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. 

                                                                        *********

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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THE ZIRCONIUM NETWORK

 

Oh yeah, that's a winning team right there.

When last we saw Bari Weiss, the blogger-turned-network titan had been charged by 
her masters Larry and David Ellison to salvage what was left of the reputation of CBS News. 

In the intervening months, Weiss has worked her magic by hiring the weepy Tony Dokoupil to commandeer CBS Evening News, postponing an anti-ICE piece on 60 Minutes until an evening that a major football game on another network would distract viewers, firing over 6% of its workforce, seeing a producer quit in angry frustration, watched the staff of CBS streaming News walk off the job for 24 hours, and sending the ratings (and possibly her job) into a death spiral worthy of Karl Wallenda. 

Tony Dokupil prepares for his new job as a used
car salesman.

None of that was enough to complete her job, so she announced the shuttering of CBS Radio News a year short of its 100th birthday. 

Before going further, let me ask: does referring to Bari Weiss as a useful idiot for the Trump toe-sucking Ellisons sound homophobic? Or misogynistic? Or true? Leave comments below, subscribe, like, give a thumbs up, ring the bell, and whatever else is considered proof of news viewership.

They've gone from "Good night and
good luck" to "So long, suckers!"

Because that's where CBS News is headed. As reported late last year, Weiss told staffers they will need to lean more into podcasting. “I’m here to tell you that if we stick to that [focusing on broadcast] strategy, we’re toast,” Weiss said. But what Weiss has accomplished since then is burnt toast and a rotten egg.

I'm not convinced that Weiss decided to shut down CBS Radio News on her own. Surely the Ellisons whispered the idea in her ear. Say, Bari, who listens to radio news anyway, except people in their cars who don't have Sirus/XM? 

And they wouldn't necessarily be wrong. Anyone following radio news at home is tuned to either Fox Radio or NPR. The former are counting their containers of survivalists' canned meat while they listen, while the latter knit FUCK TRUMP doilies. Everyone else is either at work, looking for work, or waiting for mainstream news to admit World War III is in progress.

Sharp enough to know the
news division is doomed.

What we're witnessing isn't the end of CBS News per se. It's the beginning of the end of network news as we've known it. Those eight million viewers watching David Muir on ABC are baby boomers and Gen Xers from the P.C. (pre-cable) years, and neither are going to live forever.

Younger people get their news from other sources and can't afford cable anyway. No way they're suddenly going to put everything on hold at dinner time to watch 18 minutes of news and 12 minutes of commercials for pharmaceuticals and LiMu Emu. 

The Ellisons, like oligarchs before them, are taking advantage of a changing landscape, reshaping it to their liking. Meanwhile, Bari Weiss genuinely believes she's doing good, rather than realizing she's just a vessel for her masters' evil ways and will get thrown overboard when the job is complete. That's the way it is, whether you like it or not.

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MATINEE OF THE LIVING DEAD

Stand-in Mary Dees pulls double-duty in Saratoga.

Hollywood has a history of releasing movies featuring stars who died before the release
dates. Jean Harlow in Saratoga, James Dean in Giant, Chadwick Boseman in Ma Rainey's Black Bottom to name only three.

Most of these pictures attracted even more interest than they would have otherwise, usually due to fans wanting one last look at their idols -- or, in the case of Harlow's Saratoga, playing a game of Spot the Stand-In. (Clue: whenever the character is hiding her face or has her back to the camera.)

And soon it will be Val Kilmer's turn for a final appearance onscreen, co-starring in the appropriately-titled As Deep as the Grave, a project delayed twice, first due to covid, then to his throat cancer diagnosis.

The first still of A.I. Val in character. No need
for craft services providing coffee and bagels.

The twist? Kilmer never lived to film As Deep as the Grave. His performance will be entirely-A.I. generated, spanning several years of his character's life. Tilly Norwood, the original A.I. star-in-the-making, never made it past the promotional stage. I told you this artificial intelligence hoo-hah was moving fast!

Why not hire another actor to take his place? As writer/director Coerte Voorhees explained, it's cheaper to create a new Val Kilmer rather than hire a real live human being. Let that be a warning to greedy actors going forward: Producers can wait until you're dead before making your movie.

Amy Irving, for people who didn't get my attempt
at a joke.

Back when A.I. was known only as the initials of Steven Spielberg's wife, I remember Variety reporting the possibility of computers one day reviving dead actors, citing the dream pairing of Harrison Ford with a faux-Humphrey Bogart. 

Four decades later, the stuff that dreams are made of is more like a nightmare to many. Val Kilmer's daughter is onboard with the project, though, assuring us her dad embraced "emerging technologies with optimism as a tool to expand the possibilities of storytelling." His estate will be compensated, although likely nowhere near the amount a real live Val Kilmer would have received. Too, the Screen Actors Guild has been assured the actor's image will be used "ethically" -- which sounds way too close to "ethically sourced" cadaver fat discussed in a previous post.

Died on April 1? April Fool!

There are a couple of questions that come to mind. Like, can the promotional material read "Starring Val Kilmer" when Val Kilmer really isn't in it? Or will it be something like "Ethically Sourced Val Kilmer"? 

Suppose A.I. Val gives an award-worthy performance. Will the Academy have to create a new category, like "Best Performance by a Dead Actor", or will it fall under Animation? If this trend keeps up, will the Oscars have a "They're Back!" segment after the "In Memoriam"? 

But those dilemmas are for another time. The once-theoretical Harrison Ford/Humphrey Bogart teaming can finally come to pass. Indiana Jones and the Falcon of Malta. Star Wars, Episode X: The Search for Casablanca. Blade Runner's Big Sleep. Me, I'm looking forward to Pope Francis starring George Arliss. 

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WHAT WE LEARNED FROM THE OSCARS

Oscar voters seemed to make a concerted effort to pass the love around between Sinners and One Battle After Another instead of a full-on sweep that would have evoked the dreaded "snub" criticism on social media. 

Whoever did the audio mix needs a lifetime supply of Debrox. 

The "Best Song" once again award went to something people will forget a week from now. 

Now that the Academy has gotten over its long-standing dismissal of horror movies as worthy of nomination (Sinners and Frankenstein -- two in one year!), maybe they can take notice of comedies. And don't whine, "But what about Shakespeare in Love, Terms of Endearment, Anora and Parasite?" Funny moments do not a comedy make. 

The Academy finally got the memo about how to present a decent "In Memoriam" segment, although TCM is still the champ and remembered Brigette Bardot.

After living in California for 60 years, Barbra Streisand still hasn't lost her Brooklyn accent or her knack for making everything about her. 

The under-40 attendees who laughed at the Basil Rathbone reference did so only because they thought it was a funny-sounding name the announcer just made up. 

Best Short Film presenter Kumail Nanjiani has apparently gotten over appearing in a flop movie that sent him to a therapist for three years. What a man!

Judging by the number of commercials for pharmaceuticals, either people in the industry are in need of meds or the at-home audience skews really old.

The broadcast director was too chickenshit to keep the camera on one of the winners when the microphone went down because Oscars don't make mistakes!

Someone close to Timothee Chalamet should have warned him to Google "Chill Wills + Alamo + Oscar Campaign" to learn how not to win the hearts and minds of Oscar voters. Oh, and to leave the Kardashian stepsister at home next time. 

Now that Jack Nicholson is retired, Leonardo DiCaprio has become the "cool guy" in the front row the hosts can make good-natured jokes about. But he will never be as cool as Jack Nicholson.

There are always a couple of movies I've never heard of except in relation to the Oscars, and this year's were The Secret Agent and Weapons. If you've seen either of these, drop me a line.

Only two of the "Best Song" nominees were performed and the damned show still lasted three and a half hours. 

Comedians and documentary makers have more courage than the mainstream press and most of Congress.

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To prove the ceremony can be presented in just over an hour, listen to this: 1945 Academy Awards Radio Broadcast

                                                                

ARTIFICIAL PHOTO INTELLIGENCE

 Last October, I wrote a piece about how my phone's camera app generated my photo into various caricatures. The point of it was to show how far from reality they were, making Al Hirschfield sketches look like George Hurrell photos in comparison.

Well, a lot can change five months. The app has taken its magic to the next step by creating photo-realistic imagery from existing photos. And my reaction has gone from This doesn't look like me to Why can't I look like this?

Just to make it more of a challenge, I used a selfie from a recent visit to the dentist:

Before continuing, thank you for your compliments on my big, beautiful teeth. I wanted to ease into this A.I. stuff gradually, so my first choice was the "vintage" style from the 1970s.

Boy, they really nailed that faded, Polaroid SX-70 look. Can almost smell the chemicals from here. Looks like something you'd find in a shoebox full of deservedly forgotten photos in the back of the closet. 

The first "new" look I wanted was "professional headshot". Outside of a print ad for Ipana, there didn't seem to be any use for a photo like that dental office shot. Yet here's what it spat out:

Hey! How'd they do that? Kind of looks like a guy who got into the tech boom 40 years ago and made a comfortable living along the way. Nice room, too. Now I understand why a casting agency recently sent an angry email to background actors warning, We know when you're submitting A.I. headshots. Knock it off or you won't get hired. If I didn't know me, I wouldn't have known this was A.I. imagery.

I used to do character modeling back in the day, specializing in computer nerds, delivery guy nerds, any kind of professional nerd you could think of. For a while my face was on a truck owned by a local office cleaning company. But now it was time to up my game and become a fashion model. Presto:

Yeah, baby! Somebody arrange for an airplane because this silver fox is ready for the runway! Love the thoughtful, hand-to-the-chin business -- reminds me of my idol, Jeff Goldblum. I have no idea what that thing is on my sweater, but who cares? If this doesn't land me in the Brooks Brothers catalogue, nothing will.

Being a fan of "old Hollywood", I had to try the "dramatic black & white" option. Was it possible that my dental selfie could do the job? You tell me:

Holy glamour lighting, Batman! I wish, wish, wish I looked like this. I mean, goddamn, look at that hair! The hand seems a little big, but still. This is the best photo never taken of me. If I weren't so mature, I'd send this to every woman I ever dated -- a small circle, TBH -- with the caption Look what you missed out on. Bet you got fat. But to repeat, I'm too mature. I also don't have their contact information.

Continuing to fool around with the app with different photos, two thoughts occurred to me. 1) A.I. is improving every 15 seconds. 2) Even though my wife said these "photos" were creepy and that I'm better looking in real life, I didn't believe her.

With each new image, I was getting more depressed. No matter what my wife said, I didn't want to look like me. I wanted to look like that. And that is a figment of my camera's imagination.

The lesson from my adventures in A.I.: For better or worse, for richer or poorer, I will always look like me. I might not like it, but it's gotten me this far. And if I ever need a pick-me-up, all that needs to be done is run an already decent photo in black & white mode:

Now all that's left is to figure out how to live in a black & white world fulltime. And find those women's contact information.

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THE YELLOW TAPE BLUES

Yorkville: Manhattan's own flyover country.

For an area I gladly consider the most boring part of Manhattan, my neighborhood of Yorkville has recently seen more action than Sarah Ferguson at a toe-sucking convention. Last weekend, part of it was blocked off for a total of 14 hours, thanks to right-wing idiots and would-be terrorists who don't even live here. 

Monday passed without incident, while Tuesday started out like a late spring morning. Temperatures promised to be hovering in the low 70s by lunchtime, perfect for a picnic my wife and I would share in Carl Schurz Park... until receiving a "Notify NYC" email reading "Due to police activity, expect traffic delays, road closures, mass transit disruptions, and a heavy presence of emergency personnel in the area of East End Avenue and East 88th Street in Manhattan." 

So that explained all those helicopters I'd been vaguely aware of hovering overhead for the previous half hour. Looks like the bomb squad's here again, honey!

Just another day in our bucolic neighborhood.

With trusty Android in hand, I walked east a half block, where I was greeted by yellow police tape shutting off East End Avenue from 84th Street to 88th. Cops, reporters and locals were milling about, all with expressions that read Here we go again. 

I asked one cop if he knew what was going on. He replied, "Yeah, but I can't tell you." He explained that he didn't want the nearby news camera to pick up any information with its boom microphone. This didn't prevent rumors flying around like unmanned drones -- one bomb found, three bombs found, even Donald Trump leaving office were all mentioned by people who in reality had no frigging idea what the facts were. My advice: listen to the cop who can't tell you anything.

You mean we're gonna have to walk all the way
to Central Park for lunch?

Our picnic would have to be postponed too, since all of Carl Schurz Park's 15 square acres were roped off as well. This was indeed a sad moment for the kiddies whose nannies bring them to its playground. On the other hand, I would have paid cash money to see the pickleball players get the heave-ho. You just knew those overgrown Ping Pong chumps probably threw a fit being denied their daily 30 minutes of glory.

"Hey, I'm down here!"

A reporter from WCBS-TV news was on the scene covering the... well, I was going to say "action", but there was really nothing to see other than flashing police lights and cops not answering our questions. 

This left the reporter to interview locals who wanted some screentime on the afternoon news. The hard-hitting questions I could hear being asked were along the lines of, "What do you think of this activity in your neighborhood?" and "Does this make you afraid?" And you just know she wanted people to answer the second question in the affirmative. Fear sells.

Mayor Mamdani might have to keep this
handy for future recycling. 

Unlike the weekend's drama, the lockdown was lifted in the midafternoon, as the "suspicious device" was not so suspicious after all. Whether it was just an empty soda bottle or something similar gussied-up as a bomb just for laughs depends on what news report you read or heard. 

By 4:00, Yorkville returned to its normal state of daily sameness. Although I'm unsure what that sameness really is now.

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TOWN HALL FOR DUMMIES

Oh yeah, these guys' opinions are
definitely worth my time.

 At a time when cultural, political, and religious divisions are driving us further
apart, it's good to know that there's something, anything, that has brought many Americans together. It's just a damn shame it's so stupid.

During a "town hall" event sponsored by CNN and Variety, Timothée Chalamet told host Matthew McConaughey, "I don't want to be working in ballet, or opera, or things where it's like, 'Hey, keep this thing alive, even though like no one cares about this anymore.' All respect to all the ballet and opera people out there."

Yes, I know what it means.

Before continuing, let's take a brief detour. First, "town hall" event used to refer to political candidates offering their views on current events and taking questions from interested voters, not actors campaigning for Oscars the way seriously ill people look for kidney donors. 

Nor were they co-sponsored by showbiz periodicals known for wacky headlines. Nor were the hosts acclaimed for saying, "Alright, alright, alright!" And what's the deal with "Timothy" spelled like a 17th-century French aristocrat, complete with the accent acute? 

Let's get back to the controversy that followed. Yes, CONTROVERSY. An offhand comment made by a 30-year-old actor who looks 14 and is currently dating Kardashian stepsister caused the kind of reaction one usually sees only when the Vice-President of the United States endorses racist, antisemitic, and sexist jokes.

OK, I can understand opera and ballet companies getting into the mix. But somehow this anger has spread throughout the country, the world, even as said world is literally going up in flames.

America's most trusted news source.

Yesterday, the yentas on The View decided it was time to gin up some publicity three weeks after the rickety train left the station. And while I didn't watch it -- I was busy doing something more important, like watching snow melt -- I'm certain The View audience clapped like the Central Park Zoo seals waiting for mackerel from their keepers. 

How many operas and ballets have The View hosts attended? How many can their audience members even name? View host Sunny Hostin says Chalamet is vapid and shallow for his opinion. Yet she's a lawyer whose side hustle is appearing on a series that could be considered Meet the Press for day drinking housewives.

Now I'm all for distracting oneself from the constant flow of bad news with anything that doesn't lead to DUIs or mass shootings. (I suggest pre-code pictures, but you knew that already.) But this? An opinion by a guy who proves the old cliche that actors need a script before opening their mouths? 

Hey, I thought everybody loved the opera!

An opinion, by the way, is more accurate than people realize, according to this recent piece
from the New York Times. If the hosts of The View really care about opera so much, they ought to pony up some of their money for the next performance of Pagliacci. It's about a clown, so they could relate.

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UPPER EAST VIOLENCE

"Excuse me, could you keep it down, please? We're
having our luncheon."

While my wife and I were
having a pleasant lunch of soup and sandwich on Saturday afternoon, there was a full-scale riot going on three blocks away -- and we had no idea. Maybe because the Upper East Side isn't known for anything more violent than disputes over who plays pickleball next.

What could go wrong? 

This could have been avoided if our idiot president hadn't pardoned the criminals who tried to assassinate various Congresspeople a few years back. Jake Lang would have been behind bars instead of deciding it would be cool to lead a "Stop the Islamification" march in a city he couldn't find on a map of New York City. 

Lang, who describes himself as more right-wing than Nazis, must have known his little parade would bring out a larger counter-protest -- which was the whole idea. Start a riot outside the home of the Islamist Mayor of Jew York! 

Yow, who does he hate first? While my heart was with the counter-protestors, it doesn't mean there weren't some bad bananas in the bunch.

Meet Emir Balat and Ibrahim Kayumi, two junior members of the ISIS fan club who decided that a protest wouldn't be a protest unless they threw a homemade bomb into the crowd near the direction of Gracie Mansion, which, to remind you, is occupied by a Muslim couple. This is why we can't have nice things.

My neighborhood was locked down from 86th to 89th Streets between East End and First Avenues as the police searched the area for more bombs. With none found, the area was re-opened around 7:30 p.m., a full eight and a half hours following the start of the day's action. That's all, folks!

Hah! That's what we thought.

The bomb squad is considering opening a branch
office in my neighborhood.

The following afternoon, East End Avenue was closed again, this time from 83rd to 79th, with the bomb squad once more on the scene. This time, I was aware of what was going on and got to see for myself part two of our weekend of terrorist activities. 

A "suspicious device" (read: bomb) was seen in a car parked a block or two away, likely linked to the two wannabe terrorists, and leading to a partial evacuation of the area. Living outside the perimeter of the crime scene allowed us to stay inside and have dinner in peace -- other than the sirens on the ground and helicopters flying overhead. People were allowed back to their homes by 8:00 that evening.

Please note that the assholes who caused this trouble -- Jake Lang, Emir Balat and Ibrahim Kayumi --are all out-of-towners. God, these fucking tourists.

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 65

Frank Capra makes his Early Show debut, an honor he likely would have refused, while Bela Lugosi, Walter Huston, and Edward G. Robinson return to join an antediluvian vaudeville act in their first (and last) appearance. 

THEY LEARNED ABOUT WOMEN (1930): Here's a story you've never seen before: two lifelong friends are torn apart by a no-good dame. The twist: the friends are professional baseball players who moonlight as vaudeville entertainers. Or the other way around, it's never made clear.

One doesn't watch a picture like They Learned About Women for entertainment any more than archeologists explore pyramids to find a new place to live. It's strictly historical study, for this is the only feature starring Gus Van & Joe Schenck -- in their time (c. 1915-1930) the most popular singing duo in show business, who are now as au courant as the allosaurus. 

And here's where it gets fascinating for nerdy amateur showbiz historians. Put aside for a moment that Van has the face of a human bulldog, and Schenck possesses the voice of Neil Sedaka turned up to 11. They are great at what they do if -- and this is important -- you remember what audiences enjoyed a century ago, like harmony as loud as the lead voice, or songs featuring dialect humor. They Learned About Women feature three of the latter: African-American (despite the potential offense, a fantastic number you can watch here), Irish, and Italian, (You can find Van & Schenck shorts where they do their "tributes" to Jews and Chinese as well.)

Not all the music in They Learned About Women is culturally unacceptable in the 21st century; it's artistically unacceptable as well, although I enjoyed them tremendously. Without Van & Schenck, They Learned About Women would be an exercise in ennui. It's best to fast-forward through the "drama" and go straight to the songs -- IF you have any interest in the kind of pop music that was already going out of style by the time of the movie's release (Schenck himself died six months later). Don't miss leading lady Bessie Love's jazzy solo "I Got Me a Real Man", either. She's kind of a hot mama in her own innocent way.

BONUS POINTS: Authentic footage of the old Yankee Stadium is featured in the climactic ballgame. 

AMERICAN MADNESS (1932): For a director remembered for uplifting movies, Frank Capra had a pretty cynical (meaning accurate) eye for corruption, unbridled capitalism, and the sheer idiocy of the average American. His movies' tacked-on happy endings are nothing more than fairytale codas meant to make you forget the reality you just experienced. 

American Madness may be the first entry in that quasi-genre, and is definitely better than its forgotten status would have it. It also plays like the blueprint for It's a Wonderful Life, seeing that it focuses on a down-to-earth bank president facing a hostile takeover and a hostile clientele when hysterical rumors lead to a run by panicked depositors. 

Walter Huston, as usual, knocks it out of the park as Thomas Dickson, the big city bank president with a heart of gold and a knack for seeing the good in everybody -- even when one of them, cashier Cyrill Cluett, engineers the bank's robbery to pay off a debt to a gangster. Pat O'Brien is Matt, a colleague who believes Cluett is fooling around with Dickson's wife, winds up being the prime suspect in the robbery. But it's Huston who's the star of the show; his casual chit-chat and gangly walk suggest a friendly small-town businessman who goes by his gut feeling when it comes to loaning money. He's the boss you've always dreamed of having yet has never existed in real life. 

Strangely, American Madness feels at times more like a Howard Hawks picture, with realistic overlapping dialogue and fast paced action, leading an eye-popping climax with what looks like the biggest group of extras since the Babylon scene in Intolerance.  Brimming with humor, drama, and outright misanthropy, American Madness is the work of a moviemaker still questioning the so-called wisdom of both the ruling class and middle class. 

BONUS POINTS: American Madness is one of the last movies to feature the credit DIRECTED BY FRANK R. CAPRA. Maybe he dropped the "R" because it didn't have the same ring as Darryl F. Zanuck or Louis B, Mayer. 

THE DEATH KISS (1932): Gangsters are setting up a hit. As the target exits a nightclub, their moll gives him an unexpected kiss, allowing the hitmen to ready, aim, fire. CUT! It turns out we're on a movie set. As the director arranges for a second take, the crew realizes the actor was killed for real. Is Alec Baldwin on the loose again?

Cheap joke aside, The Death Kiss is actually quite a decent picture, reuniting the stars of the previous year's hit, Dracula: Bela Lugosi, Edward Van Sloan, and David Manners. Disappointingly, Lugosi, as studio manager Joseph Steiner, doesn't have a lot to do other than seem awfully anxious to pin the murder on the leading lady, who had been divorced from the now-dead actor. Van Sloan (as director Tom Avery) merely wants the set locked down, while Manners (wisecracking scriptwriter Franklyn Drew) wants to find the real killer since he's in love with the sexy suspect, as all scriptwriters are.

For a Poverty Row production from Sono Art-World Wide (the abhorrent Lucky Boy and Peacock Alley), The Death Kiss is a quite the meta-mystery in that it gives a behind-the-scenes look at the picture business, making good use of the equally-low-budget Tiffany Studios (where The Death Kiss was filmed) as we visit the sound stages, screening room and back lot. And typical of "inside" movies of the time, the guy running the studio is a malaprop-slinging Jewish caricature. (His response upon hearing about the murder of his star: "Oy, that's going to cost me a fortune!"). Figuring out whodunnit is beside the point; The Death Kiss is a fun watch, with some clever camerawork and familiar character actors helping to speed things along -- literally. You won't realize until the end that it all takes place in one day.

BONUS POINTS: As with The Vampire Bat, The Death Kiss uses the occasional hand-tinted sequences for cheap but interesting effects, especially when a movie reel goes up in flames. And did you know that the iceman often slid his delivery into the icebox through a special door in the wall of the house? The things you learn in old movies!

NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES (1948): Sometimes a movie can make you rethink
your admiration of an actor (like Robert de Niro in most movies not directed by Martin Scorsese). Night Has a Thousand Eyes, on the other hand, increased my appreciation for Edward G. Robinson.

Its story isn't anything new, A phony showbiz psychic named Triton acquires a sudden gift (if you can call it that) of real prognostication which eventually sets off a chain of events that prevents the death of one person and causes the death of another --an idea previously explored in The Clairvoyant with Claude Raines. And as with The Clairvoyant, Night Has a Thousand Eyes deliberately makes you wonder if the tragic climax was inevitable or caused by the psychic's own actions: a cop-out ending to please the censors, I'd say. 

None of this negates my belief that Edward G. Robinson was the best of the major tough-guy actors of his time, including Humphrey Bogart and James Cagney. Because while those two gentlemen are great at what they do, Robinson goes one step further by creating enormous empathy for characters like Triton. You can picture Robinson in, say, The Caine Mutiny or White Heat, but neither Bogart nor Cagney could have starred in Night Has a Thousand Eyes -- or Scarlett Street, The Woman in The Window, Tales of Manhattan, and other dramas where Robinson shows a side painful in its melancholy. Kind of lost in the shuffle among the "classic" Robinson movies, Night Has a Thousand Eyes needs a million more viewers.

BONUS POINTS: William Demarest has a rare "straight" role as Police Lieut. Shawn, occasionally cracking wise as a sop to his fans.

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