THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 59

A rare entry with three European movies and only one American. Good Lord, am I becoming a movie snob? 

ALRAUNE (1928): Something must have been in the Riesling during 1920s Germany, when movies about young women driving men literally mad with desire were all the rage --Pandora's Box, Diary of a Lost Girl, and The Blue Angel to name three. The more obscure Alraune adds a little bit of Frankenstein to the mix, as Prof. Jakob ten Brinken decides it would be cool to inseminate the sperm of an executed murderer into a streetwalker. You know, just to see what happens. 

If the original one-sheet on the right hasn't already tipped you off, the mad prof's "creation" -- named Alraune -- grows up to be a sexed-up young lady who can't help but leave a trail of half-crazed men (and one suicide) in her wake.  Eventually, she discovers who (or what) she really is, and, in revenge, gradually comes on to her "Papa". You know, just to see what happens. Like father, like daughter!

Famed German actress Brigitte Helm isn't exactly beautiful but gives Alraune the same literally mesmerizing sense of control over men as she did in Metropolis. She even stares down a pack of male circus lions into submission while in their cage. No wonder guys stand no chance with her -- not even her "Papa", played by Germany's premiere movie actor of the 1920s, Paul Wegener (The Student of Prague). Looking more like a 1950s Soviet official than a professor, Wegener's gradual decline from brilliant but nutty scientist to jealous, semi-incestuous would-be lover is one for the books, adding yet another sick layer to the story.  If you're a man, watch Alraune with the one you love some evening. You know, just to see what happens.

BONUS POINTS: The name Alraune is also a plant that, in mythology, grows where a hanged man's semen dropped to the ground, and grows into the shape of a human. Warning to gardeners: When pulled from the soil, the alraune allegedly lets out a scream that can kill you.

SMARTY (1934): "That was just awful", said my wife after watching Smarty. How could she not enjoy a pre-code comedy about a woman deliberately provoking her husband to respond with physical violence? And then eventually does the same thing with her second husband? When the little wifey tires of hubby #2, she returns to hubby #1 and manipulates him into slapping her twice, while he promises to beat her. And as any woman would do, she melts in his arms, kisses him and whispers, "Hit me again" as Smarty comes to its romantic end. Swooning yet? 

There's stuff in between, but you get the general idea. One of the last pre-code productions (by about six weeks), Smarty was made for Depression-era audiences to delight in the dysfunctional behavior of the idle rich. Vicki, the wife, is emotionally cruel, while husbands Tony and Vernon lack any self-respect. Its arch tone, slamming doors, and attempts at satiric sophistication probably worked in its original stage play incarnation, but as portrayed onscreen, you want to slap the hell out of all of them. As with Blood Money's Frances Dee yearning for "a good thrashing", Vicki isn't just asking for it, she's demanding it. What was up with women 90 years ago anyway?

God knows how, but Joan Blondell, husband #1 Warren William (the King of the Pre-Codes), and husband #2 Edward Everett Horton manage against all odds to create laughs from time to time.  Laid back co-stars Claire Dodd and Frank McHugh are their bemused friends enablers who egg on these sadomasochistic relationships. If emotionally cruel women and self-loathing, physically abusive men are funny to you-- as they apparently were in the UK where it was retitled Hit Me Again --Smarty is the romcom you've been aching for. 

BONUS POINTS: In today's parlance, Tony is triggered by Vicki's use of the phrase "diced carrots", which, while never made explicit, seems to be in regard to a part of his anatomy.

TO THE PUBLIC DANGER (1948): Say, remember those scary 15-minute movies
you had to watch in drivers ed classes back in the day? The ones where people do stupid things like drinking heavily before hopping behind the wheel? Well, years before that, a British movie studio got the bright idea to make a similar kind of picture and releasing it to cinemas. Don't forget the popcorn!

On-the-outs couple Fred and Nancy fall in with the charming Capt. Cole and his drunken mate Reggie at a local pub. In short order, Nancy and Cole get frisky while all four knock back whiskeys for the next couple of hours. The fun continues in Cole's car, as he drinks from a flask and lets Nancy take the wheel from the passenger side and -- BAM! Did they just hit someone riding a bike? No one can agree. Cole decides to stop at another pub where they get even more hammered, leading him to beat the crap out of Fred before continuing their joyride. One of the passengers eventually escapes this hell on wheels while the other three see it to the bitter end.

Sound a bit thin for a feature? Correct call, as To the Public Danger runs just 43 minutes, the perfect length for a brisk double bill. But there's nothing that screams "relaxing day at the movies" here. The first half is essentially 20 minutes of watching our "heroes" becoming progressively drunk, while much of the claustrophobic second half puts you literally in the driver's seat of an out-of-control auto. (The climax is genuinely terrifying.) While its short running time prevents To the Public Danger from wearing out its welcome, it would have been even better with Alfred Hitchcock calling the shots while the actors were drinking them.

BONUS POINTS: The twist ending is a genuine surprise, isn't a cheat, and is kind of funny in a way. Just not for the characters.

POPIOK I DIAMENT (ASHES AND DIAMONDS) (1958): 

Poland, V-E Day, 1945. Two members of the Polish resistance, Maciek and his mentor Andrezj, hang around a hotel waiting to assassinate a high-ranking Communist official. But as the hours pass, and a celebratory dinner for their target gets out of control, Maciek gradually falls in love with a barmaid, forcing him to question both his assignment and the choices he's made in his life that have led him to this pivotal moment. 

 I hadn't heard of Ashes and Diamonds until fairly recently. Word on the street -- OK, online -- was that it was one of the greatest movies ever made. And having finally gotten around to see it, I'd say it was one of the best looking movies ever. Its black & white cinematography and deft staging (as in a bombed-out church) were impressive as anything I've ever seen.

If there's a problem with Ashes and Diamonds is that it never looks remotely evokes 1945. Everything is strictly 1958, especially its 31-year-old star Zbigniew Cybulski as the philosophical assassin Maciek. Cybulski was for good reason considered the Polish James Dean -- only, to my eyes, a far better and more original actor. Like Dean, Cybulski was an icon of his generation who died in a violent accident, although making it to 40 rather than checking out at 24.

From his first moment onscreen to last, Cybulski is the real deal. Without aping Brando as so many of his contemporaries did, he seems to be creating something brand new right before your eyes. No, I was never convinced this character was actually around in 1945 -- not with that haircut or those cool lightly-tinted sunglasses he rarely removes -- but ultimately it didn't matter. 

For while appearing more modern, he (and the rest of the fine cast, for that matter) made the Eastern Europe political subplots that much easier to understand, the way modern-dress Shakespeare does for me. And in doing so, many of the movie's scenes might have already become permanent fixtures in my memory. Perhaps giving Ashes and Diamonds a second spin one evening will place it on my own imaginary Top 100 list. It's certainly more than worthy of just one viewing. 

BONUS POINTS: Cybulski's last moment onscreen features one of the most remarkable pieces of acting I've ever seen. It's highly unlikely any young actor could equal it today.

                                                          ***********

THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 49

 By sheer coincidence, there are two movies about brain-control -- the same situation I find myself in whenever I notice the YouTube app. 

ROAR OF THE DRAGON (1932): You know the story about the Alamo, right? OK, move the location from Texas to Manchuria. Now change the Alamo to a hotel, Davy Crockett to a drunken riverboat captain, the American soldiers to tourists, and the Mexicans to Chinese bandits. Presto: Roar of the Dragon. 

Richard Dix returns to these pages as Capt. Carson, the cynical sot who finds his purpose in life when under fire. (Unsurprisingly, Dix is less believable playing a drunk than when he really was drunk in the Whistler movies.) He's got the hots for Natascha, the girlfriend of bandit-leader Vronksy. Natascha is played by Gwili Andre, RKO's unasked-for answer to Greta Garbo (or is it Marlene Dietrich?). While Andre is a looker and fairly sexy, her talent is limited to keeping her eyelids at half-staff -- there's a reason why Roar of the Dragon was the highlight of her brief movie career before returning to whence she came, modeling. In front of camera, I mean, not with clay.

Other than ZaSu Pitts and her "oh dear" hand-fluttering routine, the most familiar supporting actor is the great Edward Everett Horton, who gets a dramatic turn -- perhaps for the only time in his career -- when the woman he loves is killed by a bandit. Grabbing a machine gun, the formerly timid Horton starts firing like a madman before getting knifed in the back. Want more unexpected violence? Well, there's an elderly Jewish man getting captured by the bandits, trussed up on a pole and set on fire, forcing Carson into machine-gunning him to death to put him out of his misery. 

One of the loudest early talkies I've ever experienced, Roar of the Dragon features people yelling, guns firing, music blaring, and babies crying (no child-protective services here!), almost continually during its 69 minutes While the pace drags a bit during its final third, you sure won't fall asleep. 

BONUS POINTS: A newspaper headline reads RIVERBOAT CAPTAIN BEATS OFF BANDITS. Now wait a minute!...

REVOLT OF THE ZOMBIES (1936): One of the all-time great movie promotional images -- but anyone wanting to see a full-scale zombie revolt will have to fast-forward to the final three minutes. Otherwise, this is one of those low-budget indies about a man straying where no man should go. Like, into certain low-budget indies.

Armand Loque has discovered the secret of zombie-making in post-World War I French Cambodia. This little talent comes in handy when he decides to take over the village where he and his fellow-geeks are currently encamped. His ultimate target is Cliff Grayson, who is engaged to Claire Duval, the woman Loque loves. Why didn't this egghead put the spell on her?

Hoping to cash in (a little late) on their low-budget, now-legendary cult fave 1932 hit White Zombie, siblings Edward and Victor Halperin decided that any movie with the Z word would bring in the ducats. Not without Bela Lugosi, the star of the original, it wouldn't. Still, Dean Jagger does a fine job as the doomed Armand Loque. (I've always wondered why it took him so long to break into A pictures, since he's always better than his surroundings.) Too, Robert Noland, as Cliff, isn't bad either; where both actors fail is in their love-dovey moments with Dorothy Stone as Claire, where their dialogue sounds straight out of a 19th-century melodrama. 

Another drawback with Revolt of the Zombies is its shabby sets. While the Halperins were able to rent classy soundstages at Universal for White Zombie, here they had to settle for Jagger walking in front of a blow-up photo of Cambodia's Angor Wat temple to set the unconvincing scene. Even if current prints were restored (in addition to its rough quality, it's missing a few minutes), it would look older than a 1936 release. Whatever good can be gotten from Revolt of the Zombies is Dean Jagger's often sensitive performance and his occasionally uncanny resemblance to Anthony Perkins. Too bad there aren't all that many zombies.

BONUS POINTS: The tight close-ups of Jagger's eyes when he's turning on the hoodoo that he do so well belong to Bela Lugosi, lifted from White Zombie. Jagger was probably grateful not that have a light shining straight into his pupils.

THE LADY AND THE MONSTER (1944): Erich von Stroheim must have felt like he'd
hit the end of the road, getting third billing behind B-lister Richard Arlen and (gulp) top-billed Vera Hruba Ralston in a Republic picture with a goofy title. No need, though, for this is an unexpectedly good, if Hollywoodized, adaption of the bizarre 1942 novel Donovan's Brain by Curt Siodmak, who co-wrote the script. 

Prof. Franz Mueller and his assistant Dr. Patrick Corey have finally achieved the dream of keeping the brain from a dead man -- in this case, investor W.H. Donovan -- alive in a jar. Much to the dismay of Corey's sweetie Janice Farrell, Donovan starts communicating with him telepathically. (Dames are so jealous!). As Mueller juices up the formula in the jar to make the brain chattier, Corey receives orders to arrange a new trial for a young man imprisoned for murder. With his personality deteriorating to the point of violence, Corey's left with no choice but to silence the little girl who saw the prisoner at the murder site. Don't blame the man, blame the brain!

Republic Pictures opened the purse strings for The Lady and the Monster, giving it the sheen of a Warners production. Director George Sherman and his crew did a dandy job, too, lighting Richard Arlen's face in a way that reflects his ugly -- evil -- new personality. No longer in the Rolodexes of the major studios, Erich von Stroheim still has what it takes to make an audience take notice, reciting  dialogue in his typical clipped delivery as if he thought this were actually worthy of him.

Bringing up the rear as the nominal star, Vera Hruba Ralston can't even react convincingly to seeing a brain in a jar, appearing more like she's suffering from a mild case of dyspepsia. (In her many, many close-ups, she resembles Teri Garr satirizing her.) If Republic honcho Herbert Yates wanted to do his mistress a favor, he'd have kept out of pictures to avoid being made a laughingstock. Ms. Ralston's contribution and the unfortunate tacked-on happy ending aside, The Lady and the Madman is one of the cooler Republic productions.

BONUS POINTS: Several years earlier, George Sherman directed another sci-fi/medical/crime movie, The Return of Dr. X. You know, the one with Humphrey Bogart as a vampire. 

PLUNDER ROAD (1957): Sometimes, all you need in a movie is 75 minutes of a seemingly successful crime going to hell for everyone involved. If nothing else, Plunder Road will discourage you from robbing $10-million in federal gold bars, no matter how easy it looks. 

The crime itself is interesting because it's something of an updated Western, seeing that the five criminals pull off a train heist Utah before heading to California. But instead of riding horses, they're driving three trucks filled with the loot disguised as or hidden by other items. It's just a darn shame that they didn't anticipate police roadblocks going up. Guess they haven't watched enough movies!

Speaking of watching movies, Plunder Road has an interesting mix of actors in both familiar roles and playing against type. In the former is Stafford Repp (you remember him as the Irish cop in the Batman series) still in his bad guy years, forever obnoxiously chewing gum; the always-welcome Elisha Cook, Jr. looking forward to using his loot to move to Rio with his son; and the more-obscure Steven Ritch as Frankie, who puts his race-car skills to good use trying to avoid the cops. 

Yet the most interesting actors are former leading men Gene Raymond and Wayne Morris. Once A-listers, over time they aged out of their charming manner and good looks and into character parts like the ones they play here. Their grim expressions and cold-blooded ways -- Morris shoots an old gas station attendant without blinking an eye -- show a versatility denied during their star-making days two decades earlier. You have a rough idea of how they and the others in Plunder Road are going to wind up, but that's beside the point. It's the actors that count, and they make it worth watching.

BONUS POINTS: Plunder Road teaches you how to blow up a train with the fuse of a bomb hooked up to a dashboard cigarette lighter. Easier than you think!

                                                              *******************

THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 7

"Early" can be applied to any time of day -- morning, afternoon, or before my wife returns from her gym class. So why change the name of these entries when it works so well? Besides, you're not paying for perfection, are you? You're not paying anything at all!  So pour yourself a drink and behold these four fine examples of entertainment that will never appear on any "Top 100 Greatest" but maybe should be.

THE MIRACLE MAN (1932): Doc Madison, the leader of a gang of con artists,

takes it on the lam after believing he's killed a man in a fight. He winds up in the small town of Meadville, when he learns of a local faith healer known only as The Patriarch, who allegedly works miracles on the sick and the lame. Coming up with the ultimate con, Doc sends for his cohorts -- Harry, a phony cripple called The Frog, and his girlfriend Helen -- in order to fleece the rubes. Visiting the Patriarch in front of the locals, The Frog pretends to be cured... only to see two real cripples cured as well. While Doc is intent on pulling his con, his companions gradually decide to mend their ways. And when Helen is courted by the older brother of a cured woman, Doc has to decide whether he's going to abscond with the money he's raised to allegedly build a chapel for the Patriarch, or do the right thing after all.

A movie like The Miracle Man would be a definite no-go at any major studio today; I'm not sure if even one of those Christian-themed indies would take the chance on a story about a faith healer who really heals. But that's why it works so well here, made a time when such a production (a remake of the 1919 version of the same name) could it wear its heart unashamedly on its sleeve. I'm a sucker for such things, as are, eventually, the con artists who gradually become psychologically healed just by witnessing genuine miracles.

The actors who play the scammers -- Chester Morris, Sylvia Sydney, Ned Sparks (here with an "A" as a middle initial for some reason) and John Wray -- are as an ace bunch of character actors as you can find. I especially liked Sparks's reaction to the crippled kid's healing. Pretending to be actually shocked by such a thing is no mean feat (Lon Chaney did it to perfection in the one surviving scene of the original), but Sparks pulls it off -- an especially impressive moment since he's usually such a cynic in his pictures. OK, I have to say it: The Miracle Man is a miracle of filmmaking. (Maybe I can be healed of writing such a lame comment.)

BONUS POINTS: The always-reliable Irving Pichel pulls off his role as the atheist-turned-believer father of the cured crippled kid, and Boris Karloff as Nikko, the conman who Chester Morris throws over a staircase at the end of reel one and is never seen again. A British actor playing the Greek owner of a Chinese antique store but speaks with something of a Mexican accent -- I love this guy.

SUCCESS AT ANY PRICE (1934): Joe 

Martin, the younger brother of a slain gangster, decides to become a big shot himself, only legally. When his girlfriend Sarah arranges for him to get a job at the cosmetics company where she works, Joe rises the ladder of success despite his cocky, often nasty demeanor. As his fortunes rise, so does his ego. Over time, he dumps Sarah, marries his boss's glamorous but shallow mistress Agnes, and eventually takes over the company. Just as he thinks he's on top of the world, it starts to crash around him, first at home, then at the office. Joe finds himself at the end of his rope, with only one way out.

Anyone used to Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. as a suave swashbuckler with the vaguely continental accent will likely find Success at Any Price a little shocking. Not only is his character unlikeable, his Lower East Side punk delivery is spot on. Just the way he chews gum at work is a key to his character. He's thoroughly convincing as an amoral louse who will do anything make dough but doesn't realize he's losing his soul until it's almost too late. (A tacked-on scene in the closing seconds, likely ordered by the studio, had me booing the screen.)

The rest of the cast is fascinating, too, for various reasons. Casting former silent screen star Colleen Moore as Sarah was odd; at 35, she's obviously a decade older than Fairbanks. At least Genevieve Tobin as Agnes is supposed to be older (she's 35 but appears at least 40). Agnes, you see, has no interest in the immature Joe, but cynically agrees to marry him for a million dollars. Frank Morgan does a good job as Joe's boss; he plays it straight, years before becoming a self-caricature. And it's always amusing to see Edward Everett Horton in love with a woman as he is here.

If Success at Any Price seems to burn down capitalism, you can thank its writer John Howard Lawson, a genuine card-carrying member of the Communist party, and later one of the infamous Hollywood Ten. Why were Commies drawn to the glamorous, capitalistic world of Hollywood anyway?

BONUS POINTS: In a not-so in-joke, the bartender seen twice sullenly shaking cocktails is played by Arthur Houseman, who was better known for portraying drunks.

MR. WASHINGTON GOES TO TOWN (1940): While in jail, Schenectady Washington learns that he's inherited an upstate hotel. He dreams that he and his cellmate Wallingford are now working there as a bellman and desk clerk respectively. When they're not trying to obtain the hotel's deed from mortgage owner Brutus Blake, Washington and Wallingford deal with a succession of strange guests. And that, folks, is the entire plot.

One of the thousands of low-budget features made exclusively for black audiences, Mr. Washington Goes to Town plays like an extended Three Stooges short. The thin story is merely an excuse to trot out all the standard haunted house gags -- an invisible man, a vaudeville entertainer with a tuxedo-clad gorilla, a body that carries its head under his arm. The only reason there isn't a wolfman is because the producers probably ran out of money. 

How meager is the budget? The hotel lobby set appears to have been left over from a cheap monster movie. Much of the score is played on a skating-rink organ. The opening credits misspell Mantan Moreland's first name! 

For all its two-bit silliness -- you like wisecracking parrots, right? -- sooner or later Mr. Washington Goes to Town will win you over, if only because of Mantan Moreland, the funniest of the 1940s black movie comedians. (He's great as the chauffeur in the otherwise unwatchable Charlie Chan movies at Monogram.) The routines he and stage partner F.E. Miller (as Wallingford) share here are so engaging that you eventually lose any reservation about enjoying allegedly "problematic" jokes. (The actors' delivery and dialogue is little different from that of the reviled Amos 'n' Andy.)  I mean, if you don't think "Uh oh" is funny, you haven't heard Mantan Moreland say it. 

These days, Mr. Washington Goes to Town would probably go over with an audience who understood movie history -- unfortunately, an ever-diminishing group. You might not bust your sides a-laffing as the poster promises, but you'll get some belly laughs whether you want them or not.

BONUS POINTS: Black actor Charles Hawkins in his brief role as a lawyer named Goldberg, speaking with a Yiddish accent. Now that had me busting my sides a-laffing.

TOAST OF THE TOWN (12/18/1949): So associated is Ed Sullivan with the
American debut of the Beatles that it's easy to forget his program, originally titled Toast of the Town, had already been on the air 16 years. While here Ed is, of course, younger and dressed in his finest 1949 duds, he's only slightly less awkward than the livelier-than-average zombie he would later become famous for.

In addition to the usual guests you'd expect -- acrobats, comics, singers, dancers -- a few others stand out. In a brief salute to old pop music, songwriters Harry Armstrong and Maude Nugent bellow "Sweet Adeline" and "Sweet Rosie O'Grady", which they each respectively wrote in 1896! Just as mindboggling is the legendary W.C. Handy playing his classic "St. Louis Blues" -- it's like a time machine within a time machine.

Now, it wouldn't be a Sullivan show without something "for the youngsters". But since this is several years before rock & roll, they had to make do with an eight year-old girl lip-synching to a Judy Garland record, and Tommy Trent's  astonishingly violent Punch-and-Judy puppet act. The audience gasps more than laughs as Punch relentlessly beats up his wife and stretches their baby to the literal breaking point. I guess it's kind of funny in a shocking way, and it's definitely impressive that Tommy manipulates five puppets in all. Just don't expect to see this kind of thing at kids' birthday parties anymore. 

It should be noted that both  the aforementioned W.C. Handy and comic impressionist George Kirby were likely the only African-American entertainers on TV that week; many Americans must have blown their tops when the very white Ed Sullivan shook Kirby's very black hand in 1949. Sullivan would showcase black entertainers on an almost weekly basis for close to a quarter-century. It made up for violently misogynistic puppets.

BONUS POINTS: The commercials for Lincoln-Mercury, the cars not much smaller than your typical SUV, which mention every aspect of the products except what must have been the ridiculously low gas mileage rate.

                                                            ***********