THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 74

 Anti-communism! Pro-New Deal! Capitalism! Civil Rights! The entirety of the 20th century in three movies and one TV show. 

FORGOTTEN COMMANDMENTS (1932): The amount of hypocrisy that went into the making of Forgotten Commandments is equal only to its mediocrity. The work of two directors (each probably had to poke the other to stay awake), Paramount's low-budget, anti-Commie screed is further cheapened by two reels of... well, let the opening credits explain: Glorified by Spectacular Episodes from CECIL B. DE MILLE's Epic "THE TEN COMMANDMENTS". By the way, that's the 1923 silent version. Without it, this thing would run crawl only 40 minutes.

Newlyweds Paul and Marya move to Moscow to attend med school. Being married, they're allowed less expensive lodgings: a dorm-like facility, where each side-by-side "apartment" is one room minus a ceiling. Prof. Marinoff takes a liking to Paul, as does his sweetie Anya. Not to worry -- Marinoff considers monogamy to be anti-revolutionary... until Anya seduces Paul, which drives Marya to divorce, and Marinoff himself to murder. Moral: When the boot's on the other foot, Reds turn green with jealousy. (As for DeMille's Ten Commandments footage, it brings to life the story of the Exodus told by an old Orthodox priest to a group of children, which lands him in front of a firing squad. He should have stuck with "Hansel and Gretel".)

Subtle as a Russian farm tractor, Forgotten Commandments' script ("Don't keep calling me 'darling'. It's bourgeoise!") is Reefer Madness without the reefer. It also shares the same non-qualities -- simple set-ups, the look of filmed rehearsals -- as similar quickies of the time. Nobody, other than John Carradine as a rabblerousing Marxist, puts any effort into their performance -- it's astonishing this dreck was produced by one of the major studios. But what really bugs me is that the sexual shenanigans frowned upon here were rampant in Hollywood as they are now. Worse, it would take another seven years for a major studio to make an anti-Nazi movie, having spent most of the decade running scripts past the German embassy for approval. The real forgotten commandment in 1930s Hollywood was Thou Shalt Cower Before Fascists.

BONUS POINTS: Marguerite Clark (Marya) and Irving Pichel (Marinoff) starred in Dracula's Daughter four years later. Gene Raymond (Paul) starred in the manic marionette melodrama I Am Suzanne! Edward van Sloane (as a surgeon) was Hollywood's go-to actor as medicos, while Harry Cording (as a cop) was the junkie doctor in Narcotic. That's my idea of an all-star cast. 

MOTHER'S HELPER (1933): People who think certain Hollywood folks kowtow to Donald Trump have never watched the studio-produced, pro-NRA shorts. These didn't just explain what Pres. Roosevelt was trying to accomplish, they lauded him as the second coming of Abe Lincoln while actively pushing his agenda to audiences who just wanted to escape real life for a couple of hours.

Unlike The Road is Open Again, there's no finger-snapping song to warble in Mother's Helper. This is just a three-minute sitcom featuring a husband explaining to his wife that he's home early because his boss has signed the NRA pledge. The husband's workhours have been split with new employees in order to provide more jobs to the Depression-hit unemployed. At least that's what I think he said. When you've got Fox Film's resident Swedish dialect comedian El Brendel doing the talking, you're lucky to figure out (or care about) half of what he's saying.

Professional flibbertigibbet Zasu Pitts is the housewife who tries just as hard as us to understand what this NRA business is all about, fluttering her fingers as if shaking with the D.T.'s. Or maybe, as a hardcore anti-FDR Republican in real life, being forced to recite dialogue like "Anything the president does is OK with me" made her shake with rage. A genuinely funny appearance by starlet Esther Muir as Brendel's new part-time wife -- his own idea of NRA -- wraps things up with an unexpected laugh. An interesting example of how show business worked with the government in order to push a president's agenda, Mother's Helper offers all kinds of possibilities for a contemporary, ICE-inspired short starring Dean Cain and Roseanne Barr.

BONUS POINTS: Esther Muir would gain lasting fame as Groucho Marx's would-be paramour in A Day at the Races. 

TAKE IT FROM HERE (1954): When a movie has only one showing, it's either a real
stinkeroo, something completely oddball (like It Never Happened ) or a promotional short made for a convention. Take it From Here falls in the last two categories, but people with a less worldly view of entertainment than me would drop it in the first as well. It's lonely being open to the strange and different.

Made for the 1954 Texaco gas station owners convention -- did you know such a thing existed? -- Take it From Here is a two-reel musical advising them how to promote their businesses. Such a premise sounds pretty D-U-L-L, which is why the Texaco folks jazzed things up with over a half-dozen dames with fishnet- stockinged gams. Set in the "Texa-Courtroom", Judge Harry Von Zell provides over (make that leers over) a "trial" where the women -- each representing a different mode of advertising -- musically "testify" how they help the gas stations keep the pumps pumping. I guess that still sounds pretty dull if you're not looking at the aforementioned fishnet-stockinged gams.

This is where Jimmy Durante and Donald O'Connor come in. Clad in their finest Texaco pump jockey uniforms, the two sing and clown their way through a pep talk aimed at the "jury" (i.e. conventioneers). Their message is essentially, Texaco dropped a fortune on a national advertising blitz, now hand out Texaco hats to your customers. Unlike similar ephemeral shorts, Take it From Here is in wonderful condition, looking as good as it did the day it was run for a room of drunken conventioneers who wanted more of the girls and less of the stars. 

BONUS POINTS: The classy unnamed singer representing radio --the only woman here in a fancy dress -- is a reminder of the weekly Saturday afternoon Metropolitan Opera broadcast sponsored by Texaco from 1940 to 2003. The conventioneers did not give crap one about her. 

HOLLYWOOD ROUNDTABLE (August 28, 1963): Following Martin Luther King, Jr.'s
March on Washington, seven of its participants gathered in a TV studio to discuss the civil rights movement. Moderated by journalist David Schoenbrun, the roundtable consisted of Harry Belafonte, Charlton Heston, Sidney Poitier, writer/director Joseph L. Mankiewicz, Marlon Brando, and James Baldwin. 

That's one heck of a discussion group, and startling in so many ways -- not the least of which is Heston and Brando being on the same side of a liberal cause. Unlike similar broadcasts today where the idea is scoring points with meme-ready wisecracks, these folks are lowkey and thoughtful; Heston freely admits that his involvement in the civil rights movement was for too long merely cocktail party chatter. Such a thing would get you condemned today for being late to the game rather than being literally welcomed to the table.

The white guys have their own way of speaking. Heston tends to be brief, occasionally quoting the founding fathers. Mankiewicz is passionate, verging on angry, at how "the Negroes" have been treated. Brando is Brando, talking as if being paid by the word, wanting to be taken seriously as anything but an actor. If Schoenbrun hadn't interrupted him, Brando would have kept yakking all night.

Belafonte, Poitier, and Baldwin of course are the only ones who speak from
experience in regard to civil rights or lack thereof. They are serious; while likely appreciative of the white celebrities' support, the three appear to be thinking Why should I care what they have to say? They also make you sit up and listen; Baldwin's closing remarks would be considered shocking today. 

Hollywood Roundtable, filmed by the U.S. Information Agency (oh, how times have changed!) makes one yearn for the time when news and public affairs programs were civilized and made you think. Too bad a discussion about civil rights doesn't include any women, though.

BONUS POINTS: It's weirdly nostalgic seeing people on TV enveloped in cigarette and pipe smoke. 

                                                           ################

THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 60

Two more obscure European movies take their place alongside a pre-code political drama and a legendary early talkie that marked the beginning of the end of one of the most popular silent actors of his time.

HIS GLORIOUS NIGHT (1929): You might not have heard of His Glorious Night, but if you're a fan of Singin' in the Rain, you're definitely aware of it. You know the scene when Gene Kelly's character bombs in his first talkie while moaning, "I love you, I love you, I love you"? This movie was the inspiration. To quote Paul Harvey, now you know the rest of the story.

The mockery inflicted on Gilbert at the time of His Glorious Night's release was unfair and cruel (even if he over enunciates the word "cruel" with two syllables throughout the movie.) Yes, the love scenes between Gilbert and leading lady Catherine Dale Owen are overwrought, and in need of rewrites. But contrary to legend, Gilbert doesn't have a squeaky voice. Rather the deep resonance that his silent movie roles implied, he sounds like a normal person. Too, the romance genre he specialized in during the silent era became a thing of the past in favor of musicals, gangster pictures, and wisecracking comedies.

So after nearly a century of being buried in the MGM vaults, the biggest realization of the recent restoration of His Glorious Night -- a truffle of a trifle about royal love lives, mix-ups, and the like -- is that it's a comedy. It's supposed to be funny, and, when Gilbert and Owen aren't pitching woo, they're funny, too, as are the supporting characters, including Owen's mother and a perpetually squabbling couple who appear throughout. Shout out, too, to Gustav von Seyffertitz, hilarious as the nervous, confused police commander. I laughed out loud a good half dozen times during His Glorious Night, and always on purpose. 

The production's problems lie not with Gilbert but the technical crudeness inherent in early talkies, along with the pedestrian direction by Lionel Barrymore. Had Ernest Lubitsch, the master of the sophisticated sex comedies, called the shots, His Glorious Night would have turned out better all around, and maybe have given John Gilbert a better transition to sound. His later movies, like the edgy pre-code Downstairs, proved he was as good as many of his contemporaries. His Glorious Night might not be glorious but doesn't deserve the negativity from by wiseasses who don't know any better. (You can tell what kind of a life I lead when I sob Leave John Gilbert alone!)

BONUS POINTS: Gustav von Seyffertitz's pledge, "I know nothing!" would later be echoed by Sgt. Schultz in Hogan's Heroes. Must be a German thing.

THE BILLION DOLLAR SCANDAL (1933): At a time when it seems like the 1% can
get away with anything, up to and including murder, it's nice to see when one of them gets it, even if it's only in a pre-code picture. The big money scandal here involves the fleecing of the American taxpayers by a group of oil magnates led by John Masterson. His live-in physical trainer, ex-con "Fingers" Bartos, turns states evidence against them at the behest of a crusading newspaper publisher. Knowing their lives will be ruined if Bartos testifies before a closed-door Congressional committee, Masterson and his pals hire a fixer named Carter B. Moore to keep the guy's yap shut. And by fixer, I mean hitman.

The one-sheet on the right implies that The Billion Dollar Scandal is based on a true story, although my research can't confirm it. This doesn't prevent the movie from being an interesting slice of life drama when Depression-era audiences had it in for the uber-rich who never seemed to pay for their crimes while petty transgressors like Bartos and his pals Ratsy Harris and Kid McGurn spent years up the river simply for lack of a good lawyer. Almost a century later, the oil barons portrayed here are as hateful as any of today's tech billionaires -- they boast of their illegal behavior and how they're out to help only each other while screwing over the rest of America.

Robert Armstrong (the poor man's Victor McLaglen) kind of overdoes the "dese and dose" routine as Fingers, who will do anything to protect his kid brother, right down to trying to break up his romance with Masterson's daughter Doris -- which Masterson himself is trying to do as well. Still in pre-MGM befuddled character days, Frank Morgan shows what a good dramatic actor he was as the despicable Masterson, the oily oil oligarch who destroys people's lives simply for sport. Wardrobe and slang aside, The Billion Dollar Scandal resonates that the wealthiest among us will always pull society's strings because no matter how much money they have, it's never enough.

BONUS POINTS: The Billion Dollar Scandal is one of the few movies where I recognized damn near everybody. In addition to Frank Morgan (The Wizard of Oz) and Sidney Toler (the Charlie Chan Monogram mysteries), and dozen or so character actors, there are representatives from a slew of classic horror movies of the time: Robert Armstrong (King Kong), Edward van Sloan (Dracula), Olga Baclanova (Freaks), and Irving Pichel (Dracula's Daughter). For me, this is cinematic comfort food.

SZIRUSZ (SIRIUS) (1942): Recently I was in the mood for a 1940s Hungarian time-
travel/romantic-comedy/sci-fi musical. Lucky me, I stumbled across Sirius. See what happens when you wish hard enough? 

Count Tibor Akos is taken to 1784 Austria in eccentric Professor Sergius's mini-rocket. Still dressed in his era-appropriate costume party outfit, Tibor spends his time at a royal party, where he falls in love with Italian opera singer Rosina Beppo, and insults everybody else. Tibor's misbehavior climaxes in a duel with his own great-grandfather. As Tibor is wounded, Sergius returns in time to bring them both back to 1942 Hungary.

Other than the shockingly diaphanous slips worn by ballerinas in a dance sequence, there's nothing in Sirius that wouldn't have been out of place in a Hollywood movie of its time. Tibor continually mentioning future events to the baffled 18th-century royal court; the only-a-dream copout; and the climactic reveal of Sergius's daughter being Rosina's lookalike great-granddaughter (which anyone familiar with old movies would have predicted before the mini-rocket even took flight to the past). 

Well, so what? Sirius is a charming, witty movie, similar to Leslie Howard's time-travel move of a decade earlier, Berkeley Square, only with laughs. Even when Sergius is carted off to the bughouse, babbling about how he stood beside Atilla the Hun and witnessed the creation of earth on his travels, you want to believe the men's adventures. That whole "explanation" of how the mini-rocket crashed after two seconds in the air? Hungarian goulash, if you ask me!

BONUS POINTS: Viewers can come up with their own ideas of a 1942 Hollywood version of Sirius. Fredric March insults the royal court of 1784 Germany while falling in love with a French opera singer played by Alexis Smith. Alan Mowbray as March's great-grandfather, George Zucco as the nutty professor -- why didn't Warner Bros. buy the American remake rights?

KRAKATIT (1948): Attention, fans of science fiction, film noir, obscurities, and all-around strange stuff. The year American studios were churning out detritus like The Babe Ruth Story and My Dog Rusty, the Czechoslovak Film Company released Krakatit, a production that anticipated the atomic bomb scare of the 1950s the hallucinogenic 1960s, and the all-round paranoia of 1970s. And to make it that much more futuristic, it's based on a 1924 novel, long before Robert Oppenheimer had even heard of a place called Los Alamos. 

Krakatit's opening scenes could be right out of a typical Hollywood film noir of the time. A dangerously ill unidentified man has stumbled into a hospital. Strapped with an oxygen mask to stay alive, he falls unconscious, leading to a flashback that carries the rest of the movie. He's a scientist named Prokop, and has developed Krakatit, a weapon (named after the Krakatoa volcano) that makes the A-bomb look like a water balloon. Falling ill after a small sample blew up in his lab, he had given the formula to a friend.  In short order, Prokop receives a letter from his colleague's girlfriend... stumbles to the home of a village doctor... is approached by a strange man named Carson acting as a representative for a country wanting the formula... creates another bomb made out of cosmetics...  and experiences still more adventures, climaxing with Krakatit destroying several European capitals. 

Is any of it real? Are they dreams? Hallucinations? Hallucinations of dreams? Dreams of real events? Real events made hallucinative through his illness? Take your pick, folks. All I can tell you is that Krakatit  doesn't resemble any other movie of its time. 

Karel Hoger gives Prokop a haunted, guilty demeanor throughout, ashamed of his "talent" for creating explosives out of anything handy.  Worthy of mention is Eduard Linkers as the chatty, nattily-dressed Carson. His lighthearted performance is similar to the pre-Bilko Phil Silvers during his movie days, and gave me a smile every time he appeared onscreen. Had Krakatit been made in Hollywood by an independent studio like Monogram with a larger than normal budget, it would be considered a movie landmark, and the greatest American sci-fi noir (if there is such a genre) ever made. 

BONUS POINTS: Four years before the publication of the novel Krakatit, its author Karel Capek wrote the stage play R.U.R., which introduced the word "robot". This guy was really on to something.

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

THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 7

"Early" can be applied to any time of day -- morning, afternoon, or before my wife returns from her gym class. So why change the name of these entries when it works so well? Besides, you're not paying for perfection, are you? You're not paying anything at all!  So pour yourself a drink and behold these four fine examples of entertainment that will never appear on any "Top 100 Greatest" but maybe should be.

THE MIRACLE MAN (1932): Doc Madison, the leader of a gang of con artists,

takes it on the lam after believing he's killed a man in a fight. He winds up in the small town of Meadville, when he learns of a local faith healer known only as The Patriarch, who allegedly works miracles on the sick and the lame. Coming up with the ultimate con, Doc sends for his cohorts -- Harry, a phony cripple called The Frog, and his girlfriend Helen -- in order to fleece the rubes. Visiting the Patriarch in front of the locals, The Frog pretends to be cured... only to see two real cripples cured as well. While Doc is intent on pulling his con, his companions gradually decide to mend their ways. And when Helen is courted by the older brother of a cured woman, Doc has to decide whether he's going to abscond with the money he's raised to allegedly build a chapel for the Patriarch, or do the right thing after all.

A movie like The Miracle Man would be a definite no-go at any major studio today; I'm not sure if even one of those Christian-themed indies would take the chance on a story about a faith healer who really heals. But that's why it works so well here, made a time when such a production (a remake of the 1919 version of the same name) could it wear its heart unashamedly on its sleeve. I'm a sucker for such things, as are, eventually, the con artists who gradually become psychologically healed just by witnessing genuine miracles.

The actors who play the scammers -- Chester Morris, Sylvia Sydney, Ned Sparks (here with an "A" as a middle initial for some reason) and John Wray -- are as an ace bunch of character actors as you can find. I especially liked Sparks's reaction to the crippled kid's healing. Pretending to be actually shocked by such a thing is no mean feat (Lon Chaney did it to perfection in the one surviving scene of the original), but Sparks pulls it off -- an especially impressive moment since he's usually such a cynic in his pictures. OK, I have to say it: The Miracle Man is a miracle of filmmaking. (Maybe I can be healed of writing such a lame comment.)

BONUS POINTS: The always-reliable Irving Pichel pulls off his role as the atheist-turned-believer father of the cured crippled kid, and Boris Karloff as Nikko, the conman who Chester Morris throws over a staircase at the end of reel one and is never seen again. A British actor playing the Greek owner of a Chinese antique store but speaks with something of a Mexican accent -- I love this guy.

SUCCESS AT ANY PRICE (1934): Joe 

Martin, the younger brother of a slain gangster, decides to become a big shot himself, only legally. When his girlfriend Sarah arranges for him to get a job at the cosmetics company where she works, Joe rises the ladder of success despite his cocky, often nasty demeanor. As his fortunes rise, so does his ego. Over time, he dumps Sarah, marries his boss's glamorous but shallow mistress Agnes, and eventually takes over the company. Just as he thinks he's on top of the world, it starts to crash around him, first at home, then at the office. Joe finds himself at the end of his rope, with only one way out.

Anyone used to Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. as a suave swashbuckler with the vaguely continental accent will likely find Success at Any Price a little shocking. Not only is his character unlikeable, his Lower East Side punk delivery is spot on. Just the way he chews gum at work is a key to his character. He's thoroughly convincing as an amoral louse who will do anything make dough but doesn't realize he's losing his soul until it's almost too late. (A tacked-on scene in the closing seconds, likely ordered by the studio, had me booing the screen.)

The rest of the cast is fascinating, too, for various reasons. Casting former silent screen star Colleen Moore as Sarah was odd; at 35, she's obviously a decade older than Fairbanks. At least Genevieve Tobin as Agnes is supposed to be older (she's 35 but appears at least 40). Agnes, you see, has no interest in the immature Joe, but cynically agrees to marry him for a million dollars. Frank Morgan does a good job as Joe's boss; he plays it straight, years before becoming a self-caricature. And it's always amusing to see Edward Everett Horton in love with a woman as he is here.

If Success at Any Price seems to burn down capitalism, you can thank its writer John Howard Lawson, a genuine card-carrying member of the Communist party, and later one of the infamous Hollywood Ten. Why were Commies drawn to the glamorous, capitalistic world of Hollywood anyway?

BONUS POINTS: In a not-so in-joke, the bartender seen twice sullenly shaking cocktails is played by Arthur Houseman, who was better known for portraying drunks.

MR. WASHINGTON GOES TO TOWN (1940): While in jail, Schenectady Washington learns that he's inherited an upstate hotel. He dreams that he and his cellmate Wallingford are now working there as a bellman and desk clerk respectively. When they're not trying to obtain the hotel's deed from mortgage owner Brutus Blake, Washington and Wallingford deal with a succession of strange guests. And that, folks, is the entire plot.

One of the thousands of low-budget features made exclusively for black audiences, Mr. Washington Goes to Town plays like an extended Three Stooges short. The thin story is merely an excuse to trot out all the standard haunted house gags -- an invisible man, a vaudeville entertainer with a tuxedo-clad gorilla, a body that carries its head under his arm. The only reason there isn't a wolfman is because the producers probably ran out of money. 

How meager is the budget? The hotel lobby set appears to have been left over from a cheap monster movie. Much of the score is played on a skating-rink organ. The opening credits misspell Mantan Moreland's first name! 

For all its two-bit silliness -- you like wisecracking parrots, right? -- sooner or later Mr. Washington Goes to Town will win you over, if only because of Mantan Moreland, the funniest of the 1940s black movie comedians. (He's great as the chauffeur in the otherwise unwatchable Charlie Chan movies at Monogram.) The routines he and stage partner F.E. Miller (as Wallingford) share here are so engaging that you eventually lose any reservation about enjoying allegedly "problematic" jokes. (The actors' delivery and dialogue is little different from that of the reviled Amos 'n' Andy.)  I mean, if you don't think "Uh oh" is funny, you haven't heard Mantan Moreland say it. 

These days, Mr. Washington Goes to Town would probably go over with an audience who understood movie history -- unfortunately, an ever-diminishing group. You might not bust your sides a-laffing as the poster promises, but you'll get some belly laughs whether you want them or not.

BONUS POINTS: Black actor Charles Hawkins in his brief role as a lawyer named Goldberg, speaking with a Yiddish accent. Now that had me busting my sides a-laffing.

TOAST OF THE TOWN (12/18/1949): So associated is Ed Sullivan with the
American debut of the Beatles that it's easy to forget his program, originally titled Toast of the Town, had already been on the air 16 years. While here Ed is, of course, younger and dressed in his finest 1949 duds, he's only slightly less awkward than the livelier-than-average zombie he would later become famous for.

In addition to the usual guests you'd expect -- acrobats, comics, singers, dancers -- a few others stand out. In a brief salute to old pop music, songwriters Harry Armstrong and Maude Nugent bellow "Sweet Adeline" and "Sweet Rosie O'Grady", which they each respectively wrote in 1896! Just as mindboggling is the legendary W.C. Handy playing his classic "St. Louis Blues" -- it's like a time machine within a time machine.

Now, it wouldn't be a Sullivan show without something "for the youngsters". But since this is several years before rock & roll, they had to make do with an eight year-old girl lip-synching to a Judy Garland record, and Tommy Trent's  astonishingly violent Punch-and-Judy puppet act. The audience gasps more than laughs as Punch relentlessly beats up his wife and stretches their baby to the literal breaking point. I guess it's kind of funny in a shocking way, and it's definitely impressive that Tommy manipulates five puppets in all. Just don't expect to see this kind of thing at kids' birthday parties anymore. 

It should be noted that both  the aforementioned W.C. Handy and comic impressionist George Kirby were likely the only African-American entertainers on TV that week; many Americans must have blown their tops when the very white Ed Sullivan shook Kirby's very black hand in 1949. Sullivan would showcase black entertainers on an almost weekly basis for close to a quarter-century. It made up for violently misogynistic puppets.

BONUS POINTS: The commercials for Lincoln-Mercury, the cars not much smaller than your typical SUV, which mention every aspect of the products except what must have been the ridiculously low gas mileage rate.

                                                            ***********

MOVIE OF THE DAY: "THE CHEAT" (1931)

 The Cheat is a pre-code melodrama remembered not so much for its story but one shocking scene that you couldn't get away with now. Now that I think of it, you likely couldn't get away with any of it now. Sounds good!

Up and coming businessman Jeffrey Carlyle is madly in love with his wife Elsa. Elsa, in turn, is madly in love with Jeffrey. And money. It's a little difficult to see which comes first. Elsa is also a bad gambler, having lost $10,000 in cards at her Long Island country club, thanks to a double-or-nothing bet that never works out in movies. 

Elsa's lose way with dough must be a well-kept secret in her circle, since she's put in charge of $14,000 meant to go to the Milk Fund. (And you thought milk was expensive now!) When Elsa gets wind of a stock market opportunity that promises a 100% return in 48 hours, she puts $10,000 of the milk money into it, believing everything will work out by Friday. This dame certainly places misguided faith in double-or-nothing bets.

Just to let you know, she's the one doing the talking
here.

When that wager goes south, she has nowhere to turn but the mysterious Hardy Livingstone, a Sinophile whose entire house, right down to the servants, is early Japanese. Livingstone, having the hots for Elsa since forever, gives her a check for $10,000. Which covers one debt but not the other, something nobody seems to think is a problem.

In return, all Livingstone wants is for Elsa to drop by his house whenever he commands. That debt appears to clear up the following day, when her husband's big business deal comes through, allowing her to repay Livingstone. Mr. Japanese-Wannabe millionaire refuses the check despite Elsa refusing to go through with her end of the bargain. Which one is the cheat here anyway?

What do you do when you're branded, and you know
you're a cheat?

Even when he accepts that Elsa will never put out for him, Livingstone proves that
she's still his property. Not by holding her captive or demanding the return of a cool Japanese dress he lent her for a costume party, but by branding her chest. Talk about a money shot!

It seems anti-climactic to describe the rest of the movie -- Elsa shoots Livingstone in the shoulder; Jeffrey (remember him?) takes the blame, but is let off the hook during the trial when Elsa shows the brand to the courtroom as the reason she pulled the trigger. Nothing tops that branding scene, even if it is done in shadow. Another cheat!

Elsa realizes going to a costume party
with her husband dressed like that was a
bad idea.

Tallulah Bankhead, still a year or so away from starting to look like Tallulah Bankhead, plays Elsa alternately languid and panicked, in love and bored out of her mind, enjoying the good life while trying to escape it. I mean, Tallulah Bankhead connected to the Milk Fund? Only when it's mixed with bourbon. She appears to be a decade older than the milquetoasty Harvey Stephens, playing Jeffrey, yet they're both only 29 years old. 

The only actor who can go toe-to-toe with Bankhead is Irving Pichel. Both an interesting character actor (unforgettable in Dracula's Daughter) and movie director (ranging from the tense The Most Dangerous Game to the ethereal Tomorrow is Forever), Pichel has a style and beautiful voice unlike anybody else's. 

Livingstone feels the fury of an outraged courtroom.
Not so suave now, are you, Mr. Sophisticate?

Very much an actor of his time, he can suddenly appear to be contemporary without breaking a sweat. Pichel's portrayal of Livingstone begins as friendly and generous, gradually becoming just a little creepy before going full-blown screwy and, finally, scared for his life when the courtroom spectators go for his blood.

If The Cheat sounds melodramatic, it ought to, since it's a remake of a Cecil B. DeMille silent of 1915. The major difference -- other than, you know, people not talking -- is that Hardy Livingston was named Hishuru Tori, and played by Sessue Hayakawa. Yes, the rich, exotic man in love with the white lady was Japanese. Now replay the story, particularly the branding, with that in mind. A story like that a decade or so into the 20th-century was positively scandalous. And, for a lot of white women bored with their husbands, exciting as hell.

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

To read about the Tallulah Bankhead pre-code Devil and the Deep, go here.