THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 17

The WGA strike has allowed me more time to catch up on movies and TV shows I've missed, didn't know existed, or shouldn't have seen to begin with. Fortunately, none of these four falls into the latter category.

ELSTREE CALLING (1930): Because Hollywood was showing off the newfangled sound system with musical/comedy revues, it was inevitable that the idea would catch on in the UK. Elstree Calling, named for its studio, differs from its US counterparts by spotlighting stage performers rather than its contract players. If nothing else, we get a good idea of what a night in an English music hall was like.

Unfortunately, these entertainers are likely as unrecognizable and dated in their homeland nearly a century later as they are here. So instead of Noel Coward, we get the likes of Will Fyffe and his incessant stingy Scots jokes, and the army boot-wearing Lily Morris singing about being a bridesmaid and never a bride. (You can imagine audiences at the time cooing, "Isn't she a dearie?"). A scene from The Taming of the Shrew featuring an anachronistic runaway motorcycle and pie fight may amuse you, but I doubt it. To my eyes and ears, the most entertaining performers are (coincidentally?) American by birth: obese xylophonist Teddy Brown, and The Three Eddies, a dizzying trio of tap dancers who, as was not uncommon at the time, wore blackface over their real black faces. Don't ask. 

A couple other differences from the American revues: Elstree Calling features a linking story with a guy at home trying to watch the movie on his television (yes, in 1930). And instead of using Technicolor in the big musical numbers, Elstree opted for the way-cheaper hand-tinted Pathecolor, a technique not widely used in years, giving it either a dreamy or cheesy look depending on your point of view. The audio isn't a whole lot better, either -- while the music comes across fine, many actors often sound distant from the microphones. While nicely restored, Elstree Calling has gone from being a must-see to a who's-he and a why-that. But have you heard the one about the Scotsman who hailed a taxi to the hotel?...

BONUS POINTS: Alfred Hitchcock, on the cusp of being recognized as the UK's preeminent moviemaker, is credited as directing "the sketches and other interpolated items". One of his sequences, a husband catching his wife and her lover in the act, not only has his unmistakable touch, but gave me the one laugh in the whole picture.

THE WIZARD'S APPRENTICE  (1930): A young, smartass student of magic decides to impress a woman by making a broom carry water from the basement. And if you've seen Fantasia, you know how that little stunt worked out.

Things didn't go any better over a decade earlier in this one-reeler designed by the legendary William Cameron Menzies. A silent short accompanied by Paul Dukas's famous musical piece, The Wizard's Apprentice can't possibly live up to the Disney version (which had the title of the poem it's based upon, The Sorcerer's Apprentice). Yet the 1930 film, in its own modest way, is more bizarre. 

The Wizard's Apprentice, you see, is live-action, meaning those really are miniature brooms creating havoc. And unlike Disney's, these brooms are upside down (or rightside up -- it's up to you). The film's creators don't hide the fact that the props are connected to wires which have some kind of spring contraption to crudely move the legs from side to side. Between that not-so-special effect and the (all together now) faded print, The Wizard's Apprentice has the uncanny resemblance to a genuine nightmare. The question remains: was this the inspiration for the more-famous remake? Hey, Walt Disney needed to see a rodent scurrying around his office to get the idea of Mickey Mouse, so why the hell not?

BONUS POINTS: The title character is played by Fritz Feld. If the name doesn't ring a bell, perhaps you know him as an older character actor who made a career of playing maître d's, and ended every comment by popping his open mouth with his hand. Now do you remember?

FLAXY MARTIN (1949): Mob mouthpiece Walter Colby goes on the lam after being framed for murder by his no-good girlfriend Flaxy Martin and his client Hap Richie. Hap's gunsel Roper tracks Colby to the home of kindhearted Nora Carson, and kidnaps the pair. Colby and Nora escape and make their way back to Manhattan. After making sure Nora is safely ensconced with a friend, Colby tracks down the real murderer, only to find him dead at the hands of Roper, who tries to do the same to him. A visit by Colby and Hap Richie to the two-timing Flaxy looks like it's going to be lights out for everyone involved, but only one bites the dust, while another has to face the music. 

For a movie called Flaxy Martin, the title character doesn't stick around very long after the second reel. Perhaps screenwriter David Lang was trying to remind audiences of the 1942 hit Roxy Hart, about a similar no-good dame (and the basis of the musical Chicago). Virginia Mayo does a good job as the self-serving, two-timing doll who pits the lawyer and the gangster against each -- her subtle sneers are a wonder to behold -- but Zachary Scott is the real star as Colby.

One of those actors I've heard of but whose movies rarely watched, Scott here bounces back and forth between slimy and heroic and back again. Maybe it's the thin moustache, or his occasionally bombastic delivery. But what really distracted me was how often looks identical to the caricatures of John Barrymore in old Warner Brothers cartoons. On the other hand, Douglas Kennedy (as Hap) resembles Bishop Fulton J. Sheen if the latter had lifted weights and enjoyed the occasional glass of scotch. Happily, the ever-reliable Elisha Cook, Jr. as the slimy Roper looks like himself, which is nothing but positive. Though there are better noirs than Flaxy Martin to be sure, it's worth it for the callbacks (how many times have I seen that apartment balcony?), cliches (wet streets at night, cinematographer's delight!), and cars (by 1949, they were designed the way a nine year-old would draw them). You might not watch it a second time, but you'll get a kick out of it the first.

BONUS POINTS: As usual in these New York-based movies written in Hollywood, the apartment building of the first murder victim -- 652 East 86th St. -- would place it in the middle of Carl Schurz Park.

HEDDA HOPPER'S HOLLYWOOD (1960): Along with her rival Louella Parsons,
gossip columnist Hedda Hopper was the original Twitter scold. Stars trembled when she put poison pen to paper exposing their randy love lives or left-leaning politics. But by 1960, she had become an anachronistic, impotent symbol of everything that was wrong with so-called journalism.

The one-shot TV special Hedda Hopper's Hollywood reflects her yearning for the good old days, providing, at times, a surprisingly poignant trip down memory lane. To her credit, Hopper stays out of the way, allowing the actors to speak for themselves. Stephen Boyd, fresh from co-starring in Ben-Hur, chats with the stars of the original 1925 version, Ramon Navarro and Francis X. Bushman. In an unusual case of an actor giving credit to somebody else, Bob Cummings describes how director Ernest Lubitsch saved his career 20 years earlier. An unsteady Marion Davies welcomes the audience to her home before likely returning to her sick bed. Bob Hope (no surprise) treats his appearance as an excuse to try out new material for his next special, while, in a genuinely emotional moment, the dying Gary Cooper makes one of his final TV appearances to speak fondly of the Western genre he loved.

Young Hollywood gets its turn, too. John Cassavetes obligingly sucks up to Hedda, appropriately on the set of The Phantom of the Opera. Anthony Perkins's opinion of Hollywood is mildly negative, something Hopper would have decried a decade earlier. Nepo-babies Jody McRae and Teddy Rooney make zero impression. But leave it to 14-year-old Liza Minnelli to steal the show with her rendition of "Over the Rainbow". Hedda Hopper might have been a bitch in real life, but she unwittingly presented an hour of television that's become even more bittersweet with time.

BONUS POINTS: Ricardo Cortez takes a few minutes off from his new career as a stockbroker to offer a tribute to his one-time leading lady Greta Garbo. Not only is Cortez's voice unchanged from his movie days, he still has that wonderfully sinister smile!

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TV SHOW OF THE DAY: "INCIDENT AT A CORNER " (1960)

Filmed for the NBC anthology series Ford Startime, "Incident At a Corner" was produced and directed by Alfred Hitchcock despite having his own weekly show on the same network. It likely had a slightly larger budget, considering it was shot in color and ran an hour (including commercials). Perhaps because of these pluses, it resembles the movies he was starting to make at Universal.

And look, it's COLOR. What more do you want?

It was certainly special enough to win the coveted "Close-Up" in that week's TV Guide. Its two-sentence story breakdown appears to tell you all you need to know. But this being Hitchcock, there's plenty of other drama to get you more involved more than first expected. 

 

 

 

Say it in Hitchcock's voice, and it seems threatening.

The titular incident that opens  the story -- an elementary school crossing guard named James Medwick harassing a driver who ran a stop sign -- is shown from three different perspectives: ours, a teacher's, and that of a couple across the street. With each one we discover there's no such thing as an objective viewer; everybody brings their own baggage to an event that otherwise wouldn't be worth a second glance. 

And this time pay attention!

For us, it's accepting what happened at face value. For the teacher, it's wanting to keep on the good side of Mrs. Hawley, the driver, who's an important figure at the school. And for the couple across the street, it's wanting to ruin James Medwick's reputation over another incident from decades earlier. 

Before the day is over, Medwick is fired and his adult daughter Jane, a tutor, loses her client, who happens to be the teenage son of Mrs. Hawley. Thanks to small-town gossip, Medwick has gone from being overzealous to possible pedophile. And he's not even a priest!

Hey, about a third view, just for fun?

While Medwick's son Jeff wants to move his parents away, Jane's fiance Pat intends to clear the old man's name. And so he begins his own investigation, going so far as seeking advice from a lawyer, who doesn't even charge a consulting fee. This is television.

Meanwhile, Hawley's teenage son gets revenge on the Medwick family by giving Jane a smack in the face that draws blood. But was it deliberate? An accident? Did anything we see actually happen the way it seemed? Taking it one step further, was what we heard at the original incident actually spoken the way anyone thought it was? I told you, pay attention!

"... And while you're at it, babe, get a
different hairstylist!"

Hitchcock shot Incident at a Corner immediately after Psycho, using the same crew (which came from his TV series) and actress (Vera Miles). Leading man George Peppard, still strictly a television actor at the time, is pretty much Robert Redford minus the charisma. While his insistence on clearing Medwick's name is commendable, he seems to be on the verge of punching everybody's lights out in the process.

 

I'm not sure what's more shocking -- anyone
would accuse this guy of a hideous crime,
or Paul Hartman was only 54 years old.

The guy who actually does a better job than Peppard is Paul Hartman as old man Medwick. Letting his heavy-lidded eyes do the emotional lifting, Hartman is quite sympathetic as the guard, who's become a criminal in the eyes of his neighbors without a shred of evidence. 

Hartman's dramatic portrayal is quite a change for a guy better known for as Emmett the handyman on The Andy Griffith Show and its spin-off Mayberry RFD, two other shows about the weird goings-on of a small town. If George Peppard had been the star, he'd have probably beat the hell out of Floyd the Barber just because.

This is what TV Heaven looks like.Top: Joe Flynn
(minus his usual glasses), Warren Berlinger, and
Philip Ober. Bottom: Jack Albertson, Eve McVeigh,
and Jerry Paris.

Others in the cast (left) make for a good snapshot of TV's familiar supporting actors at the time. Some were better known for comedies, and none were what you'd consider Hitchcock stalwarts. I'm not sure I ever said, "Oh, that guy!" so many times. The only one missing was Charles Lane, which is a shame. I'd have loved to see that human Grinch play a school crossing guard.

If you ever wondered what a Hitchock-directed
episode of Mayberry RFD would look like.

Nobody going into Incident at a Corner should expect the usual Hitchcock picture. Its low-budget and fast shooting schedule isn't going to be on the level of North by Northwest. I mean, it's a TV show, for heaven's sake.

But there's a particular way Hitchcock frames a shot and places the actors that is unique as his fingerprint. And nobody draws out the dark secrets and hidden agendas of ordinary people quite like him. 

As you can tell, Hitchcock
appreciates my advice.

Had Hitchcock wanted to, he likely could have expanded Incident at a Corner into a 90-minute feature, tossing in more background regarding the main characters and padding out scenes like those in the lawyer's office. But it would have been close to the level of his movie of five years earlier, The Trouble with Harry -- an interesting idea that didn't quite pan out.

At just under an hour, though, Incident at a Corner is less a "lost Hitchcock masterpiece" and more "forgotten Hitchcock surprise." And like the incident itself, it's worth more than one look. Best of all, it confirms your lack of faith in mankind. Way to go, Hitch!

                                                               

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For more Hitchcock, go here.

MOVIE OF THE DAY: "I CONFESS" (1953)

Twenty-five years ago, when first watching I Confess, I confess to being decidedly underwhelmed. Yet I couldn't figure out why. 
It has a first-rate pedigree: directed by Alfred Hitchcock, starring Montgomery Clift. An A-picture all around, one that shouldn't be anywhere near this blog. And unlike other, lesser Hitchcock movies of the era -- Stage Fright and Under Capricorn come to mind -- I Confess just seemed like it should have been better than it appeared to be. So when it recently ran on TCM, the time had come to give it another shot. Maybe I was the problem. 

I wasn't.

"You would have to drag me into this mess."

On the surface at least, I Confess is tailor-made for Hitchcock, not to mention Clift's patented tortured-soul routine. Rev. Michael Logan hears church handyman Otto Keller confess to a murder. Taking the rules of the confessional seriously, Logan refuses to go to the police -- even as he himself, through circumstantial evidence, becomes the prime suspect.

An innocent man suspected of a crime he didn't commit: if that's not the quintessential Hitchcock set-up, I don't know what is. Add Karl Malden as the detective hot on Logan's trail, and Anne Baxter as Ruth Grandfort, a woman with a secret pertaining to the murder victim, and you've got the makings for a dandy suspense movie. 

I said "makings," not "finished product."

The boy or the blonde --
which one will he choose?

 I Confess lacks the emotional connection Hitchcock had for, say, Vertigo or Rear Window. Bearing little of the director's visual flair, the movie just kind of sits there, piling up character after character, creating tedium rather than tension. (One priest seems to exist just to provide a running gag involving his bike.) Even the extras stand around dully, as if waiting for their coffee break. At times, you wonder just who this movie is really supposed to be about. Warner Brothers certainly didn't want to let the movie-going public know, taking great pains in the posters (see above) to hide the fact that Clift played a priest. And the I Confess tagline -- "If you knew what he knew, what would you do?" -- suggests someone in the publicity department fancied himself another Cole Porter. 

In addition to being really awkward,
this still from I Confess doesn't
have anything to do with
the movie itself.

As for Ruth Grandfort, the mysterious blonde -- well, pre-seminary school, Logan and she were a couple. After Ruth married another man, a certain Monsieur Villette (the eventual murder victim) wrongly believed that she and Logan were having an affair. Villette then spent the next several years threatening to blackmail her even though it wasn't true.

All of this could have been avoided if Ruth had told her husband the truth upfront -- Look, I went for a walk with an old boyfriend who wants to wear the white collar, we got caught in the rain, sorry I'm late. In an unsuccessful bid to free Logan, Ruth finally spills her story to the cops. 

This is where I Confess really jumps the rails. Told in flashback, her confession (I get it!) is a one-reel short unto itself. No detail is too mundane, no word of dialogue too banal, to be omitted. (Didn't these cops ever hear of, "Just the facts, ma'am"?) Making it more insufferable

Now that's vertigo.

is Dimitri Tiomkin's sappier-than-Log Cabin Syrup score, flooding the soundtrack with tsunami-like precision. 

One brief sequence, however, stands out: Ruth's memory of walking down her front stairs to meet Logan. Gauzy and processed just slightly in slow-motion, it captures perfectly the dreamy reveries of love. It's reminiscent of a similar situation in Raging Bull when Robert De Niro first sees Kathy Moriarty. The camera focuses on her legs splashing sensually (in slight slo-mo) in a swimming pool when the soundtrack suddenly drops out. If only Hitchcock had told Tiomkin to put down his baton for ten seconds!

Like many movie composers, Dimitri Tiomkin seemed to have been angling for a hit single -- call it "Love Theme from I Confess," an excessively-angelic chorus slurring its indecipherable lyrics -- which appears immediately under the credits and never quite lets go. Music plays a vital role in Hitchcock movies, but it's supposed to be in a good way. Romance -- unless mixed with danger or pathology -- was never Hitchock's strong suit, anyway. This was the Master of Suspense, after all, not of Love. Or love as most people outside a psychiatric hospital consider it to be.

Can you imagine that nose
if this had been a 3D movie?

There are a few scattered pluses found in I Confess, mostly in any scene involving Karl Malden as Inspector Larrue. Instead of playing him as a 1953-model Javert, Malden's take on Larrue is a cop simply doing his job, following the evidence where it takes him. Taking no personal pleasure in the case, he's kind enough to buy lunch for Logan when the latter turns himself in to avoid being arrested at church. (That moment follows a lengthy, pointless montage of Logan walking around town, eventually passing a movie theater running The Enforcer, which just happens to be a Warner Brothers picture.)

Rev. Top Gun

Then there's Montgomery Clift, the least-likely  man of the cloth since Little Richard dumped rock & roll. Ironically for a Method actor, Clift doesn't really inhabit the role of Rev. Logan as much as he stars in it by his very presence. It's a problem similar to that of Tom Cruise, to whom he bears an uncanny resemblance. (I Confess was shot a few years before Clift's physically and psychologically-damaging car accident.) Low-key to the point of being nearly invisible, Clift is interesting, but I couldn't tell you why -- or even if he was good or mediocre or neither. Maybe, like most people, he just is.

Right down to its Quebec location shooting, I Confess is one of the more unusual entries in the Hitchcock canon. (I had to use that phrase sooner or later.) But unusual doesn't necessarily make for successful. In later years, Hitchcock would claim that I Confess didn't resonate widely because non-Catholics couldn't wrap their heads around the sanctity of the church confessional. This, coming for a guy whose greatest movies were preposterous if you spent two minutes thinking about them. 

No, the problem with I Confess is that it's too straightforward. And Hitchcock is at his best when a little bent.

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