THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 56

 The genres are all over the map today -- Western, mystery, horror, and film noir. Each has a twist from the usual movies of their type, making them stand out either for the good or like a sore thumb.

LAW AND ORDER (1932): The year is 1890. Ex-lawman Fame Johnson, his brother Luther, and two sidekicks Ed Brandt and Deadwood, mosey into Tombstone, Arizona, where the residents are terrorized by the crooked sheriff and a gang of cattle rustlers. (Stop me if this is starting to sound vaguely familiar.) Fame is talked into become Tombstone's marshal, a development the galloots don't take kindly to. When Ed Brandt is shot down in the middle of Main Street, Fame and his posse decide it's time to meet up with the bad guys for a gunfight at --

Oh, you know where. Law and Order is a barely fictionalized version of the shootout at the O.K. Corral, with only the date and names changed. This doesn't negate the fact it's a topnotch Western -- high praise from a non-fan of the genre like me -- and, for my money, better than the more highly regarded My Darling Clementine, the 1946 version of the story directed by John Ford. It's about 30 minutes shorter, too, earning it an extra gold star.

I wouldn't be surprised if the star of Clementine, Henry Fonda, studied Huston's performance in Law and Order, as the two are often eerily alike. Of the two, I prefer Huston, one of the great movie actors of his time who doesn't get enough respect these days, and whose stage work didn't prevent him from being wholly natural in the entirely different style of movies. Watch how he makes dimwit killer Andy Devine (younger and thinner than you've ever seen him) feel good about his execution by reminding him that he's the first person to be legally hanged in Tombstone. You'd want to be arrested by a guy like Fame.

All of the supporting actors, especially Harry Carey as Ed Brandt, evoke the Old West more realistically than other studio Westerns of the time. Their clothes are often covered in dirt and dust and grime; they use the same towel to wash their faces and clean their shoes; their eyes reflect the deaths they've witnessed and participated in. Further making it a must-see, Law and Order (written by Walter Huston's 26-year-old son John) was recently restored for a 4K Blu ray, making it look and sound as good as it did nearly a century ago. Maybe better. Like I said, I've never been into Westerns, but Law and Order is one I'll return to more than once in the future. 

BONUS POINTS: The use of Universal's famous crane used in the 1929 musical Broadway, especially during the astonishing climactic shootout. And don't miss skinny Walter Brennan as the guy who sweeps out the local saloon. At age 38, he was toothless even then.

THE GHOST CAMERA (1933):
Good Lord, man, where has this delightful, fast-paced, 64-minute "mystery narrative" from the UK been hiding all my life? With a little tweaking, The Ghost Camera could pass for one of Alfred Hitchcock's early British talkies.

Finding a camera in the back seat of his car, John Gray develops the film hoping to identify the owner. Instead, one of the shots has captured a murder -- a photo which, along with the camera, quickly goes missing. John tracks down a woman in another photo, Mary Elton, whose brother Ernest vanished days earlier with the camera. As John and Mary follow the other photographic clues, they find the scene of the murder just as the police find Ernest. While the evidence is stacked against Ernest, John inadvertently saves the day when finding the real culprit.

If only all British "quota quickies" were as good as The Ghost Camera, starting with the twisty, occasionally risqué script by H. Fowler Mear (there's a British name for you!). I was and continue to be unfamiliar with Henry Kendall, who is memorable as John; he's like the prototype of the young Hugh Grant mixed with Edward Everett Horton. In one of her earliest roles, the nearly unrecognizable pre-Hollywood Ida Lupino is appealing as Mary, who seems to be hiding a very important secret. She's supposed to be 20-ish but, if Lupino's birthdate is correct, was actually 15! Well, people aged faster then, that's for sure.

Along with Lupino, there are a couple of other yet-to-be famous names found here. John Mills plays Ernest as the innocent guy who looks guilty, as when he makes his first entrance into the courtroom, twitching and stumbling like he's already being led to the gallows. The pitch perfect editing in that scene -- and throughout The Ghost Camera -- is the work of future director David Lean. Everyone in fact gives their all to what was intended as just another bottom-of-the-bill picture but today should be considered as an unjustifiably overlooked bit of British cinema.

BONUS POINTS: Upon entering the ruins of a 12th-century castle, a nervous Ida Lupino says the surroundings give her "a case of the jimjams", a phrase I hope to re-enter into everyday conversation.

CRY OF THE WEREWOLF (1944): Universal pretty much had the lycanthropy lore to
itself, first with Werewolf of London and, later, The Wolfman until Columbia got into the game with Cry of the Werewolf.  Columbia made an unexpectedly nice switcheroo by casting a woman, Nina Foch, as the hellish human hound. And in a regrettable example of genetics, Foch's Celeste is a werewolf by birth, courtesy of her late mother. Celeste is determined to rip the throats out of anyone connected to a museum featuring proof of her heritage. Such a loyal child!

Yet Cry of the Werewolf doesn't veer too far from what people were expecting. Celeste is the leader of an Eastern European gypsy "family" which apparently took a wrong turn outside Budapest and wound up in New Orleans. Further confusing things, two of the movie's characters are British, while nobody has a Louisiana accent. It's actually rather surprising that this mishmash doesn't include a Nazi professor trying to breed his own werewolves to unleash in America. Maybe Monogram already tried that gag.

If you recognize Nina Foch, Barton MacLane (as the gruff police lieutenant) may ring a bell as well. If not, you won't recognize anybody in the cast, even if the romantic leads deserve a negative mention. Stephen Crane -- not the guy who wrote Red Bad of Courage -- has the presence of stale popcorn. His onscreen honey, Osa Massen, was probably Columbia's answer to Republic's Vera Hruba Ralston, right to the hard-to-pin-down accent and relentless state of confusion.

Despite my japes, Cry of the Werewolf is ultimately a perfectly watchable B-movie war weary audiences were desperate for any kind of distraction for an hour. Save it for when all you can find on TV is junk -- in other words, any evening.

BONUS POINTS: Washing out of show business after only two more movies, Stephen Crane found his calling by creating the Kon Tiki restaurant chain. Another round of Zombies, Steve!

                                                         

DEUX HOMMES DANS MANHATTAN (1959): Ahh, the comforting pre-credit
sequence of so many '50s noirs: Times Square at night seen through a car's rear window, with the familiar ADMIRAL TELEVISION APPLIANCES neon sign in the background, accompanied by a lonely trumpet wailing like a lost child. Then the title appears: DEUX HOMMES DANS MANHATTAN. Hey, what they hey? A credit reading SCENARIO ADAPTATION ET DIALOGUES? What gives? 

Well, it was inevitable that the country that coined the phrase film noir would give it a go. And the set-up is actually a good one, updated for the geopolitical age. Moreau and Delmas, respectively a French reporter and photographer both stationed in New York, prowl the city one night investigating the disappearance of France's delegate to the United Nations. They track down the married man's known girlfriends but gain little useful information. The French friends are ready to give up until they learn of the attempted suicide of one of the delagte's sidepieces -- an event that takes their investigation to another, unexpected level. And, say, what's the deal with the car that's been tailing them all night?

All the elements are there for a classic noir. The problem with Deux Hommes dans Manhattan lies with writer/director Jean-Pierre Melville (who also plays Moreau). In his attempt to emulate an American movie genre, Melville exaggerates noir style to the point of laughability. Reporters wearing sunglasses in the office. Slutty women spouting "tough" dialogue that's actually inane. An obnoxious trumpet blast every time the mystery car behind them turns on its headlights. It's like a Cordon Bleu-trained chef using all his culinary knowledge to replicate your grandma's simple coffee cake by tripling the amount of ingredients and throwing in some others because they seem right.

Moreau and his costar Pierre Grasset do their best to emulate American anti-heroes, right down to the trench coat, fedora, and world-weary conversations. The French actresses are fine, but their American counterparts -- mon Dieu! Melville must have cast most of them for no other reason other than they worked cheap. It's always nice to see '50s New York in movies, but Deux Hommes dans Manhattan doesn't do it any favors. 

BONUS POINTS: Several location shots are plugged both visually and through dialogue in what appears to be product placement. The Capitol Records recording studio on East 23rd, the Pike Slip Inn, the Oven and Grill Diner, the Ridgewood Rathskeller... all now vanished but preserved in the movie. Well, at least it was good for something.

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YOUTUBE, YOU LISTEN

No stereo console was complete without water
stains from orange soda bottles.

 I've been assuming lo these many posts that my regular readers are older than
50. And like most people of our age range, there's the occasional moaning and groaning about how Top 40 radio isn't as good as it used to be. Which is translated as I don't like today's music. That's why I still listen to... 

You can complete the sentence. I'm sure for most of us it's stuff circa 1960-1990. Maybe not even that late.

Well, I'm here to tell you there's plenty of good stuff out there. It's just not getting airplay, except perhaps on college stations and whatever few independent outlets remaining on FM. But mainly, it can be found on YouTube and, in my case, my daughter's collection of non-Top 40 music. 

I have thousands of hours of music on my laptop, and plenty of it is from the last few years. I threw together about 90 minutes' worth of contemporary stuff from my own collection and created a YouTube playlist. Most of it is from new artists you probably haven't heard of, while some is by musicians from "our days" still putting out good stuff for new audiences.  Some of it has a 60s-70s vibe, which is a thing with young indie musicians who idolize Brian Wilson, Burt Bachrach, '60s psychedelia, and what used to be called soul music. All of it is interesting, sophisticated and catchy.

Here's the link: (141) OLDFISHEYE - YouTube. Swing by and hit "Play All".  If there's someone you really like, explore their other stuff. It may renew your faith in contemporary music.

Remember: you're not supposed to like Top 40. Your parents sure didn't when you were listening to Led Zeppelin. Although I never liked them either. 

And if you see something called "Recommended Videos" at the end of my list, I didn't recommend them. It's the algorithm on the loose once again.

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PS: I accidentally deleted my last post about the current lack of background work. If you didn't read it, you didn't miss much.

AGAINST THE OZ

Somewhere over Las Vegas...

Now that the Colbert cancellation is starting to fade from the front page, it's time for something else to get people riled up. So desperate are Americans to see how far their blood pressure can rise before it kills them, they have to turn to an 86 year-old movie most haven't seen since their ages were in the single digits: The Wizard of Oz. 

Oddly, it doesn't have anything to do with "troubling" moments like a teenager almost getting "unalived" in a tornado before being groomed by three older men; little people being the butt of jokes; or a person of color (green) once again being the villain. In fact, all these and more will be bigger and better(?) than ever, now that Oz will be shown at the Las Vegas Sphere. Oh, it'll be shorter, too, by roughly 27 minutes. But is anybody's attention span what it used to be?

According to CNBC, "Sphere Entertainment worked with engineers on using artificial intelligence-powered “outpainting” to expand the film’s original frames to fit the Las Vegas venue, which opened in September 2023. The goal, according to the company, is to make viewers feel like they were in the studio when the legendary movie — released in 1939 and starring Judy Garland — was made."

Now phonier looking than ever!

To clarify a couple of things, "outpainting" seems to be a new made-up word for
computer generated imagery, while there's no way you'll feel like you were in the studio because much of the outpainted imagery wasn't there. Nor was the confetti blowing in your face during the tornado scenes or the 167,000 speakers blasting your ears, aromas snaking their way up your nostrils, or something called "haptic seats" (which sounds cooler than "shaky").

Further separating it from its original version is that the average ticket price in 1939 was two bits. Ducats for the souped-up, 16K Oz range from $138 to $347 -- if you were lucky enough to score them on the Sphere site. Otherwise, those secondary market prices are currently close to $700 each. Feel like taking the wife and kiddies? Better get lucky at the craps table first! 

Don't give Trump any ideas.

At 366 feet tall and 516 feet wide, the Sphere makes Imax look like the portable
Panasonic TV you had in your dorm room. The images that flash on its outer portion are literally eye-popping, not to mention a dangerous distraction to drivers within five miles of downtown Vegas. 

Movie lovers and professional complainers are up in arms over the ticket prices, 4D effects and Sphere's decision to trim almost a half hour from the Oz running time (now it's 75 minutes, the better to squeeze in more showings). And if this were the only version that would ever exist until the end of time, I'd be ticked-off, too.

But what people don't seem to remember is that the complete Wizard of Oz in its original Academy Ratio (1.37:1) exists everywhere Blu rays are sold. They might even be in these people's very own collection. The missing footage will probably be trims -- 30 seconds here, a minute there -- that only the most Ozsessive fan would notice. 

Now this is an atrocity.

One more thing these folks forget: they don't have to see the damn thing! It's like bitching about a dopey theme-park attraction based on their favorite movie -- a ride they say "rapes my childhood!" -- that they won't go near anyway. 

Sam Adams in Slate goes so far as to call it "an atrocity" (a word usually mentioned in conjunction with genocide and the like). By the end of the piece, he seems to be one step away from calling it a deliberate distraction from the Epstein files.

You don't want to see the bigger-than-ever Wizard of Oz for aesthetic reasons? Fine. You don't like Vegas? I don't blame you. You don't want to take out a loan for a 75 minute movie? Join the club. Show your support for the real deal by buying the 4K Ultra HD/Blu ray combo, now going for only $19.03 on Amazon. Now find something important to complain about.

By the way, where are the Epstein files?

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 55

 Today's menu consists of two pre-codes, a B-movie starring a blog favorite, and a short best watched with the sound muted. Time to binge!

AFRAID TO TALK (1932): Just when you think pre-codes couldn't get more cynical, up pops Afraid to Talk. Bellboy Eddie Martin witnesses the murder of gangster Jake Stransky by fellow criminal Jig Skelli. What appears to be open and shut case becomes dead and buried, since Skelli has proof that the city's mayor, police commissioner, judges and the D.A.'s office were on Stranksy's payroll. Ergo, the bellboy has to take the fall. After hours of mental and physical torture, Eddie signs a confession. The Mayor and Judge, happy to collect kickbacks as long as mobsters are killing each other, want no part of this, and risk their own careers in order to free Martin. District Attorney John Wade, on the other hand, decides to arrange Martin's jailhouse murder to make it look like suicide. Your tax dollars at work!

Even for a misanthrope like me, Afraid to Talk was a disquieting 75 minutes. Not even the previously-discussed Vice Squad presents lawmakers in such a tawdry light. So much so that where it takes place is never made clear, since references are made to cities like Chicago, Detroit, and New York. (Pay no attention to Times Square's electric headline tickertape that's often seen.) Too, constant reference is made to protecting "the party" at all costs -- just don't ask which party. No wonder some Depression-hit jobless characters hope for a red revolution. The latter is due to Afraid to Talk's writer, Albert Maltz, being a real-life member of the Communist party. And we all know that lawmakers in Stalin's Russia were the most integrous of people.

Forget about the leads playing the bellboy and his bride; it's the bad guys (some pretending to be good) who own Afraid to Talk. Master character actor Edward Arnold, who could play nice guys when he wanted to, chews up the joint as Jig Skelli, the jolly gangster who enjoys bantering with the D.A. as much as he does killing off rivals. And speaking of the D.A., the underrated Louis Calhern is oilier than a tin of mackerel as John Wade, who marks the innocent Eddie Martin for death with the ease of ordering one of the countless cigars smoked here. And it won't be the last time you'll find yourself saying, "Oh my God!" either.

Yup, Afraid to Talk swings for the disreputable fences time after time. The only problems are its current so-so condition (yet another obscure Paramount oldie in need of a good scrubbing), and that it lacks the more downbeat alternate ending allegedly filmed for its European release. Even in its current state, though, Afraid to Talk puts to lie any talk about the "innocent days" of movies and how the studios were afraid to confront audiences with the hard truth about what their government leaders were (and still are) capable of. 

BONUS POINT: The corrupt cops giving poor Eddie the third-degree. Not that they're doing it, but how it's photographed in one take, the camera slowly tracking closer as the harsh overhead light swings lazily back and forth. We're spared seeing the subsequent torture, having to be content with hearing Eddie's agonized off-camera screams.

EAST OF FITH AVENUE (1933):  Sure, that "Grand Hotel of a New York boarding house" hype on the East of Fifth Avenue one-sheet is accurate. But it also feels like Columbia's answer to Sam Goldwyn's Street Scene, right down to the Gershwinesque opening theme. Both movies focus on the denizens of lower-middle class New York neighborhoods in a compressed timeline. Characters have money and family problems. But while Street Scene was a big budget adaptation of an acclaimed Broadway drama, East of Fifth Avenue is... well, like I said, a Columbia picture. 

No need to give the names of most of the characters or the actors. And while there are a lot of them -- the layabout poet, the elderly couple, the snake oil salesman among others -- two carry much of the movie. Kitty (Dorothy Tree) eagerly awaits the return of Vic (Wallace Ford), the fast-talking gambler who unknowingly knocked her up. And Vic does indeed show up -- with his wife Edna, a cracked Southern belle. It doesn't take long for Edna to get tired of the boarding house life, leading Vic to desperately find a thousand bucks to bet on a surefire 10-1 nag at the track. Kitty, still in love with him, borrows from the elderly couple, which sets into motion the climactic events that affect most of the boarders in different, shocking ways.

While most of the characters are more like caricatures, Dorothy Tree brings Kitty to life in East of Fifth Avenue's most believable performance, holding the story together during the goofy first half before it gets increasingly dramatic. Familiar utility actor Wallace Ford gives his typical wiseguy flair, only less grating than usual. Even better, he often gives hints of his better dramatic style that would dominate his future supporting roles. I came close to turning off East of Fifth Avenue (118 East 56th, to be exact) in the first half hour but was glad to stick with it, as it didn't necessarily play out as expected, especially with the elderly couple. It might not be a grand hotel but it's pretty good.

BONUS POINTS: By the end of the movie, you will have learned a dozen or so pre-code ways to say a woman is pregnant without really saying it. Best example: when Kitty is kicked out of a chorus line, one of the dancers sneers, "Say, I thought you had a lot of experience." To which Kitty replies, "Yeah, too much!"

THE SIX DAY GRIND (1935): Some not-so-good pictures are worth seeing just once
because they're short. Others, because they have historical significance. Still others because they're proof that what was once considered witty has aged like camembert sitting on the windowsill for a year. 

The Six Day Grind is all three. It's a one-reeler; it features genuine newsreel footage of the six-day bicycle race held in Madison Square Garden in 1935, an event at once fascinating and boring beyond human standards; and it stars the married comedy team of Goodman and Jane Ace, known on their radio sitcom as the Easy Aces. The couple were similar to Burns & Allen, with the long-suffering straightman playing off his scatterbrained wife. But while George Burns clearly adored Gracie and her "illogical logic", Goodman seems to have married the incredibly stupid Jane just to have someone to insult on a regular basis.

The "Ace High" shorts made for the Van Buren Studios in New York anticipate Science Fiction Theater 2000. In all of them, The Aces are at a movie theater, where Jane reads the opening credits in her Southern drawl, before commenting about the newsreel onscreen. Goodman needs to correct her throughout, eventually using his catchphrase, "Isn't that awful?" Well yes, it is, but not in the way he's implying. If these two were sitting near you in a real movie theater, you'd demand the usher throw them out on their unfunny butts. Comedians and writers alike held Goodman Ace in high regard back in the day, so either he was funnier writing for other people, or his style doesn't hold up.

But you know what? The bicycle race footage is fun to watch for 10 minutes. These guys zip around track at a lot of miles per hour, with the teams trading off riders in order to sleep and eat. Watch The Six Day Grind with a friend, turn off the volume, and make your own wisecracks. It'll be funnier than what the Easy Aces have to say. 

BONUS POINTS: During a break, biking champ Alfred LeTourneau sleeps in an "oxygen therapy service tent," allowing Jane to complain, "Oh, why can't he breathe the same air as the rest of us?" It's the closest thing to a funny remark she makes here. 

BETRAYAL FROM THE EAST (1945): Lee Tracy was nearing the end of his movie career and spending more time on stage when he made this patriotic drama based on the non-fiction book of the same name. In pre-Pearl Harbor Los Angeles, carnival barker Eddie Carter is approached by his old army buddy Kato -- you can guess his ancestry -- for information regarding U.S. military plans on the Panama Canal. When Carter approaches U.S. Naval Intelligence with his suspicions that Kato is up to no good, he eagerly accepts Uncle Sam's request to go undercover in the Japanese spy ring operating on the West Coast. Sure, it's dangerous, but's more exciting than bringing customers inside a tent at two bits per rube.

Hollywood was churning out anti-Japanese movies like ramen noodles during the War, usually making the "Japs" out to be barely one step above apes. Betrayal From the East goes in a slightly different direction. The spies are -- or at least pretend to be --respectful and well-mannered. And unlike the usual "ah so" characters of the time, Carter's friend Kato speaks perfect English without a trace of an accent. And while you might not recognize the names of the "enemy" character actors -- Richard Loo, Philip Ahn, Victor Sen Yung, Abner Bieberman (who wasn't even Japanese but could pass in a pinch) -- they fall into the "oh, that guy" category. Regis Toomey's eight-minute role as an American spy might disappoint his fans, but how many of them are there, anyway?

It wouldn't be a '40s spy drama without a little romance, so Eddie falls hard for fellow undercover agent Peggy Harrison -- who, as played Nancy Kelly, is about a quarter-century his junior. Her apparent death -- and later reappearance hanging out with German spies -- gives the movie an unexpected Vertigo-ish twist. (Her character's real death is genuinely unsettling.) 

No longer the motormouth from his pre-code days, Lee Tracy is now a little slower and paunchier. Still, his B-pictures like Betrayal From the East offer a welcoming presence for fans like me who wonder when he's going to get the look-who-we-discovered treatment by johnny-come-latelys like the New York Times and the Film Forum.

BONUS POINTS: Betrayal From the East is introduced by Drew Pearson, the muckraking political journalist whose newspaper column, "Washington Merry-Go-Round", was the talk of Washington. Over a decade earlier, his book of the same name was the basis of a great movie starring Lee Tracy. 

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GET YOUR KICKS ON ROUTE 101

 After attending a wedding in San Luis Obispo last week, my wife and I drove Route 101 through northern California and into Oregon. I took some snapshots, some the usual kind everybody does, and others that only a guy like me would. So, strap on your seatbelt and settle in. Be sure to watch out for falling rocks. 

While driving up the California coast, we made a stop at the Hearst Castle, the Mar-A-Lago of its day only classier and much, much larger; our guide pointed to a mountain peak that marked the end of its land, which was 35 miles away. This must be the only place where a groundskeeper would need to attach a portable gas pump to his John Deere. Check out the Castle dining room. Pity the poor guest who wanted to chat with the person at the far end of the table. 

These are elephant seals on the beach across the street from the Castle. No matter how many times you've seen them on TV, nothing prepares you for how bizarre they look in person with that big flap bouncing up and down in front of their mouths as they drag themselves around like living water balloons. Note the one passed out in the sand, looking like his skin is peeling from a sunburn. Did I say "bizarre"? Maybe I should have said repulsive. 

If you're ever in the mood to pay $15 for the silliest bragging rights you can think of, go to Leggett, California's Drive-Thru Park and drive through the Chandelier Tree. Like the elephant seals, looks can be deceiving when you're just looking at a photo. Cars must have been a lot smaller when the tree was mutilated in 1931 for the pleasure of travelers. Our Hyundai rental just about made it, while the car in front of us had to back out after just a few inches. Fifteen bucks, down the drain. Or is it chandelier?

After two days of relentless driving, we finally made it to Oregon. Every morning, its coast looks like a window shade that hasn't been pulled up all the way. While New York was sweltering in a heatwave, we had highs in the 60s during the day and low in the 50s at night. I wore a puffy vest over a sweatshirt over a t-shirt and it still wasn't enough. Wind, fog, clouds low enough to touch... why did we do this again?

Nobody in Oregon actually "goes to the beach" the way the rest of us do -- not even in the middle of summer. Instead, they bundle up in as many layers as they can get their hands on, and trudge on the sand in 40 mph winds for no reason other than to look at the huge rocks. Which isn't much of a reason.

On the other hand, there's always a chance you'll get lucky and see a small, dead octopus that's washed up on the shore. Speaking of beaches, all the signs excitedly list the kinds of birds that hang out there, but the only one you're guaranteed to see are seagulls no different than what you're used to. 

And the ornithologist who named the birds must have run out of ideas when it came to one particular breed that's black and catches oyster. It's called a Black Oystercatcher.  Never saw any of those. Maybe they moved on after catching all the oysters.

What's over 100 feet tall, is several centuries old, and has eight limbs but no trunk? Behold the Octopus Tree (no relation to the octopus corpse), the pride of Cape Meares. And if you're wondering how it got to looking like this, keep wondering. Nobody can agree if it was shaped like this by Native Americans or it just grew wacky on its own accord. I prefer one of its alternate names, The Monstrosity Tree, just because. 

You like lighthouses? Hoo boy, you'll get more than your fill, especially if you're married to someone who has to visit every single one of them, making what should have been a two-hour drive last three times as long. This is the Cape Meares Lighthouse, just a ten-minute walk from the Octopus Monstrosity Tree. And at a proud 38 feet, it's the smallest lighthouse in the U.S. As with almost all the other lighthouses we visited, it was decommissioned many years ago and replaced by a new one somewhere else. And as with the others, it now stands as a tourist stop/gift shop. 

While most motel rooms have a list of nearby restaurants and must-sees, our final stop offered a tsunami evacuation map. This almost came in handy since our area was expected to get slammed after the 8.8 underwater earthquake in the Pacific. Not only was our street an evacuation route, but the official safety gathering spot was just around the corner. Neither of these mattered because it was an 80-foot drop to the beach across the street, and the tsunami turned out to be a tsunothing. Still, a tsunami would have been an interesting way to wind up our Oregon visit instead of just driving to Portland and dropping off the car at the airport. 

Hope you enjoyed this little trip up Route 101. Just remember to dress for winter if you go in July and bring a life jacket if your overnight stays are near the beach. You never know what surprises are in store.

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 54

Having gone through my John Garfield, Alan Ladd, and 1950s Bogart phases, I'm currently diving into Lee Tracy territory. Oh, and there's another gangster picture with Boris Karloff before his move to Horrorwood, USA.

THE WRECKER (1929): There's something rather moving about the tinny
Tiffany-Tone overture from Tiffany-Stahl Productions, the little studio that couldn't. They sure tried hard, though, playing on the same level as the majors, either with Technicolor or releasing European pictures like The Wrecker, a UK-German drama, stateside. For the latter, Tiffany even added a synchronized musical score, sound effects and a couple of very brief moments of talk to entice U.S. customers.

The basic idea of The Wrecker is interesting if slightly farfetched. An unknown terrorist nicknamed Jack the Wrecker is causing trains to crash across the UK. Sir Gervaise Bartlett is concerned that his company, United Coast Lines Railway, will be next -- as well he should. His business partner, Ambrose Barney, is Jack the Wrecker, and the secret owner of the Kyle Motor Coach Company. See, Barney is determined to put the train business out of business in order to boost his bus profits. Bartlett's new board member (and nephew) former cricketeer Roger Doyle and secretary Mary Shelton are assigned to figure out who's behind the crimes. Maybe if they noticed Barney sneering with glee when the trains go boom and reacting with ennui at Bartlett's murder...

Let's get the cast out of the way before proceeding. Two of the leads, Carlyle Blackwell (Ambrose Barney) and Joseph Striker (Roger Doyle) were really Yanks. Everyone else is British and likely forgotten even in the UK. The only name that might ring a bell -- or, rather, that a nerd like me would recognize -- is Benita Hume (Mary Shelton), who later married Ronald Coleman. As for two supporting characters, Bartlett's footman Walter exists only to insult a bumbling detective with the only-in-a-British-movie name Ramses Ratchett.

What gives The Wrecker whatever cachet it possesses a century after its release are the train wrecks. Unlike other movies that used charming (i.e., unconvincing) miniatures, here three honest-to-gosh trains are destroyed, each more jolting than the last. These scenes pack a visceral jolt that no CGI today can equal because they're so obviously real. If you ever see The Wrecker, you'll probably forget the actors but not the action, which is reason enough to watch it. And be sure not to miss the Tiffany-Tone overture. It'll bring a tear to your eye.

BONUS POINTS: The Wrecker unexpectedly parodies the then-popular use of vocalized songs on the soundtrack during love scenes, as Ratchett continually interrupts Roger and Mary's canoodling. It's pretty funny, really.

BEHIND THE MASK (1931): The final Boris Karloff gangster picture during his brief spell at Columbia Pictures. And it's still only a supporting role! Here, Boris plays ex-con Jim Henderson, a member of a heroin-smuggling ring lead by the never-seen Mr. X. Henderson has brought his former cellmate Jack Hart into the fold as a chauffeur for another gang member, Arnold, who -- wouldn't you know it -- has a beautiful daughter named Julie. Dr. August Steiner -- the only person who seems to report in person to Dr. X -- recognizes Hart as an undercover federal agent. When leaving Hart to drown after picking up the heroin at sea doesn't work, Steiner decides that a little heart surgery minus anesthesia might do the trick.

As usual with movies of this time, there's a lot more that happens during Behind the Mask's 68 minutes, but you get the gist of it. The movie's general idea is good -- it's always interesting to see Class A drugs in pre-codes -- but the overall production is a little disappointing. Many of the events that either make no sense or are difficult to believe -- like Hart creating a dummy in about five seconds before he allegedly parachutes to his alleged death or Alice getting the upper hand on a gangster in a hospital -- happen offscreen and are explained so hurriedly that even the writer seems to realize it's all balderdash. 

Jack Holt (as Hart), a one-time leading man in silents now moving into character parts, doesn't have much presence, appearing a decade older than his 44 years. He's utterly outranked in recognition and talent by Karloff and his Frankenstein co-star Edward Van Sloane as Steiner. (Columbia's publicity department clearly did everything it could to convince audiences Behind the Mask was a horror movie.) As with her role in another Columbia Karloff gangster picture The Guilty Generation, Constance Cummings, as Alice, does little more than swoon over a guy -- in this case Hart -- although she unexpectedly saves his life at the climax. Behind the Mask doesn't equal the gangster movies Warner Bros. was releasing at the time but thanks to Karloff isn't a total washout. And you won't have to wrack your brain figuring out who Mr. X really is, either.

BONUS POINTS: A cylinder record player hooked up to a candlestick phone makes for the coolest answering machine ever.

THE NIGHT MAYOR (1932): By rights, The Night Mayor should have been an A-1 racy comedy, starting with the cast. Lee Tracy in the title role as Mayor Bobby Kingston, who spends more time romancing chorus girls than working in City Hall. (Any resemblance to New York Mayor Jimmy Walker is strictly deliberate.) Eugene Pallette as Hymie Shane, the chief of staff who'll do whatever he has to -- including attempted murder! -- protecting Kingston from a hostile press. And Evalyn Knapp as the mayor's current wisecracking squeeze, whose reporter boyfriend threatens to bring down the mayor on the front page of his right-wing newspaper.

Politics! The press! Sex! All the ingredients are there for a classic pre-code. So why is The Night Mayor such a disappointment? The overall idea is interesting -- while Mayor Kingston is a goodtime Bobby, he isn't corrupt, preferring to spend tax dollars on schools, playgrounds and hospitals rather than waste it on a symbolic duck pond and an unessential second airport. The only reason the morals committee wants him out on his butt is because of his dating habits and refusal to accept their bribes. 

Blame the script, then, which confuses cutesy dialogue with wit, and direction, which begs for Tacy's usual mile-a-minute patter instead of a performance more worthy of slow-poke Gary Cooper. And as for the sex... Kingston's new flame Doree Dawn won't make with the goods unless they middle-aisle-it. What is this, a '50s sitcom? 

And there lies the problem. The same way Friends was for people who thought Seinfeld too mean, The Night Mayor is for those who find pre-codes too icky. Track down Washington Merry-Go-Round on YouTube for a Lee Tracy political drama that delivers a real wallop. Even without the sex. And as for what happens to Doree Dawn -- let's just say the lesson for women 90 years ago was "Put out or shut up". 

BONUS POINTS: The too-brief moment when Lee Tracy shows off his tap dance skills -- back when you needed talent to be in the movies.

HI DIDDLE DIDDLE (1943): Depending on your tolerance level, Hi Diddle Diddle is either inane, riotously funny, or bizarre solely for the sake of being bizarre. Possessing the style of a low-rent Preston Sturges picture with the wackiness of the Hope & Crosby Road movies, it often seems like a first draft written under the influence of endless cups of coffee tempered with the occasional shot of I.W. Harper. And if you need an endorsement other than mine, Quentin Tarantino says it's his favorite comedy of all time. 

Yet for all that, Hi Diddle Diddle's story proper is nothing more than a typical late-era B-screwball picture. Sonny Phyffe is on 48 hours leave from the Navy to get married to Janie Prescott when they learn her mother Liza has lost her fortune due to a sleazy shyster. Through a series of nefarious schemes, Sonny's nouveau-riche father Hector recovers the money. That idea alone might be enough for any filmmaker. But it's what writer/director/producer Andrew Stone does that makes it, in that overused adjective, surreal. Wallpaper comes to (animated) life, the cast continually breaks the fourth wall, one of the supporting players is essentially said to be sleeping with the director... Stone seems to have wanted to do anything to distract the Homefront from the war going on overseas. He even provides a welcome twist on the ol' two-people-in-a-revolving-door gag. That takes talent.

In a zany-with-a-capital-Z movie like this, you need a cast that's game, and fortunately Hi Diddle Diddle has it, right down to the bit players. Adolphe Menjou puts over the nonsense in his usual suave manner in the role of Hector Phyffe; the way he keeps a stunned straight face when a woman's hat is shoved on his head is the funniest thing I've seen since forever. (OK, I'm an easy audience.) Billie Burke is her usual scatterbrain self as the mother of the bride. Dennis O'Keefe, soon to be a noir icon, surprises as the vacant-eyed groom whose sexual frustration as the wedding night is continually postponed somehow flew under the censors' radar. Future television-staple Martha Scott plays it straight as the bride (except for the scene where she and the others practice double-takes -- you have to see it to understand). Retired dramatic actress Pola Negri makes a surprise comeback as Menjou's second wife Genya, an egotistical opera singer who drives people out of a nightclub by singing an unwanted Wagner aria. 

If none of this arouses even a grin, then Hi Diddle Diddle is no way or shape for you. But if the Museum of Modern Art ever runs what they will undoubtedly refer to as "a forgotten classic wartime comedy", I don't want you crying that you couldn't get tickets, you hypocrite. If you can't wait for that hypothetical event, go here to see the restored version released in the UK, where it was retitled Try and Find It. If my history with recommendations is any indication, you'll probably try and lose it.

BONUS POINTS: The animated moments were provided by Leon Schlesinger Productions, better known as the animators on loan from Warner Brothers.

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THE SOON-TO-BE-LATE "LATE" SHOWS

My idea of television production was making sure
this was in focus every morning.

On my first day of Introduction to Television Production in college, I learned two things. First, I wasn't cut out for producing television. 

The second was even more important. After everyone settled into their seats, the teacher cleared his throat and spoke his first words. "What," he asked, "is the number one job of television?"

After a few seconds of silence, answers were offered. "Entertainment." "Information." "Bringing people together." 

When everybody had their say, the teacher once again cleared his throat. "The number one job of television is to sell advertising time." 

Don't cry for me, Upper West Side...

I bring this up as a way of pontificating about the cancellation of The Late Show with Stephen Colbert. On the face -- make that the CBS eye of it, it was terribly suspicious. You could say it stinks like Taylor Swift's dance routines. It seemed to confirm that the network was cowtowing to D.J. Trump. (Something about Paramount Global, which includes CBS, merging with yet another company -- what used to be called a monopoly but is now considered business as usual.) 

But you're not the CEO of CBS. He --a guy whose name, George Cheeks, is straight out of a Mafia comedy -- operates on a plane different than you or me.

And here's where I separate from the conspiracy theorists. From where I sit (the dining room table), the Colbert cancellation was likely just business. Nothing political. Certainly nothing personal. From Cheeks' perspective, he was giving good ol' Steve a year to clean out his desk. Pretty generous, wouldn't you say? 

No, you wouldn't. But he would, because he wasn't thinking how it would look to you. He's thinking, Everybody knows this is how business operates. Cheeks recently got rid of @midnight, the game show following Colbert, so he figures, Why stop there? Too, he's not replacing Colbert with, say, Shane Gillis. He's getting rid of the show, period. Your CBS affiliate will decide what goes on at 11:35 -- most likely reruns of How I Met Your Mother or Seinfeld, which will get higher ratings at the local level than Colbert has in the last few years.

CBS in the red, get it?

Here's some more business. The Late Show's annual budget including Colbert's salary is $100-million. According to the New York Times, the show's annual loss is $50-million, while it draws just two million viewers. How long would you be willing to lose 50-million smackolas on a product that had 500,000 fewer customers than the population of Brooklyn? Now pretend you're an advertiser. How long would you be willing to drop good money on a show with those kinds of numbers? Nothing personal or political, Steve. Just business.

I reached out to a friend who spent decades in the business side of network television to get his take on l'affaire Colbert. In lieu of texting a shrug, he wrote, "I just take it at face value. Late night used to be a cash cow, but now they all hemorrhage money." He added that long-running primetime programs get cancelled all the time, but "CBS just admitted reality. They don't need [The Late Show]." 

Over one and a half million Americans got laid off this past May, and everybody outside their families and friends continued to go about their daily routine. But a guy who earns over $4,000,000 a month to tell jokes and interview people who agree with him losing his job is suddenly worth slamming their breaks for. (Maybe the newly-unemployed folks can get their minds off of their current situation by watching a video tour of Colbert's $3-million mansion in Montclair, New Jersey.)

How will the rich middle-aged white guys live?

Show business being a hotbed of backstabbers and jealousy, there was a time when someone getting tossed to the curb would have aroused glee among rivals. But while Jimmy Fallon, Jimmy Kimmel, and Seth Meyers are outspoken in their sorrow at Colbert's fate, their unspoken words are, We're next. They know they're not needed.

Do you watch these guys other than on viral clips shown on morning news shows? Not if ratings are any indication, you don't. Not even the tarnished jewel in NBC's corroded crown, The Tonight Show, is immune. Under Jimmy Fallon's steady stewardship, Tonight can now boast of one million viewers. That's less than the total population of Rhode Island. 

Laugh it up, funnyboy. Your time is
coming.

Remember network executives panicking when the Tonight ratings dropped to
2.7-million under Conan O'Brien? Had the business model not changed since then, Fallon would have gone back to being a soda shill. Luckily for him, NBC is focusing more on its Peacock streaming channel, while The Tonight Show remains on the air because... well, because it has since 1952. Like the song says, Tradition!  

It'll be interesting to watch Colbert's numbers in the next 10 months. If there's a ratings bounce, he'll probably think Where were these people when I needed them? Well, not watching TV, which is what they'll continue not to watch once the novelty of a tuning into a sinking ship wears off. And if his numbers remain in the two-million ballpark, CBS will feel justified in getting rid of The Late Show. I'm unsure if this is a win-win or lose-win or lose-lose even more situation

If you're old enough to
remember Jerry Lester,
you're not alive to read this.

It's something everybody at the networks are aware of but nobody says out loud: late night is deader than Jerry Lester's Broadway Open House. Not like you'll see Stephen Colbert panhandling outside the Ed Sullivan Theater. Even as you read this, streaming platforms from Apple to YouTube are already renting Brinks trucks for the time he becomes a free agent next May. And as for viewership, even if Colbert brings in half of Conan O'Brien's current streaming numbers of 15 million downloads per month, it will still dwarf what he and the other late-nighters currently have on TV. 

Conan's five-year contract is worth $150-million. For Colbert, that might be a cut in pay, but it's still pretty good dough when the fanciest thing you wear to work is a set of quality headphones. And, like Conan, he'll work just once a week. Let me know if you still care after you get laid off.

Memo to all the angry Colbert fans cancelling their Paramount+ subscription: You realize, of course, that by doing this, The Late Show's ratings will sink lower, right? 

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