THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 25

 My sleep routine has taken a new turn. After lights out, I fall asleep for what seems like eight hours, to discover just 45 minutes have passed. From that point on, I toss and turn for a while before sleeping for an hour, then repeat the whole business before waking up for good between 4:30 and 6:00. What else is there to do from that point other than fire up the DVR, YouTube, or streaming app to discover what most people just pass by, often for good reason?

CROSS EXAMINATION (1932): I'm always on the lookout for 1930s B-pictures that A) are
courtroom dramas, B) have generic titles, or C) were made by studios with names that didn't match their ambitions. Artclass Pictures' Cross Examination ticks all those boxes. David Wells is on trial for the murder of his wealthy father Emory. Plenty of people have a motive: David (for being written out of the will); Emory's servants (ditto); Emory's wife (for having an affair with his lawyer); and David's girlfriend Grace, who just doesn't like the old coot. But the appearance of a surprise witness upends the trial, leading to the confession of the real killer. Why hasn't this happened to any jury I've been on?

Unlike many other movies of its genre, Cross Examination opens with the trial, not the murder; you see the crime's build-up and aftermath -- but never the killing itself -- via flashbacks provided by the witnesses' statements. The jurors (and the audience) must paste together everything to decide whether Wells is guilty or not. It's an interesting twist to the usual courtroom dramas of its day, and one that a poverty row studio needed to do to stand out from the crowd. And per usual with indie B's of its time, Cross Examination's cast is a mixture of former stars on their way down (H.B. Warner as lawyer Gerald Waring), mid-level actors on loan from one of the majors (Sally Blane as Grace), and those nobody ever heard of (Don Dillaway as David). 

Being low-budget, Cross Examination is also a fine example of speedy filmmaking. Almost all the witnesses are filmed from the same angle, suggesting they were done in succession (probably on the same day), as are the close-ups of the judge, and Grace's tearful reactions. Being low budget also meant a minimum of second takes, so we get to see actors going up on their lines once in a while. But do you speak perfectly every time you open your mouth?

BONUS POINTS: At least four cast members were born in the 1870s, with two as early as 1871 -- the year cable cars were invented, and Ulysses S. Grant was president. Spooky stuff.

THE VAMPIRE BAT (1933): In a little Bavarian town, villagers are being murdered, all with

the same two little punctures in their throat. While the locals are convinced a vampire is the culprit, neither detective Karl Brettschneider nor Dr. Otto von Neimann are so superstitious. Their doubts are confirmed when the deaths continue after the main suspect, the bat-loving Herman Gleib, is hounded to death by the townsfolk. Von Neimann's assistant, Ruth Bertin, discovers the real mastermind behind the killings is her boss, even though he never leaves his laboratory -- proving that doctors won't make housecalls even to commit murder.

I'm not giving away the ending. When you're watching a movie featuring Lionel Atwill as a scientist, you tend to know how the thing will end. A production of low-rent indie studio Majestic Pictures, The Vampire Bat shares the look of the horror pictures coming out of Universal, thanks to using the latter's soundstages, as well as the casting of a who's-who of horror: the aforementioned Atwill, Fay Wray, and Dwight Frye. Leading man Melvyn Douglas (fresh from Universal's spooky The Old Dark House), lends the proceedings a dash of class and a boyfriend for Wray, the typical "pretty assistant" that labs always have on hand.

Oh, and you know what every Bavarian town seems to have? A village idiot, and nobody plays one like Dwight Frye. Channeling his role of Renfield in Dracula while using the childish syntax of Sesame Street's Elmo, Frye steals every scene as the creepy Herman, demonstrating why he was forever typecast as this kind of character; it's a shame he's killed mid-way through the movie. If only the same could be said of the dreadful "comic relief" (a misnomer if there ever was one) provided by Maude Eburne as Ruth's Aunt Gussie, who should have been the first victim of Dr. von Niemann's gruesome blood-draining contraption.

The Vampire Bat, long available only in murky 16mm prints, has been given a sparkling restoration, including the original tinting of the lynch mob's fiery torches. It's quite effective, even if it doesn't make sense, seeing that everything else is in black and white. 

BONUS POINTS: Majetic Pictures and Vampire Bat producer Phil Gladstone were also the brains behind the brilliant, bizarre The Sin of Nora Moran. (You still haven't bought the Blu-ray? What are you waiting for?)

YOU, THE PEOPLE (1940): From 1935 to 1947, M-G-M released occasional two-reelers under the umbrella title Crime Doesn't Pay, with a formula that never varied. At the beginning of each short, a different unknown contract player identifies himself as "Your M-G-M crime reporter" and, predating Dragnet by several years, assures us that the story we are about to see is true, with only the names being changed. He then throws it over to yet another studio actor -- often identifiable by face if not name -- who, as a police chief or mayor of an unidentified city, introduces the criminal case we're about to see. 

Underworld kingpin "Boss" Bailey is doing whatever it takes to get his puppet, Mayor James Wheelock, re-elected. Bailey's posse pressure city workers and small business owners to cough up donations under threat of job loss or physical violence, and begin cynical whispering campaigns that suggest voters stay home on election day using the old both-sides-are-crooks gag (which may or may not be true in real life). Having been beat up for not donating to Wheelock's campaign, civil servant William Wright is deputized to investigate Bailey and his crew, who are rounded up by the police on election night. 

You, the People is unexpectedly shocking in portraying how dirty the criminal element will play in order to get their way; in this case, it involves, among other things, murdering a City Hall worker and almost burning down a warehouse filled with authentic ballots on the evening of the election. And the yellowbelly mayor is in full compliance! 

As with all the Crime Doesn't Pay entries, the short abounds with young actors the studio had hopes for (which usually never panned out); older actors on their last legs; and journeymen who appeared to have worked incessantly until they dropped dead. The latter includes John "Great Caesar's Ghost!" Hamilton as the honest mayoral candidate, and familiar character actor C. Henry Gordon (whose bad guy parts usually included an Italian accent) sneering his way through the role of Boss Bailey. If You, the People is any indication, we're going to have a hell of a presidential election in 2024.

BONUS POINTS: In his seventh movie appearance, Hugh Beaumont (aka Ward Cleaver of Leave it to you know who), is an everyman who sees through the crooked mayor, and urges the owner of a diner not to listen to people who insist that voting doesn't count. We could use more everymen like him.

LA MACCHINA AMMAZZACATTIVI (1952): For any monolinguists out there, the title translates to The Machine to Kill Bad People -- and wouldn't you like to have one? Cynical photographer Celestino Esposito sure would, just to get rid of all the people in his Italian village he considers egotists and oppressors of the working class. And so a mysterious stranger arranges for him to do just that. All Celestino needs to do is take a picture of an already existing photograph of someone. SNAP! The victim dies in the same pose as in the photo. Soon, Celestino is ridding the villagers of people he dislikes, acting as judge, jury, and paparazzo. To his disappointment, the villagers he was trying to help become just as bad as those he killed, leading him to look for a way to reverse the damage.

You might not believe it, but La Macchina Ammazzacattivi is an often laugh out loud comedy. Director Roberto Rossellini cast what seems to be the most ordinary-looking actors in Italy, and surrounded them with authentic locals as extras, making it at times look like the strangest documentary you've ever seen. (Only the usual Italian post-dubbing and the extras occasionally glancing at the camera reminds you this is just a movie.) The only person more traditionally unattractive than Gennaro Pisano (as Celestino) is the actor (whose name I can't match up to any still) who plays his chief nemesis. There's something about the Italian language, or at least the way they and everybody else here continually yells it at each other, that makes their subtitled dialogue even more funny than it already is.

A subplot about a rich American moving to the village with his wife and adult daughter keeps things humming. The American is intent on building a hotel atop a piece of land that locals have been using for a cemetery, and intends on bribing the mayor in order to make it happen. (How do you say Crime Doesn't Pay in Italian?)

Available on Max, La Macchina Ammazzacattivi’s one problem, if you could call it that, is the dialogue often comes so fast and furious you don't always have time to look away from the subtitles in order to enjoy the actors' lively facial expressions. If only more comedies this entertaining and perceptive had such "problems". 

BONUS POINTS: Whoever dubbed in a donkey's braying should have gotten a raise for providing the funniest phony animal sound in movie history.

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