THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 33

The years 1931-1933 are spotlighted here, with three pre-code features and one short. You won't find these on any of those "Movies You Must See Before You Die" lists. Unless I'm compiling them.

THE VICE SQUAD (1931): While Warner Brothers was getting condemned for allegedly "glamorizing" criminals, here Paramount went in the other direction by exposing crooked cops. For two years, former upright lawyer Stephen Lucarno has been blackmailed into being a stool pigeon by Vice Squad commander Matthews. Having disappeared from his old life, Lucarno now drinks his days away while waiting to frame hookers at night. His life seems to turn around with a chance meeting with his friend Judge Tom Morrison, whose sister is Lucarno's ex-fiancée Alice. But just as a reconciliation with her seems imminent, Lucarno learns an innocent acquaintance, Madeline Hunt, has been framed on a trumped-up charge. Alice gives Lucarno a choice -- return to her and the life he once knew, or lose it all by testifying on Madeline's behalf. 

The Vice Squad plays cute by having cops referring to hookers as "vagrants" and prostitution as, you guessed it, "vagrancy", despite it never being in doubt what these dames are up to. As with a lot of pre-code pictures, The Vice Squad never really comes down hard on these women. If anything, their plight appears to be the fault of society, the Depression, and guys like the ogrish Det.-Sgt. Matthews, who roped Lucarno into being a stoolie when the latter refused to identify a sidepiece who fatally ran down a cop. Better to keep the arrest numbers up than trying to solve the murder of a colleague!

Despite Lucarno getting himself into his mess, Hungarian-born Paul Lukas (Address Unknown, Downstairs) gives the character humanity; his shame at falling so far is shown right down to the worn-out tips of his dress gloves. While only 36, Lucas passes for a middle-aged man who has thrown his life away. (Judith Wood, as Madeline, was 25 but looks two decades younger than him.) Kay Francis, not quite yet the queen of pre-codes, doesn't have a whole lot do other than moon for Lucarno, but she does it with her usual class, style, and lisp. The gaudily-named actor Rockliffe Fellowes makes you hate Matthews even more than you normally would -- here's an guy unafraid to be make a bad cop look even worse. Credit The Vice Squad for giving 1931 audiences the chance to boo the alleged good guys and sympathize with the so-called criminals for once. But did it occur to them that the woman who killed the cop in the first reel got off scot-free?

BONUS POINTS: Street names are altered just enough -- Barrow to Harrow, Christopher to Cristobal -- so it isn't necessarily the New York vice squad that's corrupt. It just... sounds like it.

FALSE FACES (1932): Dr. Silas Brenton, having been thrown out of Bronx General

Hospital for unethical behavior, sets up shop in Chicago where he becomes a plastic surgeon despite lacking the proper training. As Brenton's business and fame grow, his scruples lessen, promoting skin creams, hosting his own radio show, and starting an affair with Florence Day, the wealthy adult daughter of his latest patient, while still sleeping with his secretary Elsie. Brenton's luck runs out when his treatment of a patient's bowlegs ends in an amputation. Acting as his own attorney, Brenton's melodramatic closing arguments sway the jury in his favor -- but his unfortunate patient has the final word. 

Rat bastards weren't uncommon in pre-codes, but Silas Brenton is one for the books -- he lost his Bronx job by extorting money from poor patients at what was supposed to be a free hospital. In Chicago, he refuses payment from a famous actress, then sues her for non-payment to get his name in the papers. He promises to fix the droopy eye of Florence's mother, while knowing all along it'll never work. He refuses to answer the telegrams from the nurse he was sleeping with in the Bronx. Lowell Sherman (who also directed) plays Brenton so that the audience feels pure joy when fate finally catches up to him. He's quite good, often reminiscent of his friend (and real-life brother-in-law) John Barrymore, clearly loving this monstrous character. 

Speaking of pre-code, Sherman's direction gets the idea across of Benton's relationship with Georgia, the Bronx nurse, as he helps her with her coat while the image of his unmade bed lingers in the background. He also gets fine performances from familiar supporting actors including David Landau (70,000 Witnesses) and the doomed Peggy Shannon (Turn Back the Clock). This surprisingly good looking, low-budget release from Sono Art-World Wide (the studio with the outrageous logo) might be called False Faces but is a real treat.

BONUS POINTS: Eddie Anderson has a brief scene as a chauffeur, five years before gaining fame as Rochester on The Jack Benny Program.

FROM HELL TO HEAVEN (1933): This might as well be titled A Grand Hotel Day at the Races. A bunch of couples, singles and suckers, all betting on different horses in the same race, have good reason to hope their choices pay off. Wesley Burt needs to repay the $3,000 he embezzled from his employer. Two-timing dame Colly Tanner is $10,000 in the hole. Horse owner Pop Lockwood is down to his last bale of hay. Sam the bellhop just wants to make an extra buck or two. And a criminal is going for some extra dough before he blows town -- and perhaps for good reason, seeing that his name is Jack Ruby. Stay outta Dallas, Jack!

It would be nice if Universal Pictures, which owns the rights to Paramount's pe-1948 movies, restored the latter's obscure movies for limited-run DVDs. Instead, we have to put up with washed-out prints of From Hell to Heaven on YouTube. It's a real shame, for this is a fun little comedy-drama that never outstays its 67-minute welcome. (Some prints online are missing the first 10 or 15 minutes!). Nor does it shy away from its obvious Grand Hotel influence, seeing that Jack Oakie repeats Lewis Stone's observation that "nothing ever happens" at the resort where most of the action takes place. (Oakie even shoots a knowing glance at the camera when he repeats it at fade-out.) I'll stake my "reputation" and say out loud that From Hell to Heaven is better than Grand Hotel. It's certainly shorter.

In addition to Oakie and fellow Paramount contract player Carole Lombard (whose character is willing to sleep with her ex-bf in exchange for 10-grand), there are enough freelancers and loan-outs from other studios to fill the Kentucky Derby. Berton Churchill and Eddie Anderson (both featured in False Faces), David Manners (A Bill of Divorcement), Clarence Muse (Black Moon), Thomas E. Jackson (Broadway), and a dozen or so more, all playing to type. As each character bets on a different horse at the climax, you may find your loyalty shifting during the race (I was siding with the embezzler). There can be of course only one winner, yet all of the bettors get what's coming to them. Which, unfortunately, will probably never happen to people wanting a restoration of From Hell to Heaven. And you can bet the DVR on that.

BONUS POINTS: As someone who can neither sing, play piano, nor tap dance, I was in awe of Jack Oakie doing all three simultaneously. 

JUST AROUND THE CORNER (1934): Imagine entertainment-starved audiences reacting to a short starring Warren William, Dick Powell, Bette Davis, Joan Blondell, Ruth Donnelly, and Preston Foster! And with music from the still-hot 42nd Street under the credits, Just Around the Corner promised to be a slam-bang, two-reel extravaganza featuring the cream of Warner Brothers' contract players. 

The story doesn't seem to be anything to get excited about -- office drone 

Dick Powell inviting the boss Warren William and his wife Ruth Donnelly over to the house for the weekend for some trout fishing -- but isn't that true of all musicals? Sure, it's strange when Powell makes a point of pointing out the General Electric spotlights in the back yard... Ahh, but there's Bette Davis in the atypical role of happy housewife showing off her wonderful General Electric dishwasher... and General Electric refrigerator... and General Electric oven... and General Electric doorbell -- Uh, what's going on here? And how do they afford this stuff on Powell's salary? 

Glad you asked! It's easy on the General Electric payment plan! Once the dishwasher's paid off, they're getting a General Electric washing machine and iron, too! As THE END appears onscreen, that same entertainment-starved audience is probably thinking, We just paid good money to see a 20-minute commercial!

Actors knew what they were getting themselves into when they put their signature on the dotted studio line, but there was no way these folks ever expected Warner Brothers to throw them into a two-reel theatrical commercial for G.E. It's easy to picture Bette Davis, even at this early stage of her career, being one step away from shoving Jack Warner's hand down a General Electric garbage disposal. From a 21st-century perspective, Just Around the Corner is funnier than anything else Warner Brothers ever released. I mean, not only do Davis and Powell keep reminding us that G.E. appliances save time and money with the quiet repetition of a jackhammer, the refrigerator somehow saved the life of their little daughter! Buy General Electric products: a life may depend upon it.

BONUS POINTS: Joan Blondell gets off easy in her one scene, eating breakfast in bed and never once mentioning the words General Electric.

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MOVIE OF THE DAY: "BORDERTOWN" (1934)

As with I Confess! and one or two other movies, Bordertown on its face shouldn't be a subject of this blog. Studio production, A-list stars, serious theme -- well, maybe a crackpot like me should take it apart, if only to show how a 1934 drama made with the best intentions can look mighty illiberal today. Because what starts out as poor boy makes good through hard work is really stay in your place poor boy -- because poor boy is Mexican American.

After being disbarred, lawyer Johnny Ramirez hoofs it down to Mexico with the intention of acquiring money -- and the power that comes with it. Rising from bouncer to co-owner, with Charlie Roark, of a gambling joint, he fends off the affection of Charlie's wife, Marie, while falling for Dale Elwell, the woman his client was suing at the time of his disbarment.

As you can tell by their names, the women in this triangle are about as Mexican as Barry Fitzgerald. And two decades before I Love Lucy, the idea of a Latino man being coupled with one white woman, let alone two, was just not accepted in polite (i.e., racist) society. Even if the Latino man is, in reality, Paul Muni, a white Austro-Hungarian-born actor who got his start in Yiddish theater. In 1934, you had to pretend to be Latino to get near an Anglo woman if you were doing anything other than serving her a drink.

Another woman who hasn't learned that
insanity isn't a turn-on for most guys.

You also had to give the white women unacceptable reasons for showing interest in a -- gasp -- Mexican. For Dale Ewell, it's just a wild fling with someone who, financially, has now entered her league, but is otherwise what was referred to as "the other". 

Marie Roark's excuse is more direct: she's crazy enough to murder her husband -- by making it look like he fell asleep in the garage with the engine running -- in order to make herself that much more available to Johnny. She even gives him money to open his own 5-star casino. I'm sorry to say no woman has gone to that much trouble for me.

When her little scheme still doesn't win Johnny's corazon, Marie tells the police that he confessed to killing Charlie. And even in Mexico, the word of an obviously crazy white woman is enough to bring him to trial. It's only when Marie is dragged out of the courtroom after babbling incoherently on the stand is it clear to all that Johnny's been framed. And even then, he has to tell his lawyer to demand that the trial be dismissed on grounds of Marie's insanity. Maybe the mouthpiece should have gone to Johnny's law school.

The condescending bitch or the crazy lady:
which to choose?

With Marie out of the way, Johnny drives to L.A. in his new car to propose to Dale Ewell. Her response is stunned laughter. Sure, he was good enough to screw -- but marry? "There's such a thing as equality," she reminds him -- meaning he's not her equal. Running out of his car, Dale heads straight into traffic and gets what's coming to her, all over the pavement. Johnny just cannot get a break.

So there's nothing more Johnny can do than sell his casino, donate the proceeds to fund an endowment for future lawyers, and return to his poor Los Angeles neighborhood -- and, more importantly, his mother and his church, where he promises the padre that he's back "where I belong: with my people."

They even made his face whiter
than Bette's.

No more white folks for me! Barrio, here I come! Warner Brothers probably thought it was a tragic yet necessary message. Look what good trying to join white society did Johnny: one dead business partner, one dead woman, and another woman headed for the madhouse. And did I say they were white?

Over and over, we're told that Johnny just isn't couth. Hell, he was disbarred for socking a white lawyer in the jaw during a trial. Even Dale Ewell's nickname for Johnny is "Savage." In fact, every white woman in Borderline is interested in him because he looks like a brute due to his skin color. Maybe it's a good thing they hired Paul Muni to play Johnny in tanface, because I'm not sure any Latino actor could have gotten behind Bordertown's message, even in 1934.

The Warners publicity department probably was a little nervous regarding Bordertown's promotion. The image atop the page features Muni in a sombrero, which he never wears in the movie. In the poster on the left, the sombrero has been ditched for a white tux, with the sideburns the only clue that Muni might be one of those people.

I would love a headshot like this.

As with Al Pacino in Scarface and Carlito's Way, Muni's accent sounds acceptable until he's paired with a real Latino; then you immediately discover the artifice. In fact, he sounds like Tony Camonte, his Italian character in the original Scarface from two years earlier -- which is to say, not Italian. Or Mexican, either. In fact, I still can't figure out what accent he's doing.

Muni was still considered ***A GREAT ACTOR!*** at the time of his death in 1967, even though he made his final movie almost a decade earlier. So it's  something of a surprise that most of his performances are delivered with a slice of ham -- or, to be fair, a dose of theatricality. Like his Warners colleague George Arliss (with whom, early on, he shared the honorific "Mr." in movie credits), Muni was considered one of the premiere stage actors of his time. Arliss, however, learned to act for the movies while Muni never quite shook his stage training. While he's often entertaining, He appears to be telling us, Look at me! Now this is acting!

Paul Muni meets his match twice over.

In Bordertown, though, Muni goes toe to toe with Bette Davis. Eyes popping out like golf balls, brandishing a sick smile that rivals that of Charles Manson's groupies, speaking her lines as if she's just downed a couple tablets of speed, Davis chews the scenery as if she hadn't eaten in weeks. And as Charlie Roark, Eugene Pallette's steals every scene from Muni by notching up his already scratchy bullfrog voice enough to make it sound like he's snacking on barbed wire between takes.

Only Margaret Lindsay, playing the allegedly classy Dale Ewell, keeps it lowkey throughout -- that is, until informing Johnny that he isn't her type -- then she goes haywire and walks in front of a speeding car. It's interesting to speculate if audiences at the time thought it a better fate than being married to a Mexican. Thank God the U.S.A. has evolved from those pre-enlightened times, right? Right?!

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MOVIE OF THE DAY: "THE BIG SHAKEDOWN" (1934)

Sporting a title more appropriate for a '50s crime picture, The Big Shakedown asks the question: What happens to the bootleggers now that Prohibition's over? Gangster Dutch Barnes, impressed by pharmacist Jimmy Morrell's way with chemicals at the local drugstore, comes up with the brilliant idea of hiring him to manufacture bootleg toothpaste. Desperate times call for desperate measures -- like coming up with a movie that takes the concept of bootleg toothpaste seriously.
 
Soon, Dutch's goons are strong-arming local druggists to buy their product, just like the good ol' days. But perhaps realizing such a conceit would eventually make him the laughingstock of his fellow criminals, Dutch soon orders Jimmy to whip up cosmetic knock-offs. Naturally, the lipstick-happy dames can't tell the difference. Then, instead of making the logical move to, say, pseudo-Brioschi, Dutch decides to go into the medical-supply business, blackmailing Jimmy into creating bogus antiseptics and, eventually, digitalis -- a dose of which causes Jimmy's unsuspecting wife, Norma, to suffer a miscarriage. The moral of the story: toothpaste is a gateway drug.

She's a good actress, but not good enough
for those Bette Davis eyes to hide her contempt.

You just know that ingenue Bette Davis (Norma) was secretly praying for studio head Jack Warner to keel over with a shot of phony digitalis himself for forcing her into melodramatic hooey like The Big Shakedown, roughly her 20th movie in three years. Still a few years away from being treated like the royalty she always thought herself to be, Davis can't completely mask her disgust with the ridiculous script or her milquetoast leading man, Charles Farrell, the kind of actor she'd happily chew up and spit out before breakfast.

"...And next week I want you to make a vat of
interferon, or else!"

However, the ever-reliable Ricardo Cortez plays Dutch Barnes with his usual oily, clenched-teeth style. A well-dressed sociopath, Barnes has no problem flooding the city's hospitals with phony medicine if it means keeping the money rolling in. As Rand Paul would urge, let the marketplace decide what to do with him. 

"How can I be anti-
Semitic if I'm Jewish?"

Made near the end of the pre-code era, The Big Shakedown has plenty of little moments that would never have made it in a movie a year or two later. A dumpy housewife is humorously portrayed as a cough syrup addict. Sidney Miller, Warners' go-to whiny Jewish kid, is obsessed with keeping track of his money. The scientist who eventually shoots Dutch gets away with it because 1) Dutch stole his formula, and 2) Dutch had it coming. In order to further protect the killer, Jimmy dumps the murder weapon into the same vat of bubbling acid where Dutch's body falls. Very Shakespearean stuff.

One gag probably baffles most contemporary viewers. A mousy middle-aged guy enters Jimmy's store and asks for a druggist. When Bette Davis informs him that she's the druggist, the guy gulps and, thinking fast, asks for a bottle of aspirin. Davis smirks knowingly. Audiences in 1934 would have immediately caught the unspoken subtext: the guy had come in for condoms but didn't want to ask a woman for them. Now you can find them at any bodega next to the Milk Duds. I'm not certain we've made progress.

"And I ain't talkin' soda!"

Most unexpected of all is a line of dialogue spoken by the great Allen Jenkins. When informed that the gang is moving from beer to drugs -- pharmaceuticals, that is -- Jenkins misunderstands. "Not me," he replies. "I got a brother doing twenty years for going into the drug business and all they found on him was two decks of coke." There's nothing better than drug references in old movies. Except maybe sex references.

Bootleg toothpaste, Jewish stereotypes, a murderer getting off scot-free, drug humor, cough syrupholics -- it's just another day on the Warner Brothers lot. If not the best pre-code picture, The Big Shakedown is certainly one of the more entertainingly absurd. On the other hand, the next time you visit New York's Chinatown district, stay away from the exotic-looking toothpastes. Many contain diethylene glycol, a substance usually found in, among other things, heating fuel and brake fluid. As least Jimmy Morrell's stuff cleaned your teeth without killing you.

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