THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 40

 I've seen more movies from before my birth than I have those from my lifetime. And you know what? That's the way I like it, at least with the following three. And even the lone TV program provide some fascination, if in a negative way.

THE ENCHANTED COTTAGE (1924): Physically and emotionally
damaged during World War I, Oliver Bashforth spends his days in bitter solitude at his country cottage. Refusing visitors, he has no idea that the kind but homely Laura Pennington is in love with him. When they finally have the chance to spend time together, Oliver proposes marriage, more to stave off their loneliness than out of love. On their wedding night, they're stunned to see how their inner beauty changes their perception of each other. Believing that they have changed physically, Oliver introduces Laura to his family, whose shocked reaction snaps the couple back to reality. But once they decide not to believe what others say about them, they again see their inner selves.

Call it sappy all you want, but The Enchanted Cottage can still strike a chord with audiences willing to give it a chance (that's me!). Richard Barthelmess, one of the most popular leading men of his day, probably enjoyed this change of pace, with facial make-up displaying his emotional damage, while hobbling around with a twisted leg and arm that would make Lon Chaney proud. The pretty May McAvoy, unrecognizable under a false nose and crooked teeth, gives a more honest performance than the women in the two remakes (1945 and 2016), who are simply in need of a shampoo and a new dress. It's hard to say what causes a stronger emotional reaction in the viewer here -- the characters' looks or their transformation when love overtakes their vision. (I could do without the ghosts of previous couples who visited the cottage, though.)

Two other characters provide some interest. Major Hillgrove (Holmes Herbert), blinded in the War, is, for a while, the only person who knows about Oliver and Laura's secret, and accepts their "miracle" as the truth. It's only when overhearing comments made by Oliver's family that he decides to "see" Laura's face with his fingertips and realizes nothing has changed. Florence Short plays Oliver's sister Ethel with a few "secret" codes -- wearing men's suits, using a cigarette holder -- that alerted the more observant viewers that she was gay. All that's missing is a monocle. 

The 1945 remake of The Enchanted Cottage would go over better with modern audiences, seeing that it's a little less histrionic and that the actors talk. (Judging by the reviews, the less said about the 2016 version -- with three credited directors! -- the better.) But there is something undeniably moving about the original. And having been restored by the Library of Congress and possessing a new score, you now can experience it more or less the way did audiences did a century ago. Note to any movie producer: shoot a remake with Timothee Chalamet and Emma Stone. I guarantee, adolescent girls will storm the box office.

BONUS POINTS: May McAvoy was Al Jolson's leading lady in The Jazz Singer.

THE STREET WITH NO NAME (1948): One of several pre-Dragnet crime pictures with a
basso-profundo narrator telling a "true story", The Street with No Name benefits from an engaging script, interesting cast, and gritty location work in the crummiest parts of Los Angeles. FBI agent Gene Cordell (Mark Stevens) goes undercover to bust up a criminal gang led by Alec Stiles (Richard Widmark), a well-dressed, intimidating miscreant with a phobia of drafty rooms. As he gains the trust of Stiles, Cordell remains in constant contact with fellow agent Cy Gordon (John McIntire). Just as the feds are ready to pounce, one of Stiles' informants in the police department gives him a heads-up regarding Cordell's daytime job -- and if there's anything Stiles hates more than a chill in the air it's a rat in his gang.

The who-is-this-guy Mark Stevens has top-billing, but The Street with No Name is Richard Widmark's show all the way. Sure, Alec Stiles is your typical gangster, not above slapping around his wife or knocking off two-bit criminals after they've served their purpose. But how many have you seen continually sniffing Vicks Inhalers or wrapping themselves in scarves to stay warm? And talk about sneering -- this must be where Billy Idol picked up his trademark look. As with Robert Mitchum early movies, Widmark was likely a revelation for movie fans in the late '40s looking for someone new and different. 

20th Century-Fox might have been concerned that newcomer Mark Stevens wouldn't necessarily sell tickets, so in addition to Widmark, he's surrounded by pros like John McIntire and, as FBI Inspector Briggs, Lloyd Nolan, who's essentially repeating his role from The House on 92nd Street.

Providing further support are a bunch of ordinary-to-homely looking character actors making up the Stiles gang. The only things separating these guys from the real deal is the fresh-from-the-cleaners wardrobe (fantastic suits!) and clever dialogue real yeggs wouldn't be able to articulate. There are so few contemporary actors with faces like these that it's a time capsule for more than just L.A.'s 1940s skid row area where Agents Cordell and Gordon live while undercover, which makes The Street with No Name makes a fascinating change of scenery.

BONUS POINTS: Joseph Pevney, who plays one of Widmark's sidekicks (he's in the still shot above, on the right in the white shirt), appeared in only six movies before becoming the director of 94 movies (Man of a Thousand Faces, Meet Danny Wilson) and TV (Star Trek, Rockford Files, Bonanza), proving there is indeed life after crime.

THE SCARF (1951): If you ever escape from an asylum for the criminally insane, here's hoping you're as lucky as John Barrington, who gets a job from kindly turkey farmer Ezra Thompson, and some emotional understanding from roadhouse thrush Connie Carter. Connie's so kind that she doesn't even mind when John almost chokes her to death with her scarf, which is identical to the one worn by the woman he allegedly murdered. He can't remember a thing about the crime, other than his friend David was also at the scene. Ezra convinces a shrink and the police investigators to set a trap for David with Connie as the bait. Smart guy for a turkey farmer!

You have to swallow a lot to buy what goes on in The Scarf, from John making it across the Southwest desert by foot after his bust-out, to Ezra believing the guy is innocent, to trusting him with his pick-up truck, to Connie taking an outdoor "nap" with him while she's hitchhiking to L.A. But somehow it works, thanks to the script and engaging lead actors. John Ireland, conveniently playing John, allows his co-stars to take center stage. James Barton (Ezra) initially seems to be channeling Walter Huston's character in Treasure of the Sierra Madre before turning into a philosophy-spouting codger who could probably get a professorship at UCLA if he wiped the turkey shit off his boots.

Speaking of channeling, Mercedes McCambridge (Connie) sounds an awful lot like the tough-talking Ann Savage in her career-defining role as the floozie in the B-classic Detour.  But unlike that doomed dame, a heart of gold beats deeply in Connie as she willingly puts her life in the line for the sake of John Barrington. 

Refreshingly, The Scarf is one movie where the leading man and woman fall in like rather in love, with Connie ultimately remaining at her singing waitress job and John sticking around with Ezra and his turkeys. The Scarf is a good watch from beginning to end -- so good, I was surprised to see who the real killer was. That kind of thing is even more rare than a philosophy-spouting turkey farmer. 

BONUS POINTS: "Summer Rains", the song Connie sings at the roadhouse, has a spooky vibe, if you ask me.

POPSICLE PARADE OF STARS (June 12, 1950): Thanks to YouTube's notorious algorithm, my viewing of Fannie Brice's Be Yourself! brought me to her sole TV appearance. And all I can say is... uh, thanks? 

The super-obscure Popsicle Parade of Stars was a weekly 15-minute variety series running for three months on CBS in 1950. While it seems to be aimed at children -- the commercials urge kiddies to buy Popsicles and trade in the wrappers for prizes -- the majority of its revolving hosts, including Groucho Marx, Martha Raye, Milton Berle and Arthur Godfrey, aren't who you'd associate with video babysitters. 

Brice's famous Baby Snooks character, which she plays here, is another story, appealing to kids and their parents, although "appalling" might be a better word.  Snooks is a bratty, obnoxious child forever driving her father (the unbilled Hanley Stafford) to the edge of madness; in a voiceover, he admits to wishing he had never been born. This is comedy? 

The studio audience's delayed reaction upon Snooks' entrance signals a sense of disquiet, and for good reason. Clad in a little girl's outfit tailored for an adult, the 58 year-old Brice resembles a woman in the throes of mental illness. Her misadventures in an ice cream parlor and the Metropolitain Museum of Art would alarm any passersby in real life and cause a wellness check by the police. It isn't difficult to understand why this was Brice's only TV appearance; while she claimed the 15-minute sketch left her exhausted, people who were used to imagining Snooks on radio were probably repulsed by the real deal. Yet she seems to be an early influence on Jerry Lewis -- the physical and vocal resemblances between the two are uncanny. Again, I ask: thanks? 

BONUS POINTS: In the animated commercial, one of the red dots on the Popsicle bag comes to life to assure us the product is "pure", and has a halo over its head to prove it. So eat Popsicles secure in the knowledge they'll get you to heaven.

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