MOVIE OF THE DAY: "PLAYMATES" (1941)

Few, if any, great actors had such a spectacular, sorrowful fall as John Barrymore. From preeminent actor to public buffoon, Barrymore allowed his addictions -- alcohol and sex, among others -- drive him to financial and artistic ruin. 

By the time of his death in 1942, he had been reduced to playing Rudy Vallee's radio stooge, indulging in self-abasement for the pleasure of the American audience. So far gone was his health that, unlike his co-stars, he had to read his lines sitting from a chair -- there was no way he could stand for the duration of the show.

Barrymore's movie career, too, had taken a similar path. The titles alone -- Hold that Co-Ed, The Invisible Woman, The Great Profile -- tell you that his glory days were long gone. His final movie, Playmates, made a year before his death, sends shudders through Barrymore fans even today. Playing, as with Vallee's radio show, a parody of himself, the once-greatest Hamlet of his generation was a willing participant in yet another chapter of his long, public suicide.

Before

After

Or... You can look at Playmates another way: a low-rent comedy with a rollicking performance by an actor trying to make a legitimate living. Until it starts to falter, due partly to the headache-inducing appearance of Lupe Velez, Playmates allows John Barrymore one, final chance at playing comedy like nobody else.



Taking advantage of his public persona, Playmates presents Barrymore as a washed-up ham taking part in a publicity stunt to revive his career. In giving bandleader Kay Kyser lessons in Shakespeare, the once-great star hopes to get a radio contract and start paying off his debts. Barrymore is appalled to be working with the Southern-born Kyser, calling him, among other things, "that syncopated cotton-picker" and "that nursemaid to a bass tuba." (I don't understand what it means, either.) 

By distracting Kyser with with the sexy Carmen del Toro (Lupe Velez) and dousing Kyser's throat with a liquid to close his vocal cords on opening night, Barrymore tries to take over their Shakespeare festival himself. Kyser eventually catches on and turns the tables on him, making for what director David Butler thought was a funny sight of the two actors talking as if they just sucked on lemons.

Barrymore wonders how he went from
Shakespeare to Kay Kyser and Lupe Velez.

No, Playmates doesn't wander very near the "classic" territory. The script, as with many 1940s comedies, is both hamfisted and lightweight. (What happened to the sophisticated wits of the 1930s? They couldn't have all been drafted). Kay Kyser has the personality of a pair of loafers. Make that half a pair. (He does, however, feature in a genuinely bizarre nightmare sequence both funny and discomforting.) Patsy Kelly, as Barrymore's sarcastic agent Lulu, is grating enough to shave a wedge of Parmesan into dust. 

Kay Kyser's band is the '40s version of Herman's Hermits -- borderline novelty, nothing to make you forget Benny Goodman. When Barrymore says, "Some things are too low for even me to stoop to," you know it's a lie -- after all, he's in Playmates, his name below the title and Kay Kyser's above in letters that fill the screen.

Steadying himself on Kyser while the
 studio hairdresser goes to work.

But from his first appearance, you know who the real star is. Barrymore is breathtakingly, hilariously over the top. Eyebrows wagging more than Groucho's, bellowing his lines like a bull elephant, he commands the screen the way few actors of his time (outside of his brother Lionel) could. His outraged reaction to Kyser attempting the "Friends, Romans, countrymen" speech alone is gut-bustingly funny. If only he was working with a script as great as he was.

True, he looks terrible, the bags under his eyes more like steamer trunks. His hair is greasy enough to saute a herd of cows. The face and body are bloated from an overdose of the alleged good life. And you could pass out from playing a drinking game every time he reads from his cue cards.

"It's come to this -- being groped by
Patsy Kelly?"

And yes, the insults to Barrymore pile up like snowflakes in a blizzard. A young autograph hound mistakes him for Adolphe Menjou. His own agent denigrates him to others. He has to act with a musician named Ish Kabibble! The famous RKO Radio tower that opens Playmates might just as well be signaling a desperate SOS.

But by God, John Barrymore can still act. He knows what's expected of him, giving the audience its money's worth every second he's onscreen. Watch his classic 1934 farce Twentieth Century back to back with Playmates and you'll see very little stylistic difference. The former's script (by Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur) and leading lady (Carole Lombard) are admittedly superior by a country mile -- no, ten miles, a million miles. But to the benefit of both movies, Barrymore ignores the meaning of the word "nuance." 

Except for one scene, that is, the most famous in Playmates. Barrymore has been brought over to Kyser's hotel room to give him the lowdown on reciting Shakespeare. As an example, he offers to recite Hamlet's famous soliliquy. Taking a seat, Barrymore transforms himself into... himself. Using his real speaking voice for the first time, he poignantly muses, "It's been a long time" -- no doubt reflecting on when he was the toast of Broadway. The transformation is as electrifying as that of his starring role in Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde two decades earlier. 


Shot in mid-close-up, the all-too-brief scene proves that Barrymore still had it in him to move audiences, making them feel they understood the archaic language even if they really didn't. Tears roll down his face -- is he acting, or remembering what once was? -- as he reaches the graceful, quiet climax of a moment as moving as almost any in film history. 

Whereupon, he slaps the tears from his eyes and reverts to playing the 1941 model of John Barrymore. That he can give two diametrically opposite interpretations of himself  within seconds of each other is proof positive of a talent almost unmatched. It makes one yearn to see him in a modern-dress version of Hamlet.

At least he got billing
over Ginny Simms.

Alas and alack, it was not to be. Playmates was his final movie, an ignoble end to what was once the most illustrious of careers. There are far better Barrymore pictures -- Counsellor-at-Law, Twentieth Century and True Confession to name but three. The Great Man Votes, Arsene Lupin and Svengali when the others aren't available. (I find Grand Hotel a little too long and stuffy.) 

Playmates should be viewed for what it was meant to be -- a silly comedy meant to float its co-star until the next bill came due. If it ever turns up, watch the first half, or at least enough to catch the soliloquy. No actor today, save perhaps Christopher Walken, can take mediocre material and make it compulsively watchable. This, friends, is genius at work.

To put things in perspective, let's compare the three leads of Playmates:


One guy named Kay, the other named Ish.

Kay Kyser: A so-so bandleader/songwriter remembered, if at all, for the radio quiz show Kay Kyser's Kollege of Musical Knowledge -- and giving the world the dopey trumpet-player/comedian with the proto-Jerry Lewis haircut, Ish Kabibble. Retired in 1950, died in 1985.






Ugh.

Patsy Kelly: An obnoxious character actress whose career peaked with a series of two-reelers with Thelma Todd in the mid-'30s, only to devolve into being Tallulah Bankhead's paid companion and assistant. A role in the 1971 Broadway revival of No, No Nanette led to some supporting parts in movies and TV.  Died in 1981.






John Barrymore: One of the greatest actors of his time, expert at both comedy and drama, whose unfortunate final years do not make any less stellar at least a dozen cinematic roles that stand the test of time and then some. A man whose very name is still considered the Rolls Royce of acting, John Barrymore worked until the very end of his life in 1942.

If you were an entertainer, which legacy would you prefer?
                                              
                                           *********************


The best way to prevent anyone from slipping into alcoholism is to show them this unedited newsreel footage of John Barrymore on his return to Broadway at age 57. Warning: it isn't pretty. Fast forward to the 18-second mark.

THE BOYCOTT BEFORE THE HORSE

As with the groundhog, so does Spike Lee stick his head out to give us his forecast. And, as usual, it's six more weeks of outrage.
This time, the problem is Quentin Tarantino's latest regurgitation of the b-movies of his youth, Django Unchained. Spike took to his electronic soapbox, Twitter, and typed: 

American Slavery Was Not A Sergio Leone Spaghetti Western. It Was A Holocaust. My Ancestors Are Slaves. Stolen From Africa. I Will Honor Them.

As you can see, he capitalized the first letter of every word to make it look that much more important. He could've encircled each word in neon and a white fur baseball cap for all I care. Unless it's coming from a rebel in a Mideast dictatorship, nothing called a "tweet" can be taken seriously.

Spike added that he was "boycotting" Django Unchained. Which means on opening day, it took in $15,011,121 instead of $15,011,135.50. That's if Spike even pays to see movies, which, as a member of the DGA and, probably, the Motion Picture Academy, he likely hasn't done since "potato" was spelled with an "e."

For a guy who takes politics seriously, Spike sure misuses the word "boycott." Back in the civil rights days -- when his family lived comfortably in Brooklyn and summered in Newport, RI -- boycott meant a mass protest aimed at hurting a racist business financially. Diners, bus lines, theaters, you name it -- whoever discriminated against blacks got hit in the pocketbook, and felt it. By Spike's standards, I'm boycotting over 99% of all consumer products, movies included. I got the power!

Let's take a look at a fraction of what I'm currently boycotting:

Fire hoses: I'm tripping over enough stuff in a New York apartment without having one of these things taking up space.

The Cadillac XTS Luxury Sedan: Ever hear of alternate-side of the street parking? A pain.

Goldfish food: Too flaky and it smells something terrible.

Jimmy Choo shoes: I get vertigo from welcome mats -- you think I'm going to wear something that high?

Paint-by-numbers sets: A total scam -- they never look as good as the picture on the box.

Steel beams: I actually considered these for coatracks, but then realized I'd have a devil of a time explaining it to the co-op board if they fell through the window.

Kellogg's Frosted Flakes: They think they're fooling people with that new Tony the Tiger voice. Ha!

Iridium: My wife prefers sapphires, and besides, I never cared for heavy metal.


Heroin: Until Bayer starts manufacturing a quality product again, count me out. 

One more thing: Spike Lee's most recent release, Red Hook Summer, grossed $338,803 total. With the average price of a movie ticket in the USA being $8.12, that means out of a population of almost 312-million, only 41,725 people paid to see it. Now that's a boycott.

                                              *************************

MOVIE OF THE DAY: "YOU CAN CHANGE THE WORLD" (1950)

How do you like to relax on a lazy Sunday evening? If you're anything like Jack Benny, you invite your A-list showbiz pals over to listen to a priest lecture about fighting communism. At least if You Can Change the World is to be believed. 

Part anti-Commie tract, part do-gooder message, the 30-minute short You Can Change the World was produced by the Christophers, the Catholic organization founded a few years earlier by Father James Keller.

You wouldn't know any of that by looking at the poster. In fact, the real star, Father Keller, isn't even mentioned. People expecting a mini-musical comedy were probably in for a shock five minutes in. 

Father Keller takes the
film noir approach
on the set.

The bulk of the movie consists of Father Keller explaining the Christophers' mission: getting "the little people" involved in education, government, writing and the like, to counteract those in the same professions who have been trying to tear down the USA. From a teacher to "one young Negro student," Father Keller gives example after example of how people's seemingly insignificant acts can change the world for the better. All the while, he stresses the influence that God had on the Founding Fathers when writing the Declaration of Independence. And that's pretty much it.





Rochester is baffled that his Jewish
boss insists on entertaining Catholic
 priests in his home.

Now, if you think this would make a pleasant but dull half-hour of celluloid, you weren't alone, which is why director Leo McCarey, a friend of Keller's, rounded up a bunch of his friends to jazz things up. In fact, the short is book-ended in such a way to make it resemble an episode of The Jack Benny Program, right down to the "Love in Bloom" theme and the "cheap" jokes, which are actually pretty funny. (Jack almost has a stroke when Father Keller uses his phone to make a long distance call to Bob Hope in Texas.)

"Hi, this is Bob 'Where the Hell
Are My Hookers' Hope."

Hope, too, gets in a few good lines before turning serious (always a deadly thing): "Seems you don't hear much about the Declaration. All you hear about is the Constitution and the Bill of Rights" -- you know, those pissant papers that he claims "don't add up to much without the Declaration" -- twice neglecting to add the words "of Independence."  One wonders if there's some other agenda going on there. (You Can Change the World lacks a writing credit, but Leo McCarey is said to be one of the three scribes behind it.)

Due to the nature of the movie, McCarey's direction is pretty static. In trying to create some action mid-way through by having Jack Benny and Paul Douglas walk behind Father Keller, McCarey only makes them look like they're playing Follow the Leader. The others remain sitting on or standing behind a couch, reciting their sparse dialogue with the passion of a steamed clam.

Too hip for the room.

Bing Crosby shows up late, presumably having dawdled a little too long at the 19th hole. As usual, however, he takes immediate command of the screen, his ultra-cool manner making it clear why bandleader Artie Shaw referred to him "the first hip white man" born in America. 

And as for his musical talent, any song sung by Bing in his prime is worth hearing... except the one written for this movie, "Early American." (It's about American ideals, not the Ethan Allen furniture chain.) As with many songs of its type, the message doesn't exactly make for snappy lyrics:

The dream I'm building is Early American,

Something that won't go out of style.
It makes you feel that life's worth living,
The way they must have felt that first Thanksgiving...

No "Swinging on a Star," this.

The cast follows Leo McCarey's
direction to look constipated.

Come to think of it, I wonder if Father Keller is aware of the company he's keeping. William Holden was a drunk. Loretta Young was the mother of a bastard daughter by Clark Gable. Songwriter Jimmy Van Heusen was a notorious whoremonger. And Bob Hope probably couldn't show up in person because he was schtupping one of the dozens of doxys he had stashed around the country. 

It makes Keller's observation to the Boston Globe -- "I've always felt that there is a lot of goodness here [in Hollywood]. You hear about the freaks, but the majority are good people" -- seem charmingly naive. After all, Hollywood is filled with actors who are acting.

And for a movement that's all about "the little people," it's interesting that Rochester -- you know, the black servant -- isn't allowed to listen to Father Keller's homily. Make of that what you will. At least he gets his revenge in the opening credits, where his real name, Eddie Anderson, comes first alphabetically.




Between takes, Father Keller weeps as Jack Benny insists on telling yet another story about the good old days of vaudeville.

Leo McCarey and Father Keller: "Look, I directed Crosby
as a priest twice so I know what I'm talking about, goddammit!"

Distributed to church groups in 1950 and television shortly thereafter, You Can Change the World marked a further aesthetic change for Leo McCarey. One of Hal Roach's greatest finds, McCarey was credited with teaming Stan Laurel with Oliver Hardy, along with directing their best silents. (Coincidentally or not, You Can Change the World was shot on the Roach lot.) During the talkie area, he was responsible for the Marx Brothers' most anarchic movie, Duck Soup, as well as W.C. Fields' wacky Six of a Kind.

Over time, however, McCarey's oeuvre took a sentimental turn -- Make Way for Tomorrow (a slash-your-wrists depressing movie about aging) and Love Affair. Sentiment became intertwined with religion in Going my Way and The Bells of St. Mary's. Religion then got mixed-up with a decidedly conservative political view in Satan Never Sleeps, the infamous My Son John and, of course, You Can Change the World. You'd never know this was the same person who, in 1929, dreamed up the gag of a live crab falling down the front of Stan Laurel's pants.


The cast can't wait for Father Keller to leave so the orgy can start.

Still, only an unrepentant cynic would disagree with Father Keller's desire of encouraging "more good, decent, normal people to take up careers" to positively affect the country -- or as he calls it, finding "a job with a purpose." I have no idea how successful You Can Change the World was, though, as far as, well, changing the world. It seems to me that the handbasket addressed to hell was successfully FedExed some time ago. 

Father Keller, however, had more faith in his fellow man. A 1950 Boston Globe article states that future Christopher productions included Secretarial Work With a Purpose. You can bet when that movie was shot, William Holden was at the nearest bar with the purpose of getting pie-eyed.

Oh heck, why am I being so cynical? The Christophers are all about religious tolerance and good deeds, things everyone can get behind. Father Keller seems to be a fine, sincere fellow. And unlike the religious leaders in today's mega-churches, there's nothing slick about him. He's awkward and nervous. In other words, he's real. Call me a sentimental old dishrag, but I liked the guy. He even gets off a couple of laughs during his brief comedic moments with Jack Benny.

Hey -- they found the lost speech!

And boy, does he love the Declaration of Independence! So much so that, near the end of You Can Change the World, he gives Jack a copy of "Lincoln's lost speech" from 1858 regarding the Declaration, from which Jack reads aloud. It's quite a passage -- poetic, spiritual and patriotic all at once. Extraordinarily well-written even for its time. You can't help be moved.

Yet something bothered me. If this was supposed to be a lost speech, how the heck could anyone quote from it? A little research gave me the answer: they couldn't. Even though it had been circulating for close to a century by then, it was a fraud. Lincoln's son and private secretary said so, as have researchers ever since. Nobody knows what Lincoln said that night in 1858. That's why they call it a lost speech!

Historian: now there's a job with a purpose.

                                                            *****************

NOTHING SAYS CHRISTMAS LIKE...

IF THE POLITICAL CHAT ROOM EXISTED IN 1865

TRENDING TOPIC: JOHN WILKES BOOTH

No way Booth shot the prez. Look, he's the biggest stage actor in the world and banging chicks left and right, is he really going to give that up? And look at the timeline. Booth goes up to Lincoln's box where the guard just HAPPENS TO BE SOMEWHERE ELSE getting laid or something, so he can JUST HAPPEN to sneak up behind Lincoln and get off a round or two. Now anyone else doing that would run like shit out of the theater, right, so he wouldn't get caught. But no, this guy JUMPS ON THE STAGE IN FRONT OF EVERYBODY and yells out '"HEY IT'S ME BOOTH!" and gives some whack speech in latin or greek or some shit JUST LIKE, OH, BOOTH WOULD, and THE COPS DON'T CHASE HIM. Then he has time to get on his horse and just trot away like he's going to lunch or some shit AND NOBODY GOES AFTER HIM? This is BULLSHIT! WAKE UP, PEOPLE!!!
      -- Word. Daguerreotypes or it didn't happen.

And don't forget that frigging drunk Grant. Him and his ugly wife were SUPPOSED to have been at the theater with Lincoln but then suddenly he's all like, "Oh our wives don't like each other, so we're going to New York instead." Like they couldn't just stay home and play 20 Questions. YEAH RIGHT! Then he says, "Oh someone tried to open our door but it was locked, whoops, I'm still alive!" How convienenet!
      -- Convenient. (Spelling, sorry, been up all night trying 2 figure this whole thing out.)

Something else nobody's looking at. That same night the VICE PRESIDENT and SECRETARY OF STATE almost get whacked. Who stands to win? FOLLOW THE GOLD BARS! If Johnson and Seward got whacked, that would make Schuyler Colfax (Speaker of the House) next in line! Who, by the way, is a member of the INDEPENDENT ORDER OF ODD FELLOWS CULT! Get the picture? Yeah, Booth, sure, whatever. Tell me another 1.
       --I heard the Odd Fellows were told not to go the theater that night.
          --Fucking RETHUGLICANS and their CULTS TAKING OVER!!!!

And another thing. Booth's been on the run for how long now? A week? AND THEY HAVEN'T CAUGHT HIM? EVEN THOUGH THEY SAY HE KILLED THE PRESIDENT?! What kind of shitz iz that? And the SHEEPLE just nod their heads and "bah" and keep eating grass WHILE OUR COUNTRY BECOMES THE DISUNITED STATES OF SCHUYLER COLFAX!
        -- Who names their kid Schuyler???? 
             -- With that name I bet he got his ass kicked plenty when he was growing up.  
                 -- Probably wanted revenge so he popped the prez thinking he could take over. 
                     -- But the other two dumbasses couldn't aim their guns straight enough to do the job.
                         -- HA! Dumbasses is right. 

I just thought of something. What about LINCOLN'S WIFE? She's sitting right there next to him, wouldnt you just take her out 2 as long as youre up there? Strange...
  -- Yeah, bitch is CRAZY. Look at her.
        -- EXACTLY. What does Booth gain from this? NOTHING.
            -- It's ALWAYS the wife.
                -- Word.


Don't forget the state-controlled press. Did U see the New York Times headline when he was shot? You needed a magnifying glass! Like they didnt want us 2 know. And it didn't even say LINCOLN KILLED or whatever, it just said "Terrible Tragedy!" Well no duh. It was a tragedy for THE REST OF US who are being lied to! WAKE UP PEOPLE!!!
       -- Is it true that the telegraph operators in DC had been given the night off and replaced by government workers? Seems like the newspapers got the details PRETTY FAST.
          --Like maybe ahead of time? I was thinking the same thing. 
 
This was a false flag operation for sure. The anti-slave group was behind it so they could make it look like someone in the pro-slavery side so they could have MARTIAL LAW like Lincoln always wanted and then at some point bring back slavery just to start the Civil War AGAIN. It's so obvious.
     -- Wow hadnt thought of that. Scary.

Why is Lincoln's name spelled like that? Shouldn't it be Linkin? I mean the way it is now it looks like it should be pronounced LINK COLON. ;)
     -- Good one! 
         --Thanx! Been a tough week, figured we could use a laff.


Lincoln lived another NINE HOURS after he was "shot by John Wilkes Booth". What do you suppose he was talking about that whole time? Like maybe it WASN'T Booth? Maybe he KNEW about a GOVERNMENT CONSPIRACY?
      -- Wheres the autopsy, thats what I want to know.
          -- 1st his son dies, then him. I'm telling U theres more here than we're being told.
             -- I still dont believe that Fort Sumter bullshit. Funny how 5 minutes after it's over, Francis Scott  Key just HAPPENS to have a song ready to go. "Oh say can you see" my ass!
                --All I can see are FALSE FLAGS!!!


I think it was actually John Wilkes' brother Edwin Booth who whacked the prez so he could blame it on him. He was jealous that JW was gettin all the ladies. My man JW is the PRINCE OF PLAYAS! HAHA!

                                                              ****************

MOVIE OF THE DAY: "CAROL FOR ANOTHER CHRISTMAS" (1964)

 Sponsored commercial-free by Xerox on December 28, 1964, the television movie Carol for Another Christmas is one of countless updates (or, as the kids say, reboots) of Charles Dickens classic of redemption.

Don't let the charming font and sleigh ride fool you.

Multi-millionaire Daniel Grudge, still embittered by the death of his son in World War II, is a cold-hearted cynic whose isolationist beliefs cover not only foreign wars but relief efforts of any kind outside our borders. He's already used his considerable (financial) clout to cancel an exchange program between US and Polish 17th-century literary professors at a local college. Talk is for suckers, he believes -- the one way to keep the peace is preparing to destroy the other guy. Only when visited by the three spirits of Christmas does Grudge undergo a profound change of heart. Not that he's convinced that talking to the enemy is the be-all, end-all -- but it's a good enough start.

Rod Serling

Joseph L. Makiewicz

Unlike many other Scrooge retellings, Carol for Another Christmas has an unsually high pedigree, written by Rod Serling and produced & directed by Oscar-winner Joseph L. Mankiewicz. Still, I sat down to watch the movie with a little trepidation. Serling wasn't averse to using a 50-pound sledgehammer to get his point across. And Mankiewicz was recovering from the four hour debacle otherwise known as Cleopatra, a project that almost killed him and his studio. While not entirely successful at keeping their more bombastic tendencies in check, they created what was probably one of the most powerful American television productions of its time.



 Ben Gazzara and Sterling Hayden

The opening minutes aren't promising. Sterling Hayden and Ben Gazzara (the Scrooge and Cratchit stand-ins) share some heavy-handed dialogue and too-close-to Dickens elements (Grudge's son was named Marley. Ding ding ding!). But once Grudge sees his son's reflection in a window, and a World War II-era record plays by itself in his bedroom, Carol for Another Christmas, like the best of The Twilight Zone episodes, takes a spooky and ultimately frightening turn.

The Spirit of Christmas Past, a universal soldier, takes Grudge back to the first world war aboard a battleship filled with military coffins. Grudge's gut reaction is understandable -- what's the point of sending our sons to fight another's conflict, especially one as pointless as the war that was supposed to make the world safe for democracy? The Spirit agrees, up to a point: if we don't talk to the other side, we at least have to stop the enemy before he starts a world conflict. As he reminds Grudge:

When ol' Adolf marched into the Rhineland, France didn't want to get involved. Italy pulled down the windowshade when Hitler took Austria. England wasn't about to involve itself when Czechoslovakia went under. And Russia kept the phone off the hook when Poland was destroyed. Everybody was saying, "Don't rock the boat." But it sank slowly to the bottom. So [our troops] died in other places on other dates.

The monologue is vintage Serling -- colorful, character-driven, just close enough to over-the-top to catch your attention. Grudge, however, is unmoved until taken to his own past, when, as a navy commander, he visited Hiroshima in the weeks following the end of World War II. There he sees a group of schoolgirls whose faces were terribly burned by the flash of the atomic bomb. Only through the horrified reaction of his driver (Eva Marie Saint) does Grudge finally consider the destruction around him in human, rather than military, terms.

Steve Lawrence with Sterling Hayden

That the Spirit of Christmas Past is played by Steve Lawrence -- yes, Eydie Gorme's crooner husband -- makes the entire sequence that much more fascinating.  Not that this is another Brando we're watching or anything, but Lawrence is credible, and, in his own way, perfect for the role. And perhaps I was just seeing things, but his looks seemed to reflect different nationalities and races -- white, black, even European -- as the scene progressed.  On the other hand, it could have been all that fog.



Pat Hingle

The portrayal of the Spirit of Christmas Present is different from those in other versions. This guy isn't a jolly good fellow, but a selfish glutton who feasts on a football field-length meal while next to a barbed wire-enclosed concentration camp filled with the displaced victims of war. Grudge, his humanity finally stirred, is aghast: "How can you sit there and eat like that when these people are starving?" The Spirit turns off a light with the snap of his fingers, making the victims invisible: "Feel better?" he asks. Thanks to Serling's subversive talent, the Spirit is both a stand-in for and speaking to us. Pat Hingle, one of those "oh that guy" character actors, gives an intense performance as the Spirit, not for a second letting Grudge, or the viewers, off the hook.

Robert Shaw

But it's Grudge's adventure with the Spirit of Christmas Future, that Carol for Another Christmas really shocks. As played by Robert Shaw -- a decade or so before his career-defining performance as the shark hunter in Jaws -- the Spirit gives a tour of Grudge's now post-apocalyptic hometown. Only a couple of dozen citizens remain, bowing and scraping to the hypnotic leader known only as Imperial Me -- an astonishing performance by Peter Sellers.

Sellers' entrance probably makes for a welcome change to most viewers -- Finally, some laughs! -- dressed as he is in a cheap ten-gallon hat and Pilgrim-style jacket, carried on the shoulders of football players while, in a parody of Beatlemania, greeted by the frenzied screams of teenage girls.

The subsequent speech could have been dramatic from the get-go if delivered by another actor. It's the mindboggling genius of Sellers, however, that makes the double-talking dictator's first spoken words sound darkly humorous when delivered in an accent wavering between good-ol' boy and flat mid-American: "I am the Imperial Me. And this is the non-government of the Me people!"

Peter Sellers

Sellers responds to the mob's crazed "Hallelujah" and "Me me me me!" with -- and there's no other way of putting this -- orgasmic joy. And it's here that the scene, and the actor himself, quickly become unnerving. His face taking up almost the whole screen and voice dropping a tone, he is no longer Peter Sellers but Imperial Me himself, and it is a scary thing. His role lasting just a few minutes, Sellers not only gives the performance of a lifetime (in a lifetime filled with great performances) but one that foreshadows, to a remarkable degree, the era of Tea Party and evangelical politics.

Only one survivor, Grudge's butler, sees through the madness, imploring the mob to stop fighting and start talking -- it's the only way Mankind has any chance of renewing itself. For his troubles, he's given an unexpected, shocking rejoinder, one that made me gasp aloud. No wonder they originally aired this three days after Christmas, I thought. The entire scene must have disturbed the hell out of TV viewers who, at the time, were more used to talking horses, rich hillbillies and Gomer Pyle. 

The TV Guide listing for
December 28, 1964. "Drama" is right.

As for what happened to Grudge's butler, you'll have to see for yourself. TCM, which provided Carol for Another Christmas' first television broadcast since its original airing, is running it again on December 22 at 4:15 PM (Eastern time). It isn't commercially available on DVD, so unless you have access to the Paley Centers in New York or Los Angeles, it's going to be your only chance. And don't even think of trimming the tree while you watch -- warm and fuzzy and eggnoggy, it's not. Even the score is surprisingly somber for one written by Henry Mancini, who, for a change, wasn't angling for a hit single.

There's always the chance an enthusiastic review oversells a product. So let me warn you, the movie isn't perfect. Much of Sterling Hayden's dialogue is heavy-handed (see "Rod Serling and sledgehammer" comment above). Ben Gazzara just goes through the motions. And the production flirts with the self-important vibe prevalent in "message" pictures of its time. 

Hey, for all I know, I could be W-to-the-G wrong about the whole thing, and it's just a family-sized portion of overheated  '60s agitprop.  After all, it was produced to commemorate the anniversary of the United Nations -- which has done such a bang-up job of curbing despots and preventing wars ever since.

But if for no other reason than its rarity, Carol for Another Christmas is an absolute must-see. Besides, where else are you going to watch Steve Lawrence and Peter Sellers in the same movie?
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THAT CERTAIN GLOW

My post-MRI heartburn.

Being a glass-half-full kind of guy, I don't look upon a radical nephrectomy as having lost a kidney. Rather, I gained something I never would have had otherwise: an annual MRI. Not only that, but an annual MRI with contrast -- meaning I get to have an IV drip of radioactive liquid in order to lively up the imaging. Counting my pre-surgery scans, I've gone through this routine enough times to have a highway in Los Alamos named after me. I am, indeed, blessed.

The post-op MRI has always coincided with the Christmas season -- call it a chance to become a human holiday light display -- and this year was no different. My wife was a little leery. How much radiation did I have to get exposed to before it started having drawbacks -- like causing the cancer that they're hoping isn't there? My urologist would have the answer.

If he hadn't retired, that is. It was news to me. He walked out of my life without a word, as if all those years I gave to him (two and a half) meant nothing. I'd have to deal with his replacement. And unlike him, the new guy was a woman.

My new urologist didn't get the memo.

Meeting Dr. G, as we'll call her, was like going on the first post-breakup date. And, as with many dates, the age difference came into play. Now, I feel a good 15 years younger than I really am, but she was at least 20 years younger, which made me feel at least 40 years older. I had to win her over, fast. "How did the tumor make itself known?" she asked.

You always want a good first date story, and her question gave me the opening. As I gave her the rundown -- pain due to the tumor growing near the artery and, thus, cutting off my blood supply -- she scanned the surgeon's notes. "I've never heard of this before!" she gushed.

I felt like Sinatra, circa 1961. "Cool, isn't it?" I replied... and in my mind adding, "baby."

But she wasn't through yet. "This is really something... wow... incredible..." Man, this chick couldn't get enough of my diagnosis.  

Then I had to go and ruin it. "Do I need another MRI? I mean, my wife's a nurse and she said --" Oh my God, she knows I'm married! What would her reaction be?

 "It's standard protocol," she answered evenly, "that you have five annual MRIs following this kind of surgery."  She wrote the prescription and bade me farewell until next year's appointment. Yes! A second date!

The following Saturday, I arrived at the radiology center 15 minutes early to discover 12 people ahead of me. The Upper East Side must be lousy with cancer, I judged. No doubt the Second Avenue subway construction had something to do with it. Class action lawsuit, here we come.

On the walls were were four HDTVs, all with the sound off. While waiting my turn at check-in, I watched the one tuned to CNN. I sometimes wonder if people who have to use the closed-captioning realize that mistakes are made. Like the story about the DJs who called Princess Catherine's hospital. What I assumed to be the phrase "Australian radio station" came up as AUSTRALIAN RADIATION -- appropriate, under the circumstances. But what to make of HUE  MAIL YATED? Ah, of course -- humiliated. Must be that tricky accent. Wait 'til they have to quote someone from Queens.

Wait 'til you see the centerfold.

I had barely settled in my chair, skimming through the latest sexy issue of Radiology Today, when a medical assistant mispronounced my name. It was time to undress, get the IV drip and slide into the magnetic coffin.

The MRI is a noisy affair, a combination of drills, anvils and alien spaceships taking off. When it's time to take the "contrast" images, the drip starts dripping. For all its possible side effects, that radioactive goo gives you a warm sensation all over, similar to a quality brandy or high grade Thai heroin. Every year, just before he takes those particular images, the radiologist gives me the same instructions: "Don't breathe, don't move." Good idea, because the subsequent racket -- similar to a fire alarm going off directly next to your head -- makes you want to jump out the door.



"Congratulations! It's a lymphocele!"

A few days later, I received a phone call from Dr. G. There was something on the images -- not cancer, she reassured me about five times -- that seemed a little strange. The radiologist read it as a lymphocele. As described online, A lymphocele is a cystic mass containing lymph that is brought on by diseased lymphatic channels or following surgical trauma or other injury. It should have gone away by now, so she wanted a second radiologist to take a look.


The score thus far: One trip to the urologist, two prescriptions, two trips to to different radiologists, two readings -- all for one MRI. Remind me to do something easier, like buying an assault rifle.

Wait, what's this I read online? The second possibility for the lymphocele: They may also be caused by intense masturbation or intense sex and will normally disappear in a few days.

I hope Dr. G isn't the jealous type.
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MOVIE OF THE DAY: "MEET THE BARON" (1933)

Heavily promoted by MGM in its day, there's only a few minutes of genuine entertainment value in Meet the Baron. Ostensibly a comedy, it's really a cautionary tale (for studios and talent alike) working on two different levels.

Cautionary tale level #1: Throughout the 20th century and beyond, show business has been littered with entertainers who succeeded in one medium or another but washed out in movies. From Fannie Brice to Frank Fay (Broadway), to Andrew Dice Clay to Howard Stern (shock comedy), they were either too hot, too cold or just plain lacking that indefinable something that makes a movie star.

Jack Pearl: From radio
superstar to obscure blog topic.

Take Jack Pearl, for instance. One of the earliest network radio comedians, Pearl was known best as his alter ego Baron Munchausen. A liar of the first order, Munchausen regaled his straight man (known only as Charlie) with outrageous tales of his travels and heroics. Whenever Charlie expressed doubt over these exploits, Munchausen would reply in his comic German accent, "Vas you dere, Sharlie?" 

Doesn't sound like much, does it? Oh, how wrong you are. "Vas you dere, Sharlie?" was the Homer Simpson "D'oh!" of its day. Everyone used it in conversation whether appropriate or not. (When I was in high school, a full four decades after Pearl's heyday, a local radio personality was still dropping it in conversation from time to time.)  Ridiculous as it seems now, that single catchphrase was enough to make Jack Pearl one of the biggest radio stars of his time. MGM came calling, no doubt thinking it was signing a box office sure thing. In a word, Oops.

Jimmy Durante looks to God to get
him off the movie.

The plot is what studios today would call the backstory of how the baron gained acclaim as a great explorer (hint: he lied about it). With sidekick Joe McGoo (Jimmy Durante) in tow, the Baron kicks off on the lecture circuit at the all-girl Cuddle College, where he falls in love with a housemaid (ZaSu Pitts). His ruse is eventually discovered, but love wins out in the end.

Story aside, Meet the Baron is merely one long clothesline on which Pearl hangs his feeble jokes. A scene consisting of a radio interview with the Baron and Charlie has some historical interest to showbiz mavens, being an accurate replication of Pearl's show. Sample exchange: Munchausen is explaining how he was able to fly over the North Pole even after running out of gas. (Try to hear him in your head with a vaudeville-style German dialect.)

MUNCHAUSEN: I stayed up for six months longer.
CHARLIE: Without fuel? But that's impossible, that's against the law of gravitation!
MUNCHAUSEN: I know, but this was before the law was passed.

That other comedians in their prime -- Bob Hope, Stan Laurel, Chico Marx -- would probably get a chuckle with that same bit from today's audiences proves Eddie Cantor's theory: 90% of success in show business in likability. Jack Pearl is annoying. (The extras in the background appear genuinely amused -- people were more easily entertained during the Depression.)

The Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Girls try to
wash off the stench of Meet the Baron.

For cinephiles, Meet the Baron's potential riches never quite pay off. A sophisticated musical number -- featuring a tickertape parade for the Baron, the Statue of Liberty singing a verse and the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Girls taking a shower together -- promises good things, but is short-lived. 

Ultimately, the problem lies with MGM itself. The studio wasn't good at doing zany like Paramount, nor did it capture the flair for musicals like Warner Brothers. It was kind of like the spoiled rich kid who tries to fit in with the popular crowd at school, but without changing his tux.

In retrospect, the most fascinating thing about Meet the Baron is that producer David O. Selznick and one of its six writers (six writers!), Herman J. Mankiewicz, would later go on to Gone with the Wind and Citizen Kane respectively. As co-star Jimmy Durante might say, "It's unexplicable, I tells ya!"

This brings us to Level 2 of our cautionary tale. While studios signed flash-in-the-pans like Jack Pearl, they often couldn't see real talent before their eyes. Humphrey Bogart bummed around Warner Brothers for almost a decade when he finally landed his first major lead in High Sierra. Bette Davis was dropped by her first studio, Universal, for lacking sex appeal. And before Easy Rider, Jack Nicholson was just another cog in Roger Corman's exploitation assembly line.

And so, too, Meet the Baron gives us a glimpse of an act that MGM briefly had under contract but not really knowing what to do with, the Three Stooges. At the time, they were still working with Ted Healey, the comedian who put the act together in vaudeville several years earlier. Billed, naturally, as Ted Healey & His Stooges, "the boys" are a welcome relief to an otherwise dreary enterprise.

Ted Healey & His Stooges, along with Edna May Oliver, welcome the Baron to
Cuddle College. If only they aimed a little closer.

Whether fishing in a flooded basement, avoiding work by playing cards or tearing up Munchausen's room, the Stooges, a year away from starting their legendary run at Columbia, have their act down cold, albeit with some nominal differences. Healey has the ringleader role that Moe would eventually play. Curley ("Jerry" in the credits) is often crosseyed and barefoot. Only Larry is fully formed, tossing out sly one-liners under his breath with consummate skill.

They're even involved, if only tangentially, in Meet the Baron's funniest line. Edna May Oliver, the Dean of the college, warns them that if they don't do as she says, they'll "feel my wrath," allowing Healey to chuckle, "Don't try to bribe the boys!" And of course it's always comforting to hear this familiar exchange:

TED: Boys, get the tools.
MOE: What tools?
TED: The tools we've been using the last ten years.
STOOGES: Ohhh, those tools!

Just why that bit, repeated throughout the Stooges' career, makes guys of my generation laugh no matter how many times we hear it, I'll leave for the experts to  analyze. Indeed, their scene in the school basement is so much funnier than anything else in Meet the Baron that I suspect Healey and "the boys" wrote it themselves.

As for Jack Pearl, he appeared in only one more movie, the messy but often amusing Hollywood Party in 1934. By then, his career was already on the downslide. Waiting in the radio wings were legends-to-be including Jack Benny and Burns & Allen -- comedians whose humor relied on recognizable human foibles rather than silly accents and stale jokes. Still convinced that his Munchausen shtick was what the people wanted, Pearl wandered in and out of radio until 1952, probably asking a new, metaphysical question: "Am I here, Sharlie?" 

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The original 1933 trailer for Meet the Baron. Leave it to the marketing geniuses to shoehorn in "Vas you dere, Sharlie?" at least three times, while omitting the funniest Stooges bits: