THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 57

Three movies made during the changeover from silent to sound, and one from a decade later featuring what was briefly Paramount's B-movie stock company.

THE DOCKS OF NEW YORK (1928): There's nothing about The Docks of New York promising greatness. A ship's stoker saves a hooker who tried to drown herself in the East River. They go to a dive bar, get married, spend the night the together before he ships off the following day. He has a change of heart and swims back to land, where he learns she's in night court for a crime he committed. He confesses, gets sentenced to 60 days. The hooker promises to wait for him.  

Would you watch such a movie? Well, maybe you should, just to see how important a great director can be. For Josef von Sternberg elevates a cliched tale into something both human and humane. The first reel or two feature situations and characters you've seen in countless old movies, particularly silents like this. Yet von Sternberg molds it all into something that you gradually come to understand and care about. Sure, George Bancroft (the stoker) is rough around the edges -- drinking beer straight out of a keg -- and Betty Compson (the hooker) has been beat around by life pretty badly. Yet each brings out something positive in the other. For Bancroft, it means a real love he's never felt for any woman. For Compson, it's a belief that it's possible to find a man who cares about her.

Von Sternberg transforms these battered people into a couple you root for even in their tawdry surroundings; it's a master class for anyone who wants to learn what an "actor's director" is. Watch the dozens of extras in the bar -- each one appears to have gotten personal instruction from von Sternberg; their action never looks forced or phony. (One funny moment comes when Bickford and Compson converse in a corner, completely ignoring a rowdy fight going on in a mirror's reflection above them.) 

There's more, much more, in The Docks of New York than is covered here, from the genuine filth covering the stokers, to how Betty Compson begins rock hard and slowly softens into the kind of woman her character probably dreamed of becoming when growing up. If von Sternberg's first movie, Salvation Hunters, was the work of a self-styled artiste trying too hard to say something important, The Docks of New York is a masterpiece of an unexpectedly mature drama from a bold, thoughtful director. Spoiler alert: the happy ending feels neither forced nor tacked on. 

BONUS POINTS: Gustav von Seyffertitz (born in 1862!) steals his five-minute scene as "Hymn-Book Harry", the priest who reluctantly marries the wayward couple in the dive bar. With a mere look in his eyes, von Seyffertitz reminds all the barflies (and us) of the solemnity of the moment. Brilliant stuff.

INTERFERENCE (1928): As you could guess from the advert on the right, Paramount's first talking feature Interference has nothing to do with football. It is, rather, a melodrama of the British upper-class involving hidden identity, divorce, blackmail, and murder. Kind of like the royal family if you dig hard enough. 

While Interference possesses many of the drawbacks prevalent during the early days of sound, its story is actually quite involving. Phillip Voaze has a chance meeting with first wife Deborah Kane a decade after his disappearance in World War I. In need of a few shillings, Deborah hatches a blackmailing scheme involving letters written to Voaze years earlier from his former sidepiece Faith. Without knowing what the others are doing, Voaze, Faith, and Faith's current husband Sir John Marlay each visit Deborah. One of them would like to kill her, another really does, while the third is arrested for it. All this hubbub for a few old "Oh baby, what you do to me" mash notes! People sure were touchy in 1928.

There are coincidences galore throughout Interference, like Voaze just happening to choose Marlay as a doctor, but that's to be expected in any movie of this type. Evelyn Brent and Doris Kenyon (as Deborah and Faith respectively) get the lion's share of histrionics. Clive Brook, the kind of distinguished Brit that talkies were created for, is agreeably lowkey as the stiff upper-lipped Sir John, the doctor whose prescription for blackmail is a dose of lethal threats. 

But it's William Powell, as the sickly Voaze, who steals Interference. His clipped, eloquent delivery, heard onscreen for the first time, must have convinced the boys at Paramount's front office that he was far more suited to leading roles than his often-villainous supporting parts in silents. No surprise that his next movie, a silent titled The Canary Murder Case, was immediately reshot with sound. Now that kind of studio interference makes sense.

BONUS POINTS: One credit reads "Dialogue Arranged by Ernest Pascal", as if the guy cut up the script, tossed the shreds up in the air, and glued them together at random like William Burroughs. Another credit, "Based on a Lothar Mendes Production", refers to Mendes' direction of the silent version of Interference, which Roy J. Pomeroy followed for his direction of the talkie version, which was shot simultaneously. As with The Canary Murder Case, those were the days when studios could pay actors once for making a movie twice.

THE SQUALL (1929): The funniest feature of 1929 must have been The Squall. And making it even more of a hoot is that it's a drama. Ergo, if you ever want to convince your friends that early talkies get a bad rap, this is not the movie to show them. 

In a small Hungarian village, middle-aged couple hire a young Gypsy woman named Nubi as their housekeeper. She shows her gratitude by seducing every male in the household and turning all the women against one another. Money goes missing, the maid and gardener quit, Paul breaks up with his fiancée Irma, fights break out -- and Nubi the housekeeper doesn't even sweep the floor! 

Absolutely nothing else happens in The Squall, other than the audience wondering why Nubi wasn't fired after her first day on the job. As for the acting -- hoo boy. Myrna Loy -- still stuck in "exotic" roles -- is Nubi. She's supposed to be sexy but appears to be a thousand kernels short of a cob. Too, Nubi (or, rather, Loy) is stuck with 90 minutes' worth of dialogue along the lines of "Nubi not happy!" or "Nubi like diamonds!" Loretta Young, as Irma, sounds exactly what she was in 1929: a 16 year-old girl badly reciting lines for the first time. Yet nobody beats Caroll Nye as Peter, emoting his already purple dialogue to the point where his mouth probably tasted like grapes. As for the direction, Alexander Korda makes sure to keep The Squall at a dead snail's pace. 

Somehow, Loy, Young, and Korda eventually proved to be far better than The Squall would have you believe. In later years they all probably shook their heads just hearing the word "squall" in weather forecasts. As for the rest of us... the forecast for watching The Squall is a 100% chance of disbelief mixed with unceasing laughter.

BONUS POINTS: The miniature horse & wagons standing in for the travelling Gypsy camp manage to be laughable and utterly charming all at once. In fact, they give a better performance than any human in the picture.

KING OF CHINATOWN (1939): 

Paramount must have been pretty pleased with the previous year's Dangerous to Know, because they rounded up much of the same cast for this well-made crime caper. Give the studio credit, too, for trying to revive Anna May Wong's sputtering career even in B-pictures like these. 

If there's a problem for fans of top-billed Wong, it's that her character, surgeon Dr. Mary Ling, is often overshadowed by Frank Baturin, the white leader of a Chinatown protection racket, who was shot by his underling Mike Gordon on orders of the gang's accountant (nicknamed The Professor). After performing life-saving surgery on Baturin, Dr. Ling becomes his temporary live-in caregiver. As Gordon and The Professor take over the racket, Baturin decides to break up his criminal band, furthering the accountant's desire to get him out of the way once and for all. Moral: always be good to your money manager.

King of Chinatown is unique in that the sex and race of Wong's character are never a subject for conversation or contention -- she is simply a brilliant surgeon, period. But unwilling to leave well enough alone, Paramount cast white actor Sidney Toler as her Chinese father because... well, he was currently playing Charlie Chan over at Fox! And why is Armenian-American Akim Tamiroff using an Italian accent when playing a character with the Ukrainian name of Maturin? Oh heck, let's continue with busy second-rate dialect actor J. Carroll Naish using an Irish accent as The Professor for no reason other than Chinese and Italian were already taken. Mexican-born Anthony Quinn, as the red-blooded American gunsel Gordon, already lost his accent, so he gets a pass.

All this confusion helps to make King of Chinatown an even more fun 56 minutes than it already it is. And despite the odd casting (and accent) choices throughout, Anna May Wong was probably grateful for the chance to prove she could do something other than the usual Dragon Lady routine. But I still wonder how she felt about a white guy playing her Chinese father. 

BONUS POINTS: Super-annoying actor Roscoe Karns disappears from King of Chinatown before the end of the second reel, as if director Nick Grinde realized they didn't need an ambulance driver character ripped-off from MGM's Dr. Kildare movies.

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 27

 As the years pass by with ever-quickening speed, I realize now just how limited time has become. So if I don't like an old movie or TV show, I turn it off after 10 minutes. Therefore, the following were worth my hour or 70 minutes, but not necessarily yours. 

THE PHANTOM BROADCAST (1933): Roll over Milli Vanilli, and tell Bing Crosby the news!
Radio crooner Grant Murdock is the handsome heartthrob of women everywhere. What they don't know is that his sexy voice belongs to his hunchback/clubfooted manager and piano accompanist Norman Wilder. Wilder is willing to put up with Murdock's ego and thoughtless womanizing as long as the dough is rolling in. But Murdock goes too far when he sets his sights on Wilder's new voice student, the innocent Laura Hamilton. Wilder drops by his apartment intent on killing him, only to discover someone else has beat him to it. Believing Laura is the murderer, and wanting to protect her, Wilder calls the cops, falsely confessing to the crime. A moment later, Laura drops by, unaware Murdock is dead.  Now she tells him! 

What Monogram Pictures lacked in money, they more than made up for in the occasional offbeat movie like The Phantom Broadcast, sensitively directed by Phil Rosen. Filling out the movie is a subplot of gangster Joe Maestro trying to kill Wilder in order to take over Murdock's career. From what I've read about organized crime's decades-long influence in show business, I'd say that more was true to life than a musical ventriloquism act with a human dummy. Even less believable is the idea of Wilder taking a murder rap for a student he's known for one day. His far too noble -- make that stupid -- move leads to him getting shot by the police while escaping, only to make one last appearance on the radio, singing for a startled studio audience before dying. Yes, it's melodramatic and farfetched, but also surprisingly downbeat -- especially when the real killer, Murdock's jilted girlfriend, gets off scot-free on a cruise to Europe!

Of the cast, British-born Ralph Forbes is the best in his role of the unfortunate Norman Wilder. A handsome leading man already turning to character work in his late 20s, Forbes never plays for the audience's sympathy. Wilder accepts his fate, while having found a way to capitalize on his talent, even if it means being literally the man behind the curtain. Forbes has a nice moment when, standing before a full-length mirror, he briefly sees himself tall and proud, minus his physical deformities, before returning to his real self. For all its implausibility, The Phantom Broadcast is ultimately a fascinating B-movie that deserves a good restoration and reappreciation. Just don't expect much in the way of realism (except for a talented guy wanting to kill the jackass taking the bows).

BONUS POINTS: Phil Rosen also directed the previously-discussed Beggars in Ermine, The Strange Mr. Gregory, and The President's Mystery. A former cameraman, he was also a founding member of the American Society of Cinematographers.  Why doesn't this guy have a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame? 

NIGHT OF TERROR (1933): A hideous serial killer known as The Maniac has murdered millionaire Richard Rinehart. This doesn't seem to bother Arthur Hornsby, a scientist living at the Rinehart mansion, who has himself buried in the back yard for eight hours to prove that he's developed a way to revive the dead. As various Rinehart relatives meet a bad end, the faithful servant Degar sure seems to be the killer... as does his wife Sika... and Richard's brother John... In fact everybody but Arthur Hornsby, who's in a coffin six feet underground -- or is he?

Night of Terror seems to be Columbia Pictures' sole entry in the horror cycle of the early 1930s. The studio convinced Universal to loan out Bela Lugosi for his services as Degar, a role that defines the word "thankless". Columbia wasn't known for big budgets, but, Night of Terror could pass for a PRC quickie. "Exterior" scenes take place at night in order to disguise the cheap sets; actors peek through doorways and skulk around the mansion to pad out the running time; the smartass reporter continually insults the stupid police chief investigating the murders; the science behind an inane experiment is never explained; and the primary suspect -- Degar -- speaks slowwwly in order arouse our suspicion. The only thing we suspect is that the writers came up with Night of Terror the day before shooting started.

Lugosi likely knew he deserved better than programmers like Night of Terror -- it's easy to picture him silently choking every time his character Degar has to say "Yes, master" to his employer. (He was probably cast because of a similar "exotic" get-up he wore the year before in Chandu the Magician at Fox.) While it's always a pleasant change of pace to see Lugosi as someone other than evildoer, it's just too bad it has to be in a throwaway like Night of Terror. Looks good in a turban, though.

BONUS POINTS: In a strange finale, The Maniac -- who is actually pretty weird-looking -- returns to warn the audience not to tell anybody who the real killer is, or else, "I'll come into your bedroom late at night and tear you limb from limb!" I believe him.

DANGEROUS TO KNOW (1938): It's a tale as old as crime. Underworld kingpin Stephen Recka decides that marrying blue blood Margaret Van Case will be his entree to high society. All he has to do is frame Van Case's fiancée Philip Easton for embezzlement. Still, there is the little problem of Recka's jealous mistress Lan Ying... and Police Inspector Brandon snooping around... and his own gunsel Nicki Kusnoff trying to take over his criminal empire. Can't a gangster have a moment's peace?

I've said that the best B-movies were made by the Poverty Row studios, but Paramount's Dangerous to Know is an excellent example of what the majors were capable of when they hired the right people and left them alone. Director Robert Florey puts some thought into the camera set-ups, and getting solid performances out of the cast. 

And what a cast! Akim Tamiroff is Recka, a Bach-worshipping crime boss who has the city government under his fat thumb, yet wallows in self-pity for not being "respectable." His "exotic" live-in girlfriend Lan Ying is typical of the kind of role Anna May Wong was forced to accept at the time, but she gives it a depth that comes from experiencing the second-rate treatment she herself was given by the studios.

Offering strong support is Lloyd Nolan as Brandon, the witty yet driven cop who can gift Recka with a pair of chocolate handcuffs as a birthday gift while promising to get him to the electric chair eventually. (Nolan should have been given an entire B-movie series as Brandon. He's great.) Almost stealing movie is Anthony Quinn as Recka's sidekick Nicki -- not necessarily because of any overriding talent, but because he's only 23 years old and is already, y'know, Anthony Quinn. Possessing a smart director, crackerjack cast, and a speedy 70-minute running time, Dangerous to Know makes for a better watch than expected.

BONUS POINTS: A tense conversation between Lan Ying with a guest repeatedly uses the word "hostess" to get across the idea that she's actually Recka's live-in mistress -- a clever way of ducking the censor's scissors in the post Pre-Code days.

THE JACKIE GLEASON SHOW: EDDIE CANTOR'S 65TH BIRTHDAY (January 12, 1957): When the most interesting part of a live TV show is wondering if the star is going to keel over in the closing moments, something is wrong. But that's the chance you take when celebrating the not-so-healthy birthday boy Eddie Cantor, whose professional stage career began in 1907. 

Things begin badly enough when the flashy women who usually appear in Gleason's opening credits are replaced by lisping seven-year-old girls glammed up like Times Square trollops. Edward R. Murrow then warms up the crowd with a grim tribute more appropriate for a funeral. Then there's the dearth of Cantor's friends and contemporaries. Instead of, say, Jimmy Durante, Jack Benny, and Groucho Marx -- the kind of people who would give this show some entertainment value today -- we have the likes of... Eddie Fisher! Pinky Lee! Nepo-baby Mailyn Cantor! An interminable "Waiting for the Robert E. Lee" production number! I suppose Lucille Ball & Desi Arnaz's appearance makes some kind of comedic sense, but I don't recall a series titled I Love Eddie. At least Burt Lancaster gets two plugs for his latest movie, The Rainmaker, so it's not all for naught. 

The only people from Cantor's generation who deign to appear are George Jessel (who'd do 10 minutes at an autopsy) and Burns & Allen (in the 1957 version of Zooming in by appearing on film rather than in person). Hell, Jackie Gleason couldn't be bothered contributing a 15-second tribute, and it's an episode of his own show! 

Maybe Murrow's solemn introduction was appropriate after all. Viewers, aware of Cantor's two heart attacks, were probably concerned when, near the end, the enervated host needs to carefully sit down and slowly drink a cup of water provided by a stagehand. Immediately after the closing credits, Cantor was taken to the hospital by ambulance. Now that would have been interesting to watch.

BONUS POINTS: Thanks to one of the sponsor's commercials, we learn that the Bulova Senator watch can withstand the shock of its owner playing piano. 

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MOVIE OF THE DAY: "WHOM THE GODS DESTROY" (1934)

Many successful businessmen want to make the road in life easier for their children. John Forrester, the lead character in Whom the Gods Destroy, is no different. A theatrical impresario who would have made David Merrick look like an usher, Forrester works day by day to make his son, Jack, a great playwright. But get this -- John Forrester is dead! And yet, he isn't. However... wait, let's back up a bit.

John Forrester is sailing on an ocean liner that collides with an abandoned ship. Bravely (stupidly?) offering up his life jacket to a woman he doesn't know, Forrester has a panic attack when the images of his wife and five year-old son appear before him. Naturally, this gives him the impetus to grab an abandoned fur coat, pass himself off as a woman and make his way onto a lifeboat. And don't tell me you wouldn't do the same thing, guys, even if you didn't have hallucinations of your wife and kid. 

As if.

By the time Forrester quietly makes it back to New York, he discovers that he's been hailed as a hero for sacrificing his life in order to save another's. Fearful of being found out as a phony, he changes his identity, grows a beard, and works at a diner for five years, then at a puppet theatre for another twelve. (Drowning at sea or working at a puppet theatre for over a decade -- which sounds like a worse fate to you?) 

Meanwhile, the now-grown son Jack quits college in order to follow in his father's footsteps by writing, producing and directing a Broadway show. Only the difference is, Jack's play sucks, big time. Forrester introduces himself to Jack as a friend of his father, and urges him to try again. Summoning all his talent, Forrester helps to shape Jack's new play into a triumph, never once revealing his real identity. Like anyone in the theatre would ever refuse credit for anything.

You can tell he's a Communist;
he's got a cool haircut and hipster overcoat.

Whom the Gods Destroy attempts to cram something of an epic story in its 70-minute running time, going off in several different directions before settling into the father-and-son thread. The shipboard scenes promise an interesting subplot featuring an Eastern European refugee, Peter Korotoff, who spits on Forrester in disgust. "You are a capitalist!" Korotoff exclaims (like Forrester didn't know already). "Men of money should be destroyed!" 

Forrester laughs it off, observing, "Some day we'll read a news item about him saying he's been hanged." Ah ha, I thought, we're going to see the commie swinging from a noose at the climax! 

Well, no. When he's later prevented by Forrester from escaping the sinking ship with the women and children, Korotoff pulls a knife on him, only to be shot by the Captain. His whole purpose, then, is to provide the cruel irony of Forrester successfully pulling off the same stunt. Commies and capitalists, they're all the same.

That's no lady!

The question any right-thinking person would have at this point is Who the heck would confuse this guy for a woman, even with a fur coat pulled up to his nose? If his ample girth wouldn't have been enough of a tip-off, surely his haircut, tuxedo pants and dress shoes should have been a dead giveaway. Only when carried off the lifeboat in a small Irish village is Forrester found out. Slapped around by the angry townsfolk, Forrester is condemned as a coward. Personally, I thought it was a pretty clever ruse that went unappreciated by these hicks, but that's the New Yorker in me.

Only one villager cares for the sickly Forrester, restoring him to health over the next several months. Together, they cook up a fancy tale explaining how Forrester survived the sinking, thus allowing him to return home with his head held high and his gut still hanging low.

Ah ha, I thought once again. Forrester is going to be treated to a hero's welcome by family and strangers alike, only to look nervously over his shoulder for any witnesses during the next six reels!

No, this is definitely not a headline
he wants to see.

And again, I was proven wrong. Once Forrester gets a look at the plaque outside his theatre proclaiming his alleged shipboard sacrifice, his mind goes into zany-montage mode as he realizes what would happen if the truth were to come out. 

Stumbling around in the rain -- you knew it would be raining, right? -- and mumbling to himself, Forrester is picked up by a cop and taken to court, where the judge throws him in the pokey for, well, stumbling around in the rain and mumbling to himself. If that was a crime, I'd have served a life sentence by now.

Keep it up, laughing boy, see how
funny things are when the reviews
come out.

And here's where the story really falls apart. John Forrester has been made out to be the biggest thing on Broadway outside of Sophie Tucker's ass. Playwright, director, producer. His plays run at the John Forrester Theatre. The concession stand probably sells Forrester Gummi Bears. Yet no one recognizes him when returns to New York! 

From that point on, my heartstrings were plucked without success, thanks to that enormous plot hole. All there was left to revel in was the sight of Jack Forrester -- played by Robert Young -- getting the smirk wiped off his smug face when his play bombs on opening night.


Well, one person eventually recognizes Forrester -- his wife, Margaret, to whom Jack insists on introducing on the opening night of his second, successful play. While Jack goes out for Champagne, John and Margaret reunite for the first time in almost two decades. In a genuinely touching moment, they reignite the love they once shared, while Margaret desperately tries to understand her husband's motives. John convinces her that their son must never know the truth, yet promises to see her from time to time "for the few years we have left." 

Ol' Sparky, circa 1934.

At that point, Whom the Gods Destroy abruptly came to an end, awkwardly cutting to the 1950s Columbia Pictures logo rather than its 1934 incarnation seen at the beginning. Something smelled rotten in Burbank, so a little investigation was in order. 

I discovered that apparently all of the prints of Whom the Gods Destroy currently in circulation leave out the scene that originally followed afterwards: John, suitcase in hand, sneaking away from his family forever, believing that any kind of a relationship with his wife is impossible under the circumstances. 

Thus I was deprived of an unhappy ending for which I was craving. Maybe if Columbia Pictures made the complete Whom the Gods Destroy available legally instead of forcing screwballs like me to troll the "grey market" for my fix, we wouldn't be disappointed by someone's scissor-happy hackwork. 

The title for its Swedish
release translated as
The Great Disaster,
leaving it wide open for
wisecracks galore.

As with other pre-code movies on this blog -- Why Men Fight, Guilty as Hell, The Sin of Nora Moran -- I was attracted to Whom the Gods Destroy initially due to its unusual title, perhaps expecting some pseudo-spiritual melodrama. I suppose it's rather churlish to expect greatness from what turned out to be nothing more than a big fat soap opera with a Broadway angle. And, as with soap operas in general, realism isn't what its creators were going after. 

But by no means is Whom the Gods Destroy a bad movie. The sinking of the ship is appropriately terrifying, featuring all-too realistic panic and, as with Forrester's later scene in New York, a surprisingly lengthy montage. Walter Connolly's performance as Forrester is emotionally believable even when the story isn't. (Even less believable is that the portly actor was only 47 years old at the time.) As usual, Robert Young is Robert Young, which isn't necessarily the worst thing. 

Pulling the

Big deal -- you can still see the strings!

strings -- of the marionettes -- are the Yale Puppeteers, a theatrical troupe established in 1922 by graduates from, of course, the University of Michigan. (This was apparently before truth-in-advertising laws went into effect.) Extra points are awarded to legendary character actor Akim Tamiroff in his brief but semi-pivotal role as the Commie. 

And just to show how Broadway has changed over the years, the curtain-closing scene of Jack's successful play consists of the lead character blowing her brains out on a church altar. I don't see a play like that opening in Broadway's Disneyfied world any time soon. Bring on the marionettes, boys!

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