THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 67

 As we wait to hear the conspiracy theories involving the latest attempt on Donald Trump's life, here are four movies to take your mind off of the madhouse we call "life itself".

APPLAUSE (1929): Had I been running a movie studio in 1929, I'd have ordered my directors to watch Applause multiple times. Then I would have barked, "That's how you make a talkie!" And all thanks go to director Rouben Mamoulian. From its opening moments with the camera following a theater poster floating in the breeze to its climax tracking close to another poster featuring the story's lead character, Applause is the first sound movie to really move.

Sure, its story of over-the-hill burlesque queen Kitty Darling trying to keep her virginal teenage daughter April from following in her footsteps seems hackneyed today. But it's what Mamoulian does with the camera and editing that brings it fully to life for its 80 minutes. The techniques we take for granted now -- over the head shots, lightning-quick edits, motion -- seem to have made their sound debut here. The Russian cinema-inspired montages of the creepy audience members and washed-up burlesque dancers stun even now, while Kitty's p.o.v. shot of her low-rent colleagues looking down at her and her newborn baby is more horror movie than happy.

Broadway legend Helen Morgan, only 29, looks the part of the middle-aged floozie Kitty Darling, forever a slave to her unfaithful live-in boyfriend/manager Hitch Nelson (played by the actor with the unforgettable name Fuller Mellish, Jr.). Sleazy with a capital S, Hitch puts the moves on the 17-year-old April with the line, "Charity begins at home!", a moment both hilarious and disgusting. As for pre-code language, there are two "damns" and a character named Tony who dislikes his name because it "sounds like a wop bootblack".

For those unfamiliar with the star of Applause -- long before Judy Garland took her first upper, Helen Morgan was the original "tragic" female entertainer: torch singer, alcoholic, four-times married, psychologically and emotionally troubled, dead at 41 of cirrhosis. And it's all there onscreen in Applause, perhaps the first great American talkie. Recommended viewing; an excellent print is free on YouTube. 

BONUS POINTS: Applause features some great location footage of the old Penn Station, Brooklyn Bridge, and atop a Wall Street skyscraper. 

GIRL OF THE PORT (1930): Few movies are ahead of their time while being incredibly dated as Girl of the Port. Josie (Sally O'Neil), a washed-up showgirl, is herself washed up on a South Seas island to tend bar at the local dive. There she meets McEwen (Mitchell Lewis), a horny, racist landowner, and Jim (Reginald Sharland), a drunken, shellshocked, pyrophobic World War I vet. Deciding Jim is the only decent guy on the island, Sally moves him into her hut for a few months to sober him up. McEwen eventually kidnaps Jim, gets him drunk, and takes him to another island to scare him to death at the natives' firewalking routine -- only to discover it has the opposite of the desired effect. 

There are plenty of interesting bits in Girl of the Port, none including the title character. The prologue is a terrifying war scene where Jim and his fellow British soldiers are beat back or burned up by Germans with flamethrowers, an event that would shellshock anyone. Later at the bar, Mitchell Lewis shocks when his character McEwen buys a round for the boys and toasts, "To white supremacy!", before calling one of the natives a "black baboon". His pride vanishes when Jim announces that McEwen is actually a "half-caste". As his white "friends" move away, McEwen is stunned to see that he's buying a round for the smirking "half-castes" who silently welcome him as one of their own. It's an unexpected, well directed moment.

So: self-loathing racism. Untreated PTSD. Alcoholism. A couple shacking up. All in all, plenty of pre-code situations to revel in. Too bad the wisecracking Sally O'Neil and the overwrought Reginald Sharland dampen the potential with dialogue and direction aimed at the cheap seats. Had Girl of the Port come along two years later (although released in 1930, it was filmed in 1929), it could have been a better-made, more sophisticated take on the issues it deals with. Still worth its 68-minute watch to see the horrors of World War I unflinchingly portrayed, and an openly racist character get his comeuppance -- although he had to be only half white to do so.

BONUS POINTS: If Mitchell Lewis looks and sounds vaguely familiar, it's because he's the captain of the guards in The Wizard of Oz who says of the Wicked Witch, "She's dead. Dorothy killed her!" The alleged "black baboon" was in reality the Hawaiian surfing champ and five-time Olympic medal winner Duke Kahanamoku, who appeared as himself in the silly semi-documentary Around the World in 80 Minutes with Douglas Fairbanks. 

THE ROAD IS OPEN AGAIN (1933): No other president had Hollywood around his finger like Franklin D. Roosevelt. Even the Republican studio heads felt obliged to jump on the New Deal bandwagon, featuring references and even entire shorts devoted FDR's good works. 

Warner Brothers did its part by releasing the half-reeler The Road is Open Again. Dick Powell is sitting at the piano trying to knock out a new patriotic song. Upon closing his eyes for a moment, he's visited by the ghosts of George Washington, Abe Lincoln, and Woodrow Wilson. Rather than running out of the room screaming in terror, Powell listens to the trio explain how wonderful Roosevelt is, confident that the newly-elected commander-in-chief will right the ship of state. All that is required from the country is faith in their leader, and to buck up, because the road to prosperity is open again.

Huzzah! Dick Powell has the hook for his song. And as the ghosts disappear, Powell sings -- off the top of his head! -- "The Road is Open Again" as newsreels of people going to work and pro-New Deal headlines fill the screen.  And before you can say "massive national debt", the merry propaganda picture is over.

No doubt The Road is Open Again is charming while, according to some economists, completely wrongheaded about the New Deal in general. Yet it reminds us of a time when a president with a good heart and sound mind was able to bring a country together when rabblerousers on both ends of the political spectrum were dividing Americans, unemployment and inflation were on the rise, and dictators were starting to run riot over Europe. So glad things have gotten better!

BONUS POINTS: The lyrics to "The Road is Open Again" appear onscreen so the audience can join in. But just try to sing louder than Dick Powell.

HALLELUJAH, I'M A BUM! (1933): In an unusually witty performance, Al Jolson is Bumper, who lives the happy-go-lucky homeless life with his pals in Central Park. Bumper switches gears when rescuing June Marcher, who tried to end it all by jumping off a bridge into a park lake. June, having lost her memory, falls in love with Bumper. Going gaga himself, Bumper asks his pal John Hastings -- the goodtime Mayor of New York -- to arrange for a job so he can eventually marry June... not realizing she's the Mayor's ex-girlfriend. 

One of the year's biggest financial flops, Hallelujah, I'm a Bum! has so many things going for it. Offbeat direction by Lewis Milestone; a sophisticated screenplay by S.N. Behrman; an incredibly clever score and "rhythmic dialogue" by Rodgers & Hart; and a great supporting cast. Harry Langdon is a riot as Egghead, the Communist trash collector who condemns both the "plutocrats" who run the city and "parasites" like Bumper and his pals who sponge off the workers. The never-disappointing Frank Morgan plays Mayor Hastings with equal parts sophistication and human qualities. There's some racy pre-code dialogue, too, with Madge Evans (as June) involving a pun on "laying a cornerstone", while a gay-coded maid wearing a monocle makes an appearance.

So why did it bomb so badly? Its production history involving three directors, a sneak preview debacle requiring an entire re-shoot with a new script, score, and at least one actor re-casted, along with Jolson's dimming popularity and the unusually sophisticated score all likely contributed. While the pace starts to flag during its final third, Hallelujah, I'm a Bum! (available for free at Internet Archive in an excellent print) is now considered by many contemporary movie critics to be not only Al Jolson's best movie but the pre-code musical most deserving of a revival. I could have told them that upon my first viewing on a UHF channel in 1970, but it's nice being proven right again. (The print I saw back then was the original British release, with the word "Tramp" replacing "Bum" in the title and songs, the offending word having a much different meaning there.)

BONUS POINTS: Richard Rodgers cameos as an assistant photographer, while Lorenz Hart can be seen as a harried bank teller. And six years before co-starring in The Wizard of Oz, Frank Morgan says, "There's no place like home." 

LOST IN THE MIST

Last week I wrote a piece about the influx of A.I.-generated songs appearing on Spotify and YouTube. Over the next few days, a thought occurred to me that many of the people who moan about A.I. music have no problem with A.I. movies, either fully animated or used for special effects in live action. 

The album every child wanted to find under
the Christmas tree.

Going back to the late 1970s, music fans and critics alike praised the punk
movement for allowing bands to place spectacle over, uh, music. Anyone remember The Plasmatics? Their performance on the late-night sketch comedy series Fridays scared the hell out of me back then. You can see it here in case you didn't have the pleasure the first time.

Jump ahead a couple of decades. Portable synths could now replicate any instrument with remarkable clarity. Again, music-adjacent folks were delighted that "anybody" could sound like a real band. Democracy in action, and good for them. 

So why shouldn't I join in on the fun? I had the lyrics for a song hanging around and, having no musical talent, asked the Suno website to provide the melody and instruments. I typed in "Male country singer with acoustic guitar" and described the image to accompany it. 

A moment later, it offered me a real, honest-to-gosh song. Click the link:

Lost in the Mist by kevinkusinitz | Suno

Is it an instant classic? Nah. More like what used to be referred to as a parlor trick. But for songwriters who can't get music publishers to buy their works, it provides, at the very least, instant gratification. And for those who want to upload the songs to Spotify on the chance they can make a few bucks...well, again, democracy in action and good for them!

Musicians will not be put out of business. Audiences will always prefer to see real live people sing and play instruments rather than someone hit a button on their laptop. Especially if that someone is a goofball like me.

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NO MAN BANDS

 Three years ago, I wrote a piece on the sudden influx of A.I.-generated music on the internet. At the time, much of what was being brewed were existing recordings tweaked to sound like someone else. 

Some of it sounded OK, while the majority of the semi-faux recordings could be charitably described as unlistenable. But as I warned then, "Given that A.I. is in its embryonic stages, it's likely that future counterfeit vocalizations are going to get better, fast."

What hath A.I. wrought since then? Ladies and gentlemen, boy and girls, you and them, please welcome the electrifying old school R&B sound of Eddie Dalton!

You've probably guessed by now that Eddie and his band don't exist. Every sound you hear, including the melody, is a software creation controlled by a someone who may or may not be named Dallas Little. And anyone who says, "Oh, I can tell that's A.I." lies like a Saxon dog. I suggest they listen to Steely Dan, whose relentless drive for "perfection" made their music more sterile than the operating rooms at Mt. Sinai Hospital, while Eddie Dalton, who lives inside a laptop, sounds more human than any track on Aja.

The future of human musicians?

People are outraged that Eddie Dalton's YouTube page has received tens of millions of views. Eddie himself (itself?) has placed at least three songs on the iTunes Top 10. 

Read the comments listeners have left on Eddie's YouTube page. Most seem to be over the age of 50 -- some are in their 80s! -- and it's unclear if many of them even realize the soulful guy they're listening to is a figment of a software's imagination. And even if they do, it doesn't matter; the listeners relate to the lyrics and arrangements. And they love Eddie's voice.

Devo, still devolving at Coachella last week.

Many people are afraid A.I. will replace human-made music. Forty years ago, the same cry went out when synthesizer-heavy New Wave dominated Top 40. Today, only Devo has managed to find new generations of fans. The rest -- Human League, Thomas Dolby, Gary Numan, to name three -- are footnotes in the book of music, something to spark a "Hey, I remember that!" if they appear on a soundtrack or commercial.

The Polyphonic Spree. And this ain't the half of it.

Human musicians won't be replaced by A.I. They will co-exist as Kraftwerk does
with the Boston Symphony, or one-man bands like Tame Impala do with Polyphonic Spree (anywhere from 12 to 24 or more members depending on what album or concert we're talking about). Just as younger people gradually started buying vinyl records in greater numbers than CDs, so will they continue to play instruments for all the right reasons: to make real music and to get laid.

In conclusion, I ask a question that seems to be going unasked by both sides of the A.I. debate. What does it say about contemporary music that its A.I. cousin Eddie Dalton is more popular than much of the real thing?

Maybe we should ask IngaRose. She's another A.I. R&B singer and is currently sitting at #1 on iTunes. 

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IT'S ALL FUN AND GAMES UNTIL IT ISN'T

The joke's on us.

After announcing the soon-to-be-cancellation of Late Night with Stephen Colbert, CBS promised it was shutting the door on late-night entertainment. 

But earlier this week, like a landlord secretly holding out for more money, they gave the housekey to a new tenant. CBS will be leasing the 11:35p.m.- 1:05a.m. slot to producer Byron Allen's Comics Unleashed and Funny You Should Ask.

As with all of Allen's output, these shows are low-budget, low-concept rehashes of other people's ideas featuring second-tier talent. Comics Unleashed is a gussied-up version of the hoary Can You Top This?, while Funny You Should Ask is Hollywood Squares without the tic-tac-toe motif. 

A better title would be Comics Paid Scale to Fill
Byron Allen's Wallet.

Stuff like this has made Byron Allen a very wealthy man. If you haven't heard of him or the product he's been churning out, it's probably because his syndicated shows run in many markets at 2:00a.m. when stoners and

insomniacs make for an undemanding audience.

Allen hopes the ad revenue he earns will make up for the "tens of millions of dollars" he's forking over, which perhaps explains why his contract with CBS is for only one year. While he might be hedging his bets regarding the wisdom of spending that kind of dough, my theory is CBS will be paying close attention to the ratings. 

If it's a game show they want, CBS could make 
more money with You Bet Your Life reruns.

If the numbers for these cheaper-than-cheap shows come within spitting distance of the two Jimmys (Fallon and Kimmel), the network might want to produce their own low-rent rip-offs of Allen's low-rent rip-offs, with titles like Comics Unhinged and What's So Funny? 

The ad revenue for that kind of programming will more than offset the production costs. And it'll let the network's PR department spin the situation with quotes like "CBS is back with late-night laughs!" Can you top this? Original ideas not required.

Colbert gets the last laugh on
the boss.

Interestingly, Colbert's next move has nothing to do with moving to another network. Warner Bros. has signed him and his son to write the screenplay for Lord of the Rings: Shadows of the Past. That's a pretty good step up from interviewing actors plugging their new movies.

It's fun to picture Colbert winning the Academy Award for Best Screenplay and thanking Larry Ellison for making it all possible. Meanwhile back at CBS, Tony Dokoupil will make his debut as late-night game show host produced by "Network Executive in Charge of Mindless Entertainment" Bari Weiss. For those two, it would be more honest work than what they're doing now.

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REPUGNANT RUPERT

Tie this sex-offender down, sport.

You've got to hand it to primeval publisher Rupert Murdoch, Australia's worst
export since Rolf Harris -- and not just for "Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport" either. 

Murdoch might be a right-wing hack who would sell out his family if it meant saving his own skin (and a few dollars, if it came down to that). But he also has his 95-year-old finger in the air. 

Trump requests that Murdoch kiss his feet.

For a while, Donald Trump was the ideal president for Murdoch newspapers: Republican, rightwing, businessman, friend of billionaires yet somehow convinced low-IQ, working class tabloid readers that he was going to better their lives by cutting their healthcare and giving tax breaks to the rich.

That worked for Trump's first term, when, as they say, the "grown-ups were in the room". But now that he's surrounded by advisors and cabinet members who are incompetent at best and demoniac at worst, the MAGA maggots are taking a second look at the man they once thought was bought and paid for by Jesus Christ, Super Republican.

Your kids are going to fight the war
that his kids won't.

A series of extraordinary bad steps, ranging from the healthcare debacle (Hey,
when you said you were going to cut healthcare, I thought it was only going to be Democrats!), ICE deporting anyone with an accent or a Z in their last name (Hey, when you said getting rid of Latinos, I didn't know it was going to be my family!), killing protestors (Hey, I thought you were only going to kill minorities!) were just the beginning. 

Yet it took the war on Iran to finally convince a growing number of true believers that they were bamboozled by the biggest conman outside of... well, nobody else in history. And now their favorite English-speaking strongman is appearing mighty weak.

Re-enter Rupert Murdoch. As publisher of The Wall Street Journal, he long ago gave the OK for its editors to go full-steam ahead on bashing the Trump administration, while allowing his major American tabloid New York Post to continue its rah-rah cheerleading coverage. 

Miserable man, indeed.

But what to make of his UK mouthpiece, the Daily Mail? While its top of the fold headline is the usual culture war slop, it's the main story that speaks the loudest.

A BIZARRE KIND OF VICTORY isn't about is a goal made by a dog that's run onto the football pitch. Uh-uh. The Daily Mail -- which supported Trump's insults of Prime Minister Starmer -- openly disdains the administration's victory declaration regarding the war. 

"The world mocks" are three words that Trump and his gang of idiots really, really do not want placed within a mile of their names. And while they might expect that from the New York Times or the Morning Joe crew, to see it in a usually reliably friendly Daily Mail -- on the front page yet! -- must be particularly galling to the dementia-stricken would-be dictator.

Megyn takes a moment from fellating Satan
to yell at Republicans for not banning any
non-Christian from holding office. 

Murdoch, who allegedly (but likely) was quoted as wishing Trump dead, hasn't
really undergone a come-to-the-real-Jesus moment any more than deranged podcasters like Tucker Carlson, Megyn Kelly or Alex Jones who are calling for Trump's removal from office. Those latter three (along with the other once-loyal Trump minions) are just feeling the same wind blowing up Murdoch's Australian ass. They might even be angry that Trump's antics have temporarily derailed Project 2025 from completely taking over the government. Like Trump's antics, it's all for ratings and money. Neither MAGA fans nor the MS NOW anchors seem to realize that they're being used by a different set of grifters. 

No healthcare. Higher taxes. Deporting family members. Killing white people in the streets. And yet Trump still has the support of at least a third of the population. If all the things he's done wrong are OK with those folks, then they're going to love today's news that, come December, they and their sons will be automatically registered for the draft. And that's military, not NCAA. 

Guess they weren't counting on that when they cheered those bombs dropping on Iran. Hey, that was supposed to be poor blacks and Latinos in the military, not us!

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WITH ALL THE FRILLS UPON IT

You can be sure that New York's new Archbishop
was delighted to have this crew on the stairs of
St. Patrick's Cathedral.

Another Easter come and gone! As usual, here in New York, folks celebrated the
resurrection of the Lord and Saviour by parading down Fifth Avenue while looking like escapees from a lunatic asylum. Atheists might find such a thing appropriate.

What do you suppose the GOP reaction would
have been to Barack Obama saying "Praise be
to Allah" on Easter?

Speaking of lunatics, our president made sure to mark the holiest of days with one of his usual thoughtful remarks. Does anyone know if the morning crew on Fox News quoted Trump word for word?

Ooh, he's so tough!

Meanwhile, Sen. Chuck Schumer offered one of his rip-snorting, fist-pounding responses to Trump we've come to expect. Way to tell him off, Chucko! And for God's sakes, be sure not to demand a response from your GOP colleagues. That would demand a spine.

"Once we take over, Bari will be the first to go."

To round out the day, Franklin Graham, was asked to give a homily at the end of 60 Minutes. Because who else is better to speak the word of the Lord than a right-wing racist, homophobic, anti-Muslim Evangelist who supports the insane, sexual harassing pedophile-in-chief currently occupying the White House?

By the way, the appearance by Graham -- who compares homosexuality to murder -- should be a sign that Bari Weiss will do everything she can to promote right-wing Christianity in order to make her target audience forget she's a Jewish lesbian -- who dated leftwing SNL lesbian Kate McKinnon!  Clever girl, our Bari! 

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SIXTY MINUTES, ZERO CREDIBILITY

The Weiss way of fixing 60 Minutes.

Bari Weiss can't help looking like a neutron bomb in her quest to reshape CBS News into something nobody except Larry Ellison asked for. After getting rid of the network's radio division, Weiss is taking her ax to its crown jewel, 60 Minutes. Her motto seems to be "It became necessary to destroy CBS News in order to save it." Because a similar move worked so well in Vietnam.

Depending on who's tipping off the press, what Weiss is planning has been described as a "change in tone", "shake-up", or "bloodbath".  Oddly, one of her complaints is the number of "soft" pieces 60 Minutes has run lately -- like, since she became the news division's editor-in-chief. In fact, Weiss' most famous move so far was spiking a hard-hitting story about abuses at an ICE detention center in Venezuela, so I don't understand what her gripe is.

Kate McKinnon (middle) likely prefers
memories of hanging with Greta Gerwig
(left) in theater class.

(What would make a great story is how Weiss dated former Saturday Night Live cast member Kate McKinnon during their days at Columbia University. Don't worry, Kate, everyone has that How did I sleep with that person? stage in their life.)

According to a "source familiar with the situation" -- there are a lot of those people around in every profession, aren't there? -- Weiss is ready to "blow it up as soon as the season is over." This evokes an image of her placing an Acme Portable Explosion Device at CBS headquarters. And, to paraphrase a previous wisecrack, we know how well that worked for the Coyote.

Bari Wess was minus-16 when 60 Minutes debuted.

Weiss wants to clean house both behind and in front of the camera, hoping to

bring in younger correspondents. Now, I understand her desire for new blood. There are, I'm sure, plenty of youngbloods who are champing at the bit (or the CBS eye) to prove their mettle. 

The big problem, as I've pointed out more than once, is that the "younger audience" so desired by networks doesn't watch "legacy" media. And the folks who tune into 60 Minutes do so in part because their current correspondents, whose combined ages is Old As The Hills, are perceived as wise, trustworthy, and unafraid to confront the powers-that-be.

One old-timer will still host the show.

Weiss' desire, on the other hand, is to hire whippersnappers whose points of views align with hers. Meaning something like Russia's TASS news agency. Which forces me to repeat, yet again, that audience already has Fox News.

To sum up: Bari Weiss will "improve" 60 Minutes by losing their current viewers while not gaining any new ones. To paraphrase a previous wisecrack once more, Tony Dokoupil can fill you in on how that's going for CBS Evening News. 

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 66

 Pre-codes dominate today's quadruple feature, with one semi-noir rounding out the show.

CHINATOWN NIGHTS (1929): This must be the only movie where its source material -- in this case, Samuel Ornitz's Tong War -- is given almost equal billing on the one-sheets and opening credits, making me think either the guy had a lot of pull at Paramount or the phrase was on everybody's tong -- er, tongue.

Two tong leaders -- nightclub owner Chuck Riley (Wallace Beery) and Chinese businessman Boston Charley (Warner Oland) -- are on the Zhan tu (that's warpath to you white devils).  Chuck falls hard for uptown dame Joan Fry; before you can say "dim sum", the two are shacking up, Chinatown-style. But the couple are from two different worlds -- you might call them a dim sum -- and it seems inventible they're going to break like a bamboo chopstick. 

The William Wellman-directed Chinatown Nights has potential but is an utter mess. Filmed as a silent, the Paramount bosses ordered it reshot as a talkie. Dialogue was simply dubbed in over some silent footage, with real talking scenes added only when necessary. By my estimate, it's 50/50 split, and a bad one at that. Much of the dubbed dialogue is out of synch with the actors' lips; the back and forth between the two styles is jarring, often happening in the middle of a scene. Chinatown Nights would have worked better one way or the other rather than an awkward hybrid that likely fooled nobody.

As with the truculent Louise Brooks in The Canary Murder Case, Chinatown Night's leading lady Florence Vidor left the dubbing to someone else. Wallace Beery had no problem yakking his lines as the gangster whose hard heart softens with love. And you can never go wrong with Warner Oland in one of his stereotypical Asian roles. Unless you're Asian. Then you can join the non-movie nerds of today who will find nothing of interest in Chinatown Nights except wondering why people in 1929 paid 10 cents a ticket to watch it.

BONUS POINTS: In an effort to get Chuck out of the crime business, Joan tells the authorities that the tong members are illegal immigrants and suggests mass deportations. Say, that sounds familiar....

SAFE IN HELL (1931): New Orleans chippie Gilda Carlson, accused of murdering a john, is dropped off in Tortuga by her seaman sweetie Carl Bergen, who promises to return to her when the coast is clear. It's hard enough for Gilda to keep away from the horny criminal hotel guests without the local hangman Bruno figuring out how to get his paws on her as well. The unexpected arrival of a certain man from Gilda's past offers the chance of her escape from this island. But just try telling Bruno the hangman that.

Let's get this out of the way: Safe in Hell is one of the grimiest, sweatiest, squirm-inducing studio releases of its time; you've never seen so much spitting or sexually-depraved behavior on celluloid. Every glimmer of hope is killed with all the joy of a New Yorker stomping on a spotted lantern fly. And talk about racy! When Gilda checks into the hotel, one of the male guests warns his pals to avoid using "words ending in 'it', 'itch', and 'er'." While modern day viewers may think Gilda is being punished for her sins, Safe in Hell's original trailer describes her "The Little Girl Who Tried So Hard To Be Good -- And The World Wouldn't Let Her"; pre-code movies usually cut slack to Depression-hit janes who did what they had to in order to survive.

The long-forgotten Dorothy Mackaill gives the doomed Gilda the right balance of cynicism and faith; it's the kind of pre-code character that anticipates Jane Fonda's turn in Klute decades later. The ever-boyish Donald Cook, as Carl, really looks like the kind of guy who'd forgive his girlfriend's trespasses. Yet for all the greasy goons who populate Safe in Hell, it's the two black actors -- Nina Mae McKinney as the barmaid and Clarence Muse as the porter -- who stand out. Not only are they terrific actors whose careers were unfairly confined to roles like these due to their race, their characters seem to be the only decent people on the island. Maybe they need their own ICE troops to throw out the white illegals.

BONUS POINTS: Safe in Hell is the earliest studio movie I know of that begins only with the title card, saving the other credits for the end. Director William Wellman seemed to want to get the movie going pronto.

 

NARCOTIC (1933): Dwain Esper, the Emperor of Exploitation, never met a social problem he couldn't cash in on. But unlike his delirious 1934 screed Maniac, Narcotic takes a fairly serious if seriously cut-rate look at drug addiction, while providing enough just enough tawdriness to entice audiences who patronized the more declassee grindhouses. 

This "true biography" follows the downward spiral of Dr. William G. Davis from brilliant surgeon to hopeless addict, starting at the local opium den before moving on to the harder stuff, and eventually hawking his own heroin-laced snake-oil remedy. Soon, he's surrounded by junkies ("If I don't get a pop right away, I'm gonna go nuts!"), hopheads, coke fiends, and -- gasp! -- prostitutes. And thanks to the graphic close-ups that would never be featured in studio releases, Narcotic makes it easy to learn how to puff, snort, and shoot up. Thanks for the instructions, Dwain!

Narcotic contains everything expected from Esper's grimy productions -- flimsy sets, women's gams, rickety silent movie footage of car chases and freak shows, and the requisite stilted line-readings from actors ranging from amateur to washed-up. Special commendation to J. Blackton Stuart, Jr., whose absurd portrayal of a "Chinaman" couldn't be less convincing if he played him as Australian. 

Oddly for the already-odd Esper movies, I recognized character actor Harry Cording (in a rare lead role as Dr. Davis) from his later appearances in the Rathbone/Bruce Sherlock Holmes movies. Having appeared in well over 200 movies, he's the probably the only actor in Narcotic capable of a decent performance, but only when not instructed by the director to chew scenery, mainline heroin, or smoke opium.

BONUS POINTS: In a brief sequence you'll never see on The Pitt, Narcotic also includes documentary footage of a real cesarian birth. When I later described the scene to my wife (a retired nurse), she said, "Oh, that was the old-fashioned way!" 

CRISS CROSS (1949): Burt Lancaster, Yvonne DeCarlo, and Dan Duryea make for
the most dangerous triangle outside Bermuda in this grade-A noir. Steve Thompson (Lancaster) returns to L.A. after odd-jobbing around the country, getting back his old job as armored truck driver, while doing likewise with his ex-wife Anna (DeCarlo), despite her being involved with gangster Slim Dundee (Duryea). Thompson gets the bright idea of arranging for Slim's gang to hijack his truck, split the dough with them, and run off with Anna. Sure, no way that plan won't go off the rails.

All noir elements -- doomed lovers, flashbacks, lust confused with love, greed mistaken for genius -- feature in the fast-moving Criss Cross. Director Robert Siodmak handles every aspect, from actors to lighting to framing, with the same skill that made his previous picture Cry of the City such a great watch. And just when you think you've reached the climax, the story continues into another, unexpected direction followed by another and another -- all within the final two reels. 

As for the cast, the incredibly young, curly-haired Lancaster likely never looked better. He and the borderline trashy DeCarlo have a real connection; they look like a couple who know they're doomed yet unable to resist their unhappy fate. And it's always a treat when Dan Duryea turns up in slimy roles like this, giving off sinister vibes with just his eyes. I don't know how Criss Cross never made it on my radar until now, but it was worth the wait.

BONUS POINTS:  Unbilled bit player Tony Curtis (still answering to the name of Bernie Schwartz) makes his very brief movie debut as DeCarlo's dance partner. And Alan Napier (all together now: Alfred the butler on the Batman TV series), has a small but key role as the classy dipso who organizes the truck hijacking. 

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TIGER, TIGER DRIVING BADLY

 During my background days, the star of a major TV series was talking to a group of us about his DUI from the previous weekend. He had been in L.A. at the time, and it made the papers. 

"That's why you New Yorkers are lucky," he said. "You can take the subway home when you've been at a bar. In L.A. you have to drive everywhere." 

Next Halloween's biggest-selling mask.

Alas, Los Angeles isn't the only city without mass transit. Jupiter Island, Florida, is of many places in America where you need a car. Tiger Woods proved that yesterday, as his latest mugshot attests. 

Or rather, this is the fourth time Tiger Woods has proved a judge needs to take his keys and prevent him from even walking past an automotive dealer. 

It's always interesting to see what celebrities can get away with. For Tiger Woods, the borderline-washed up golfer, it's driving under the influence and, when he's really blotto, crashing his car. (Of his four arrests, the only one that didn't involve a smash-up was when he was found in the front seat sleeping off a bender, something the locals were undoubtedly grateful for.)

There are many people better than me who will shake their head and say, "I take no joy in what Tiger is going through." Well, hell, I sure do. Not him getting away with DUIs time and time again. But because he deserves to be made a mockery of. 

"Hey, you'll never guess what happened!"

Take a good look, if you will, at Woods' driving skills. Even with the car lying on its side at the side of the road -- he had been driving over the speed limit while trying to pass a tow truck -- he was able to crawl out the passenger side, stumble past a hydrant and apparently make a phone call, presumably to his lawyer to get him out of a jam again. At eleven o'clock in the morning!

According to the New York Times, "He was charged with DUI with property damage [clipping the tow truck] and refusal to submit to a lawful [urinalysis]. Both charges are misdemeanors." 

Driving under the influence, hitting another vehicle, and refusing a piss test are on the same level of littering? Florida will do anything to get people to move there.

Tiger Woods leaving the pokey. Now he gets
someone to drive him home.

You know things are bad when the Times has one of their "WHAT YOU SHOULD READ NEXT" side articles titled, "A timelime of Tiger Woods' car crashes and injuries after latest incident."  If you or I had been pulling this crap, our "timeline" would have ended after the second arrest, when we were given a chance to cool off for six months in prison. 

But a guy who hits a little white ball around a country club gets the kid glove treatment and just might continue to until he winds up hurting somebody other than himself. The term "white privilege" doesn't come into play here -- this is green privilege. And I'm not referring to the color of grass.

Near the end of the Times' coverage is a link to another article, this one titled "We don't need to quit Tiger Woods. But we must ask less of him." Jesus, all we're asking him to do is not drive under the influence of booze or pills. How difficult is that? The DUI actor I referenced in the beginning learned his lesson about eight years ago. Gee, looks like it can be done!

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