THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 64

There are actually actors you've heard of here. I must be slipping.

BEHIND THE MAKEUP (1930): Thanks to copyright expiration laws, a treasure

trove -- make that a pile -- of movies released in 1930 are appearing on YouTube every day. Most of them have been forgotten, and for good reason. But any starring William Powell is always a good bet, for he stands out in his early talkies like an ICE agent at a Quinceanera. But in a good way!

Still transitioning from character actor to leading man, Powell is Gardoni, a comedic entertainer from Italy stuck in New Orleans (why? how?) who teams up with third-rate vaudevillian Hap Brown. Even if you've never seen another movie in your life, you know what's coming. Gardoni steals Hap's material, his girlfriend Marie, and money, but eventually gets dumped by his sidepiece named Kitty. Drowning in gambling debts, Gardoni drowns himself for real, allowing Marie to return to Hap. Frankly, had I been that sap Hap, I'd have said "No sloppy seconds for me, lady!" and let her wallow in misery for the rest of her life.

Powell, per usual, towers over his co-stars, even with an Italian accent that sounds like... William Powell doing an Italian accent. As for his comedy partner/romantic rival, Hal Skelly's Hap doesn't come across well; you feel more contempt than empathy for allowing himself to be humiliated. Same with Fay Wray as Marie. Sure, Hap is a third-string vaudevillian, but how can she not see through Gardoni's "amore mio" routine? 

Likely the best thing to come out of Behind the Makeup was teaming William Powell with Kay Francis for the first of several times. Francis gives Kitty her usual chilly rich bitch style, taking delight in wooing Gardoni and ditching him for a millionaire. It's interesting to see Powell in the rare role of a rejected lover -- Myrna Loy never threw him overboard at MGM. As much as I like Powell, I say good for Kay Francis for giving what Gardoni deserved. Now if Hap had only done the same to Marie.

BONUS POINTS: Someone at Paramount's promo department played it cute, billing William Powell third in the posters and lobby cards, but second in the "cast of characters". 

FAST AND LOOSE (1930): The title of the goofy romantic comedy Fast and Loose seems to refer to the characters' behavior, their way with the truth, and the story itself: Spoiled rich kids fall in love with people beneath their class. Rich mother panics, rich father investigates for himself. Most of them wind up in the clink after a police raid at a restaurant. Stern talking-to, followed by love and kisses all around. You've seen it before, and are probably asking, So what?

This what. While Fast and Loose is predictable, the dialogue is... on the witty side. Sophisticated. Very often chuckle-worthy, going from Not bad to Hey, this is some funny stuff! The people credited with the original source material and screenplay are unfamiliar, but the "Dialogue by" goes to Preston Sturges. Ah ha, that explains it!

In only his second screen credit, Sturges is already displaying his talent for writing upscale dialogue that the average moviegoer could appreciate. Fast and Loose flirts with pre-code situations and conversations while never quite crossing the line -- or if it does, it's so subtle that many people wouldn't quite notice. And as with every Sturges movie I've seen, there's one moment that had me laughing loud and long, causing me to miss several subsequent lines of dialogue. It concerns the use of the word "cremated", which gives you a sense of what I find funny.

Oh, there's a cast, too. Miriam Hopkins (in her first feature), Carole Lombard, and Frank Morgan are the famous faces; they and the forgotten Charles Starrett, Ilka Chase, Barry O'Moore, and Henry Wadsworth all do a splendid job with Sturges' words. Had he written and directed Fast and Loose in the 1940s, it would have starred Veronica Lake, Joel McCrea, William Demarest, Rudy Vallee, and Eve Arden. It would have been even funnier, but the Fast and Loose that we have is more than good enough. 

BONUS POINTS: Miriam Hopkins resembles a 1970s model with her frizzy hair, while the pre-glamorous Carole Lombard is unexpectedly cute and innocent. 

LET US LIVE (1939): At the risk of being accused of heresy, I've never been a big Henry Fonda fan, He usually strikes me as flat and chilly, with cold, steely eyes that signals a hot temper seething underneath. 

Well, you can forget that for now, because the forgotten drama Let Us Live knocked me out of my chair thanks to Fonda's astonishingly emotional performance as Brick Tennant, who, along with his friend Joe, is wrongly sentenced to death row for murder. An upbeat, patriotic guy, engaged to his girlfriend Mary, Brick gradually loses his faith in the law, justice, and America itself as the public, the police, and the D.A. are hellbent on killing the two men even when Mary finds proof of their innocence. Only Lt. Everett, the original cop on the case, believes her, as they race the clock to prevent Brick and Joe from going to the chair.

Fonda's transformation from optimist to bitter cynic is remarkable in its believability. While Alan Baxter's Joe was already a skeptic, Fonda is shocked that everything he believed in America was a lie, making Mr. Smith Goes to Washington

look like a MAGA production (It also lays the groundwork for two future Fonda classics, The Grapes of Wrath and The Wrong Man.) Even the happy ending really isn't happy after all, because it's quite clear that the once-sanguine Brick has been changed forever, and nor for better. 

Credit needs to go to director John Brahm and his technical team for their splendid work with Let Us Live's proto-noir cinematography and lighting. A round of applause as well for Maureen O'Sullivan as Mary (this is the best acting of hers I've seen), and Stanley Ridges as the death-happy D.A. As with his other roles, it took me a few minutes to realize it was him -- he's absolutely the most underrated character actor of his time. And let's give Ralph Bellamy a pat on the back as Lt. Everett just because his character is essential to proving the guys' innocence. Let Us Live comes highly recommended from this movie dork. And it runs only 68 minutes!

BONUS POINTS: You'll get lockjaw from saying, "Oh, that guy!" due to all the recognizable character actors. In addition to the perennial Charles Lane, there's Byron Foulger, Dick Elliot, Henry Kolker, Charles Trowbridge, Clarence Wilson, John Qualen, Sam McDaniel...

CLIMAX!: "NO RIGHT TO KILL" (8/9/1956): It seems to be go-to idea for movie and TV writers: when in doubt, churn out an update of Crime and Punishment. If you're unfamiliar with the details -- other than there was a crime followed by punishment -- the TV Guide outline on the right will suffice.

John Cassavetes was still riding high on the previously discussed live TV play Crime in the Streets as a juvenile delinquent. His performance here as the doomed wannabe writer Malcom McCloud is more age-appropriate but less believable. He seems way too smart to declaim his grandiloquent dialogue ("I shall leave!") even though his character probably would likely speak that way to prove he's more intellectual than his Greenwich Village neighbors. Cassavetes is also saddled with direction that screams I killed the pawnbroker!, which only arouses the suspicion of District Attorney Profear when they meet at a party. (Just how McCloud has a friend who knows the D.A. goes unexplained.)

The two main costars come off better than Cassavetes because they're better fits for their roles. Terry Moore makes her cliched character of the dumb but kindhearted waitress sympathetic and kind of believable. She can't help feeling something for McCloud, who's different from the grabby guys who populate her restaurant. (Climax! host Bill Lundigan reminds us that Moore "appears through the courtesy of 20th Century-Fox and is currently starring in Between Heaven and Hell, a 20th Century-Fox production in Cinemascope". Thanks for appearing on the 15-inch TV screen, Terry!)

No offense to John Cassavetes, but Robert Harris comes out on top as D.A. Porfear. Without anything but a gut feeling to go on, the sly, witty Profear gradually allows McCloud to confess without using the third-degree. I will bet a C-note that Harris patterned his performance on that of Edward Arnold, who played the role in the 1935 version of Crime and Punishment opposite Peter Lorre. While Cassavetes is the draw today in No Right to Kill, Harris is the one you wind up remembering.

BONUS POINTS: The commercials for the 1956 Chryslers are impressive, seeing there are up to five on stage at one time, and have pretty cool windows, too! 

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

ANDREW THE LAST

 Anyone looking for a hard-hitting piece on Donald Trump's second Reich will have to go somewhere else, because there are a thousand or so professional scribblers who can do it a lot better.

This leaves me free to openly chaff, mock, and ridicule the Royal Family. And you know which one I'm talking about. 

Remember what happened to Robert Johnson
at the crossroads?

You've read the details about Andrew (the man without a title) and his pimp

Jeffrey Epstein (the man without a logical death certificate). Every day, the news gets worse. I suggest you wander over to YouTube and check out the pieces on the English-language France 24 news channel, where interviews and reports can last 20 or more minutes without commercial interruption. 

The art director is a graduate of the 
New York Post school of design.

British news programs, naturally, are all over this like blood on pudding. And I have to give credit to the conservative Talk TV channel, which has made room for tirades against Andrew and -- is it possible? -- King Charles for not doing more to punish his sexually demented sibling. 

Quick aside: The one funny thing they've reported is that Andrew feels hurt not by the accusations against him but being stripped of his membership in the Order of the Royal Garter. Funny because it sounds so childish. Funny, too, because the Royal Garter is an order of chivalry. Andrew and chivalry in the same sentence? The British really are incredibly droll.

Never was there a more
appropriate photo of the Queen.

As reporters comb through the three million pages of the Epstein files, one

interesting tidbit is being spoken of -- first in passing, but now more definitively. Andrew's moral and criminal misbehavior was known to the Royals going back years and years. And the Cover-Upper-in-Chief was none other than Queen Elizabeth II.

Cor blimey! The beloved monarch who reigned o'er her subjects for 70 years like the grandmother you always wanted even if she would never deign to touch you? That Queen Elizabeth was the obstructionist, accessory after the fact and consigliere for her sexually depraved favorite son? The mind reels, while the mouth laughs.

"I say, old chap, I would so appreciate
if you moved a little further down the road."

We can no longer lay all the blame on King Charles for merely wringing his hands and mumbling I've thrown him out of his house, what more can I do? as the entire British ruling class teeters on the precipice of ruin (oh, if only it were so everywhere). He's merely following the tradition that his dear mama learned from her parents, and they learned from theirs. Deny, deflect, lie. Picture Roy Cohn in jerkins and you get the idea.

Speaking as an American living under a racist, corrupt, mentally-deranged authoritarian, it's not my place to tell the Brits what to do with the freeloaders who live in Buckingham Palace. The difference is, we had it coming because Trump received enough votes (and Democrats had no idea how to speak to the American people without sounding like Yale economic professors). 

But the Brits! Remember how they made it clear they would be well rid of the royals until the Queen finally made a public statement showing a royal quarter-litre of compassion regarding the death of Lady Di? 

Now if only the police would post these.

That incident should remind the British public that they have the power to see justice done if they want it. Locals have already plastered "public safety announcements" in the village where Andrew resides, warning of a "SWEATY NONCE" ("nonce" being slang for pedophile). Andrew's royal servants have gone on strike rather than cook and clean for a deviant. The royal-friendly Daily Mail trashes him like his name were Meghan Markle. 

All of this would have been unthinkable in another era. But that's what entitlement does when the public -- or as Andrew would likely refer to them, "those yobs" -- has its fill of that lot. All together now: Off with their royal garters!

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

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! 

 

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