylor is Mrs. Goforth, living in splendor on her private island where she screams at her employees between glasses of vodka and bottles of pills, when visited by Chris Flanders (Burton). Flanders, a distant acquaintance of Goforth's, is nicknamed the Angel of Death, which alerts you how the movie is going to end. At that point, you could go out to dinner and return to catch the climax because nothing but nothing outside of reams of bad dialogue happens in between. Trashy movies can be entertaining (see Machine Gun McCain), but Boom is a stupefyingly pretentious bore.

Aside from Michael Dunn as Goforth's security chief, the only person you'd miss by skipping the bulk of Boom is Noel Coward as the, uh, Witch of Capri. Thanks to his brilliant delivery, Coward actually makes his dialogue sound wittier than it is. Tennessee Williams seems to have had given up all pretense of offering some kind of a "message" in his screenplay, lapsing into either self-parody or the crime of WWI (Writing While Intoxicated). When near the end of Boom Taylor moans, "This is the worst day of my life," I thought, You don't know the half of it, Liz.

BONUS POINTS: Tennessee Williams considered Boom the best movie adaptation of any of his plays, which goes to show artists aren't necessarily the best judges of their own works. 

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