RACE BAITING

Spring has arrived here in New York, and with it come its familiar signs -- foggy mornings, young women in pajamas walking their dogs, and political ads crowding the television airwaves like psychos on the subway. And lucky us -- we get to see them for two different states!

When you realize this required several takes to 
capture every angle, Fulop's feat isn't so
impressive.

Across the Hudson River, the Democratic primary candidates for New Jersey governor are big on images and scary words. Steve Fulop runs up a long flight of stairs in his gym clothes to prove that he's in shape to take on Donald Trump and Elon Musk. Navy vet and current House of Representatives member Mikie Sherrill stands by a helicopter ready to take aim at Donald Trump and Elon Musk. 

I'm pretty sure Trump did a similar ad
against Biden.

Sean Spiller, former mayor of Montclair, uses mock-ups of newspaper headlines
warning us about the damage done by Donald Trump and Elon Musk. In the silliest spot, A.I.-generated images show Josh Gottheimer boxing Donald Trump (presumably Musk is Trump's cornerman). All of these ads leave me wondering if J.D. Vance is embarrassed or relieved that the candidates don't consider him worth mentioning. 

It would appear, then, it doesn't matter which of these candidates wins the primary since they're all promising the same outcomes. Not so in New York, where the two leading candidates for Mayor are different enough to make things interesting. If politics is ever interesting.

Polling at 37%, Andrew Cuomo is the favorite to win on name recognition alone. His commercials deftly avoid any mention of past brushes with corruption and groping which cost him his previous job of Governor. (By the way, you know a politician is hungry for any kind of power when they try to get a job at a lower position than before.) 

A rare photo of Andrew Cuomo not getting handsy
with a young female.

Unlike the Jersey governor ads, Cuomo's are strictly of the handshake and speechifying varieties; no aircrafts or boxing matches here. Yet unable to change his questionable ways, the image to the right is from a commercial created by an allegedly-independent PAC in collusion with Cuomo's official campaign. This failed sleight of hand cost the former governor $622,000 in fines, not one cent of which will cost him a vote. Name recognition -- it's a good thing!

Speaking of name recognition, Zohran Mamdani has gotten traction by being the only semi-serious challenge to Cuomo, at least to younger voters. Over 30 years younger than the former governor, Mamdani proudly boasts of "progressive values" that has boosted him to number one in the hearts of 18-49 year-olds. Those votes have placed him in second place at (drumroll, please)... 18%. 

Mamdani hoping that Republican voters
confuse him with J.D. Vance.

That's 20 points behind King Cuomo. Only in New York is that considered a serious candidate by a news media desperate for any kind of excitement in an otherwise tedious race. Finally realizing the dreaded Babyboomers must be served, Mamdani has made a couple of key changes in his campaign style. First, he's traded in his hoodies for suits that make him look more Mayoral and less John Fetterman. 

Unfortunately, not all the older New Yorkers are warming up to a leftist Muslim endorsed by a former U.S. Representative who called the rapes and killing of Israelis on Oct. 7 "a lie". Nor do they take to headlines like "Mamdani passes on condemning the Holocaust". Stuff like this is concerning in a city second only to Tel Aviv with the largest Jewish population in the world. Another involves black voters, 50% of whom support Cuomo to the 8% Mamdani can boast of. 

"I'll take pandering to minorities for $100, Ken."

These problems seem to explain two commercials I've noticed this week running on Jeopardy! They're essentially identical except for the narrators. One of them features the voice of a 60ish Jewish woman. The second, a 50ish Black man. Neither hits the "accents" very hard, but just enough to let the target audiences know that Mamdani is safe to vote for. 

The Jewish spot ran as Jeopardy! went into a commercial break. The Black was in the same break just before returning to the show. Apparently, the Mamdani campaign believes Jewish people are more likely to watch commercials, while Black viewers go the bathroom and return 30 seconds before the second half of the show. 

And if you wonder where Mayor Eric Adams is, well, as WABC-TV News reports, the Democrat-turned-Independent-turned-loser is polling at 8% "and falling". Look for his next ad to feature someone with a Turkish accent.

                                         

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 51

 The three features discussed here are admittedly more interesting as artifacts rather than straightforward entertainment, while the 30-minute short is either remarkably intellectual or a bunch of hooey. Or both.

THE VALIANT (1929): A young woman named Mary visits a convicted murderer in prison, believing that he is her long-lost brother James. The prisoner denies the accusation but says they served together in the Canadian army during World War I, and assures her James died a hero. Mary leaves just before the prisoner keeps his date with the hot squat, not realizing he really was you know who. And that's all, folks.

Well, not quite all. Everything about The Valiant is a little odd -- it feels like a short expanded to one hour. And for good reason, seeing that it's based on a one-act play. Only in opening it up for the movies, its makers added what amounts to a 30-minute prologue -- the killer's confession to the cops, and his elderly mom and younger sister back home in Ohio gradually being convinced of the killer's real identity. Further mucking up things, The Valiant's corny opening theme music played on a silent movie organ, flowery intertitles setting each scene, and even the actors' make-up make me think it was sitting on the shelf a year before its release. (A 1928 calendar at the police station is a giveaway.) 

While The Valiant  received 

positive reviews in its day, the only thing of interest now is that it marks the movie debut of Paul Muni, one of the most acclaimed stage actors of his time. As usual with Muni, you get an idea what the big deal about him was on Broadway, while still realizing the guy never figured out how to act for movies. (Unlike his later scenery-chewing antics, here he's damn near comatose.) Strictly for completists, The Valiant's second half at least gives an idea what a night at an honest-to-gosh Broadway show was like almost a century ago. 

BONUS POINTS: Early on, a stereotypical Irish policeman warns a priest, "You want to watch out for the cop on the next corner. He's not one of us!" Gee, I wonder what that could mean.

MADAM SATAN (1930): If you want to see a musical comedy-drama-romantic farce-aerial spectacle directed by Cecil B. DeMille, you're in luck! But be warned: C.B. doesn't have the touch for satiric, proto-screwball comedy.  As for the score, the forgettable songs range from not-so hot jazz to shrill operetta (the latter typical of early movie musicals). 

So what's all the hubbub about Madam Satan being a pre-code classic? It all comes down its legendary second half, consisting of a masquerade party aboard a zeppelin tethered to a tower in what appears to be New Jersey. Starting with the bizarre, art deco "Ballet Mechanique", the festivities devolve into women auctioned off to the highest bidder, guests getting sloshed on illegal liquor, and the leading man's wife and sidepiece vying to see which one will eventually go home with him. But this being a DeMille picture, Madam Satan wouldn't be complete without a humdinger of a climax, as the zeppelin breaks loose from its mooring during a violent thunderstorm and gradually falls apart thousands of feet in the air, sending its passengers into a Titanic-style panic. 

As for the first half, only the risque bedroom scene featuring stars Kay Johnson, Reginald Denny, Lillian Roth and Roland Young gets laughs, even as it lacks the lightning-fast pacing these things require. If the antics aboard the zeppelin sound interesting, go here, enlarge the screen and fast forward to 51:00. I can honestly say you've never seen anything like it.

BONUS POINTS: Reginald Denny, the philandering husband, played King Boris on two episodes of Batman a year before his death. 

FOLLOW THRU (1930): Okay, so maybe a semi-operetta climaxing with an airship disaster is too blase for your tastes. Then you're just the right person for Follow Thru -- the only musical about woman's golf in two-strip Technicolor you'll ever see (or avoid). 

Expectant father "Mac" Moore has bought a set of golf clubs for what he hopes will be his son-to-be. When learning his wife has given birth to a daughter, Mac decides the girl will break into the male-dominant sport. Jump cut a couple of decades. Lora Moore (Nancy Carroll) is on her way to becoming a pro golfer. But upon losing a tournament to the snooty Ruth Van Horn (Thelma Todd), Lora is forced to get lessons from instructor Jerry Downes (Charles "Buddy" Rogers). Before you can say "Fore", Lora finds herself competing with every woman at the country club for Jerry's affections. In other words, Follow Thru reneges on its original proto-feminist concept in favor of "a jane isn't complete without a man". Sounds par for the course, but at least Lora gets a mulligan to win Jerry's heart. 

Even for this gotta-see-every-early-talkie guy, Follow Thru was a chore, forcing me to focus on its historical "importance". First, I got to see the dishy Thelma Todd in color. Second, it features two supporting actors from its original stage cast, Zelma O'Neil (sort of a young Martha Raye, and that's no compliment) and Jack Haley (the Tin Man in that Oz movie), both of whom are still playing to the back row of a Broadway theater. BUT... Haley's goofy shtick of going into a seizure whenever he's in the company of a pretty woman had me laughing out loud each time, which means no one else will find it funny. Otherwise, Follow Thru never makes it to the majors due to its basic entertainment handicap of a bad script, likely driving contemporary audiences to the 19th hole.

BONUS POINTS: As with many stage-to-screen musicals of the time, Follow Thru features some new songs written for the movie. One of them, "Button Up Your Overcoat", became more popular than one of the original love songs bleated repeatedly throughout the movie.

TRUTH AND ILLUSION: AN INTRODUCTION TO METAPHYSICS (1964): I find that any movie with a title like that to be an invitation to a deep nap. TIL, as we'll refer to it, is an exception. First, it's only a half hour. Second, it appears to have been shot on 16mm Kodacolor film, which makes it resemble a home movie from six decades ago. Third, it was written, produced, filmed, narrated and directed by King Vidor (under the nom-de-film Nicholas Rodiv), acclaimed for legendary movies including The Big Parade, Hallelujah, Our Daily Bread, and The Crowd. On the other hand, he also directed The Fountainhead and Duel in the Sun, which shouldn't stop you from seeking out the others I mentioned.

By the time Vidor made TIL, five years had passed since his final feature Solomon and Sheba. Now 70 years old, perhaps the semi-retired moviemaker had become interested in things greater than movies (as if that even exists). Sounding very much like an aging college professor, Vidor clearly explains to even numbskulls like me the difference between truth and illusion, using the concepts of sunrise and sunrise, and even the very movie you're watching. 

By the end of TIL, Vidor will have you questioning everything you've ever read, listened to, or were taught. When he advises, "The world was formed by each one of us in his own mind", you know his former boss Leo B. Mayer wouldn't have known what the hell he was talking about. You tell the guy who championed the wholesome, easy-to-digest Andy Hardy pictures that a guitar doesn't make a sound unless somebody is around to hear it and see what he says. TIL is available on YouTube if you want to go down the metaphysical rabbit hole with the director of Stella Dallas as your guide.

BONUS POINTS: King Vidor was also the uncredited director of the black & white Kansas scenes in The Wizard of Oz, which I nominate as the average child's first metaphysical experience. 

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LUCKY 14

 

"Anybody here have four extra fingers to
make it 14?"

There's a couple of things about Pope Leo XIV we need to clear up. Like, doesn't the name look like that of an e-car? Drive the new Leo XIV! More miles per charge than any other battery-powered vehicle! The inevitable lion logo might draw the ire of the legal department at MGM, but it would be worth the publicity.

Second, what's all the noise about this being the first American Pope? Do people not remember Pope Francis hailing from Argentina, which is located in South America? I realize the word "America" conjures up non-Argentinian images as hot dogs, Slushees, and Fox News employees running the government. But "America" is not used exclusively by people north of the Mexican border. Hell, if Leo were from Montreal, wouldn't he be technically American? As in NorthAmerican continent?

On the other hand, some things are too far
gone even for the Almighty.

Let's call Leo XIV what he is: the first Chicagoan elected Pope. Now that conjures up much more interesting possibilities, like the Vatican chefs learning to make Chicago favorites like deep-dish pizzas, chicken vesuvio, and edible balloons. And won't it be nice to finally have a Pope who's a fan of baseball rather than soccer for a change? Lucky for the Cubs, if history is any judge they're going to need someone on their side who's got God's ear. 

As with the Ritz Brothers, the real star is in the
middle.

Too, let's put aside for a moment the good works Leo XIV was responsible for
during his Bob Provost days and ponder this instead: Have you ever heard of any Pope having one brother let alone two? 

Talk about sibling rivalry. It's bad enough when a brother makes good on the world stage while you're still stuck in your hometown. 

But imagine your younger brother becoming Pope! Forget about "I'm so proud of him, this doesn't come as any surprise to me". Just wait until they go through a few bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon at the next Thanksgiving dinner and one of them pulls the "God always liked you best!" stuff. Pope or no Pope, Leo's going to remember that Chicagoans have long memories. 

Oh, and for his own good, Leo XIV better ease up on all the pro-migrant chatter. American Evangelicals have Trump on their side. And we know how he got elected.

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TEXT STRESS

 In my two score and 13 years of driving, I have been the proud owner of zero cars. I grew up in a family where there were two them in the driveway and garage. During college in Boston and subsequent move to New York, the subway was and continues to be my mode of transport. Whenever driving has been preferable or necessary, I've rented cars. 

So imagine my embarrassment when I received this text six weeks ago:

Did I say "embarrassment"? I'm sorry, I meant to say "affrontment" (even if there isn't such a word). New York State can't suspend my vehicle registration because I have no vehicle registration to suspend. And by my memory -- admittedly, not laser-precise -- I hadn't rented a car since the middle of January. There's no way toll-and-tax hungry New York state would have waited over three months to threaten me with any punishment less than sitting through a press conference with Gov. Kathy Hochul. Zip, bang, boom the thing went in the "Blocked" file. 

That seemed to be the end of it. Until less than a week later:

Both the website I was to click on and the number from where it was sent were different. So were the other phone numbers the texts were being sent to. As if I wouldn't notice! Unlike many scam texts, the grammar on these two missives was almost perfect. I'm not sure if I would've pluralized "impact" but, unlike the message itself, it could definitely pass for correct. Another number blocked. 

Since I allowed the "pay or else" date to pass, I figured it would be my last notice. No no no, as I learned three days later:

Wowee! Looked like they really meant it this time. From the exclamation mark in the yellow triangle to the boldfaced FINAL ENFORCEMENT, the guy at the other end was insistent on me coughing up some dough. And to make it look even more like he knew what he was talking about, he threw in that little doohickey in front of the New York State Vehicle and Traffic Law and Part 127 of the Commissioner's Regulations. Not that I knew all that without Googling it. 

Yet why did they give me another chance after being a scofflaw regarding paying the toll? So they could send me give me another "final" warning yesterday, that's why:

Wait, did I say final warning? This is a FINAL ALERT, and the best yet far as grammar and legalese crap are concerned, even if the area code, as the others, is anywhere but New York state. Once again, the other recipients along with the "remit here" number are different. No need to read the whole thing -- it's just a rehash of the previous texts with 10 times the mumbo jumbo. 

I was seriously hoping for another warning this morning stating something like, OK, buster, this time we're not kidding!  Instead, just as I was finishing this piece, a different text arrived:

This time's the charm! Even if they did send the exact same text last December.

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 50

 

BROKEN LULLABY (1932): Paul Renard, a French veteran of World War I, is haunted by killing German soldier Walter Holderlin during combat. In an attempt to ease his guilt, Renard he visits the victim's bereaved family -- and Walter's former fiancée Elsa -- intending to admit he was responsible. Unable to bring himself to tell the truth, Paul tells them instead that he and Walter were friends in pre-war Paris. Herr Holderlin's hatred toward France gradually melts, while his wife finally finds joy in life once and more. And as Paul is accepted as part of the family -- and falls in love with Elsa -- he finds himself more tortured than ever by withholding his secret.

A 180-degree change from the usual frothy comedies directed by Ernst Lubitsch, Broken Lullaby is an anti-war drama forcing the audience to understand the pain suffered by both sides of war. (One shot of a veteran's parade has the camera placed under the amputated leg of a soldier -- one of the most startling moments in a 1930s picture.) And as Herr Holderin (Lionel Barrymore in a sterling performance) gradually recognizes his generation's responsibility for sending its sons to their deaths, his own guilt-ridden outburst to his French-hating friends could have been written today. No doubt Broken Lullaby was one of the more mature, insightful dramas of 1932, with a message that still resonates over time.

Unfortunately, the movie is nearly derailed by Phillips Holmes as the tortured Paul Renard. Haunted -- perhaps going mad -- by killing the German soldier, Holmes' performance is out of a 1910 silent melodrama, when over-emoting was considered high drama. Contemporary audiences who might otherwise take to Broken Lullaby's message likely will find Holmes off-putting at best, laughable at worst. Why Ernst Lubitsch -- an expert at subtlety and sophistication -- encouraged Holmes' scenery-chewing is a mystery. Nevertheless, just for its unusual story (and poignant finale), Broken Lullaby is deserving of one go-round. Just try not to be distracted by Phillips Holmes' histrionics -- or occasional resemblance to Timothee Chalamet.

BONUS POINTS: The flashback to the scene in a foxhole where Renard finishes signing Walter's final letter home by holding the dead soldier's bloody hand. Unforgettable, tragic, and gruesome all at once.

THE WOMEN IN HIS LIFE (1933): Otto Kruger does his best Warren
William/Ricardo Cortez mash-up as the brilliant, womanizing, day-drinking lawyer Kent Berringer, who's never seen a criminal he didn't defend or a dame he couldn't deflower. His debauchery hits a wall when pure-at-heart Doris Worthing tries hiring him to defend her father for murdering her stepmother -- who happens to be Kent's ex-wife. The shock sends him on an alcoholic spree leading to his disbarment. Kent makes it his mission to find Tony Perez, the malefactor he believes really offed his ex.

The Women in His Life has everything one wants in a pre-code picture: a fast-pace; racy dialogue; pre-marital sex; and a general disdain for morality. There's also plenty for the eye, like beautiful art deco sets, and Kruger's fabulous tailored suits, provided by MGM's wardrobe department. I've seen plenty of these lush early '30s movies, and nobody looks as good as Kruger does here. I would kill for this stuff. And he'd defend me in court!

But Kruger is just one actor that makes The Women in His Life so entertaining for early talkie fanatics. From the very beginning, when the camera tracks down a row of busy telephone operators to the usual friends, lovers and suspects, there are faces more welcome than those of your own family. You know instantly upon seeing their names in the credits the characters they're going to play and how they're going to do it. In addition to Otto Kruger (far left), there's Roscoe Karnes as Kent's wisecracking assistant Lester (far right), C. Henry Gordon as oily criminal Tony Perez (in the chair), and Una Merkel as Kent's smartass secretary Simmy Simmons (not seen in the still). In a world spinning out of control, The Women in His Life makes for a comforting respite.

BONUS POINTS: In what appears to be a real copy of Variety, the front-page headline reads NUDIES EYE STAGE COIN. This could mean strippers wanting better pay, or low-budget, adult-only independent movies hoping to charge Broadway ticket prices. Feel free to come up with your own translation.

PILGRIMAGE (1933): Or, A Mother's Love Gone Off the Rails. In 1917, small-town widow Hannah Jessop prevents her son Jimmy from marrying his knocked-up girlfriend by arranging for her son to be drafted in hopes of him being killed in World War I. And she succeeds!  A decade later, Hannah reluctantly joins other gold star mothers to attend a memorial ceremony in Paris, where she meets a young man in the same position as Jimmy was. Finally realizing what a bitch she's been, Hannah urges the young man's mother to allow him to marry his sweetheart. Hannah returns to the farm a changed person, begging forgiveness from Mary. As if that's going to bring back the old crone's son.

I give credit to director John Ford for making Hannah thoroughly detestable for most of Pilgrimage. She admits to Jimmy that she'd rather see him dead than wed Mary (or any woman), barely sheds a tear when getting word of his death, and refuses to acknowledge her bastard grandson. Actress Henrietta Crosman (born in 1861!) overshadows the other actors in the picture to the point where there's no need to mention them, yet she's never for a moment hammy. You just hate her, and continue doing so until the last reel when she finally admits to herself -- and eventually Mary -- what a terrible person she's been all these years. Frankly, I wouldn't have forgiven her, but I hold a grudge like you wouldn't believe.

There's some humor in the Paris scenes, such as Hannah and another farmer/mother successfully taking aim at every target in a shooting gallery. But that's enough fun and games; after the ceremony, she tells the other mothers that unlike their sons, hers was "no good" -- meaning he wanted to leave the farm and get married. There are precious few moments where Hannah's haranguing isn't heard, making Pilgrimage difficult but definitely fascinating to watch. I just kind of wish she fell off the ship returning home.

BONUS POINTS: During the scene when the grandson is teased by his classmates for being illegitimate, I recognized Marilyn Harris, best known as the little girl tossed in the pond in Frankenstein. Norman Foster, who played Jimmy, later became a director; his output includes a bunch of Mr. Moto and Charlie Chan pictures, the Orson Welles-produced Journey into Fear, and the noir classic Kiss the Blood Off My Hands. Glad he wasn't really sent to his death by his mother.

IF YOU COULD ONLY COOK (1935): Gentle, post-Code screwball comedy? A merry mix-up based on deception? Another one of those Depression era millionaire-goes-slumming farces? Sorta, kinda, and for sure. 

Auto magnate Jim Buchanan, unhappily engaged to a woman he doesn't love and fed up with his board of directors, walks out of his job and into Central Park, where he makes friends with the unemployed Joan Hawthorne. Mistaking Jim for one of her own kind, she finds them positions as cook and butler for former bootlegger Mike Rossini. Over the course of a week, Jim and Mike fall for Joan; Joan gets arrested for robbery for showing Jim's sketches for a new car to one of his business rivals; Jim is talked into returning to work and his fiancee; and Mike rounds up his hoodlum pals to eventually set things right for everybody. And if any of this comes as a surprise, you haven't seen a movie made before 1960.

If You Could Only Cook was Columbia's rare attempts at sophisticated comedy. The classy Brit Herbert Marshall (The Letter) is nicely self-effacing as Jim, who willingly loses a few stripes off his captain of industry. It's easy to understand why he goes for Joan (Jean Arthur, who always sounded like a pack-a-day-smoking Minnie Mouse). She's a jumble of contradictions: smart yet naive, sexy but innocent, cynical but romantic. In other words, they're the kind of people ticket-buyers meet only in the movies.

And so are Marshall and Arthur's costars. Leo Carillo gives Mike Rossini the kind of Italian accent you'd hear in comedies like this. Another familiar voice belongs to the sandpaper-throated Lionel Stander (Soak the Rich) as Mike's sidekick Flash, who's suspicious of the new help from the get-go. Many cineastes tend to describe If You Could Only Cook as "unfairly underrated". To me, it's cute and charming but becomes laugh out loud funny only in its zany final 15 minutes, which is what you remember best after the closing credits.

BONUS POINTS: In the UK, Columbia Pictures falsely promoted If You Could Only Cook as a Frank Capra production. By way of apology, Columbia boss Harry Cohn gave Capra cut of movie's profits. 

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TAXING MOVIES

 Nothing surprises me anymore. Not politics, history repeating itself, or that I'm not posting stuff as often as I used to. The latter is a combination of many things. An aging brain. No longer finding world events ripe for bringing on the funny.  And just how many obscure movies can one write about before people start asking Doesn't this guy do anything else? I believe you've figured out the answer by now.

Home Alone 2: And you thought Ronald Reagan
was the only president in the movies.

But lo and behold comes a story I can't pass up, courtesy of Donald J. Trump posting over the weekend:

“The Movie Industry in America is DYING a very fast death. Other Countries are offering all sorts of incentives to draw our filmmakers and studios away from the United States. Hollywood, and many other areas within the U.S.A., are being devastated. This is a concerted effort by other Nations and, therefore, a National Security threat. It is, in addition to everything else, messaging and propaganda! Therefore, I am authorizing the Department of Commerce, and the United States Trade Representative, to immediately begin the process of instituting a 100% Tariff on any and all Movies coming into our Country that are produced in Foreign Lands. WE WANT MOVIES MADE IN AMERICA, AGAIN!”

(Before we go on further, it's necessary to ask: did Trump skip school when the teacher taught that most words require capitalization only at the beginning of sentences?) 

Now I hate to say it, but Trump makes a valid point or two. More American productions than ever are shooting elsewhere even when they take place on their home turf. Television series like Matlock and the upcoming Blue Bloods spinoff Boston Bloods both film in Toronto. I guess the only reason the latter isn't titled Toronto Bloods is because it isn't alliterative.

The Boston Bloods cinematographer better not
 point the camera to the left side of Toronto.

As usual, greenbacks are the reason. It's cheaper to fly the cast to Canada or even Eastern Europe and pay for their lodging rather than filming where the studio is within driving distance to their own home. That's what happens when the leading actors for your American movie charge between $30-million (Leonardo di Caprio) to $156-million (Keanu Reeves for two Matrix sequels total). Hey, they've got gaffers in Hungary!

At least the right-wing nuts were better-dressed
back in the day.

But this is where the joke comes in. Trump has capitalized on his voters' hatred for the mythical, multi-headed ogre called show business. Not a week goes by when Trump complains mightily about George Clooney, Barbra Streisand, or Robert de Niro. Now suddenly the death of the movie industry is suddenly a national security threat. You'd think that's what his voters wanted in the first place -- to destroy Hollywood in order to save them. 

What is Trump's endgame? Does he think his celebrity fans like James Woods, Roseanne Barr, or Jim Caveizel will suddenly get hired if more productions are stamped MADE IN AMERICA? And while we're at it, how does one slap a tariff on a movie? Forcing theaters to charge $40 a ticket? Netflix adding a "foreign fee" to subscribers who watch low-budget romcoms with Budapest standing in for San Francisco?

Perhaps it's necessary to heed Steve Bannon's advice: Flood the zone with shit. It certainly stopped people from talking about three U.S. citizen children, including a four-year-old with cancer, being deported to Honduras. 

See, you forgot it, too! Hooray for Hollywood!

                                                                       ***********

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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