THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 34

 Strictly by coincidence, this Early Show has two "bringing the dead back to life" movies, and two TV shows from the early 1960s. If you've seen any of these, the next drink's on me. On a Zoom call, I mean.

SIX HOURS TO LIVE (1932): Paul Onslow, an ambassador of Sylvaria, has been assassinated by an unknown person. Good news: The police commissioner has a friend who's invented a machine that can bring the dead back to life. Bad news: They can stay alive only six hours. (You'd think he'd have worked a little harder on fixing that glitch.) Onslow will use that time to have dinner, explain to the woman who loves him that he's no longer the marrying kind, find the guy who killed him, and remind the police commissioner that death is scary only in your mind. I'd have dropped a couple of tabs of acid, but to each his own.

Sci-fi, horror, and politics were hot stuff in the early '30s movies. Six Hours to Live manages to combine all three genres, along with a dash of romance. Onslow is the only representative who refuses to sign a pact involving international finance, believing that it's a cover for the major governments to make out like bandits while their citizens get nothing. He isn't wrong -- that's why someone at the table wants him out of the way in order for a substitute to vote yea. Otherwise, the pact is null and void, as Onslow will be in a few minutes. Once revived, he has a new appreciation for life, taking a moment to help a streetwalker (money only!) and a little flower girl (ditto). Onslow doesn't even kill his assassin, preferring that the guy suffers "a living death". Today, that's known as, well, life as we know it.

Six Hours to Live's political angle was typical for its time, being a mildly progressive subplot that drives the story. Warner Baxter makes Onslow the rare rich guy in a silk cape who's on the side of the little man. (The cape also gives a Dracula-vibe when he's closing in on his killer.) Nor does he overdo his (second) death scene. Wilting like a flower, Baxter rests alongside a tree as a beatific gaze passes over his eyes as the end comes. Director William Dieterle (Syncopation) provides style perfectly fitting all the genres the movie covers -- the life-revival scene could fit in any horror movie of its time. It's just too bad that, as usual, Six Hours to Live's print on YouTube is bleary and over-pixilated. The Musuem of Modern Art possesses a restored version, but you have to be, you know, a scholar to access it. Ergo, I advise you to skip Six Hours to Live as it appears online and wait for someone at MOMA to drop dead for six hours so you can sneak in and see their print. (Kidding, MOMA, kidding!)

BONUS POINTS: Two years earlier, co-stars John Boles and Marilyn Harris were in Frankenstein, as Victor Moritz and the little girl who gets thrown in the lake respectively (if not respectfully).

MAN WITH TWO LIVES (1942): When nice guy Phillip Bennett dies in an auto

accident, his father asks Dr. Richard Clark to make good on his reviving-the-dead experiments. Good news: it works! Bad news: the soul of a gangster named Panino, who was executed at the same time, enters Phillip. Why don't these scientists ever take these things into consideration? 

By the 1940s, only a B-movie outfit like Monogram would try pulling off a sci-fi/ gangster hybrid like Man with Two Lives. And gosh darn it, the thing works -- up to a point. One-time A-list supporting actor Edward Norris plays the title role -- or roles -- convincingly; his transformation into a cold-blooded gangster is something of a shock, as is his blunt romancing of Panino's trashy moll Helen, along with his growing hatred of his loving family and fiancée Louise. Even Panino's gang is scared of him. Yet you can see something of the good Phillip underneath the monster from time to time, giving his character a complexity not usually seen in B's. You actually start feeling sorry for him -- here's a guy through, no fault of his own, is on a very obvious self-destructive path, thanks to an ill-considered wish from his loving father and twisted brilliance of a scientist...

Which is probably why at the very end, Man with Two Lives goes kablooey when the story turns out to be a nightmare suffered by Phillip during a four-day coma following the accident. I hate when that happens, especially in a movie as good as this. Had Man with Two Lives (couldn't Monogram afford a "The" in the title?) been a pre-code from a decade earlier, Phillip would have been shot by a cop as he was here, but too damn bad about how it wasn't his fault. His father and the scientist would be condemned to a lifetime of guilt; his fiancée would never know a day's happiness from then on. Doesn't that sound like a better picture?

BONUS POINTS: Phil Rosen, the director of Man with Two Lives, showed how powerful a gloomy climax could be with his previously-discussed Monogram pre-code The Phantom Broadcast. 

DR. KILDARE (UNAIRED PILOT) (1960): It isn't unusual for a TV series to undergo cast
changes before its premiere. Dr. Kildare went a step further to change the lead actor and concept. For the pilot, Lew Ayres was brought back to recreate his starring role from MGM's nine Kildare movies from 1938 to 1942 (and 1950 radio series).  No longer a young intern, he's now chief diagnostician at Blair General Hospital. And as Dr. Gillespie mentored him decades earlier, so Kildare mentors the young intern Dr. Grayson. The circle of life and all that.

Lionel Barrymore, the original Gillespie, was six years dead but not forgotten, as his portrait hangs in Kildare's office. Ayres even quotes a line of dialogue Barrymore spoke in one of the movies (a reference to a "mentally retarded ringtail baboon" wouldn't make the cut today). The story itself -- Kildare wanting to keep Dr. Grayson at the hospital rather than allowing him to go into private practice -- is a remake of one of the early Kildare movies. (Don't ask me which; they all blend together in my memory.) Kildare goes behind Grayson's back to upset his plans, causing a brief rift between the two before amends are made during a run-up to brain surgery, no doubt a common event in busy hospitals during the overnight shift.

As when he was the young Kildare, Lew Ayres is a warm, comforting presence; you'd want him as your GP even if he didn't accept insurance.   Joe Cronin is serviceable the role of Dr. Grayson -- but why didn't that part go to the charismatic, 24-year-old Robert Redford instead of the brief uncredited role he has here? No matter. Lew Ayres and MGM parted ways when his request that Dr. Kildare not be sponsored by cigarettes was refused. (Who did this guy think he was, a doctor?) The studio revived the original idea of young Dr. Kildare mentored by the wise Dr. Gillespie, giving Richard Chamberlain and Raymond Massey a comfortable five-year run shilling cancer sticks between visits to the O.R. It's my personal diagnosis that this was the first example of TV producers trashing the older audience in favor of younger, primarily female viewers. Now pay the receptionist on the way out.

BONUS POINTS: The Kildare pilot was directed by John Newland, the director and host of One Step Beyond. Olan Soule, one of the most familiar character actors in TV history, plays a doctor. Do a Google Image search; if you're of a certain age, you'll automatically say, Oh, that guy! 

ONE STEP BEYOND: THE SACRED MUSHROOM (1961): Next to The Twilight
Zone, One Step Beyond was my favorite spooky show during childhood. The difference between the two was that One Step Beyond was based upon true stories -- maybe. As host John Newland explained at the end of the episodes, nobody could prove or disprove their veracity. For a gullible eight year-old, that was good enough.

One episode, titled "The Sacred Mushroom", couldn't be disproved, though, because it wasn't a dramatization at all. Newland and his crew travelled to a village in Mexico to investigate a 'shroom that, when ingested, allegedly provided the gift of ESP.  After bribing some locals with medicine, Newland and his pals are able to meet up with a shaman at a midnight ceremony, where a missionary and two American scientists eat the 'shroom. Aside from the missionary getting an embarrassing case of the giggles, the Yanquis show zero side effects. The shaman does correctly diagnose one of the scientist's heart problems and, while he's at it, solves a local burro theft, which makes me wonder if med schools and police academies are a waste of time and money.

Eventually it's time for Newland himself to get in on the action. Under the care of a certain Dr. Baharish, Newland first needs to take an ESP test while sober. When he flunks that, it's time for the mushroom, which leaves him feeling "fine" and "strong", along with a sense of "well-being". (My experiences with mushrooms leaned more toward "goofy as hell".) Following a round with a strobe light, which leaves him seeing colors while his eyes are closed, it's time for a repeat of the ESP test, where he now scores higher than before. Personally, I would have been more convinced if he had found a stolen burro. "The Sacred Mushroom" promises more than it delivers -- I was hoping for Newland to yell, "The walls are melting!" -- but when was the last time you saw a 1961 TV show where someone ate a (semi) magic mushroom?

BONUS POINTS: "The Sacred Mushroom" was One Step Beyond's most popular episode. It was also the only one not to go into syndication after its original network run. I wonder if John Newland saw that during his 'shroom trip. 

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TULSA JOKER

 

Sitting on the floor between takes at a former psych
hospital for six days in the middle of winter
would've been OK if the damn show had been
picked up by the network.

If it hasn't been made clear by now, let me assure you that background work is like any job. Sometimes it's fun; other days, all you want to do is go home. Mostly, it's OK. Anyone who gets into it expecting glamour is delusional. And those wanting it to be "fair" -- whatever that means -- has no idea how the game of life is played. 

It helps if you're willing to work overnights or accept 3:00 a.m. call times -- I'm not -- but often it just comes down to looks. Most of us accept our fate. I'm quite aware that my looks peaked a few years ago and, like the recent eclipse, lasted but a short time. As long as I'm not verbally reminded of it, I'm fine.

So I'm happy to live in New York rather than Atlanta, where the Paramount+ streaming series The Tulsa King is filmed. (Does Atlanta look that much like Tulsa? On a cheaper soundstage, it does.) The casting agency providing background quit this week when Tulsa King's star was heard disparaging some of the extras' looks with observations like "fucking ugly", "fat guy with a cane", and the old standby "tub of lard". 

Pot, kettle.

That's bad enough. But when those words are spoken by Sylvester Stallone, as they were here, then it crosses the line to You gotta be kidding me. 

I'm not going to disparage someone who looks (and sounds) like he was repeatedly punched in the face with cement block before undergoing mediocre plastic surgery and bathing in bronzer. That kind of thing is beneath me. I merely allow you to look at the picture and decided for yourself: Does this creature have the right to insult the looks of anything that walks on two feet, including probiscis monkeys?

By all means, laugh. But this was the
submission that got me the part of
"1980s Porn Convention Attendee"
on The Deuce. And I still didn't make 
final cut when it aired!

After he (and the director!) were through with their physiognomy studies, Stallone demanded, "Bring pretty young girls to be around me". As if they would do such a thing if they weren't being paid for the "pleasure". And since the "fat guy with a cane" was probably the only guy with a cane on set, throwing in "fat" is pretty ugly (there's that word again!) on Stallone's part.

I've experienced similar situations on sets, but nobody heard the star or director say, "Get rid of that skinny goofball." It usually comes down to, "Move the guy with the glasses." No problem. They want a particular look in the shot. I get it. it's just business. Polite business. Professional 

business.

In addition to taking a glance in the mirror, Stallone might want to remember that he's remained as relevant as he is by playing (and replaying and re-replaying) Rocky and Rambo (introduced in 1976 and 1982 respectively); appearing in the increasingly ridiculed Expendables movies; and that Tulsa King is running on a platform that lost $490 million in the last quarter of 2023. Rather than making fun of extras, he should be happy anybody wants to be seen with him, even for money. 

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RATTLED

Would the Times ever make the top of 
 their front page look like that?

 Depending on where you live, a 4.8 earthquake might be akin to a belch following a large serving of goulash. To us residents of the Northeast, it's cause for panic, and local news shows to take over the airwaves for a few hours, damn the commercials and full ratings ahead.

Personally, it allowed me to text and email various friends and family the words I never thought I'd say: We just had an earthquake!  For those who currently or used to live in California, their response could have been, What else you got? But they were gracious enough to listen to the deets, as the kids say.

Oh, you want to hear it, too? Well, alright. I was in the kitchen when a weird rumbling sound followed by shaking started. For the first second or two, it felt like a large truck going by, But as it grew louder and more fierce, I knew this was no vehicle. By the fifth second, I thought there was a pretty good chance of the ceiling collapsing, so I did what anyone would have done: run to the window to see if a giant crack had appeared in the middle of 84th Street as neighbors ran around screaming and crying.

It didn't and they weren't. The scene was actually quieter than usual. What a letdown. The shaking faded away after 10 or 12 seconds. It felt longer; in some areas, people reported it lasting 20 to 30 seconds. (A very small quake located in Queens several weeks ago went unnoticed by most of us.)

Trump was quoted as saying, "It was Ramapo's
fault! I had nothing to do with it!"

This was one of the rare occasions when New Yorkers felt comfortable talking to neighbors and strangers alike -- Did you feel the earthquake? Everyone with a cellphone got an emergency message roughly an hour later advising us what happened. Thanks -- for nothing! We know what happened. 

News anchors, along with city and state officials, went into overdrive, reporting for hours that there was little or no damage to report. And they had the video to prove it! Oh, folks in New Jersey, close to the epicenter, posted home videos of dogs going crazy, pictures falling from the walls, everyone saying, "Is that an earthquake?" What the hell do you think it is?

They're getting weaker while I'm
growing stronger!

Thanks to the usual hustle & bustle of the city, nobody who was outside at the time felt anything. Neither did anyone at my wife's tap class. It wasn't until we were both home when the aftershock hit at exactly 6:00 p.m. -- right in time for the local news! -- that she felt it. It didn't last as quite as long, nor was it as violent as the morning quake, being "only" a 4.0. 

Having grown up in the suburbs of L.A., my wife experienced at least five quakes in that time. According to her, the West Coast quakes were more like waves, while this one was just shaking. It's called an "earthQUAKE", not "earthWAVE".

This time, the aftershock alert came only 12 minutes later, followed by the official confirmation at 7:07, with the assurance "NYers can continue usual activities." Apparently, I had jumped the gun because I already picked up dinner at 6:50. I'll wait for the official word next time.

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STRICTLY ON BACKGROUND, PT. 61: ODDS & ENDS

 As of this writing, I find myself in a work slump, having gotten only two background gigs since the end of the strikes. It was concerning, until looking over my work spreadsheet. After returning to work following my covid vaccination, I worked only seven times in 2021. But the following year was my busiest ever; perhaps I'm on the same trajectory. Or MAYBE IT IS ALL OVER FOR ME!!! Until I find out for sure, here are some that range from Is that him? to Nah, I don't see him at all.

KILLERS OF THE FLOWER MOON: February 19, 2022, Cardinal Hayes High School for Boys, Bronx, NY. I had been booked to be part of a 1930s radio audience for a project titled Grey Horse. That was good enough, seeing that I love doing period pieces. But when learning it was the code name for Killers of the Flower Moon -- that was a thrill and a nine-tenths. We spent two days shooting at the auditorium of the school, which was Martin Scorsese's alma mater. 

We were actually on set only about an hour the first day, and three hours the next. Scorsese directed the "radio actors" and, when it was time for our reaction shots, left us in the hands of his assistant. But we saw enough of him in action both times to feel like we were part of the cool crowd. As for where I am -- see the grey-haired woman in the middle of the shot in the front row? Go three rows directly behind her. I've enlarged it for your oohing and aahing pleasure.

MR. & MRS. SMITH: June 7, 2022, Tompkins Square Park, first episode of the series. These are my own clothes, and one of the rare times I got wear sunglasses. When we returned the following Monday to shoot other angles, they gave me a different wardrobe. It was for naught; this was my only on-camera appearance on the episode. And the entire season, come to think of it. Guess I made quite the impression!

MAESTRO: July 7, 2022, Carnegie Hall. Another period scene, this time 1943. We were watching Bradley Cooper as Leonard Bernstein conducting the New York Symphony for the first time. Cooper not only looked like Bernstein, he, rather than the A.D., did most of the talking to us. He was clear in his direction, and effusive in his thanks, helping to make this one of my favorite gigs ever.  It's too bad you really don't have a chance to see how authentic we all looked. It comes as no shock I was able to find myself; I'm circled in red. Let me save you the trouble of saying it: Pathetic. (I worked on another Maestro theater scene, which took place 1947, but almost nothing of it made the final cut -- but I looked for me!) 

THE GIRLS ON THE BUS: October 6, 2022, Briarcliff Manor, NY. Through the
magic of television, I was an Iowa caucus goer at a Westchester County school gym. I was in four shots, but posted the only one where I'm easy to see. If you watch this episode, look for me in and outside the gym. Or you can just enjoy the show. Yes, that might be the better choice.

THE FBI: January 8, 2023, Fidelity Triangle, Brooklyn. My first post-strike gig, as an attendee of a park dedication. But since this is The FBI, there's also an attempted murder by a terrorist. It was good to get back to work, even if it was chilly with occasional drizzle and a round of sleet. I got to show off my acting "skills" when reacting to gunfire, but audiences were denied my moment of drama in the final cut. Just a coincidence, I'm sure. All they saw of me was at the beginning of the scene (on the rear left), and a crane shot of my scalp (not here, though). And I even wore a suit and tie for the occasion! Total time from arrival to departure: 6:00 a.m. to 12:15 p.m -- my kind of workday.

BLUE BLOODS: January 24, 2024, Brooklyn Masonic Temple. My second (and, so
far, last) post-strike gig. My fifth time on Blue Bloods, and first in seven years to the month where Tom Selleck was present. It's a meeting of cops and a representative of the Teamsters. In the first shot, I'm in the first row, right side, second from the left, head turned to the woman sitting next to me.

When it came time to shoot the reverse angle, some of us were shuttled to the other side of the room. I can now be seen in the third row, peeking over Selleck's head. The scene doesn't last more than four minutes, but we were on the set at least 90 minutes. It was long enough to know that even at age 79, Selleck could still kick my ass. 

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 33

The years 1931-1933 are spotlighted here, with three pre-code features and one short. You won't find these on any of those "Movies You Must See Before You Die" lists. Unless I'm compiling them.

THE VICE SQUAD (1931): While Warner Brothers was getting condemned for allegedly "glamorizing" criminals, here Paramount went in the other direction by exposing crooked cops. For two years, former upright lawyer Stephen Lucarno has been blackmailed into being a stool pigeon by Vice Squad commander Matthews. Having disappeared from his old life, Lucarno now drinks his days away while waiting to frame hookers at night. His life seems to turn around with a chance meeting with his friend Judge Tom Morrison, whose sister is Lucarno's ex-fiancée Alice. But just as a reconciliation with her seems imminent, Lucarno learns an innocent acquaintance, Madeline Hunt, has been framed on a trumped-up charge. Alice gives Lucarno a choice -- return to her and the life he once knew, or lose it all by testifying on Madeline's behalf. 

The Vice Squad plays cute by having cops referring to hookers as "vagrants" and prostitution as, you guessed it, "vagrancy", despite it never being in doubt what these dames are up to. As with a lot of pre-code pictures, The Vice Squad never really comes down hard on these women. If anything, their plight appears to be the fault of society, the Depression, and guys like the ogrish Det.-Sgt. Matthews, who roped Lucarno into being a stoolie when the latter refused to identify a sidepiece who fatally ran down a cop. Better to keep the arrest numbers up than trying to solve the murder of a colleague!

Despite Lucarno getting himself into his mess, Hungarian-born Paul Lukas (Address Unknown, Downstairs) gives the character humanity; his shame at falling so far is shown right down to the worn-out tips of his dress gloves. While only 36, Lucas passes for a middle-aged man who has thrown his life away. (Judith Wood, as Madeline, was 25 but looks two decades younger than him.) Kay Francis, not quite yet the queen of pre-codes, doesn't have a whole lot do other than moon for Lucarno, but she does it with her usual class, style, and lisp. The gaudily-named actor Rockliffe Fellowes makes you hate Matthews even more than you normally would -- here's an guy unafraid to be make a bad cop look even worse. Credit The Vice Squad for giving 1931 audiences the chance to boo the alleged good guys and sympathize with the so-called criminals for once. But did it occur to them that the woman who killed the cop in the first reel got off scot-free?

BONUS POINTS: Street names are altered just enough -- Barrow to Harrow, Christopher to Cristobal -- so it isn't necessarily the New York vice squad that's corrupt. It just... sounds like it.

FALSE FACES (1932): Dr. Silas Brenton, having been thrown out of Bronx General

Hospital for unethical behavior, sets up shop in Chicago where he becomes a plastic surgeon despite lacking the proper training. As Brenton's business and fame grow, his scruples lessen, promoting skin creams, hosting his own radio show, and starting an affair with Florence Day, the wealthy adult daughter of his latest patient, while still sleeping with his secretary Elsie. Brenton's luck runs out when his treatment of a patient's bowlegs ends in an amputation. Acting as his own attorney, Brenton's melodramatic closing arguments sway the jury in his favor -- but his unfortunate patient has the final word. 

Rat bastards weren't uncommon in pre-codes, but Silas Brenton is one for the books -- he lost his Bronx job by extorting money from poor patients at what was supposed to be a free hospital. In Chicago, he refuses payment from a famous actress, then sues her for non-payment to get his name in the papers. He promises to fix the droopy eye of Florence's mother, while knowing all along it'll never work. He refuses to answer the telegrams from the nurse he was sleeping with in the Bronx. Lowell Sherman (who also directed) plays Brenton so that the audience feels pure joy when fate finally catches up to him. He's quite good, often reminiscent of his friend (and real-life brother-in-law) John Barrymore, clearly loving this monstrous character. 

Speaking of pre-code, Sherman's direction gets the idea across of Benton's relationship with Georgia, the Bronx nurse, as he helps her with her coat while the image of his unmade bed lingers in the background. He also gets fine performances from familiar supporting actors including David Landau (70,000 Witnesses) and the doomed Peggy Shannon (Turn Back the Clock). This surprisingly good looking, low-budget release from Sono Art-World Wide (the studio with the outrageous logo) might be called False Faces but is a real treat.

BONUS POINTS: Eddie Anderson has a brief scene as a chauffeur, five years before gaining fame as Rochester on The Jack Benny Program.

FROM HELL TO HEAVEN (1933): This might as well be titled A Grand Hotel Day at the Races. A bunch of couples, singles and suckers, all betting on different horses in the same race, have good reason to hope their choices pay off. Wesley Burt needs to repay the $3,000 he embezzled from his employer. Two-timing dame Colly Tanner is $10,000 in the hole. Horse owner Pop Lockwood is down to his last bale of hay. Sam the bellhop just wants to make an extra buck or two. And a criminal is going for some extra dough before he blows town -- and perhaps for good reason, seeing that his name is Jack Ruby. Stay outta Dallas, Jack!

It would be nice if Universal Pictures, which owns the rights to Paramount's pe-1948 movies, did freaks like me a solid and released the latter's obscure movies as limited-run DVDs. Instead, we have to put up with washed-out prints of From Hell to Heaven on YouTube. It's a real shame, for this is a fun little comedy-drama that never outstays its 67-minute welcome. (Some prints online are missing the first 10 or 15 minutes!). Nor does it shy away from its obvious Grand Hotel influence, seeing that Jack Oakie repeats Lewis Stone's observation that "nothing ever happens" at the resort where most of the action takes place. (Oakie even shoots a knowing glance at the camera when he repeats it at fade-out.) I'll stake my "reputation" and say out loud that From Hell to Heaven is better than Grand Hotel. It's certainly shorter.

In addition to Oakie and fellow Paramount contract player Carole Lombard (whose character is willing to sleep with her ex-bf in exchange for 10-grand), there are enough freelancers and loan-outs from other studios to fill the Kentucky Derby. Berton Chruchill and Eddie Anderson (both featured in False Faces), David Manners (A Bill of Divorcement), Clarence Muse (Black Moon), Thomas E. Jackson (Broadway), and a dozen or so more, all playing to type. As each character bets on a different horse at the climax, you may find your loyalty shifting during the race (I was siding with the embezzler). There can be of course only winner, yet all of the bettors hit a payoff -- or at least get what's coming to them. Which, unfortunately, will probably never happen to people wanting a restoration of From Hell to Heaven. And you can bet the DVR on that.

BONUS POINTS: As someone who can neither sing, play piano, nor tap dance, I was in awe of Jack Oakie doing all three simultaneously. 

JUST AROUND THE CORNER (1933): Imagine entertainment-starved audiences reacting to a short starring Warren William, Dick Powell, Bette Davis, Joan Blondell, Ruth Donnelly, and Preston Foster! And with music from the still-hot 42nd Street under the credits, Just Around the Corner promised to be a slam-bang, two-reel extravaganza featuring the cream of Warner Brothers' contract players. 

The story doesn't seem to be anything to get excited about -- office drone

Dick Powell inviting the boss Warren William and his wife Ruth Donnelly over to the house for the weekend for some trout fishing -- but isn't that true of all musicals? Sure, it's a little strange when Powell makes a point of pointing out the General Electric spotlights in the back yard... Ahh, but there's Bette Davis in the atypical role of happy housewife showing off her wonderful General Electric dishwasher... and General Electric refrigerator... and General Electric oven... and General Electric doorbell -- Uh, what's going on here? And how do they afford this stuff on Powell's salary? Glad you asked! It's easy on the General Electric payment plan! Once the dishwasher's paid off, they're getting a General Electric washing machine and iron. As THE END appears onscreen, that same entertainment-starved audience is probably thinking, What the -- We just paid good money to see a 20-minute commercial!

Actors knew what they were getting themselves into when they put their signature on the dotted studio line, but there was no way these professionally-trained folks ever expected Warner Brothers to produce a commercial for G.E. And, boy, did they ever need that training to deliver their trite dialogue without throwing up. I'd go as far to say that Bette Davis never gave a better performance in her life. While her colleagues probably shrugged and sucked it up, it's easy to picture Davis, even at this early stage of her career, being one step away from shoving Jack Warner's hand down a General Electric garbage disposal. From a 21st-century perspective, Just Around the Corner is funnier than anything Warner Brothers ever released. I mean, not only do Davis and Powell keep reminding us that G.E. appliances save time and money with the quiet repetition of a jackhammer, the refrigerator somehow saved the life of their little daughter! Buy General Electric products: a life may depend upon it.

BONUS POINTS: Joan Blondell gets off easy in her one scene, eating breakfast in bed and never once mentioning the words General Electric. It was probably a good trade-off for her onscreen husband losing the promotion to Dick Powell.

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RADIO SILENCE

 I don't know the average age of my regular readers, but it's probably in the area of "But I feel young!" 

This is a good thing. It means they're healthy and aware they don't have to pretend anymore. They know their days as trendsetters, creators of popular culture, and arbiters of all things cool are over. 

They can take heart that the generation directly behind them are currently going through the same drama. Justin Timberlake, 43 and Jennifer Lopez, 54, are the latest casualties in the war for relevance. Two of the biggest pop stars of their days, they now see their latest albums struggling to find a place on the charts they once ruled. Where critics and fans alike once swooned, they now yawn: What are you oldtimers doing here? 

Timberlake took a hit even before the album was released, thanks to some unflattering stories in Britney Spears memoirs. His appearance on Saturday Night Live didn't make waves, nor was anyone excited about the singles. Looks like Justin can't get that sexy back.

Lopez is in an especially desperate place. Having spent $20-million of her own money to make a feature-length video to promote her latest album This is Me... Now, she saw neither make a dent. More humiliatingly, many of her current concert dates were cancelled due to lack of ticket sales, forcing her to rechristen it a Greatest Hits tour. No word on if she's accompanied by her "ghost singers" or just lip-synching

J-Lo probably thought she could pull a Madonna, who hasn't released an album since 2019, and whose last Top 10 single was seven years before that, but is guaranteed sold-out tours. No matter that for her latest round of shows she needed to undergo physical exams more suited for a SEAL  in order to make sure she was insurable. But since she, like J-Lo, lip-synchs for a living, she didn't need to see an ENT. 

Justin and J-Lo need to realize pop music changes every decade. The year 1956 can be represented by "Heartbreak Hotel", "The Wayward Wind", "Que Sera Sera", and "Hot Diggity (Dog Ziggity Boom)". Jump ahead 10 years, and everyone is listening to "Tomorrow Never Knows" on Revolver.  In 2014, the charts were ruled by Lorde, Soko, Aloe Blacc, and Nico & Vinz. Ask any of them about their latest hits. 

A piece of friendly advice to Justin Timberlake: focus on producing hit records for younger singers. For J-Lo: ask your fourth hubby to put you in his next movie. And a reminder to both of you: one day Taylor Swift will be over. 

Just kidding!

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 32

 It pays to have subscriptions to arcane YouTube channels. They allow me to discover movies and TV shows that I would have otherwise missed, and you to learn about. Lucky you(?).

NIGHT WORLD (1932): Got an hour? Drop by Happy's Club on East 53rd Street, where owner Happy MacDonald is dealing with a bootlegger trying to muscle in on his territory. Club choreographer Klauss is having a little horizontal refreshment with Happy's wife Jill, who's trying to get her husband out of the way, permanently. Tough guy Ed Powell is putting the moves on showgirl Ruth Taylor. Ruth, immune to his "charms", is trying to nurse Michael Rand back to sobriety following the love-triangle murder of his father by his mother. And club doorman Tim Washington is waiting for word on the condition of his hospitalized wife. Make sure to duck when five people in a row are shot to death. Check, please!

How is it that a studio could release a 57-minute movie that packs more storylines than this year's lengthy Oscar-nominees combined, yet takes place in just one evening? Night World is kind of a prototype of the previously discussed Club Havana but with pre-code elements: sex, violence, bootleg booze, adultery, double-entendres, sexy showgirls in skimpy outfits under the tutelage of Busby Berkley, and a running gag involving a gay man. While the budding romance between Ruth and Michael is the main plot point, it's the other characters and situations that keep that Night World chugging along. I mean, what do you want to see, a couple of kids falling in love, or gangsters, guns, and slinky dancers in their dressing room?

Lead actors Lew Ayres and Mae Clarke are fine as Michael and Ruth, but it's the co-stars we've come to see. Fresh from his star-making turn in Frankenstein, Boris Karloff is no less threatening as Happy MacDonald, whose nickname and friendly smile don't disguise the violence lurking underneath. George Raft makes what he can of his brief role of the slick yet crude Ed Powell, one of his earliest credited roles. As Mike's shockingly cruel mother, Hedda Hopper gives us a taste of her future gossip columnist style. But it's black character actor Clarence Muse who, as in Black Moon, proves himself at least the equal of his white co-stars (and better than most), bringing humanity and wisdom to his role of Tim Washington, the club's philosophical doorman. Forget the lovebirds -- it's him you're rooting for. Yes, there's a lot going in Night World, all of it worth watching.

BONUS POINTS:  Night World's dizzying opening montage of Times Square theaters, streetwalkers, speakeasies and murderers is still an unexpectedly wild sequence. And look for a young Jack LaRue as a jittery gunman at the climax. 

HISTORY IS MADE AT NIGHT (1937): Good title, strange movie. Comedy! Romance! Drama! Murder! Cultural stereotypes, marital violence, disaster... Only an independent producer like Walter Wanger could have released something this schizophrenic; no studio would have understood it. I'm not sure any would today. 

While in Paris, shipping magnate and all-around nut Bruce Vail frames his estranged wife Irene's new lover, Paul Drummond, for a murder that he committed. Irene is forced return to New York with Bruce; Paul, still unidentified as the alleged murderer, gives chase along with his Chico Marx-style friend Cesare. Irene eventually crosses path with Paul, who, when finding out he's wanted for murder, does the noble thing and returns, with Irene, to Paris on a cruise ship built by Bruce. But midway through the voyage while sailing through a heavy fog in cold waters...

Forget it, you wouldn't believe it. In fact, everything in History is Made at Night is unbelievable, even by Hollywood standards. If it works at all it's because of Charles Boyer and Jean Arthur in the leads -- somehow you believe them even if everything else is ridiculous. Colin Clive is flat-out sociopathic as Bruce, throwing the movie even more off-balance whenever he's onscreen. His is a fascinating, unsetting performance; it's hard to tell if it's due to Frank Borzage's direction or Clive's real-life alcoholism (which killed him weeks after the movie's release). Today, many people name History is Made at Night as their favorite movie ever. Your mileage may vary. Mine sure did, but not enough to end the trip before it was over.

BONUS POINTS: Fourteen years later, History is Made at Night's producer Walter Wanger pulled the jealous husband routine himself by shooting the guy he suspected having an affair with his wife, actress Constance Bennett. 

FINDERS KEEPERS (1955): You can't expect any game show called Finders Keepers to possess a morsel of sophistication. But my God, my God, my God!  It's astonishing people actually carved 30 minutes out of their lives every week to watch dreck like this. If you wonder why its network, DuMont, eventually went out of business, look no further.

As with DuMont's other dreadful game show, the previously-discussed Auction-Aire, the New York-based Finders Keepers depends on the telephonic participants at their homes in the tri-state area, each of whom are certain that they will win the top prize: a piano, a new Westinghouse kitchen ("every woman's dream"), and a trip for two to Paris (combined worth: $3,000!).  "Girl Friday" Peggy O'Shea hides a tag somewhere on a set that resembles a living room and kitchen. The jolly house organist then plays a few bars of a song to provide a hint of the hiding place. The contestant at home then has to tell an audience member where to look, while also responding to the audience's cheering or silence. Then the home contestant has to identify a photo of a building to win the big prize. Otherwise, they get a tea set and a carton of Coca-Cola. Lower gift taxes to pay, I suppose.

Over-caffeinated host Fred Robbins really gets the thrills when introducing guest Richard Egan as tag hunter for one round. Egan, doing a pretty good job hiding his embarrassment, is almost as creepy here as he is in Hollywood Story. As he runs around the set trying to find the tag, you can almost hear him think, "This is what I have to do to plug my latest movie?" Airing only five months, Finders Keepers probably provided vital clues for Goodson-Todman Productions in creating hit game shows like To Tell the Truth, Password, and I've Got a Secret: Let celebrities be the contestants, have them play in person, and keep the damn thing simple! And for those who care, the "mystery" photo no one can identify is the Museum of the City of New York on Fifth Avenue. 

BONUS POINTS: One of the audience contestants is a nervous girl no older than ten. For her participation, she wins a dog. Her reaction signals that she already has a dog her parents hate, and this one will get tossed in the nearest alley.

THE INVISIBLE CITY (1961): Made for WCBS-TV, the Emmy-nominated The Invisible City is not a sci-fi cheapie -- it's a documentary cheapie. And it's about New York. Or, rather, the areas and people the average city dweller never saw or met in 1961, and still don't today. The captain of the Staten Island Ferry. A guy who washes the windows of the Chase Manhattan skyscraper. The lucky folks who live in the Turtle Bay area with their own private park. A seamstress still happily working at Bergdorf Goodman since forever. And it's a fascinating snapshot of not only of a city on the cusp of radical change, but of a style of non-fiction TV as forgotten as its subjects are today.

The narration, gently spoken by Eddie Albert, is the same style used in the intros to the then-current Naked City series -- prose poetry, lifting up rather than speaking down to the audience. The New Yorkers examined are the folks who keep the city humming -- or, like the Turtle Bay residents, provide us with insight to what life was like compared to growing up 30 or 40 years earlier. And you can see some of those changes. Older businessmen still wearing hats, as the up-and-comers go without. Middle-aged women donning white gloves, while their daughters prefer the casual look. Commuters reading the Times on paper rather than iPhones. And smokers. Lots of smokers.

Producer Warren Wallace interviews his subjects with respect and genuine interest. Filmed on black & white 16mm film in cramped quarters -- the window washer's wife is in her modest kitchen -- these sequences are simple and unglamorous, the voices echoey or competing with ambient sound. The music accompanying Albert's narration is very 1961, bordering on modern classical. Compare The Invisible City to today's scrubbed and scripted "reality" series, and weep for current TV viewers. Actually, don't bother. They wouldn't understand anything this good.

BONUS POINTS: The score is performed by the CBS Chamber Orchestra. Yes, there was a time when TV networks had such a thing.

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