THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 50

 

BROKEN LULLABY (1932): Paul Renard, a French veteran of World War I, is haunted by killing German soldier Walter Holderlin during combat. In an attempt to ease his guilt, Renard he visits the victim's bereaved family -- and Walter's former fiancée Elsa -- intending to admit he was responsible. Unable to bring himself to tell the truth, Paul tells them instead that he and Walter were friends in pre-war Paris. Herr Holderlin's hatred toward France gradually melts, while his wife finally finds joy in life once and more. And as Paul is accepted as part of the family -- and falls in love with Elsa -- he finds himself more tortured than ever by withholding his secret.

A 180-degree change from the usual frothy comedies directed by Ernst Lubitsch, Broken Lullaby is an anti-war drama forcing the audience to understand the pain suffered by both sides of war. (One shot of a veteran's parade has the camera placed under the amputated leg of a soldier -- one of the most startling moments in a 1930s picture.) And as Herr Holderin (Lionel Barrymore in a sterling performance) gradually recognizes his generation's responsibility for sending its sons to their deaths, his own guilt-ridden outburst to his French-hating friends could have been written today. No doubt Broken Lullaby was one of the more mature, insightful dramas of 1932, with a message that still resonates over time.

Unfortunately, the movie is nearly derailed by Phillips Holmes as the tortured Paul Renard. Haunted -- perhaps going mad -- by killing the German soldier, Holmes' performance is out of a 1910 silent melodrama, when over-emoting was considered high drama. Contemporary audiences who might otherwise take to Broken Lullaby's message likely will find Holmes off-putting at best, laughable at worst. Why Ernst Lubitsch -- an expert at subtlety and sophistication -- encouraged Holmes' scenery-chewing is a mystery. Nevertheless, just for its unusual story (and poignant finale), Broken Lullaby is deserving of one go-round. Just try not to be distracted by Phillips Holmes' histrionics -- or occasional resemblance to Timothee Chalamet.

BONUS POINTS: The flashback to the scene in a foxhole where Renard finishes signing Walter's final letter home by holding the dead soldier's bloody hand. Unforgettable, tragic, and gruesome all at once.

THE WOMEN IN HIS LIFE (1933): Otto Kruger does his best Warren
William/Ricardo Cortez mash-up as the brilliant, womanizing, day-drinking lawyer Kent Berringer, who's never seen a criminal he didn't defend or a dame he couldn't deflower. His debauchery hits a wall when pure-at-heart Doris Worthing tries hiring him to defend her father for murdering her stepmother -- who happens to be Kent's ex-wife. The shock sends him on an alcoholic spree leading to his disbarment. Kent makes it his mission to find Tony Perez, the malefactor he believes really offed his ex.

The Women in His Life has everything one wants in a pre-code picture: a fast-pace; racy dialogue; pre-marital sex; and a general disdain for morality. There's also plenty for the eye, like beautiful art deco sets, and Kruger's fabulous tailored suits, provided by MGM's wardrobe department. I've seen plenty of these lush early '30s movies, and nobody looks as good as Kruger does here. I would kill for this stuff. And he'd defend me in court!

But Kruger is just one actor that makes The Women in His Life so entertaining for early talkie fanatics. From the very beginning, when the camera tracks down a row of busy telephone operators to the usual friends, lovers and suspects, there are faces more welcome than those of your own family. You know instantly upon seeing their names in the credits the characters they're going to play and how they're going to do it. In addition to Otto Kruger (far left), there's Roscoe Karnes as Kent's wisecracking assistant Lester (far right), C. Henry Gordon as oily criminal Tony Perez (in the chair), and Una Merkel as Kent's smartass secretary Simmy Simmons (not seen in the still). In a world spinning out of control, The Women in His Life makes for a comforting respite.

BONUS POINTS: In what appears to be a real copy of Variety, the front-page headline reads NUDIES EYE STAGE COIN. This could mean strippers wanting better pay, or low-budget, adult-only independent movies hoping to charge Broadway ticket prices. Feel free to come up with your own translation.

PILGRIMAGE (1933): Or, A Mother's Love Gone Off the Rails. In 1917, small-town widow Hannah Jessop prevents her son Jimmy from marrying his knocked-up girlfriend by arranging for her son to be drafted in hopes of him being killed in World War I. And she succeeds!  A decade later, Hannah reluctantly joins other gold star mothers to attend a memorial ceremony in Paris, where she meets a young man in the same position as Jimmy was. Finally realizing what a bitch she's been, Hannah urges the young man's mother to allow him to marry his sweetheart. Hannah returns to the farm a changed person, begging forgiveness from Mary. As if that's going to bring back the old crone's son.

I give credit to director John Ford for making Hannah thoroughly detestable for most of Pilgrimage. She admits to Jimmy that she'd rather see him dead than wed Mary (or any woman), barely sheds a tear when getting word of his death, and refuses to acknowledge her bastard grandson. Actress Henrietta Crosman (born in 1861!) overshadows the other actors in the picture to the point where there's no need to mention them, yet she's never for a moment hammy. You just hate her, and continue doing so until the last reel when she finally admits to herself -- and eventually Mary -- what a terrible person she's been all these years. Frankly, I wouldn't have forgiven her, but I hold a grudge like you wouldn't believe.

There's some humor in the Paris scenes, such as Hannah and another farmer/mother successfully taking aim at every target in a shooting gallery. But that's enough fun and games; after the ceremony, she tells the other mothers that unlike their sons, hers was "no good" -- meaning he wanted to leave the farm and get married. There are precious few moments where Hannah's haranguing isn't heard, making Pilgrimage difficult but definitely fascinating to watch. I just kind of wish she fell off the ship returning home.

BONUS POINTS: During the scene when the grandson is teased by his classmates for being illegitimate, I recognized Marilyn Harris, best known as the little girl tossed in the pond in Frankenstein. Norman Foster, who played Jimmy, later became a director; his output includes a bunch of Mr. Moto and Charlie Chan pictures, the Orson Welles-produced Journey into Fear, and the noir classic Kiss the Blood Off My Hands. Glad he wasn't really sent to his death by his mother.

IF YOU COULD ONLY COOK (1935): Gentle, post-Code screwball comedy? A merry mix-up based on deception? Another one of those Depression era millionaire-goes-slumming farces? Sorta, kinda, and for sure. 

Auto magnate Jim Buchanan, unhappily engaged to a woman he doesn't love and fed up with his board of directors, walks out of his job and into Central Park, where he makes friends with the unemployed Joan Hawthorne. Mistaking Jim for one of her own kind, she finds them positions as cook and butler for former bootlegger Mike Rossini. Over the course of a week, Jim and Mike fall for Joan; Joan gets arrested for robbery for showing Jim's sketches for a new car to one of his business rivals; Jim is talked into returning to work and his fiancée; and Mike rounds up his hoodlum pals to eventually set things right for everybody. And if any of this comes as a surprise, you haven't seen a movie made before 1960.

If You Could Only Cook was Columbia's rare attempts at sophisticated comedy. The classy Brit Herbert Marshall (The Letter) is nicely self-effacing as Jim, who willingly loses a few stripes off his captain of industry position. It's easy to understand why he goes for Joan (Jean Arthur, who always sounded like a pack-a-day-smoking Minnie Mouse). She's a jumble of contradictions: smart yet naive, sexy but innocent, cynical but romantic. In other words, they're the kind of people ticket-buyers meet only in the movies.

And so are Marshall and Arthur's costars. Leo Carillo gives Mike Rossini the kind of Italian accent you'd hear in comedies like this. Another familiar voice belongs to the sandpaper-throated Lionel Stander (Soak the Rich) as Mike's sidekick Flash, who's suspicious of the new help from the get-go. Many cineastes tend to describe If You Could Only Cook as "unfairly underrated". To me, it's cute and charming but becomes laugh out loud funny only in its zany final 15 minutes, which is what you remember best after the closing credits.

BONUS POINTS: In the UK, Columbia Pictures falsely promoted If You Could Only Cook as a Frank Capra production. By way of apology, Columbia boss Harry Cohn gave Capra cut of movie's profits. 

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