THE PRICE TO PAY

And L.A. brags about its car culture.

I'm not sure why New York's congestion pricing plan is newsworthy anywhere
beyond the tri-state area. Yes, I know it's the first city in the U.S. to have such a "scheme", as it was described eight times in one BBC news article. (London has a similar scheme, at roughly double the rate of ours.) 

These are the details: Most drivers will be charged $9 once per day to enter the congestion zone at peak hours, and $2.25 at other times. Small trucks and non-commuter buses will pay $14.40 to enter Manhattan at peak times, while larger trucks and tourist buses will pay a $21.60 fee. 

The congestion zone -- which sounds like how medical advertisements would describe your nose during hay fever season -- starts south of 60th Street. That leaves us in the clear since we live north of 60th. Oh, and we walk and use public transportation because we don't have a car. I don't know why anyone here does; no matter what Avis or Enterprise charge, they don't come near the cost of buying, insuring, and legally parking cars. 

On the other hand, some of them are just asking for
trouble.

But I understand why local businesses that depend on regular deliveries object to it, since they're going to have to pass along the rise in costs. Even Amazon, so don't go feeling good about yourself.

If politicians are going to start charging drivers for entering the city, they should also force similar charges on themselves, just to keep things equal:

• Charging a daily fee to every unnecessary local government employee when they show up to work -- and double when they decide to work from home. 

• 

  You can set your calendar by Chuck.

  Charging politicians every time they drag around a podium with the official state seal plastered on it when making an "official" statement in public on Sundays. (I'm looking at you, Chuck Schumer!).

• Charging Mayor Adams when he rolls into the city after the spending the night before at his real home in Newark. (Gracie Mansion was broken into last week. Guess who wasn't sleeping in the official mayoral bed.) 

• And while we're on the subject, charging the security guys who somehow didn't notice some joker climbing the fence and breaking into Gracie freaking Mansion in the middle of the night.

• Charging disgraced ex-officeholders for considering running for office again. If nothing else, it would make Andrew Cuomo think twice about his mayoral plans. And one more courtroom appearance by Rudy Giuliani not complying with the law is always welcome. 

• 

  George and Mike before they got sick
  of us. And vice-versa.

  Charging incumbent New York governors who run for a third term. They always wind up complaining about how dull Albany is and realizing they hate their job. I lived here under George Pataki and Cuomo pere et fils so I know what I'm talking about.

• Same thing with Mayor, minus complaining about Albany. You could almost taste the negative vibes emanating from Ed Koch and Mike Bloomberg by the middle of their third terms. And, as I always say, I loved Mike Bloomberg. 

None of these suggestions will come to pass. When it comes to "belt-tightening", politicians always have a good excuse to wear garments a size or two larger. But consider: Many older New Yorkers were initially outraged by recycling, first in the 1980s for paper, and decades later with glass and plastics. Plenty of people objected to bike lanes. Outlawing plastic shopping bags in favor of reusable ones was right up there with Prohibition in terms of popularity. 

Yet those changes were accepted, grudgingly by older people, and with pleasure by younger people, either native New Yorkers or newcomers, who understood the reasoning and embraced it. They'll likely do the same with price congestion. Until they own a car. 

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

BAD FOR A LAUGH

Not if it keeps up like this, it won't be.

Welp, 2025 sure entered with a bang. Several, in fact. In Montenegro, a gunman killed 12 people -- 13, including himself -- in what was redundantly called a rampage. A Tesla truck went boom outside the Trump Hotel in Las Vegas, an event I would like to think was due to faulty design rather than a political statement. Three people killed in Hawaii in what's described as a fireworks "incident". Ten New Yorkers shot at a Queens nightclub. And of course, 15 celebrants killed and two cops wounded by a member of the New Orleans chapter of the Isis fan club. 

So much information, so little to learn.

The latter was enough for me to watch live coverage: endless replays of cellphone videos taken by witnesses on Bourbon Street; endless replays of photos taken by journalists post-carnage; endless replays of news videos taken by news camera folks taken post-post-carnage. You know, the usual time-filler when there's nothing new to report or see but the news networks have to fill time somehow. 

It was all a warm-up for the press conference, where a representative from the FBI refuted the New Orleans' police chief's earlier ridiculous statement that a guy slamming through a crowd of revelers with his Ford F-150 pick-up truck before firing away with an assault rifle wasn't considered terrorism. 

Gov. Landry believes a little levity could do us all
a little good.

But there were two other moments that caught my eyes and ears. The first was when the press conference participants were lined up and ready for the show to start. 

Despite being a professional politician since 2007, Louisiana Gov. Jeff Landry was apparently too innocent to realize he was on camera when an aide adjusted his jacket collar, leading them and a woman to laugh it up while everyone else was still shell-shocked by the killings. Advice to Landry: always assume that when a TV camera is aimed in your general direction you really are on camera.

The second incident was when it came time for Louisiana Senator John Kennedy to speak. Rumpled, rubbing his face with exhaustion, and looking for all the world like an animated hound dog playing a senator, Kennedy eventually took the microphone and promised to "raise fresh hell" if the FBI didn't eventually release all the information about the killer and anyone else involved.

The reaction of the guy on the left
says it all.

It was an emotional and fully understandable reaction even if there was a whiff of playing to the voters. What wasn't understandable when, moments later, he grabbed the microphone from the FBI rep and used the opportunity to call out the reporters who were asking questions. 

After demanding to know where the CBS journalist was, he looked around for a fresh target. The exchange went something like this:

 

KENNEDY: Where's the NBC reporter?                                   OFF-CAMERA REPORTER: Over here on the right.

KENNEDY: That's unusual.

OFF-CAMERA REPORTER: I don't get the joke.

KENNEDY: You wouldn't.

Yes sir, there's nothing like a U.S. senator turning a terrorist attack into a joke-cum-political shot for the cheap seats. Congratulations, Sen. Not-The-John-Kennedy-We-Think-Of-When-We-Hear-Your-Name. The folks who pulled the lever for you might have whooped, cheered, and whatever else they do in Louisiana. But if one of the victims had been a loved one of mine, I might have blown up a used AMC Pacer outside your office in response. 

Not a threat, mind you, just a joke.

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

THE JOKER IS WILDLY SEXY

However, Mangione will not do high kicks
on the courtroom steps.

If you want to know what the New York trial of Luigi Nicholas Mangione, the alleged shooter of United Healthcare CEO Brian Thompson, will be like, watch
Joker: Folie a Deux as we did over the weekend. Other than Mangione not wearing cheesy clown make-up or breaking into song & dance every few minutes, there's a lot of similarity between the two criminals, particularly the fan club members cheering them on. But unlike the Joker's, Mangione's are of all ages, which should be concerning to insurance CEOs everywhere.

You see, Mangione is perceived as having done something other than trying to create anarchy for the sake of anarchy. For he killed only one person, while insurance companies are considered responsible for thousands of deaths annually. 

In addition to a new toupee, Thomas Halloran
asked for armed security for Christmas.

I do not condone the death of Brian Thompson, OK? I'm sorry, in fact, it took his murder to make insurance company CEOs to piss in their pants from fright. Especially when reading headlines like United Heathcare Taught Us Ways to Decline Claims. There have been plenty of similar headlines and stories and interviews over the years, but CEOs reacted as if approached by a seven year-old trick-or-treater. But none of those kids carried a ghost gun.

Police Commissioner Jessica Tisch didn't help, either, insisting on referring to Mangione as an "assassin" as if Brian Thompson had been a major political figure rather than a well-paid guy who, to remind you, taught his employees how to dump claims into the circular file. If Mangione had killed me because I was hired instead over him to do background work on The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, I would have been "murdered by a thug".

Wow! He must be important!

And if my killer had been brought back from Altoona like Mangione, he'd have been shackled in the backseat of a police car driving on Rte. 80 in the middle of the night rather than being helicoptered in the middle of the day to an NYPD helipad with Mayor Eric Adams following close behind for the news cameras that just happened to be hanging around. 

OK, ladies, take your pick.

That was when Tisch announced Mangione would be charged not just with murder but terrorism. You think the monsters who recently set fire to an unknown homeless woman in a subway station will get terrorism charges slapped on them? 

So thanks to Adams and Tisch for helping to make Luigi Nicholas Mangione more of a twisted hero than he's considered already. At least we officially know that rich people mean more to city officials than its ordinary citizens do.

PS: In addition to Medicare, I also have supplemental coverage by United Healthcare. Never had a problem with them.

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

SUBTRACTING THE ADS, PT. 5

 The ads on the MSN news page must work some people. I just don't want to know who they are.

Born in the 1920s, remembers the 1890s. What's the opposite of Alzheimer's Disease?

For most families, that's the only way you're going to get them to do it.

... cheapest person they know.

Here's an idea: stop using credit cards.

Stop using credit cards!

STOP USING -- Ahh, forget it. Do you what you want, I don't care.

Click the little thingy that says, "DELETE ALL". You're welcome.

It would be nice if you didn't have to squint through the image on them,
though.

For those nights when you just can't sleep.

Whoever it is, I hope she has better grammar than this ad.

********

THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 45

From the dawn of sound to Beatlemania -- for you youngsters out there...

THE CANARY MURDER CASE (1928): The first of Paramount's mysteries with amateur detective Philo Vance, who's always happy to help the NYPD solve a murder. Here, The Canary is an entertainer, not somebody's pet. There's no shortage of suspects, starting with rich kid Jimmy Spottswoode, with whom she had a brief fling, and his fiancée Alice LaFosse; Jimy's father; three other men she's been having a go at; and a husband fresh out of prison. When Jimmy later confesses to the crime, Vance knows he's lying but has to figure out how to prove it when the real killer dies in an auto accident. 

More than any other movie detective, Philo Vance is dependent on his portrayer. Sure, he's an effete intellectual smarty-pants like Sherlock Holmes, but otherwise he has no personality to speak of. At least William Powell provides the proper panache, style, and what have you. He and Eugene Pallette (as the corpulent police Sergeant Heath) handle their dialogue like the longtime stage actors they once were, with their contrasting personalities providing plenty of amusing moments. 

It's the first 20 or so minutes that are problematic. Filmed as a silent in mid-1928, the Paramount execs quickly ordered it reshot as a talkie. Louise Brooks, as The Canary, had already sailed for Germany to make Pandora's Box and refused to return. Since the Canary is killed early on, another actress was hired to dub in Brooks' dialogue. Not only is what we're hearing obviously not Brooks' voice, it doesn't match what her lips are saying. And when certain very short parts of her scenes had to be reshot rather than merely dubbed, the other actress is conveniently (and awkwardly) offscreen as she speaks. A few other brief silent portions of the movie are jarringly voiced by the real actors but lack ambient sound effects of, say, slamming doors and auto engines. 

Simply as a murder mystery, The Canary Murder Case isn't bad. The suspects all have reasons to kill the dame. It keeps you guessing until the end. But between the dubbing and the solution to the murder being as absurdly convoluted as any ever dreamed up -- typical for the Philo Vance movies I've seen so far -- it's surprising that The Canary Murder Case didn't murder the series almost before it started.

BONUS POINTS: Whether by accident or not, one of the suspects, played by Gustav von Seyffertitz, is a double for Lenin.

GRAND EXIT (1935):  Former investigator Tom Fletcher is rehired by his old employer Interoceanic Fire Insurance Company to figure out who's behind the string of fires at buildings they cover. Over time, he and his sidekick John Grayson run into Adrienne Martin, who happens to be at each fire they investigate. Adrienne lights a fuse in both men. Sparks fly. Flames of love grow. But does smoke get in their eyes?  It's a match made in hell! (Thanks to one-sheet on the right for inspiring all that hype.)

Grand Exit really does keep you guessing, as Tom and John have plausible motives to be the firebugs. Tom was previously fired by Interoceanic and replaced by John. Sure, Tom arranges for John to stay on the payroll -- so his junior partner can be proven to be the arsonist as he suspects. And if not John, then Adrienne could be a good fall guy, considering her unusual interest in his investigation. On the other hand, Tom could be exacting revenge on the company for getting fired in the first place and needs to frame somebody to pin the fires on, like Adrienne. 

Yet with all these conflagrations, Grand Exit is surprisingly lighthearted. Edmund Lowe, on the cusp of the end of his leading man days, and Ann Sothern at the beginning of her career, get plenty of laughs in roles appearing to be influenced by William Powell and Myrna Loy in Thin Man, right down to his penchant for day drinking.  Onslow Steven makes for a good straightman of the trio, thanks partly to his offbeat good looks. Lowe is undeniably the star, though, thanks to his fast-paced delivery and pulling shenanigans like impersonating a nut in order to follow a lead in a psych hospital. Never quite as charismatic as Powell, there's nevertheless a certain style about him that catches me off-guard every time I see him (The Gift of Gab notwithstanding). He was probably forgotten by the time of his death in 1971 but deserves a second look. But I still don't know what the title Grand Exit has to do with arson.

BONUS POINTS: One of the newsreel stock footage of fires features a brief shot of a building with a sign reading PLYMOUTH CHURCH. Just for what I consider fun, I did a Google search, and discovered it's located in Brooklyn and was part of the Underground Railroad during the 19th century.

SHAKE HANDS WITH THE DEVIL (1959): Looking at its American promotional material like the one-sheet on the right, you'd get the idea that Shake Hands with the Devil was a gangster picture. This was merely to fool people who would otherwise have no interest in watching an historical drama from the UK about Northern Ireland, circa 1920. 

Janes Cagney plays Sean Linahan, an erudite medical professor by day and the second in command of the Irish Republican Army by night. All of the actor's familiar mannerisms are with him, right down to the way he stands with his arms not quite at his sides, looking like he's preparing to throw a punch or break out into a dance routine. 

At 60 years old, Cagney resembles a paunchy, aging bulldog who still has it in him to rip your face off, as his character's "cause" isn't so much freeing Ireland but a psychopathic urge to commit violence for the sake of violence -- kind of like Kenneth Branagh's Belfast meets Warner Brothers' White Heat, but with different accents. So it's a real downer that his co-star, Don Murray, is such a wet sock in comparison as the American-born Kerry O'Shea, drawn into the cause when his roommate is killed by British forces. 

Murray is totally at sea in a role that should have gone to someone who could convincingly play a confused young man while still holding his own when surrounded by the likes of Cagney, Michael Redgrave, Glynis Johns, and Richard Harris (as a nasty IRA member). Not even the fine director Michael Anderson seems to have been able to draw anything more than average from Murray, even as he frames and lights every scene to perfection. A step or two away from great, Shake Hands with the Devil is still a riveting drama, giving an idea of where Cagney's career could have gone had he not retired two years later.

BONUS POINTS: In what was likely a daring bit of drama at the time, graffiti scrawled on a wall reads UP THE REPUBLIC. That's tellin' 'em!

THE MUSIC OF LENNON & MCCARTNEY (1965): Way too many people thought a little of the Beatles magic would rub off on them if they recorded the band's music. Way too many of them were wrong, as proven in this 1965 British special hosted (as if at gunpoint) by John and Paul themselves. The singers here who had been given Lennon & McCartney songs not recorded by the Beatles -- Peter & Gordon, Cilla Black, and Billy J. Kramer (all managed by Brian Epstein) -- come off quite well because their versions are literally incomparable. It's only when you hear remakes of Beatle recordings by the likes of a baroque-style orchestra or someone named Antonio Vargas you realize how important the Beatles themselves are to this music. And don't get me started on the allegedly groovy choreography by bleached blondes in go-go boots, which is the antithesis of what the Beatles were all about.

The interesting moments are few. American soul singer Esther Phillips' "And I Love Him" could have been a minor hit had it been written for her. At the piano, Henry Mancini's version of "If I Fell" demonstrates how strong their melodies could be. But the most memorable moment in The Music of Lennon & McCartney is "A Hard Day's Night" orated by Peter Sellers as Laurence Olivier playing Richard III. In addition to being pretty funny, it (deliberately?) makes the lyrics to the original recording sound really, really silly. Sellers and Mancini, by the way, are the only guests who perform live.

The hacks responsible for the subpar script put the naturally witty John and Paul on the same level of the atrocious Beatle cartoon series. (John's opening smirk immediately gives the game away.) It isn't until they're joined by George and Ringo to perform lip-synch their latest single, "Day Tripper" and "We Can Work It Out" are you reminded that these guys revolutionized the music world. These two moments alone prove The Music of Lennon & McCartney would have been a better showcase had it featured the Beatles and nobody else. Except maybe Peter Sellers.

BONUS POINTS: Ever have the desire to hear a Beatle song sounding machine-gunned out by a flamenco dancer? This is your chance.

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

NO CANADA!

It appears that 95% of New York state would
be perfectly happy if the other 5% took a hike.

 As the results of the recent US elections continue to sink in, many office holders continue to figure out how to right the good ship S.S. Democrat before it sinks completely out of sight.

Then there's New York State Senator Liz Krueger, who seems to be giving up entirely. She's spit-balling the harebrained idea of New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, and Vermont of seceding from America and becoming a Canadian province.

Either Sen. Krueger -- whose districts include Manhattan, naturally -- thinks this is a fun way to troll Donald Trump or assumes that the rest of us are ready to apply for citizenship in another country. Whatever "good" reasons there are for hightailing it to the Great White North, there are plenty more that aren't:

French fries with poutine -- a fancy word for cheese curds and gravy. That's right up there with another Canadian delicacy, sushi pizza. 

Americans don't even know their own history. You expect them to learn someone else's? 

The Stars and Stripes remind you of strength, opportunity, the right to speak one's mind and worship as you please. The maple leaf? Syrup.

The American $1 coin was nicknamed Lady Liberty, symbolizing freedom on the march. The Canadian $1 coin is called the Loonie, because... well, take your pick.

America proudly offered Laurel & Hardy, Martin & Lewis, and Abbott & Costello to the world. In return, Canada foisted these guys on us whether we liked it or not. And we didn't.

To give you an idea of the country's technology, its longest-lasting TV series, Hockey Night in Canada, started airing in the US first -- by 14 years -- because Canada didn't have its own networks at the time. In Quebec, that's what they call metre le chariot avant le cheval. 

And while we're on the subject, is it English or French up there? Make up your mind!

Well, look what country lost its right to feel morally superior to the USA! "Canadian Nazi Party" even has its own Wikipedia page. Sieg heil, eh? 

Guess what Jim Carrey, Lorne Michaels, Rachel McAdams, Mary Pickford, Christopher Plummer, the entire cast of SCTV, Sandra Oh, Louis B. Mayer, the Warner Brothers, Michael J. Fox, Lorne Green, Alex Trebek, Donald Sutherland, Keanu Reeves, Kim Cattrall, Seth Rogen, Ryan Reynolds, Pamela Anderson, Neil Young, Dwayne "The Rock Johnson", Matthew Perry, Fay Wray, Carrie-Ann Moss, and William Shatner have in common? They're all from Canada! You know what else they have in common? They all left Canada!

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

SELL YOUR BOOTY

But they don't want to hear what
happened to the musicians who 
played on it.

 There are endless stories of early rock musicians getting ripped off by managers and record companies. A guy I used to work with played guitar on the million-selling hit "Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini". For the band's fine work, they were paid one (1) carton of Coca-Cola to split among them.

Today, it's the internet ripping them off, with royalties paid in the tenths of cents. Only a pink unicorn like Taylor Swift is guaranteed to make bank with every release (and re-release) of her records, with tours providing a very lucrative gravy. 

Taylor will never have to resort to British pop singers Kate Nash and Lily Allen decision to open OnlyFans accounts to supplement their income by charging people to look at their butt and feet respectively. 

Lily gives a free sneak preview on Instagram.

Would you be surprised to learn they're making more money with their side hustles? It kind of makes you wonder why they even bother with that whole music nonsense when all they need to do is set up their iPhone and snap away. If there were enough people nutty enough to pay to look at my feet, I'd never get out of bed, unless it was for the occasional pedicure. And if they preferred my feet as they are right now, I'd never leave my front door. 

As with Lily Allen, Kate
Nash negates "you
gotta pay to play" by
providing a look gratis.

Nash and Allen are trotting out the bromides about how "empowering" it is to "take control" of their bodies, the same way women claimed about stripping 25 or so years ago. It actually sounds like they've lost control of their bodies, seeing that this is the only way they can earn a living. 

Nash also claims she's trying to "start a conversation" about the current state of the music industry. The only conversation she's starting is "Have you seen Kate Nash's ass?" Not that she minds. As she says, "My arse is shining a light on the problem." Without a bikini of any size or color. She and Lily would be dumbfounded to learn that a Top 40 hitmaker like Harry Nilsson could make a comfortable living without ever touring.

Resale tickets for Elvis Costello's tour next February are going for over $1,000. I felt like I was breaking the bank shelling out 25 bucks for orchestra seats to see him in the '80s. But that was at a time when you had to buy tickets at the box office and not from scalpers, royalties were more generous, and Elvis didn't have to show his butt to make ends meet. I think we can all agree which of those we're most grateful for.

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

THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 44

 One movie from each decade from the '20s to the 50's, with only one starring an actor you might be familiar with. Hey, I've got to offer something to the masses

SEVEN FOOTPRINTS TO SATAN (1929): As a 12-year-old fan of old horror movies and
young dishy starlets, my heart raced at a black & white still of a bizarre creature with unkempt hair and bad teeth towering over Thelma Todd (seen below). I had no idea what the movie was about, nor did I even care. All I wanted was to see the production, tantalizingly titled Seven Footprints to Satan. 

Alas, this was an impossible dream, for it was apparently lost, or at least misplaced. Then, very recently, a restored version became available for a mere $8.99. I waited for the right time (the 75 minutes my wife would be out of the house), put it on and prepared to be scared witless by monsters and seduced by a sexy actress.

Well, at least I got the sexy actress. As with nearly every rediscovered "lost" movie, Seven Footprints to Satan --originally a silent/talkie hybrid now lacking its original Vitaphone soundtrack --proved to be two footsteps to disappointment. Not that it's bad. The general idea of a couple kidnapped and taken to a strange mansion where they are put through their paces by Satan's minions, monsters, and eventually the host himself, is a good one. But I quickly figured out that the whole thing was a ruse, and that all the "monsters" were actually people paid to scare the male half of the couple (Creighton Hale). 

It's not like I'm giving anything away. You'd figure it out, too, even if 1929 audiences didn't. I realize the comedy/thriller genre was a big thing at the time, but come on. You've got to have genuine thrills mixed with the chuckles. While the actors' make-up and the art design are impressive, conceptually Seven Footprints to Satan isn't much different than one of those pop-up "horror houses" that appear in your neighborhood every Halloween. Is it worth $8.99? For a quasi-legendary once-lost picture, sure. Is it worth watching again? With Thelma Todd in a lowcut dress, absolutely. But not until next Halloween. Or the Halloween after.

BONUS POINTS: One of the "scary" creatures is Angelo Rossitto, the dwarf from the previously-discussed Old San Francisco and Scared to Death. Sheldon Lewis, the guy in the memorable still with Thelma Todd, plays the title role in the genuinely terrible, not-worth-watching-even-once The Phantom. Oh, and a naked woman is tied up to a pole and whipped.

IT'S NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND (1937): Squire John Meadows is a malevolent, vindictive justice of the peace in a small town he holds in the palm of his hand. When he's not bribing people to break the law on his behalf, he runs the local prison, taking glee on doling out physical and psychological punishment on the inmates -- men, women, and adolescents alike -- with an alarmingly sadistic glee. His latest scheme is to win the hand of the lovely Susan Merton by framing her fiancé George for poaching. When the real poacher, George's friend Tom, confesses to the crime, he is imprisoned. George, meanwhile, goes to Australia to seek his fortune but promises Sue he'll return. Seizing his opportunity, Meadows pays off the postmaster to give him George's letters so they don't get delivered. Deciding that isn't enough, he spreads the rumor that George has married another woman in Australia.

If you want subtlety, you've come to the wrong movie, for It's Never Too Late to Mend -- not the most understated title, either -- stars Tod Slaughter, usually called Britain's answer to Bela Lugosi. You want scenery chewing? Slaughter chows down with the manners of a starving hyena, with his co-stars not very far behind. Even the lovebirds George and Susan engage sweet nothings that went out of style two decades earlier. But that's the whole idea behind Slaughter movies, as they deliberately recreate the over-the-top melodrama of 19th century British stage plays (which is likely why they were never released in the U.S.). And once you get into the groove, your oh-so-sophisticated attitude and heh-heh snickering will give way to emotions you'd rather not admit to possessing. 

Go ahead, you laugh at the  15-year-old boy, imprisoned for stealing a loaf of bread for his starving mother, dying in a metal straitjacket. You chortle at the chaplain protecting the prisoners with only the power of his faith. You giggle as Squire Meadows slips the heroic George a mickey in order to steal his newly-won fortune and fiancé. 

Trust me, It's Never Too Late to Mend -- considered one of Tod Slaughter's more "serious" movies --will have you hissing and booing the same way British audiences did when such behavior in the theater was not just accepted but demanded. And wouldn't it feel better to do that at an old, low-budget movie rather than the evening news?

BONUS POINTS: The 19th-century novel and play on which It's Never Too Late to Mend is based so moved Queen Victoria that she demanded the reform of the British penal system.

THE MONSTER MAKER (1944): PRC's The Monster Maker plays like a celluloid Mad-Libs game of countless poverty row movies: A PHONY DOCTOR from EASTERN EUROPE, who keeps a GORILLA in his LABORATORY, injects a CONCERT PIANIST with a dose of ACROMEGALY in order to marry THE PIANIST'S DAUGHTER, who resembles THE DOCTOR'S LATE WIFE, despite HIS ASSISTANT being IN LOVE WITH HIM. 

Credit the three(!) writers for coming up with the acromegaly angle to separate The Monster Maker from other low-budget B's of its type, even if its title damns anyone with the disease as, well, a monster. Very few people had likely even heard of it had it not been for actor Rondo Hatton, a real acromegaly victim. Here, Ralph Morgan has the honors, and only because we needed to see his before-and-after visage. Once a star at MGM (as in the adaptation of Eugene O'Neil's Strange Interlude), Morgan wasn't the only former A-lister who found himself slumming in stuff like The Monster Maker a decade later. A pro to the end, he gives his all for a concept that probably had everyone on the set dizzy from rolling their eyes.

Speaking of one-time A-listers on the skids, Bela Lugosi must have been busy making Voodoo Man at Monogram in order for J. Carrol Naish to win the lead role of Dr. Igor Markoff. Strictly in support throughout his career, he was probably thrilled to get top billing for a change. Hollywood's idea of a linguist, Naish played a wide variety of ethnic roles equaled only by his limited

talent. Italian, German, Russian, Sioux -- you can't tell one from another without the wardrobe and make-up departments cluing you in. (One of Naish's most absurd roles was in The Hatchet Man where his portrayal of a Chinatown resident consists of squeezing his eyelids nearly shut and over articulating his dialogue even more than usual.)

In order to pad out The Monster Maker to 65 minutes, co-star Wanda Blake (the object of Naish's affection) often repeats dialogue spoken to her, only as a question ("Your father visited me for a consultation." "My father visited you for a consultation?"). And we can't forget the ol' gorilla-in-the-lab gag, which serves no purpose other than for Dr. Markoff to try killing his love-starved assistant Maxine. These kinds of things make me love movies like The Monster Maker. It's short, utterly predictable, wildly implausible, and perfectly entertaining.

BONUS POINTS: They don't even try to convince us that the first scene in a Carnegie Hall-style theater is just a faux-loge 20 feet away from the faux-stage

BLACK TUESDAY (1954): The exceptionally violent Black Tuesday shows Edward G.

Robinson at age 61 still in all his glory as Vince Canelli, the star inmate of a West Coast prison where he and his fellow death row resident Peter Manning await their turn in the hot squat. One of the prison guards has been forced to help facilitate the escape of Canelli and others on death row in exchange for the freedom of his kidnapped daughter. But while the guard gets plugged anyway, the criminals look forward to splitting $200,000 in stolen loot Manning has hidden in a place only he knows -- even after he's been shot.

There's something poignant about Edward G, Robinson in Black Tuesday, still speaking with the N'yeah, see? delivery that made people sit up and take notice 25 years earlier. As for his character, Canelli's at an age where he should be enjoying his ill-gotten fortune by lounging on a beach in Acapulco, not breaking out of stir again with guns blazing. Not like Canelli's the reincarnation of St. Jude. While on his getaway from prison, Canelli kicks three of his death row pals to the curb in order to make sure he gets more of the stolen dough. He's willing to risk the life of the badly-wounded Manning for the same reason. Not even Father Slocum, the prison priest he's taken hostage, is safe from his threats. Maybe poignant isn't the right word after all.

Robinson overshadows his Black Tuesday co-stars, although the older, familiar character actors manage to hold their own. (No point in naming names -- you'd only know them by their faces anyway.) But the younger, less impressive supporting actors are straight out of a baby-boomer's Emmy Award "In Memoriam" segment. In addition to Peter Graves (Mission: Impossible) as Manning, there's Milburn Stone (Gunsmoke), Russell Johnson (Gilligan's Island), William Schallert (Patty Duke Show), and Stafford Repp (Batman). Black Tuesday is unlikely to be considered a classic in the Robinson canon like Little Caesar, but it still makes for fine entertainment and demonstrates how commanding an actor he was throughout his entire career.

BONUS POINTS: Sylvia Findley as Ellen Norris, one of the few actresses who looks like she would be Edward G. Robinson's girlfriend (which might be why her imdb profile lists only two movies).

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