THE MAN WITH ONE ERROR

Eddie and the groupie.

Some years ago, I watched a 1934 movie titled The Man with Two Faces. Its star, Edward G. Robinson, walked in on a Svengali-type slimeball entertaining a woman. "Well," he sneered, "a new groupie."

What the -- "groupie"? In 1934?! It couldn't be. I rewound it -- three times! -- and listened carefully. Each time I heard him say in his inimitable voice "groupie". 

I went online to find the earliest use of the word; all sources pointed to 1965. And yet here was proof -- proof, I tell you! -- of it being spoken on film 31 years earlier, by a legendary A-lister. 

This would be my entry to immortality: the person who would put to shame all the etymologists, linguists, and smarty-pants in general who study, define, and otherwise caress words for a living. If there was a hall of fame for such a person, surely I would be nominated for a spot on its wall.

Unfortunately, I couldn't find a way to submit my discovery to any of the dictionaries, online or otherwise. It was a disappointment, yet I made it a point to keep it to myself so nobody else claimed the glory. I also purchased a DVD of The Man with Two Faces as proof when the day arrived, I could get in touch with the proper authorities.

That time came a few weeks ago, when I decided to try once again. The best bet was offered by the good folks at Merriam-Webster, although their offer to consider such entries was phrased in such a way that it seemed like they would laugh anyone like me off their wi-fi.

The source of my undoing.

Apparently, my offer to rewrite the origin of "groupie" was tempting enough to be taken seriously. Apologizing for the two-week delay in responding, a Mirriam-Webster official asked me to submit my findings. There was, however, a caveat: Keep in mind that such evidence must be from printed or written material and must be for the use defined at the dictionary entry for groupie.

Hm. Did a movie count? It didn't seem so. There was no way I could lay my hands on the original screenplay for The Man with Two Faces. Lucky for me, archive.org had a copy of The Dark Tower, the original stage play on which the movie was based. I replied to the M-W email to let them know I was currently reading The Dark Tower and would report back with my findings. 

Unsurprisingly, the source material was different from the movie in terms of length and language, although close enough so that I was convinced the line of dialogue in question would be there. And it was! The hero sees the cad and his next victim and orates, "Well, a new grouping." 

Hold it! Grouping? GROUPING?!  It's supposed to be groupie! I even fast-forwarded my DVD of the movie version with the volume turned up. I defy you to think Edward G. Robinson isn't saying "groupie." But what I hear and what The Dark Tower playscript reads are two different things.  

Robinson and Mary Astor show their
concern for me.

My mind raced with excuses. Is it possible the line was re-written for The Man with Two Faces? Did Robinson decide to change it on his own? Was it misspelled on the printed version of The Dark Tower? What do you think?

I knew what I thought. No matter how I heard it, Robinson said "grouping", dropping the last syllable a tone lower so the "ng" was well-night inaudible. My name in the Dictionary Hall of Fame was erased before it was even carved.

Left with the choice of not responding to Mirriam-Webster or confessing my error, I went with the latter, explaining how I misheard "grouping". I didn't even whine that they would have done the same thing. I had to eat my spinach and like it (which I actually do). I then signed off with, I'm sorry to have wasted your time while making a fool of myself as well. I'm ready to forget this ever happened if you are. 

I doubt my contact at Mirriam-Webster will ever forget it when it comes time for editors to share stories about the stupidest contributions they ever received. But hey, click this link -- https://ok.ru/video/267815684771 -- to watch The Man with Two Faces. Fast-forward to 30:00 and wait a few seconds for Eddie G. to enter and speak his immortal line. If you hear "grouping", I've got my own original screenplays to sell you. 

Post-script: Right before publishing this, I took one last look online for the origin of "groupie":  The Oxford English Dictionary (OED) indicates the earliest known use of the word "groupie" is from 1943, in the writing of C. H. Ward-Jackson. While the term is associated with rock and roll culture, its use in the 1940s suggests a broader application to describe fans of any particular group or activity.  

If one day this is amended to The Man with Two Faces in 1934, remember you heard it here first.

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 49

 By sheer coincidence, there are two movies about brain-control -- the same situation I find myself in whenever I notice the YouTube app. 

ROAR OF THE DRAGON (1932): You know the story about the Alamo, right? OK, move the location from Texas to Manchuria. Now change the Alamo to a hotel, Davy Crockett to a drunken riverboat captain, the American soldiers to tourists, and the Mexicans to Chinese bandits. Presto: Roar of the Dragon. 

Richard Dix returns to these pages as Capt. Carson, the cynical sot who finds his purpose in life when under fire. (Unsurprisingly, Dix is less believable playing a drunk than when he really was drunk in the Whistler movies.) He's got the hots for Natascha, the girlfriend of bandit-leader Vronksy. Natascha is played by Gwili Andre, RKO's unasked-for answer to Greta Garbo (or is it Marlene Dietrich?). While Andre is a looker and fairly sexy, her talent is limited to keeping her eyelids at half-staff -- there's a reason why Roar of the Dragon was the highlight of her brief movie career before returning to whence she came, modeling. In front of camera, I mean, not with clay.

Other than ZaSu Pitts and her "oh dear" hand-fluttering routine, the most familiar supporting actor is the great Edward Everett Horton, who gets a dramatic turn -- perhaps for the only time in his career -- when the woman he loves is killed by a bandit. Grabbing a machine gun, the formerly timid Horton starts firing like a madman before getting knifed in the back. Want more unexpected violence? Well, there's an elderly Jewish man getting captured by the bandits, trussed up on a pole and set on fire, forcing Carson into machine-gunning him to death to put him out of his misery. 

One of the loudest early talkies I've ever experienced, Roar of the Dragon features people yelling, guns firing, music blaring, and babies crying (no child-protective services here!), almost continually during its 69 minutes While the pace drags a bit during its final third, you sure won't fall asleep. 

BONUS POINTS: A newspaper headline reads RIVERBOAT CAPTAIN BEATS OFF BANDITS. Now wait a minute!...

REVOLT OF THE ZOMBIES (1936): One of the all-time great movie promotional images -- but anyone wanting to see a full-scale zombie revolt will have to fast-forward to the final three minutes. Otherwise, this is one of those low-budget indies about a man straying where no man should go. Like, into certain low-budget indies.

Armand Loque has discovered the secret of zombie-making in post-World War I French Cambodia. This little talent comes in handy when he decides to take over the village where he and his fellow-geeks are currently encamped. His ultimate target is Cliff Grayson, who is engaged to Claire Duval, the woman Loque loves. Why didn't this egghead put the spell on her?

Hoping to cash in (a little late) on their low-budget, now-legendary cult fave 1932 hit White Zombie, siblings Edward and Victor Halperin decided that any movie with the Z word would bring in the ducats. Not without Bela Lugosi, the star of the original, it wouldn't. Still, Dean Jagger does a fine job as the doomed Armand Loque. (I've always wondered why it took him so long to break into A pictures, since he's always better than his surroundings.) Too, Robert Noland, as Cliff, isn't bad either; where both actors fail is in their love-dovey moments with Dorothy Stone as Claire, where their dialogue sounds straight out of a 19th-century melodrama. 

Another drawback with Revolt of the Zombies is its shabby sets. While the Halperins were able to rent classy soundstages at Universal for White Zombie, here they had to settle for Jagger walking in front of a blow-up photo of Cambodia's Angor Wat temple to set the unconvincing scene. Even if current prints were restored (in addition to its rough quality, it's missing a few minutes), it would look older than a 1936 release. Whatever good can be gotten from Revolt of the Zombies is Dean Jagger's often sensitive performance and his occasionally uncanny resemblance to Anthony Perkins. Too bad there aren't all that many zombies.

BONUS POINTS: The tight close-ups of Jagger's eyes when he's turning on the hoodoo that he do so well belong to Bela Lugosi, lifted from White Zombie. Jagger was probably grateful not that have a light shining straight into his pupils.

THE LADY AND THE MONSTER (1944): Erich von Stroheim must have felt like he'd
hit the end of the road, getting third billing behind B-lister Richard Arlen and (gulp) top-billed Vera Hruba Ralston in a Republic picture with a goofy title. No need, though, for this is an unexpectedly good, if Hollywoodized, adaption of the bizarre 1942 novel Donovan's Brain by Curt Siodmak, who co-wrote the script. 

Prof. Franz Mueller and his assistant Dr. Patrick Corey have finally achieved the dream of keeping the brain from a dead man -- in this case, investor W.H. Donovan -- alive in a jar. Much to the dismay of Corey's sweetie Janice Farrell, Donovan starts communicating with him telepathically. (Dames are so jealous!). As Mueller juices up the formula in the jar to make the brain chattier, Corey receives orders to arrange a new trial for a young man imprisoned for murder. With his personality deteriorating to the point of violence, Corey's left with no choice but to silence the little girl who saw the prisoner at the murder site. Don't blame the man, blame the brain!

Republic Pictures opened the purse strings for The Lady and the Monster, giving it the sheen of a Warners production. Director George Sherman and his crew did a dandy job, too, lighting Richard Arlen's face in a way that reflects his ugly -- evil -- new personality. No longer in the Rolodexes of the major studios, Erich von Stroheim still has what it takes to make an audience take notice, reciting  dialogue in his typical clipped delivery as if he thought this were actually worthy of him.

Bringing up the rear as the nominal star, Vera Hruba Ralston can't even react convincingly to seeing a brain in a jar, appearing more like she's suffering from a mild case of dyspepsia. (In her many, many close-ups, she resembles Teri Garr satirizing her.) If Republic honcho Herbert Yates wanted to do his mistress a favor, he'd have kept out of pictures to avoid being made a laughingstock. Ms. Ralston's contribution and the unfortunate tacked-on happy ending aside, The Lady and the Madman is one of the cooler Republic productions.

BONUS POINTS: Several years earlier, George Sherman directed another sci-fi/medical/crime movie, The Return of Dr. X. You know, the one with Humphrey Bogart as a vampire. 

PLUNDER ROAD (1957): Sometimes, all you need in a movie is 75 minutes of a seemingly successful crime going to hell for everyone involved. If nothing else, Plunder Road will discourage you from robbing $10-million in federal gold bars, no matter how easy it looks. 

The crime itself is interesting because it's something of an updated Western, seeing that the five criminals pull off a train heist Utah before heading to California. But instead of riding horses, they're driving three trucks filled with the loot disguised as or hidden by other items. It's just a darn shame that they didn't anticipate police roadblocks going up. Guess they haven't watched enough movies!

Speaking of watching movies, Plunder Road has an interesting mix of actors in both familiar roles and playing against type. In the former is Stafford Repp (you remember him as the Irish cop in the Batman series) still in his bad guy years, forever obnoxiously chewing gum; the always-welcome Elisha Cook, Jr. looking forward to using his loot to move to Rio with his son; and the more-obscure Steven Ritch as Frankie, who puts his race-car skills to good use trying to avoid the cops. 

Yet the most interesting actors are former leading men Gene Raymond and Wayne Morris. Once A-listers, over time they aged out of their charming manner and good looks and into character parts like the ones they play here. Their grim expressions and cold-blooded ways -- Morris shoots an old gas station attendant without blinking an eye -- show a versatility denied during their star-making days two decades earlier. You have a rough idea of how they and the others in Plunder Road are going to wind up, but that's beside the point. It's the actors that count, and they make it worth watching.

BONUS POINTS: Plunder Road teaches you how to blow up a train with the fuse of a bomb hooked up to a dashboard cigarette lighter. Easier than you think!

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SKY FAB

If there's anyone qualified to take a flight into near-space at the speed of sound, it has to be a washed-up pop star-turned-amateur hour judge; a news host known for being besties with the person who introduced us to two medical charlatans named Phil and Oz; a movie producer you've never heard of; and a woman sleeping with Jeff Bezos, the guy behind the flight. 

"All" as in all women who can provide
Bezos with the right kind of hype.

The fly girls in question are Katy Perry, Gayle King, Kerianne Flynn, and
Lauren Sanchez. What better way for Bezos to distract you from his BFF crashing the stock market and wiping out your 401(k)? 

Alright, so this isn't just a bunch of celebrities who don't feel famous enough. They're going to be accompanied by two scientists, Aisha Bowe and Amanda Nguyen. Well, former scientists. Bowe is now an entrepreneur (meaning someone who might want to invest in Bezos' Blue Origin space business), while Nguyen is described as a "social entrepreneur". I'm not sure exactly what that means, but her Wikipedia bio, along with Bowe's, are each more impressive than the other four combined. Hell, as a retired nurse, my wife would be a better choice than them. 

This is similar to what Bezos did almost four years ago. That was when his crew consisted of Michael Strahan, WIlliam Shatner, a couple of rich investors, and Laura Shepard Churchley, daughter of Alan Shepard (the first American in space), which actually made her the most qualified of the bunch. 

Here's one billionaire Colbert doesn't mind,
especially if it means a payday.

As you can see, Bezos had all bases covered in both flights: news, celebrities, and money. All he's missing for this one is hiring Stephen Colbert to host the flight's livestream coverage as he did for Richard Branson's own not-quite outer space jaunt in 2011. (Maybe Colbert has a non-compete clause for selling out to billionaires.) 

The four non-scientists onboard Bezos' rocket give hope to little girls that all they need to do to accomplish such great things is skip astronaut school and instead become a pop star, read a news script, have a nice checking account, or give money to the rich guy behind the whole stunt. It's the 21st-century version of high school girls who used to go on hot-rod joyrides with the "bad boys" for a cheap thrill. Cheap, that is, unless Bezos is paying them to risk their lives to make the cover of Elle.

Who?

By the way, anyone ever hear of Tracy Caldwell Dyson, Dorothy Metcalf, Naoko Yamazaki, and Stephanie Wilson? No? Of course not! They were only the first all-women crew on the International Space Station.

That was 15 years ago. But guess which crew is currently described as "historic" by every news outlet. Time for those little girls on earth to practice their lip-synching talents!

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 48

 Add three Bs with one A, and what have you got? Need I explain?

THE MYSTERIOUS MR. WONG (1935): Come with me to the Chinatown area of
Monogram Pictures, where cinema cliches long-gone reside. Actors of every ethnic persuasion except Chinese. The wisecracking reporter. The wisecracking dame he's got the hots for. The dimwitted Irish flatfoot. And holding court, the criminal kingpin with the thin droopy moustache, flat-brimmed hat, and evil intentions. But the only thing mysterious about him is: why does the Chinese guy have a Hungarian accent? Ah so! He's Bela Lugosi!

Only three years after Dracula, Lugosi was already making himself familiar in the dusty streets of Poverty Row, churning out B's like The Mysterious Mr. Wong. Like Fritz Lang's mastermind Dr. Mabuse, Mr. Wong has minions doing his bidding -- or, rather, killing, as he tries to collect 12 coins once owned by Confucius that, when gathered together, will give him special powers (like sounding Chinese?). Maybe if the cops owned the things, they'd have the power to break this case instead of leaving the job to a reporter and his sidepiece: Wallace Ford (the poor man's Lee Tracy) and Arline Judge (the poor woman's Joan Blondell). 

Unfortunately, Bela Lugosi was already becoming the poor man's Bela Lugosi. Perhaps to compensate for the ridiculous dialogue in much of The Mysterious Mr. Wong, Bela overenunciates his dialogue in order to prevent audiences from falling asleep, his mouth twisting open and shut as if chewing a dozen pieces of bubble gum at once. Yet surrounded by henchmen who look and sound about as Chinese as Edgar Buchanan, Lugosi at least can almost pass for what was once called Asiatic; only the extras are the real thing. Embarrassed as they likely were, at least they got five or ten bucks, a sandwich, and the chance to hang with Bela Lugosi for a week. As with watching The Mysterious Mr. Wong, it's better than a day-old eggroll.

BONUS POINTS: A few years later, William Nigh, the director of this masterpiece, also directed Boris Karloff in three other Mr. Wong movies at Monogram. Only that Mr. Wong is a detective and has nothing to do with this Mr. Wong. I'd say something about "two Wongs don't make a right" but it's too easy, unfunny, and has been done to death, kind of like every Mr. Wong plot, criminal or detective.

MY SON IS GUILTY (1939): Ham-fisted title aside, this is actually a pretty good B, sincere and human, thanks to the leads: Harry Carey as beat cop Tim Kerry; Bruce Cabot as his mildly sociopathic ex-con son Ritzy; Jacqueline Wells as Julia Allen (the girl who inexplicably loves Ritzy), and Glenn Ford as aspiring author Barney (the nice guy who explicably loves Julia). 

Ritzy, sprung from a two-year stint in the slammer, is determined to go straight -- straight to a criminal gang run by femme felon Claire Morelli. Ritzy, having gotten a job at the police station thanks to his dad, turns off the two-way radio system to help the crooks successfully pull off a robbery. Two cops are shot -- one fatally by Ritzy -- while the one with the slug in his shoulder is you-know-who. Eventually that you-know-who is face to face with Ritzy, both of them with gun in hand. Talk about dysfunctional families!

At least half of My Son is Guilty's success is due to Harry Carey. His portrayal of good-hearted cop Tim Kerry (he buys a little roller-skating girl a new bottle of milk to replace the one she dropped after colliding with him) is real and utterly sympathetic. The script might be predictable - is predictable - but you can't help but feel bad that, through no fault of his own, he raised a son who went sideways in life. (It helps Carey looks at least 15 years older than his actual age of 60.) Bruce Cabot, 34 but appearing closer to 50, pulls off the no-good offspring trope better than you usually see in movies like this; just by the way he enters his first scene, you strongly dislike the guy. Jacqueline Wells is cute and engaging, but her character is such a poor judge of Ritzy it's kind of difficult to work up any empathy for her. As for Glenn Ford (in his second feature) --- like his male co-stars, he doesn't quite match his real age: 22 but looking 14. You can see traces of the actor he was going to become, even if he sounds like a better-educated Leo Gorcey. He likely scrubbed My Son is Guilty from his curriculum vitae and memory, but there's nothing to be ashamed of here. Between the stars and a bunch of familiar faces from Columbia Pictures' character actors file, the movie is a step or two above the usual 60-minute fare.

BONUS POINTS: A sequence featuring the legendary tap dancers the Nicholas Brothers was originally shot for, but cut from, the 1934 Columbia picture Jealousy. 

THE SPIDER WOMAN STRIKES BACK (1946): In 1943, Universal released the
Sherlock Holmes mystery The Spider Woman, with Gale Sondergaard in the title role. A year later, The Pearl of Death, another Holmes picture, featured a performance with Mr. Acromegaly himself, Rondo Hatton. It took another year for some genius at the studio put the two actors together in The Spider Woman Strikes Back, hoping to lure in suckers who thought they were getting a sequel to the "original". By the time Universal bothered to release it a year later, both Hatton and the Sherlock Holmes movie series were dead. 

Jean Kingsley takes a job as paid companion to Zenobia Dollard, a blind woman beloved by everyone in the village of Domingo -- beloved because nobody knows Dollard is faking her blindness, and has been murdering every young woman who has worked for her by draining their blood in order to feed her poisonous flowers. These flowers are given to the farmers' cattle to eat by her mute flunky Mario, in order to force the farmers to leave town, allowing Zenobia to buy their property. Hal Wentley, a local yokel who loves Jean, figures out something is rotten in Domingo (or at least in Zenobia's greenhouse), and sets things to right. That is, Zenobia and Mario are burned to a crisp when their abode goes up in flames. As for what the spiders have to do with it -- well, I remember seeing some spiders, but I'm not sure what their purpose was. And besides, Poisonous Flower Woman doesn't have the same ring. You want a detailed analysis of "film", go read the collected works of Pauline Kael.)

You gotta feel a little bad for the classy Gale Sondergaard. Here she was, the first winner of the Best Supporting Actress Academy Award, now slumming in nuttiness like the 59-minute The Spider Woman Strikes Back. It's a credit to her talent that she plays it as if it was worthy of her. For Brenda Joyce (as Jean), it's difficult to figure out if it was a step up or down from playing Jane in RKO's Tarzan B-pictures. Unsurprisingly, Rondo Hatton steals the show as Mario the Monster (as his character is billed). Unlike most of his movies, Rondo has plenty of screentime here. Even better, he's not lit or dressed to make him look frightening. Often wearing a suit (or at least tie and clean shirt), there are times he looks startingly like Ed Sullivan. But as usual, his looks apparently prevent his character from speaking, while his sign language resembles someone doing hand shadow animals. In other words, outside of Sondergaard, Rondo gives the most believable performance in the picture. 

BONUS POINTS: Future TV legends Kirby Grant (Sky King) and Milburn Stone (Doc Adams in Gunsmoke) co-star respectively as Hal Wentley and a scientist). 

GIDEON'S DAY  (A/K/A GIDEON OF SCOTLAND YARD) (1959): It's a rare event finding a comedy/drama done right, especially one featuring not one, not two, but three murders (one involving the rape of a teenage girl), along with various other crimes that don't usually raise a chuckle (unless you get a kick out of an old man getting his skull bashed with a hammer). But damn if Gideon's Day isn't one of the breeziest movies I've seen in some time. And it's directed by John Ford! What's he doing on this blog?

Pipe-smoking Scotland Yard Inspector George Gideon starts the workday getting a traffic ticket from an eager-beaver young bobby. From there, it's all downhill, as he bounces from one case to another, starting with a colleague accepting bribes from a heroin dealer. From then on are the aforementioned violent crimes, along with a bank robbery, and probably a couple others I'm forgetting. There's also a school concert featuring his 18 year-old daughter he wants to attend; showing up in court to make a statement regarding an earlier case; and a fish in his filing cabinet (don't ask). And astonishingly, most of these disparate events wind up being linked in the most unexpected ways.

Gideon's Day (retitled Gideon of Scotland Yard for its American release) doesn't resemble a John Ford production. In fact, with its occasional fast, overlapping dialogue, it could pass for a Howard Hawks movie. Filmed in London with British talent, it lacks the director's usual familiar actors he usually worked with. (Jack Hawkins, as Gideon, is the only actor here I was even vaguely recognized.) Columbia Pictures, had so little faith in the project that they released stateside with a shorter runtime and in black & white. Nice way to treat the only director to win four Academy Awards (six if you include two documentaries). Fortunately, Gideon's Day is available now in its original length and vivid three-strip Technicolor (although with the American credits). No matter the title, it deserves mention along with John Ford's more famous productions. 

BONUS POINTS: Dialogue you'd never hear in an American movie, such as this exchange between Gideon and a thief pointing a gun at him: 

GIDEON: If you were fool enough to fire that gun --                              CRIMINAL: I don't see why you should speak in the subjunctive. I am going to fire this gun!

Even the criminals are classier in the UK.

DON'T READ ALL ABOUT IT!

Louder, kid, I can't hear you.

Around 12:30 on Saturday afternoon, my wife and I were walking home from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We parted ways on 84th Street and 3rd Avenue -- she to go home, me to make two stops on 86th. I had crossed to the east side of 3rd, when the sound of a police siren approached from 86th and Lexington, one block west.

Initially, I didn't pay much attention to it. What caught me off-guard was the speed at which the police car took the turn onto 3rd and headed north. This thing was going fast, like the driver was in a hurry for a really, really good reason before slamming on the brakes at the intersection of 87th and 3rd. "Burning rubber" it's called, like you see in cartoons, where smoke appears from under the tires.

 The cops had just gotten out of the car when a young man -- 15? 26? Hard to say -- ran east from 87th and crossed 3rd Avenue. One of the cops yelled at him to stop, which didn't do the job. So, he removed the gun from his holster, took aim at the guy's leg, and fired. 

Down went the runner.

My first time witnessing someone getting shot by a cop. Getting shot by anybody.

Everyone froze in their tracks. Someone exclaimed "Whoa!" As the cops ran over to the guy, the cross light turned to green. I walked to the north side of 86th, when I had to make a decision. Do I get closer to the action, with my phone in hand to video what was going on? Or do I walk east and continue on my errands? 

I walked east. It seemed too voyeuristic to stick around. Yet as I ducked into the restaurant to pick up lunch, I was in a daze, feeling like saying to the guy behind the corner, "I just saw someone get shot" before settling on, "I'd like a felafel sandwich on pita with hummus, baba ghanoush and a Jerusalem salad". As I left with lunch, more sirens approached the scene of the shooting. And as I went further east, still more arrived.

Still shaken when arriving home, I relayed my story to my wife, who was understandably shocked. But not so shocked as me when, hours later, I watched the local news and searched the internet to learn the details. 

Nothing. Nothing at 2:00, 4:00, 6:00, 9:30. Ditto for Sunday. 

A cop shot an alleged perp on the Upper East Side on a bright, sunny day -- and it was as if it never happened. It was like those "parallel universe" incidents where people claim to have seen things right in front of them that actually happened sometime in the past or future.

There were no movie or TV cameras in sight, and anyway the police department would have shut down the street where it happened. The cop in question didn't use a taser because those little electric prongs didn't come out of the barrel. 

The question for the reader: If a suspect falls from a gunshot in the middle of 3rd Avenue in front of dozens of pedestrians but it isn't reported on the news...did it really happen?

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SUBTRACTING THE ADS

 The suspicious-looking ads on my newsfeed just won't stop, nor will my takedowns of them:

If that's what the roof replacements look like, no wonder they're so damn affordable.

Apparently, it's to steal them from your neighbors during their home reno.

See that little garbage can icon in the corner of the screen? You're welcome. 

Over his dead body.

Judging by the doctor's expression, whatever Pruritus is must be a lot of fun!

Sure. But you can save even more by not purchasing a house you can't afford to begin with.

And for their boyfriends, if you get my drift.

With a glassy-eyed zombie  for a daughter wearing a spaghetti sauce-stained kitchen mop on her head, not very.

"And if you don't answer in five seconds, you and your family are going to be slaughtered like hogs."

Well, here they seem to be acid, ketamine, PCP, mescaline, and salvia.

                                  

Great, I always wanted to be a counterfeiter!

       ******************

A HAIRY SITUATION

I'm honored to be considered the GOAT in my field. Well, maybe not exactly GOAT, but something close to it, as my latest piece for Next Avenue explains:

https://www.nextavenue.org/taking-it-on-the-chin/

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 47

You've got to get up mighty early to find two movies directed by people better known (and more talented) as actors; one of those actors starring in another picture; and a Magnacolor short starring a one-time Shakesperean actor now slumming in stoogeville. Aren't you glad you stayed in bed while I did the heavy lifting?

UNUSUAL OCCUPATIONS (#23) (1940): Running for 12 years, Paramount's short subject series Unusual Occupations seems to have picked up where Warners' Ripley's Believe it or Not! left off. Not that anything is impossible to believe, since everything is fully documented in almost-glorious Magnacolor. 

Yet a glance at the entire series takes a rather liberal interpretation of the word "occupations". The Dionne Quintuplets? Cylinder records? Clams that look like ducks? None of these are jobs. Still, some of what we see in this chapter certainly count as side hustles. Painting miniature portraits (Jesus, FDR, and Hitler among other subjects), creating art out of flowers, or growing pumpkins in the shape of human skulls could earn folks a buck or two. But what of the gas station attendant who built a hand-cranked machine to kick yourself in the ass when you've done something stupid -- no charge!

The longest section belongs to John Barrymore, whose occupation on his tax return was "Actor" but in Unusual Occupations appears to be "Collector of Dead Things". As he leads radio announcer Ken Carpenter around his mansion, Barrymore shows off the collection of fish he's caught, animals he's shot, stuffed heads, and a dinosaur tooth, and, not surprisingly, lots of guns. Comfortably ensconced in his self-parody stage of life, Barrymore's deliberately hammy delivery (you have no idea how someone can roll his r's with such ease) and double-takes entertained moviegoers who avoided his classy productions years earlier. Whatever pays the hunting bills, I guess. Although I wonder if Barrymore thought he deserved a round or two with the ass-kicking machine for allowing booze to destroy his career.

BONUS POINTS: A still of Barrymore from this particular Unusual Occupations appeared in a book about film restoration which I owned as an adolescent. It took over 50 years before discovering the movie online. Too bad its current owner plastered a timer and FOOTAGE FILE watermark over the entire movie.

MY TRUE STORY (1951): Columbia Pictures must have run out of radio series to adapt before giving True Story magazine the movie treatment. My True Story appears to have been a one-shot entry into the non-genre, perhaps as a bone tossed to down-on-his-luck Mickey Rooney to direct. A true story about his life would have been a lot more interesting.

Femme convict Ann Martin is sprung from the slammer with the promise of a job from a kindly confectioner claiming to have been a friend of her mother. He is, in fact, part of her three-man pre-prison jewel robbery gang. Ann is set up as the caretaker for dowager Mme. Rousseau in order to steal the secret ingredient for the perfume her late husband created: oil of myrrh.  While Ann starts having second thoughts, the gang is willing to kill the guy who runs the perfume factory, and, if necessary, Ann's bf, and Mme. Rousseau herself. Beware of three wiseguys carrying myrrh!

All due credit to My True Story for coming up with oil of myrrh rather than jewels or money as the criminals' target. But a B-picture starring no one of importance rises or falls on the script and direction. Neither are particularly special -- the dialogue is run-of-the-mill, while Rooney's directorial style seems to be holding the end of each scene for several seconds after the last line is spoken before fading out. Aldo Ray (billed as Aldo DaRae) is featured in his first movie role as Rousseau's chauffeur who's also part of the criminal gang. As for the rest of the cast, Wilton Graff (as the gang leader) seems to be imitating Vincent Price, while character actor Ben Weldon is the only familiar face. Strictly for B-movie fans, My True Story makes for a somewhat interesting if long 67 minutes. 

BONUS POINTS: The ridiculous finale tries to convince you that Ann's change of heart means she'll never serve a day in prison for taking part in a criminal act that wound up with two people dead. 

THE BIG OPERATOR (1959): Any '50s crime picture  beginning with a guy getting knocked on the noggin and tossed into the back of a cement truck definitely gets my attention -- especially when followed by credits accompanied by a brass & drums-heavy theme common in the late '50s. Welcome to the world of corrupt union leader "Little Joe" Braun, who will stop at nothing from preventing honest union guys from testifying against him in a federal investigation -- like torture, murder, and when that's not enough, the threat of torture and murder to be inflicted on a kidnapped child. A guy's gotta keep his job, y'know.

As in Quicksand and Drive a Crooked Road, Mickey Rooney is superlative as Braun. No need for him to give his character any complexity, either -- he's a just an extraordinarily violent, angry guy towered over by the world yet terrifies all who come in contact with him. (You can't tell me the 5'1" Rooney didn't carry around a tremendous grudge -- his onscreen anger is too convincing not to be real.) And as long as he's onscreen, The Big Operator makes for a riveting good show. Unfortunately, unlike his other two movies mentioned above, there's way too much time devoted to the supporting characters, one of whom is set on fire. (Just to set things straight, the hitman did it on his own accord, forcing Braun to admonish him, "Look, you don't set anybody on fire without my permission!")

That supporting cast, though, is dizzying. Jackie Coogan (The Addams Family)! Jim Backus (Gilligan's Island)! Jay North (Dennis the Menace)! Mel Torme (The Fearmakers)! Vampira, Charles Chaplin, Jr, Mamie van Doren, Joey Foreman, Ray Danton, Steve Cochran -- all in Cinemascope! Their presence alone threaten to overshadow Rooney from time to time. But for my money, you can keep the star of jolly MGM musicals and heartwarming Andy Hardy pictures -- I'll take his angry little chumps, doormats, and criminals any time.

BONUS POINTS: Jackie Coogan -- oddly also receiving a "Dialogue Coach" credit -- played opposite Charles Chaplin, Jr.'s dad in The Kid in 1921. 

GANGSTER STORY (1959): There must have been something in the air in the 1950s for
actors wanting to spread their unsteady wings. For not only did Mickey Rooney The Big Operator, Walter Matthau stepped behind the camera for the crime picture Gangster Story. And, as with Rooney's movie, the poster claims (meaning lies) it's a true story. The main difference is that My True Story at least looks professional, while Gangster Story is probably the worst B-movie starring an actor who was already established -- if, admittedly, not exactly famous yet. 

Gangster Story is the usual, uh, story about a gangster. Jack Martin, on the run from the police, robs a bank -- by making it look like he's rehearsing a movie! -- before being found by the yeggs on the payroll of criminal ringleader Earl Dawson, who hires him to join the gang. Martin's first job is to rob the safe from a country club. While Dawson intends to keep his new employee on the payroll, Martin wants to run away to Mexico with Carol, a librarian who has fallen in love with him for no damn good reason. A subsequent shootout with Dawson and the cops puts everybody's plan to bed for good.

OK, not exactly original but serviceable for a 65-minute quickie. The problem is Matthau the director. Working with a penny-ante budget and non-union crew, he appeared to deliberately make sure that Gangster Story looked strictly amateur hour. Camera shots consistently off-center and occasionally out of focus, dialogue looped in during post-production, ham-fisted editing, and a score that sounds like needle drops -- everything leaves you asking yourself questions. Was this Matthau's attempt at a calling card to break out of supporting roles into leads? Did he surround himself with terrible actors to make himself look that much better? And how the hell did his career survive this piece of junk? If Matthau the actor wasn't as good as he was, Gangster Story could be mistaken for an Ed Wood production. Definitely a must-see. (Google the title and see just how many fly-by-night video companies have released it with covers featuring photos of 1970s Matthau.)

BONUS POINTS: The only name I recognized in the credits, Radley Metzger (the editor), would later become famous as the auteur of artsy softcore epics. When that's a step up in a career, you know you started at the dregs.

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