VERA DIFFERENT

 

Funny how even the fairies had 
hairstyles of the day.

"I'll believe it when I see it." You used to hear that phrase a lot back in the day, even when what you were looking at was phony as a P. Diddy apology. The Cottingley Fairies photos fooled plenty of folks in 1917, and not just simpletons, either. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle fell for them like a two-ton sack of flour, and he created Sherlock Holmes, who wasn't fooled by anything. 

Careful, Vera, you'll drown with all
that jewelry.

Today, you can put away the pen, paper and scissors and use software to create "real" photos. This week, Vera Wang (the person, not the wedding dress) posted some shots of herself by a swimming pool in the Hamptons. 

 Not being a dedicated follower of fashion, I would have mistaken her for your typical, emaciated 20-something runway model. But her rabid fans -- the ones who can't afford any Vera Wang product --  couldn't withhold their huzzahs for the 74 year-old designer, with comments like "eternal youth" and "aging backwards" flowing from their gullible mouths (or keyboards). 

She does not look good for 24.

Did I say "gullible"? Let's go with amnesiac. Because surely those same people would have seen unretouched photos of Vera Wang just a couple of weeks earlier at the Met Gala where she looked like a 70-something 

emaciated runway model. Even her real nose is different in real life. And had she not worn sunglasses in the Hamptons, the bags under her eyes would have been scrubbed, erased, and thrown in the closet. 

It's been said -- or maybe I dreamed it up myself -- that people believed in the Cottingley fairies as an escape from World War I. If bad times is what takes for people to believe in obvious frauds, World War III is just around the corner.

I'm not making fun of Vera Wang's appearance. I'm making fun of her phony photos. If we're lucky, we all get old and, if luckier, stay healthy and, even luckier, self-aware. Meaning we don't expect people to believe that we look 50 years younger than we really are. (I'm 68, and if someone thinks I'm 65, it's a good day.) God bless you, Vera Wang, and keep doing what you love. As long as that doesn't include trying to convince the world you aren't 74 years old.

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AND JUST LIKE THIS

If only they were this well-dressed now.

 The number one rule when in background work is DO NOT  APPROACH THE LEAD
ACTORS. The second is DO NOT TAKE PICTURES ON THE SET. 

While on location, burly security guys enforce the first rule. Yet the second doesn't apply to anyone else. Professional paparazzi, amateur shutterbugs, fans, stans, and tourists -- all have the unofficial OK to whip out their cameras and phones to snap and film to their hearts' (and photo agency and TikTok accounts') content. Yesterday's job on HBO's ...And Just Like That was one of the better examples of this odd phenomenon. 

Not one of the crazies, honest.

We spent the morning working in Washington Square Park. The weather was comfortable and sunny; despite the relative early time, the park was already beginning to fill with tourists, people on their way to walk, NYU grads in their caps & gowns (which, coincidentally, was what many of the young extras were playing), and crazy people. In other words, just another spring day in New York.

Productions like this in New York have diametrically opposite effects on locals and out-of-towners. For the former, it's OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE, GET OUT OF MY WAY! For the latter yesterday, it was OH MY GOD, SARAH JESSICA PARKER! Happy to make your day, folks.

I think Sarah Jessica Parker was jealous of my hat,
and decided to one-up me.

Most of the professional photogs know the score, and keep out of the way as
best they can, usually snapping photos only between takes. We background folks can occasionally be seen, well, in the background. Yesterday was my turn. 

I'm on the right waiting for my cue. The woman on the far left is background, too. The person in the orange t-shirt is probably a p.a., while the woman in the NYU grad in the cap & gown is either background or the real deal, since many of them were also in the park. The guy on the bench? Who knows. At some point, it becomes difficult to tell the wheat from the chaff. (There's a doll in the stroller, since babies can never follow the script.

As I mentioned earlier, there was no shortage of folks taking videos during filming. Some have YouTube and TikTok accounts. At least one of them captured me, first fiddling with my belt as the shot was being set up, then walking around the fountain after getting the cue:

This gives a pretty good idea of what happens on a set, with dozens of people involved in a scene featuring only a few actors. All the non-crew members and photographers are background actors (including the bubble guy). You'll notice an Asian couple on the left waiting to cross after SJP and the other actress pass. It's gotten so that, while watching TV or movies, I know exactly when background will appear behind the leads. 

It sounds strange but if we do our jobs right, you're aware of us even if you don't necessarily see us. Unless you're one of us. Then that's all you see.

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 35

Three Paramount pre-Codes, two John Carradine appearances, two stories involving soul transfers, and one Monogram B-picture. Is this heaven or what?

PICK UP (1933): Mary Richards (not the news producer in Minneapolis with the wacky friends) is let out of prison after serving time for an extortion racket -- which ended in a mark's suicide -- run by her husband John, who has three more years to serve. Having nowhere to go on a rainy evening, Mary ducks into a cab driven by Harry Glynn, who takes pity on her, invites her to move in with him, and gets her a job at the taxi garage as a phone operator. Mary, who hasn't told Harry of her unsavory past, urges him to pursue his dreams to open his own auto repair garage. Over time, they rise the up the social ladder. Just as Mary gets her marriage annulled, John breaks out of prison with the idea of killing Harry, who's fallen in love with a shallow rich divorcee. Mary manages to convince John to hit the road with her in order to save Harry's life. Tell it to the judge!

Pick Up has plenty of pre-code moments, starting with references to "the badger game" (where a woman entices a man to a phony romantic liaison, only to have her husband break it up and force the victim pay hush money). Because Mary is still married, she and Harry shack up for three years; while they're never seen in bed together, you get the idea they're not just roommates. The subplot of the wealthy woman who strings along a "caveman" for her own amusement was typical of the time, as was her horselaugh when the sap proposes marriage. (Pre-codes were often down on rich people, who do stupid things like throw parties where guests dress like children, play on see-saws, and drink out of baby bottles as they do here.) Even the typically sleazy opening theme by the Paramount orchestra promises a good time. 

So why is Pick Up just kind of meh? Other than the slow pace, the fault ultimately lies with George Raft as Harry. An actor's flat, low-key style can often be interesting, drawing you in, making you wonder what makes him tick. All you wonder about Raft is if he would have even gotten a movie contract had he not been best friends with Bugsy Siegel. A pro like cutie-pie Sylvia Sidney, as Mary, leaves him in the dust in every scene they share. In fact, everyone in Pick Up outshines Raft, whose one moment of drama -- hiring a lawyer to defend Mary when she runs off with John -- sounds no more emotional than ordering a new set of tires. Hell of a shiny head of hair, though. (If you're going to watch Pick Up, stick with it 'til the end just for its ludicrous only-in-the-movies courtroom climax.)

BONUS POINTS: An outrageous phallic symbol is provided by close-up of Harry's fuel pump overflowing into Muriel's gas tank. Honest.

SUPERNATURAL (1933): Supernatural's poster promises a great time, and by and large delivers, well, a good one. One doesn't expect a dish like Carole Lombard in a borderline-fantasy/horror movie, where she plays Roma Courtney, who has inherited her late brother's fortune. Desperate to know how he died, Roma falls for the promises of Paul Bavian, a sham psychic who tries to worm  his way into her heart money. His plans are interrupted by Dr. Carl Housan, who has revived the spirit of executed killer Ruth Rogen. Guess whose body she decides to park in? By the end of Supernatural's 65 minutes, Bavian learns the hard way that you don't want to get involved with a woman whose soul has been hijacked by a very unpleasant dead murderer.

Supernatural, a Paramount Picture influenced by Universal's horror shows, is unique by offering two views of the fantasy world. It presents psychics not just as scammers, but criminals -- Bavian kills his landlady when she threatens to spill the beans on his phony baloney. Yet it totally accepts the possibility of the revival of a dead person's soul. (You may recall Man With Two Lives passing off a similar idea as a coma-induced dream.) Perhaps to make sure audiences knew Dr. Housan wasn't a nutty scientist like Dr. Frankenstein, he's played by H.B. Warner, best known for starring in King of Kings six years earlier. How bad could he be if he played Jesus, right? 

Carole Lombard is quite good as the before-and-after Roma Courtney; her style -- even her looks -- change dramatically when becoming possessed by Ruth Rogen.  Roma is such an innocent that you kind of understand why she doesn't see through Alan Dinehart's Paul Bavian -- he has such a kind manner (for a murderer). Pre-cowboy Randolph Scott looks good in a tux, but it's difficult to picture Lombard falling for him. Supernatural is no classic, but it's an interesting change of pace from Paramount's usual sexy comedies and pre-codes. And from what I've read about the guys who ran movie studios then, they all could have used a soul transplant. 

BONUS POINTS: The bizarre, montage-heavy prologue featuring Ruth Rogen testifying in court and newspaper headlines playing up the trial. The rest of the movie doesn't live up to its promise, but it's a nice opening.

THIS DAY AND AGE (1933): So connected is Cecil B. DeMille to Biblical epics that it's a little stunning to stumble across his early pre-Code talkies, especially This Day and Age. A beloved tailor named Herman Farbstein is gunned down by gangster Louis Garrett for not paying up for a protection racket. After Garrett is found not guilty, three high school seniors look for proof of his crime, leading the gangster to murder one of them. Fully expecting that Garrett will once again get off scot-free, a bunch of the victim's friends decide that vigilantism is their only choice. But don't worry -- before they string him up, they'll make sure he gets a fair trial with a jury of every blood-hungry teenage boy in town. Wait, don't they know females are allowed to serve, too?

With a climax almost-embarrassingly influenced by Fritz Lang's M, This Day and Age plays on the crime-weary audience's disgust with pesky things like law, evidence, and guilt beyond reasonable doubt. Perennial heavy Charles Bickford plays Garrett as such an evil guy that you really don't mind seeing him lowered into a huge hole of hungry rats. Don't ask me to recount the name of the high school kids or the actors who play them -- most of them are interchangeable pretty boys who dress more like legal interns than highschoolers. 

There's enough spectacle and violence here to keep modern audiences alternately entertained and shocked. (The murders are particularly brutal, while a teen girl essentially volunteers to be possibly raped by Garrett's bodyguard in order to distract him from his job.) Per usual with DeMille pictures, every dollar of the budget is onscreen, with hundreds of extras, large sets, and handsome cinematography making This Day and Age an unusually impressive-looking Paramount production. 

And don't worry about the girl and the bodyguard. When he learns that she's a virgin, he shakes his head and mutters, "I like my olives green, but I don't pick 'em." See, he's a nice guy after all!

BONUS POINTS: The brief role of the extraordinarily articulate school Vice-Principal is credited to John Peter Richmond, who would soon change his name to John Carradine.

VOODOO MAN (1944): It's an adage first spoken by Aristotle: a movie doesn't
have to be great to be a great movie. Exhibit one: Voodoo Man, wherein two fellows named Nicholas and Toby are kidnapping young women in order for their boss, Dr. Marlowe, to transfer the right soul into the body of his wife who's been dead 20 long years, yet kept in excellent condition somehow or another. Plenty of people would like anybody's soul transferred into their living spouses, but that's another story entirely.

A major studio would have made a B-picture like Voodoo Man an utter bore thanks to writers, directors and actors who were ashamed of the assignment. But the behind-the-scenes folks at Monogram knew exactly how to excite the audience and find the right actors who could sell the product. And in this movie, Bela Lugosi (Marlowe), George Zucco (Nicholas), and John Carradine (Toby) not only sell it, they offer a money-back guarantee if you aren't entertained. 

As usual, Lugosi plays it totally straight, putting memories of his stage days in Hungary out of his head for the sake of the movie. Zucco is hilariously out of place as the owner of a gas station (where the women are kidnapped) who doubles as a boogity-boogity-chanting shaman during the attempted soul transfers. The relatively young (38) whippersnapper Carradine successfully goes to toe with these two legends, channeling Lennie from Of Mice and Men as the IQ-deficient Toby, running around with his arms stiffly at his sides with his mouth agape like the Bryce Canyon. Movie snobs who go gaga for Godard or run tout suite to Truffaut don't know what they're missing by turning up their snooty noses at Voodoo Man. It even features a subplot about a screenwriter named Ralph who's trying to solve the mystery of the disappearing women in order to write a movie about the disappearing women starring Bela Lugosi! That's kind of Fellini, isn't it?

BONUS POINTS: The legendary director William "One Take" Beaudine lives up to his nickname when the gas-ration sticker on a car windshield changes from shot to shot.

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MOVIE OF THE DAY: "LOYALTIES" (1933)

 

In light of recent events, as the cliche goes, it's interesting to watch the 90 year-old British movie Loyalties. During a weekend pajama party for champagne-swilling plutocrats, Jewish businessman Ferdinand de Levis discovers that £1700 has gone missing from his wallet. The most likely thief is another guest, the openly antisemitic Capt. Ronald Dancy, who denies de Levis' accusations. The other, slightly less-openly antisemitic guests prefer to believe (or claim) it was the work of an intruder. As word of the theft gets around the private club these jokers belong to, de Levis is urged to stop his accusations. Confident that there's no proof as to who committed the robbery, Dancy takes de Levis to court for slander, a move that eventually turns fatal for the captain/bigot/thief.

Which profile would you believe?

Unlike the previously-discussed American movie Counselor-At-Law starring John Barrymore, the religion of the lead character (played by Basil Rathbone) is front and center in Loyalties, as is the discrimination he faces. Even in the pre-Code days, American movies couldn't get away with dialogue like "You damn Jew!" as Loyalties does here, the Brits not averse to an extra dose of realism. 

De Levis' "friends" are despicable to the core. The business club members care more about protecting a thief than seeing justice served. One of the women attending the slander trial wonders if the jury's "two chosen people" should have been rejected by the defense.  At no time does anybody other than de Levis give a damn about the crime -- it's all about loyalties to one's class. (When Dancy meets his inevitable fate, it's de Levis who's blamed.)

Yet Loyalties is more complex than it seems. The bigots don't care for de Levis but allow him as part of their little circle. De Levis himself initially agrees to drop charges against Dancy in exchange for membership in the Jockey Club. It's as if both camps are deliberately daring each other (and themselves) to see how far they'll go before somebody snaps. 

C'mon, Basil, can't you be a little more obvious?

Basil Rathbone's performance is especially interesting, even if he's as believable here as Barrymore was at playing a Jewish character. Throughout Loyalties, he's contemptuous of these awful people, yet appears quietly desperate to be part of their clique, even if it means trading justice for another step up the class ladder. 

But what really fascinates is how Rathbone plays de Levis. He's not just foppish, but downright effeminate, doing his best to portray him not as Jewish but a stereotypical gay man of his time. Pursing lips, hands on hips, tilted head -- it's almost as if Loyalties wants to portray the other characters as being so blinded by antisemitism that they can't see the obvious staring at them. (Jews might have been looked down upon, but homosexuality was illegal in the UK until 1967.)

Alan Napier (left) was old before he was young.

 Director Basil Dean jazzes things up visually from time to time with flashbacks, montages, interesting close-ups, and a climax that had me saying "Wow!" out loud. A couple of supporting actors are worth a mention, too. Miles Manders (the despicable Capt. Dancy) would appear with Rathbone over a decade later in the Sherlock Holmes movies The Scarlet Claw and The Pearl of Death. The one rich bastard who suspects Dancy of the crime, Gen. Canynge, is played by Alan Napier, who looks almost exactly as he did as Alfred the butler in the Batman series three decades later despite being only 30 years old here. Loyalties, then, makes for a remarkable viewing for cultural, historic, and, sadly, contemporary reasons. 

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THE BEST AND THE BRIGHTEST

 A quick look at the 2004 presidential race as it stands today.

A candidate currently on trial for crimes involving hush money paid to a porn "star" with whom he had a tawdry sexual encounter, yet who still has the support of his party and his Christian fans, the latter of whom are sending him money while admiring his "billionaire" status.

A candidate whose most recent gaffe involves recounting the tale
of his uncle getting eating by cannibals in Papua New Guinea, and who still claims his eldest son was killed in Iraq instead of by cancer.

A presidential candidate who freely talks of how a worm ate away part of his brain, has cognitive problems, believes Covid was a bioweapon designed to spare the lives of Jewish and Chinese people, and once urged his previous wife to kill herself.

                                       AMERICA: THE ENVY OF THE FREE WORLD!

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