THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 10

 Now that my wife has returned home after a week away at a retreat, my obscure movie marathon is winding up. So, until the next thrilling installment, here are four pictures to entertain or appall. But at least I finally saw them.

LILIOM (1930): In Budapest, humble servant girl Julie falls in love with vain carousel barker Liliom. Julie's devotion pleases him enough to quit his job, move in with her, avoid work, and knock her up. It must be love! When a robbery he's involved in goes wrong, Liliom kills himself. God's Chief Magistrate allows Liliom to visit his daughter for ten minutes after a spending a decade in hell. His eventual anonymous visit with the daughter doesn't go well, although Liliom returns to the afterlife happy that she heard her father was handsome. Yeesh!

Where to begin with an alleged love story where you hate the guy and don't respect the girl? Truly, I have no idea what the point of Liliom is. From the moment they meet, the jackass abuses Julie emotionally, psychologically, and (offscreen) physically --and she willingly keeps coming back for more! Apparently, she believes that Liliom isn't really a bad sort -- he acts the way he does because he's hurt inside. Even the great Lee Tracy, one of my faves, bothers me as the two-bit crook who indirectly causes Liliom's death. Come to think of it, every character in this movie bothers me.

I was drawn to Liliom having seen the 1934 version filmed in France and starring Charles Boyer. Maybe I enjoyed that one because it was a little more frank -- you can see he and Julie share a bedroom -- and Boyer's French dialogue made him at least sound charming. He's also a much better actor than Charles Farrell, who here sounds like Bert Wheeler. Farrell is also grating, irritating, and an all-around abhorrent fellow. Rose Hobart's Julie couldn't be more masochistic -- and, worse, pathetic.

And talk about the apple not falling far from the tree! When Liliom slaps his 10 year-old daughter, she describes it to her mother as feeling like a kiss! Julie understands, as she explains to the little girl, "It's possible for someone to beat you and beat you... and not hurt you at all." How the hell did Rodgers & Hammerstein turn this horror show into the much-loved musical Carousel? And more to the point, why? 

BONUS POINTS: The lush production reminded me of another Fox film, the 1928 silent classic Sunrise. And the arrival of the Heaven-bound train into Julie's living room to bring Liliom to the afterlife is as startling a special effect that could be seen in a movie this old, and wouldn't be nearly effective with today's CGI.

GIFT OF GAB (1934): 1930s comedies don't come much worse than Gift of Gab, a 70-minute exercise in tedium wrapped in futility, about the rise, fall, and redemption of egomaniacal radio announcer. It tries without success to be Universal Pictures' answer to the Paramount's Big Broadcast musicals, which featured popular radio and recording stars of the day in guest roles supporting the studio contract players in the lead roles.

But while the Big Broadcast films featured the likes of Burns & Allen, Cab Calloway, Bing Crosby, W.C. Fields, and Bob Hope,Gift of Gab stars Edmund Lowe, who, while a fine actor, was not necessarily a box office favorite by this time. As for the radio guest stars, they're basically the people who didn't make the final cut at Paramount:  second-tier radio announcer Tom Hanlon; annoying comedian Phil Baker (who resembles a sex criminal); and writer/raconteur/pompous ass Alexander Wolcott. The musical guests range from bonafide stars Ruth Etting, Ethel Water, and crooner Gene Austin (who was by now losing ground to Crosby), to unknowns like the Downey Sisters and the Beale Street Boys.

Lost until fairly recently, Gift of Gab was legendary for featuring appearances by Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi. Once a print was discovered and the legend became real, it proved a disappointment, since the two horror stars, while appearing in the same scene, are never on screen together, and have three lines of dialogue between them. 

Their scene, a parody of murder mysteries, makes no sense since it's a visual sketch that's supposed to be on radio. But it also features Chester Morris in a nice self-parodic turn as a dumb detective. Everybody else in Gift of Gab is wasted. In fact, the best way to enjoy it is to be wasted.

BONUS POINTS: The leading lady is played by Gloria Stuart, the old lady from James Cameron's Titanic 63 years later, proving it's possible to survive a movie like Gift of Gab, and continue to entertain audiences at the end of the century.

THE 9TH GUEST (1934): Eight people  receive identical telegrams from an unknown host inviting them to a party thrown in their honor. Soon after they arrive, a mysterious voice comes over the living room radio warning them that each will die before the night is over; the penthouse is wired so nobody can leave. True to the voice's promise, at every hour a guest dies in a different way from the one before. Accusations fly throughout the night until the mystery is solved, with only two survivors able to live to tell the tale. Good luck getting the cops to believe any of it, though.

Depression-era audiences must have gotten a kick out of rich people behaving like maniacs and getting knocked off like tea cups off a mantle in an earthquake. The 9th Guest (the title character being Death) is the kind of locked room -- make that locked penthouse -- mystery where it doesn't matter who the actors are. All that counts is that they suffer emotionally and physically for the benefit of ticket-buyers.

For the budget-conscious Columbia Pictures, The 9th Guest's art deco set is pretty sweet. And while the solution is pretty convoluted, you'll realize some of the clues were right there in front of you if you were paying attention. 

As for the cast, fans of this kind of movie will recognize many of the actors while not knowing their names. B-listers cost less, and the set likely took up most of the budget. 

BONUS POINTS: In a case of art deco taken one step beyond, the grandfather  clock is built into the living room wall. 

CLOSE-UP (1948): After covering a woman's fashion show in Madison Square, newsreel cameraman Phil Sparr discovers he also filmed a close-up of escaped Nazi war criminal Martin Beaumont. (And you thought David Hemmings had a scoop in Blow-Up!) Sparr is soon hunted down by Beaumont with the help of washed-up actor Joe Gibbons and two-timing doll Peggy Lake. Will Sparr live to film another newsreel -- or wind up on the cutting room floor? 

Close-Up would probably have a decent reputation if it looked, well, decent, rather than in its current washed-out, audio-challenged state. Location footage of Manhattan, including a genuinely exciting chase aboard the Staten Island Ferry and a climactic shootout along the East River jazz things up. You just kind of wish the newsreel folks were a little more careful when it comes to trusting guys who claim to be FBI agents without showing any ID.

As Phil Sparr, character actor Alan Baxter appears to be auditioning to be Gary Cooper's voice-over and an oak tree's stand-in. Borscht Belt comic Joey Faye, as Sparr's sidekick Roger, makes up for Baxter's stiffness by delivering every line as if he were onstage at Grossinger's. The best performance is given by Richard Kollmar, a Broadway actor and producer in his only movie appearance, as Beaumont, giving his character genuine menace without going overboard. Fun fact: Kollmar was married to columnist Dorothy Killgallen, with whom he starred in the daily radio talk show Breakfast with Dorothy and Dick, which opens itself to way too many interpretations. 

Close-Up, then, provides plenty of reasons for a nostalgic 75-minute viewing, not the least of which is that it reminds you of a time when Nazis were still frowned upon, instead of something to aspire to. 

BONUS POINTS: Character actor Sid Melton in a truly funny scene as a cab driver being questioned by the police. Delivering a ridiculous monologue in one long take, Melton steals the movie without breaking a sweat. If he had to do more than one take, it was the fault of the director.

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