FILE UNDER: AWFUL PEOPLE

 As the Epstein files continue to roll out, people across the political spectrum may have to rethink their long-held beliefs. For the royalists, it's that Harry and Meghan were the worst things to happen to the Royal Family since the Duke of Windsor said, "Hi, Hitler!" to his charming host. Which, in their heart of hearts, they likely defend,

Remember, this was Queen Elizabeth's
favorite son.

For the left, it's that the crazy QAnon cult might not have been so crazy after all. Remember guffawing when they warned about an international sex/pedophile ring involving the world's elite? I sure do. It's like learning there really is a Santa Claus, only instead of children receiving gifts, they're being trafficked to the highest bidder. 

When I use the word "elite", it has nothing to do with education. For how stupid does one have to be not to wonder why your best friend is constantly snapping photos of you, preferably in the kind of compromising positions that two-bit private eyes would trade their best fedoras for? 

I didn't think anything could top Prince Andrew Andrew Mountbatten Windsor proudly pawing the prone body of a young woman -- or girl, perhaps? -- while making sure Jeffrey Epstein or one of his minions snapped away from various angles.

"Does it turn you on when I
commit treason, luvvie?"

But then came Peter Mandelson, the UK's Ambassador to the US, chatting with another young woman --or girl, perhaps? -- while clad only in a t-shirt and tighty-whities. Did it not occur to Mandelson to ask, "Hang on, mate, what's going on here?" 

Or had his relationship with Jeffrey Epstein gone so far from what is considered a normal friendship that he realized it was already too late to protest the most embarrassing image since your high school senior class photo? 

And talk about stupid -- this was the third time in his political career that Mendelson had been caught giving inside economic information to an American billionaire. It's good to know Prime Minister Kier Starmer is right up there with Donald Trump when it comes to hiring the best of the best. 

Woody and Soon-Yi follow their master in a rare
moment of sunshine.

Let's be fair, it isn't just the Brits who are up to their Wellies in Muck a la Epstein. Woody
Allen can no longer pretend to be just a regular schnook who spends his evenings listening to Benny Goodman 78s while banging out scripts on a 1960s manual typewriter. Not when he spent many wonderful evenings in Epstein's New York mansion he nicknamed "Castle Dracula" due to the "young women" roaming around. Did the Woodman not get the note that Epstein had served time for pedophilia in 2008? 

Let us, too, allow a moment of scrutiny of Woody's beloved Soon-Yi Previn's text to Jeffrey Epstein regarding Anthony Weiner's sexual hijinks with a 15-year-old girl:

Highlights for the TLDR crowd: I also thought it was disgusting what the 15-year-old did to him. She knew exactly what she was doing to him. What is her excuse for being a miserable human being?  And misspelling "weak" as "week".

This would actually make for a good Woody Allen movie! Can't you just picture Woody's character reacting to the New York Times publishing this correspondence? "What are you, crazy, I-I-I don't believe this!" Cue "Sing Sing Sing" as we see him pouring over every newspaper he can lay his hands on.

Alas, self-serious college students must be twisting themselves into intellectual pretzels as they ponder how their very own Plato, Noam Chomsky, hung with Jeffrey Epstein, billionaire enemy of the proletariat. 

No way is Chomsky going to fly coach with the
lowly working class.

They're not going to be able to explain this away Bill Maher-style by thinking It's good when opposing sides speak to each other. Not when Chomsky advises his private-jet-owning pal on how to handle the bad press surrounding his sex crimes:

" [...] the horrible way you are being treated in the press and public. It's painful to say, but I think the best way to proceed is to ignore it. What the vultures clearly want is a public response, which then provides a public opening of venomous attacks, many from just publicity seekers or cranks of all sorts -- which are impossible to answer." 

This is friend-to-the-workers Noam Chomsky advising one of the hated nomenklatura nine years after Epstein's sex conviction. His response to questions regarding their friendship -- "It is none of your business" -- is richer than Epstein. Had anyone else responded in such a way to their connection to a billionaire sex offender, Chomsky would have been on his high red horse like the Lone Ranger. 

"What, me worry?"

Not to worry, nobody is going to pay a price. Not Trump, Woody, Noam, Andrew, nobody. Unless you consider Andrew moving out of his house or Trump being on the receiving end of a toothless Saturday Night Live sketch or Woody not getting nominated for an Oscar or Noam not getting the Hasty Pudding Club award. 

We must all sadly admit QAnon might have been on to something. Now when will JFK, Jr. return to the grassy knoll as promised?

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

ADIPOSE REX

 

Coming soon to a clinic near you.

Now that even the Trump administration knows it isn't a good idea to have silicone, superglue, and caulk injected into your butt, body-obsessed women are no longer relying on Home Depot for beauty supplies. Instead, they're returning to the good ol' days of grave robbing: ethically-sourced cadaver fat. 

Well, not grave robbing, per se. As folks can donate their eyes to the blind after they die, they can now do the same with whatever's left to those who need a little more of what their momma didn't give them. 

There was a time when women
wanted this gunk surgically removed.

But don't call it body snatching! The official trademarked name is alloeClae. More inviting, right? The same way you can refer to fatal disease as a "challenging situation". Let's see how AI describes it:

AlloClae is the first structural, donor-derived adipose tissue filler designed for non-surgical body contouring, providing immediate volume and long-term fat grafting results without liposuction. It uses processed, sterilized fat cells to enhance areas like the buttocks, breasts, and hip dips, offering a, low-downtime, and customizable alternative to traditional fat transfer. "Hip dips" is a new one on me, although I'm familiar with the other body parts mentioned. 

A life-changing difference.

The name of the lab responsible for alloeClae, Tiger Aesthetics, evokes images of big game hunting, which isn't ideal if you want to make this kind of thing seem perfectly normal. Their website uses scientific jargon like "Maintains extracellular matrix" and "Retains the innate 3D honeycomb structure of the adipocytes" that comes as naturally to plastic surgeons as "I don't accept insurance". To eager patients willing to take the adipose plunge, it sounds like the coolest sounding butt lift in the world, something out of, well, The (Extracellular) Matrix.

Translation: feast on corpses.

To me, it gives off a Soylent Green vibe, using medical double-talk in place of
saying "dead people's fat". Look at that Tiger Aesthetics screenshot on the left and tell me this isn't something out of a sci-fi/horror movie like The Substance. 

That would look odd.

Patients admit to the "creepiness" of the surgery, while one woman said, "It's like having a Birkin bag on my chest." That sounds like a procedure gone horribly wrong, but she was referring to the $35,000 price-tag. And when you consider that the procedure lasts only one to three years, you have to wonder if spending that kind of dough on a regular basis for the rest of your life is worth not having real Birkin bags. While I've got a butt flatter than a note sung by Madonna when she's not autotuned, I think I'll stick with posing with my own adipose.

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

METRO NO-WIN MAYOR

If the Post put the same effort in reporting
news as creating their front pages, they'd win
a Pulitzer Prize.

It should be obvious that the establishment fears Mayor
Zohran Mamdani not because he's going to destroy New York but that he will keep his promises without destroying it. 

Therefore, it's incumbent for the New York Post to churn out cut-and-paste front pages like the one on the right to amp up the fear factor. (I don't recall any tears when previous mayor Bill de Blasio declared Zoom classes would eliminate "snow days".) Expect future Post headlines like these:

MAM BEFORE THE STORM: Zohran holds storm press conference despite not having meteorology degree

NO SNOW ZO: Mamdani refuses to join New Yorkers sledding on hill outside Gracie Mansion

ZOVERTIME OVERDRIVE!: Mamdani okays snowplow operators to cash in on snowstorm by working overtime to keep streets clear 

ULYSSES S. MAMDANI: Historian says Zohran's beard similar to that of corrupt RINO president

ZO: "NO HO!": Mamdani cracks down on underage sex work, costing teens spending money

MOM, DAMNIT!: Mayor insists on single mothers having affordable healthcare whether they want it or not

ZOMNY CARD: Riders complain free buses more crowded: "Saving $3 not worth it"

ZO GROWS SHOPPING TIME: Longer lines at grocery stores as lower healthcare costs end choice between medicine or food

MAMDANI: "SALAMI? BALONEY!": Zohran's veggie meals hurting local meat industry

ZOHRAN NO RAN: Thousands run marathon in rain while Mamdani keeps dry at pricey UES restaurant

MAMDANI NOT GOING FOURTH: Fireworks as Mamdani declares Independence (Day) from all-American franks in favor of Mideastern kabobs

ZO DOC? NO DOCS!: Mamdani cures cancer, puts surgeons out of work

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

THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 63

 How can four movies count as five? You'll find out.

TRAPPED BY THE MORMONS (1922): Long before the Church of Latter-Day Saints was an object of satire in a Broadway musical, it was considered a nefarious sexual cult. Just look at the tagline on the billboard for the British silent shocker Trapped by the Mormons.

Nora Prescott, a virginial thing of beauty, is mesmerized by Isoldi Keene, a Mormon elder, into leaving her parents, dumping her noble boyfriend, getting her female coworkers to join the church, and eventually marrying him. (Man, I had it tough just getting a girl to have a beer with me.) When Keene's current wife Sadie objects, he arranges for her murder. Keene's associates decide that Nora, who's finally come to her senses, might as well get the heave-ho as well. This movie might as well be titled Killed by the Mormons. 

You know right off the bat what kind of a scoundrel Keene is, seeing that the very first shot is a close-up of his eyes as he practices his hypnosis skills. He pulls every trick in the book to win over Nora, even the ol' resurrecting-the-dead gag. Religion never comes in to play as far as Mormons here are concerned; it's all about the polygamy. The only thing Nora's elderly father hates as much as the Mormons, it seems, is America because that's where these people come from. Just the seeing "Utah" on a pamphlet is enough to drive dad into a frenzy. I bet he's just jealous of all the tail those guys are getting.

The one thing that keeps Trapped by the Mormons from going full-scale camp is Evelyn Brent's portrayal of Nora. While Louis Willoughby (Isoldi Keene) and Cecil Morton York (Nora's father) compete in a scenery-chewing contest as if their union memberships depended on it, Brent keeps an even keel throughout. It's odd she rarely broke out of B-movies like Symphony of Living  (Interference being an exception). Quite a comedown for the attractive, American-born Brent, who had great success in classy British stage productions during the 1920s. Her character might have been trapped by the Mormons, but Brent herself was trapped by the studios.

BONUS POINTS: I recognized Olaf Hytten, one of the Elders, from his appearances in the 1940s Sherlock Holmes movies. God, how did I ever get laid?

THE INFORMER (1929): Long overshadowed by John Ford's 1935 adaptation of the novel, the original UK production of The Informer is interesting in  its own way. Gypo Nolan, a dimwit former member of the local Communist Party, turns in a comrade for the reward money so he and his hooker honey can sail to America. But being a dimwit, he starts flashing the cash at the local pub, leading folks to figure out what happened, and party officials putting him on "trial" 

Perhaps wanting to make Gypo even less sympathetic, the British version has him rat out his comrade out of jealousy over Katie, the woman they both love. In order to ease his guilt, Gypo eventually gives the reward money to a needy young woman whom Katie mistakenly believes he was carrying on with, leading her to inform on him to the Commies. While Ford's adaptation switches the Commies to the IRA, these changes in the original make for a more interesting story, as they add extra layers of drama and irony overall. The recently-restored DVD of The Informer, then, is well-worth a viewing.

The silent version, that is. Following its production, a sound version was prepared, dubbing dialogue in some scenes while reshooting others. This where the problem starts. Lars Hanson (Gypo) was Swedish, and Lya De Putti (Katie) was Italian, and needed other people to dub in their voices after the fact and, in at least one scene, off-camera while the stars very carefully mouthed their slowly spoken dialogue. Not only is it clunky, it's incredibly distracting, as Katie now has a cockney accent, and Gypo sounds like a talking gorilla. In fact, nobody has an Irish accent in The Informer. Watch the silent version of The Informer with its new score, followed by the part-talkie, and you'll understand why many movie critics thought sound was a bad idea.

BONUS POINTS: In its favor, the sound version recorded with the RCA Photophone process has a pre-credit overture to set the mood. Things like that are important to me, dammit. 

SHAKEDOWN (1950): The cliche of the on-the-spot, lightly unscrupulous but loveable newspaper photographer from the '30s and '40s gets a literal beating in Shakedown. Freelance shutterbug Jack Early turns his newfound gig at a San Francisco broadsheet into a moneymaking machine. First by taking shock, tabloidish photos, then playing criminal kingpins Nick Palmer and Harry Colton against each other for cash. Apparently deciding this isn't dangerous enough, Jack sneaks Harry and his gang into a party with a bunch of society swells so they can rob the joint. But this is one job that won't develop as well as his photos.

It isn't often that you're rooting for the criminals, but you can't help it in Shakedown. Howard Duff makes Jack Early even more of a sociopath than the gangsters. The way Hollywood vet Brian Donlevy plays Nick, I'd have worked for him on the side and thank him profusely. Lawrence Tierney gives Harry a sinister edge, of course, but he won't give you any trouble if you don't mess with him. Now starting the downslope of his career -- he's fourth billed -- Tierney is unusually lowkey in Shakedown, making him sound almost exactly like Humphrey Bogart.

But by the end of the first reel, it's Howard Duff you loathe. He tells a drowning victim and a jumper to pose before he snaps their photos. He breaks up the engagement of photo editor Ellen Bennet (Peggy Dow) before putting the unwanted moves on Nick's wife Nita (Anne Vernon). His own editor (the underrated Bruce Bennett) hates him. In the abyss of Jack's miserable life, he watches Harry hotwiring Nick's car to blow up when he turns the ignition -- and lets it happen in order to get the shot and Nick's wife! You know a guy is despicable when you cheer as Lawrence Tierney slaps him hard on the face and, at the end, gives him what he's been asking for all along. A fast-paced drama with flashes of very dark humor, Shakedown will shake you up.

BONUS POINTS: Still in his bit part days, Rock Hudson has one line of dialogue as a nightclub doorman. 

LA VERITE SUR BEBE DONGE (1952): Sometimes it takes a while to rethink my initial take on a movie. In the case of the French production La Verite Sur Bebe Donge, it was the (over)night after seeing it. Certain images and plot twists came back to me in ways I hadn't appreciated the first time. By the time I had fallen back to sleep, it had gone from being one of those, you know, French movies where philosophical musings pass for small talk and world weariness is the default mood for the lead characters to a fascinating study of a marriage that never should have happened, with both sides to blame.

Director Henri Decoin, a fan of American movies, incorporates Hollywood noir touches throughout the film as we watch Francois Donge (Jean Gabin) dying in a hospital after being poisoned by his wife Bebe (Danielle Darrieux). Through flashbacks, we see how they got to this point -- a combination of Francois' infidelity and Bebe's blind spots concerning both his and her poor choices. (In an amusing moment, they even whisper their doubts to each other during the marriage ceremony). Going back and forth in time, we see, too, that everyone in the couple's orbit, from their family to friends, the doctor, and even a judge knows about the poisoning and can do nothing about it as long as Francois refuses to press charges. Only if he dies can the police move in.

Jean Gabin has the reputation as being one of the great French movie actors of his time, but it's Danielle Darrieux who knocked me out as the killer wife. Initially madly in love with Francois, her innocence gives way to an ice-cold heart. Such is her steely gaze and hardened exterior that Darrieux at times looks like a different woman altogether. As good a director as Decoin is, much of the credit to this transformation has to go to Darrieux herself. 

An American studio like RKO could have made La Verite Sur Bebe Donge with little difference other than a snappier pace than its 113 minutes, but it's fascinating to see a French noir with an American look. As with plenty of films francais, an anti-snob like me has to roll with La Verite Sur Bebe Donge on its own terms if they're to find any enjoyment in it. Fortunately, there's enough Hollywood in the trimmings to have made it an interesting watch. Even if I only realized it at 2:30 in the morning.

BONUS POINTS: Henri Decoin and screen writer Maurice Auberge pull a fast one by setting up Bebe's first scene to be one thing only turning out to be another at the climax. You'll understand when you see it.

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

MY REGENERATION

 I hadn't even had my first sip of coffee when the double headline on my neighborhood newsletter popped my eyes open:

A Futuristic Hamptons 'Longevity Clinic' Opens On The UES

"Human Regenerator" beds, IV drips, oxygen chambers and light therapy galore.

I'm pretty sure Stanley Kubrick got there first.

Whoa! Now that I'm two months away from turning 70, I've been looking for someplace to regenerate myself. And all it took was lying on something out of an Isaac Asimov novel like I, Mattress. All the usual treatments you've heard of -- and many you haven't -- are available.

Only people who can afford red light
 therapy can do it with a straight face.

 Red Light Therapy sounded like something they taught when you were sent back to driving school after three tickets. On the other hand, who needs an old school One-A-Day when you can have an IV vitamin drip at least 100 times the price? And you can just throw out your Dove Soap when Hamptons BioMed can offer you a "Peptide-Based Facial". 

I had to look up how a "Peptide-Based Facial" will make you look. It sounded pretty similar to what my wife gets at Mario Budescu, only Hamptons BioMed likely adds an extra $300 to the bill. Peptides don't come cheap.

What they don't tell you is that you wake up
looking like an extra from a 1950s sci-fi movie.

Their Human Regenerator Beds -- as opposed the kind for dogs, I guess -- are "designed to support cellular recovery and overall balance while clients rest on them."  According to the manufacturer's chart, the beds can make you into a new person 15 different ways, from oxidative stress reduction right down to improved nail and hair health. I'd be happy if it could prevent me from waking up every hour to take a leak. 

When the revolution comes, the Hamptons'
elites will drown in their peptides.

 Naturally, none of these services are covered by insurance. And by putting "Hamptons" in its name, you know treatments like these are only for guys who wear green polo shirts, pink khakis and white shoes, and women who dig out their best pearls for lounging at the South Fork Country Club. The BioMed folks might as well come out and say, "Optimum health is wonderful, life-changing, and only for those who can afford it." Another shot of peptides at table six, garcon! 

 

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

ADAMS & SKEEVE

 Like Long Covid or a pesky fly in the kitchen, Eric Adams will not go away. Less than two weeks after Zohran Mamdani was sworn into office, the former Mayor and present-day grifter turned up in Times Square -- an ironic spot for a guy who doesn't seem to understand that his time is up.

Adams announcing this scheme outside the
NYPD in Times Square -- this guy does not
understand the concept of irony.

In what was undoubtedly the opening salvo in his upcoming four-year attempt to
steal more than just the spotlight, Adams introduced the NYC Token. This isn't what you'd use to ride the subway, but a crypto currency that, will be used to  "address anti-Americanism, antisemitism, to teach our children how to embrace the blockchain technology of how to run cities correctly."

 Adams couldn't stop talking about -- make that took advantage of --antisemitism when the Muslim candidate kicked his ass in the primaries. Adams then ramped it up in the general election, when he received 6,897 votes out of over two million cast. While antisemitism is and will always be a problem, Adams (and his fellow fathead Andrew Cuomo) explicitly linked it to Mamdani. In their thirst to win the election, they were really campaigning on the anti-Muslim ticket. Who says politics is cynical?

So, while watching the news reports of the crooked-as-the-Shenandoah-River former mayor's crypto crap, I muttered to my wife, "This is just a pump and dump." Not like I'm any genius when it comes to economics -- every celebrity crypto business is a sham. Guess what happened.

Thirty minutes! That is some fast work there, pardner. Maybe faster than all those payoffs from Turkish officials. Here are some more details:

A wallet tied to the token’s deployer pulled $2.5 million in USDC liquidity at the market peak, only to re-add $1.5 million after the token’s price had already plunged more than 60%, according to Bubblemaps. The token’s market cap briefly touched $600 million before crashing below $110 million.

Observers likened the activity to the infamous LIBRA token collapse last year, where manipulated liquidity preceded a multi-million dollar wipeout. Critics also warned of centralized control and opaque fund flows.

Are you weeping yet?

Two kinds of people invest in celeb crypto. Wide-eyed fans who think some of that star-power translates into riches, and insiders who are out to scam them. And whether it's Kim Kardashian or Donald Trump, the scammers (and their friends) always win -- in this case, in a half hour. It doesn't matter how many times it happens, numbskulls fall for it.  And thank God because it gives me something to write about. As the president says, I like uneducated people. Sometimes.

Now Donald Trump's newest protégé successfully pulled a fast one on the public. If this is how "to teach our children how to embrace the blockchain of how to run cities correctly" as Adams promised, we've got a hell of a future ahead of us. It's all Mamdani's fault, I guess.

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

THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 62

Forty-six years separate the oldest and newest movies here, bookended by a silent version of a classic stage play and a semi-update of a classic novel. The fans of the play and the book would object to them. Too damn bad.

GHOSTS (1915): It helps to have a rough idea of what Hendrik Ibsen's groundbreaking play Ghosts is about. Otherwise, you'd think the "Inherited Trait" mentioned in one of the intertitles was insanity brought about by too much partying rather than syphilis. 

Capt. Alving's marriage to the wealthy Helen Arling doesn't prevent him from continuing his roue ways, even at his wedding reception. As time passes, his behavior worsens, even urging his eight-year-old son Oswald to knock back a shot of whiskey. Helen ships Oswald to boarding school, where he becomes a renowned artist... who keeps rubbing the back of his neck because that's apparently an effect of the "Inherited Trait". It also drives him to go off his nut, burn down a church and eventually take poison. Well, that's what syphilis a sore neck will do to you.

Wisecracks more or less aside, Ghosts at least tries to get across the idea of an STD, while definitely keeping the incest subplot of the story, as Oswald falls in love (and almost marrying) the woman he doesn't realize is his half-sister. His real father, of course, sired her out of wedlock -- which comes as a surprise to the guy who thought he was her father. Just why the family doctor knew all this but never told anybody until it was almost too late proves he should have lost his license to practice medicine. Or he just wanted to give Ghosts an excuse to run more than three reels.

Controversial dramas made in 1915 aren't known for subtlety, but Henry B. Walthall (Beggars in Ermine) is quite good as Alving father and son; his climactic nervous/psychological breakdown is remarkably effective and kind of scary. If you cut Ghosts some slack, it's not difficult to understand why it was considered a powerful, adult movie in its day, even if it cuts corners. Watch for Erich von Stroheim in a bit part in the boarding school, too.

BONUS POINTS: Following the opening credits, somebody named Karl Fromes poses as Hendrik Ibsen rather stiffly. Maybe he had a sore neck.

JULIUS SIZZER (1931): Do you remember a comedian named Benny Rubin? He was the go-to actor if you needed an old guy, maybe running a pawn shop or complaining about kids these days. Rarely explicitly Jewish, his character came close enough to give you the general idea.

Not so in the early days of sound, when Rubin's "gift" for Yiddish accents, slangs, and malapropisms came to the fore in many low-budget two-reelers for the smaller studios like RKO Pathe, which released the gangster parody Julius Sizzer. Here, Rubin plays crime boss Liddle Sizzer (you get the joke, right?) and his younger brother, the goodhearted Julius. The "plot", if you can call it that, involves Liddle trying to find the guy who took a shot at him, while he tries to keep Julius, just off the boat from Russia, away from the underworld.

There's very liddle -- excuse me, little -- in Julius Sizzer that would rouse even a smile today. Not that the Yiddish stuff is offensive. In fact, that's the only thing that makes it, and Rubin's other pre-code shorts, almost interesting. No, it's the constant use of the Yiddish accent attempting to make mediocre jokes and puns that's offensive, even if it is fascinating to view a kind of humor that feels as ancient as the Torah. (Liddle Sizzer's weapon of choice is little scissors. Oy vey!). Strictly for undemanding fans of early talkie comedies and historians looking for grant money in order to write seriously about this kind of stuff. 

BONUS POINTS: As often with movies like these, the fascination with Julius Sizzer comes when it inadvertently calls attention to itself as a movie, such as the ambient sound of an airplane flying overhead, a couple of brief moments when it goes out of focus, and the microphone being a little too far from the actors during wide shots.

YOU AND ME (1938): Give credit to director Fritz Lang for putting every genre except Westerns into You and Me: romcom, drama, gangster, comedy, German Expressionism, a touch of leftist polemics -- even Kurt Weill gets into the mix with a couple of songs. Its poor box office made sure there'll never be another movie quite like it again. But it was fun while it lasted (for 85 minutes)!

Five years after their pre-code Pick Up, Sylvia Sidney and George Raft were reteamed, this time as Helen Roberts and Joe Dennis, employees at a department store. Joe, like many of the workers, is an ex-con given a second chance by his boss. Helen is aware of Joe's past but still wants to marry him. But she's hiding a secret from her past, one that derails their marriage, and drives Joe back into a life of crime. 

You and Me's multi-genre hopscotch is dizzying. It begins with an anti-capitalist number, before calming down into your average love story, before whiplashing into laughs, punches, guns, threats, a gauzy recreation of the song a nightclub chanteuse warbles, a bizarre prison fantasy/flashback recounted in rhythm and rhyme by the store's ex-cons... It's all very strange (and strangely entertaining), with camera angles and lighting in the manner of Lang's 1920s German productions. Ergo, it shouldn't have been a surprise that Depression-era moviegoers wanted something a little more accessible to drop their nickels on. 

Sylvia Sidney is nothing less than wonderful as the lovestruck Helen -- she can go from thrilled to despondent without breaking a sweat -- while George Raft is his usual cigar-store Indian self, made even more wooden in comparison by a lively supporting cast, including 28-year-old Robert Cummings, playing ex-cons. I think Raft's most interesting moment was likely off-screen, as he pretended to understand what the heck kind of movie You and Me was.

BONUS POINTS: It's also the only film where a group of criminals are literally taught a lesson (in math).

CASH ON DEMAND (1961): The next time your relatives drop by uninvited for Yuletide cheer,
tell them they're going to watch an update of A Christmas Carol. Then run Cash on Demand. It won't be what they were expecting, but it'll be a nice change from the hundredth screening of the real thing. That is, if they take their holiday fun with nerve wracking suspense and threats of violence. 

Peter Cushing, Hammer Studios' legendary horror mainstay, is the mousy yet Scrooge-like bank manager Harry Fordyce. Two days before Christmas, his ice-cold demeanor is shattered when forced to help rob his bank by a charming criminal posing as an insurance representative. If they don't pull off the heist within the allotted time of 45 minutes, Harry's wife will be zapped by two electrodes attached to her skull. And a happy new year!

When I call Cash on Demand nerve wracking, I'm not kidding, bub. The movie, playing out in real times, continually racks up tension until, as with Double Door, you feel like screaming at your TV. Cushing, detestable for the first several minutes, gradually becomes unexpectedly sympathetic, thanks to Andre Morell's eerily charming role as the robber. His psychological needling of Fordyce brings out, perhaps for the first time ever, the bank manager's humanity. To describe more would be unfair to first-time viewers; catch it next December, as it seems to be one of TCM's holiday favorites. Just be sure to have a glass of strong eggnog on hand to steady yourself.

BONUS POINTS: Fordyce's put-upon assistant is played by Richard Vernon, the disgruntled train passenger who shuts off Ringo's transistor radio in A Hard Day's Night.

                                                                 **********

RAPADOPE

Sure, I'd love to run into this dolt outside of
Gracie Mansion.

One week following Zohran Mamdani's inauguration as Mayor of New York, the race to oust him in 2029 has already begun. 

Please! Can't we go one month without political ads clogging up the airwaves again? Not if you're an actor who, as the Hollywood Reporter

reminds us, may be best known for his role as Phoebe Buffay’s cop boyfriend, Gary, in season five of Friends. For the person throwing his baseball cap into the ring is Michael Rapaport.

And just like that, she
was back on TV again.

The last time an actor ran for office in New York State was in 2018 when Cynthia Nixon challenged Andrew Cuomo in the Democrat primary for Governor. To this day, I'm not sure if Nixon was really serious about winning, trying to push Cuomo further to the left, or killing time before HBO approved a sequel to Sex and the City. 

Rapaport seems like he means it. He's already using Trump-speak, referring to "Zohran the Moron". That's pretty rich, as Rapaport makes Curtis Sliwa sound like Bertrand Russell. As he posted on Instagram (misspelling "Zohran"):

I, Michael Rapaport, am running for Mayor of New York City — 2029. Born. Raised. NYC. Nothing’s free. No bullshit. No fake grins. I’ll own my mistakes, apologize when I screw up, and fight to make this city safe, affordable, and thriving. You got Zoron the Moron now…Mayor Rapaport is coming. How do you like apples? 🍎🗽

I like apples clean, sweet, and crisp, traits Michael Rapaport lacks, which can be confirmed by the comment he made on his podcast announcing his campaign: 

“We have a shit stain at the helm right now in New York City, and it is a reality. It is a fucking reality. I think he’s going to supersede our wildest fears and expectations. Zohran the Zero, Zohran the Ziophobe, he is going to supersede all our fears and expectations.”

TBH, he probably
considers McDonalds
too upscale.

When Rapaport says he was born and raised here, it's a not-so-subtle reminder that Mamdani is from one of those foreign countries with a funny name and people with dark skin. "Ziophobe" means Mamdani didn't approve of the indiscriminate destruction of hospitals, schools, and the like in Gaza. (Mandy Patinkin, who's so Jewish that he's starting to look like a 17th century rabbi, sang at Mamdani's inauguration. And that was after the Mayor celebrated Hannukah with him and his family.)

You know haters are running out of things to hate when Rapaport condemns Mamdani's choice of sushi restaurants. According to Phoebe's boyfriend from season five of Friends, the place Zohran likes is too good for a pro-working-class Mayor. You think a multi-millionaire man of the people like Rapaport eats at McDonalds? 

It might be a good idea for Rapaport to see how a Mamdani administration plays out before trying to take him down. And, if he does run, to decide which party he belongs to. If Mamdani is still popular in four years, running as a Dem in the primary is a waste of time. Running as the official Republican candidate would make the local GOP even more of a joke than it is already. 

That leaves his only choice as an Independent or some made-up party like Eric Adams and Andrew Cuomo did. Rapaport could be the first candidate for the No Sushi Party. But he'll probably hate getting votes from all those woke vegans.

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