THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 67

 As we wait to hear the conspiracy theories involving the latest attempt on Donald Trump's life, here are four movies to take your mind off of the madhouse we call "life itself".

APPLAUSE (1929): Had I been running a movie studio in 1929, I'd have ordered my directors to watch Applause multiple times. Then I would have barked, "That's how you make a talkie!" And all thanks go to director Rouben Mamoulian. From its opening moments with the camera following a theater poster floating in the breeze to its climax tracking close to another poster featuring the story's lead character, Applause is the first sound movie to really move.

Sure, its story of over-the-hill burlesque queen Kitty Darling trying to keep her virginal teenage daughter April from following in her footsteps seems hackneyed today. But it's what Mamoulian does with the camera and editing that brings it fully to life for its 80 minutes. The techniques we take for granted now -- over the head shots, lightning-quick edits, motion -- seem to have made their sound debut here. The Russian cinema-inspired montages of the creepy audience members and washed-up burlesque dancers stun even now, while Kitty's p.o.v. shot of her low-rent colleagues looking down at her and her newborn baby is more horror movie than happy.

Broadway legend Helen Morgan, only 29, looks the part of the middle-aged floozie Kitty Darling, forever a slave to her unfaithful live-in boyfriend/manager Hitch Nelson (played by the actor with the unforgettable name Fuller Mellish, Jr.). Sleazy with a capital S, Hitch puts the moves on the 17-year-old April with the line, "Charity begins at home!", a moment both hilarious and disgusting. As for pre-code language, there are two "damns" and a character named Tony who dislikes his name because it "sounds like a wop bootblack".

For those unfamiliar with the star of Applause -- long before Judy Garland took her first upper, Helen Morgan was the original "tragic" female entertainer: torch singer, alcoholic, four-times married, psychologically and emotionally troubled, dead at 41 of cirrhosis. And it's all there onscreen in Applause, perhaps the first great American talkie. Recommended viewing; an excellent print is free on YouTube. 

BONUS POINTS: Applause features some great location footage of the old Penn Station, Brooklyn Bridge, and atop a Wall Street skyscraper. 

GIRL OF THE PORT (1930): Few movies are ahead of their time while being incredibly dated as Girl of the Port. Josie (Sally O'Neil), a washed-up showgirl, is herself washed up on a South Seas island to tend bar at the local dive. There she meets McEwen (Mitchell Lewis), a horny, racist landowner, and Jim (Reginald Sharland), a drunken, shellshocked, pyrophobic World War I vet. Deciding Jim is the only decent guy on the island, Sally moves him into her hut for a few months to sober him up. McEwen eventually kidnaps Jim, gets him drunk, and takes him to another island to scare him to death at the natives' firewalking routine -- only to discover it has the opposite of the desired effect. 

There are plenty of interesting bits in Girl of the Port, none including the title character. The prologue is a terrifying war scene where Jim and his fellow British soldiers are beat back or burned up by Germans with flamethrowers, an event that would shellshock anyone. Later at the bar, Mitchell Lewis stuns when his character McEwen buys a round for the boys and toasts, "To white supremacy!", before calling one of the natives a "black baboon". His pride vanishes when Jim announces that McEwen is actually a "half-caste". As his white "friends" move away, McEwen realizes he's buying a round for the smirking "half-castes" who silently welcome him as one of their own. It's an unexpected, well directed moment.

So: self-loathing racism. Untreated PTSD. Alcoholism. A couple shacking up. All in all, plenty of pre-code situations to revel in. Too bad the wisecracking Sally O'Neil and the overwrought Reginald Sharland dampen the potential with dialogue and direction aimed at the cheap seats. Had Girl of the Port come along two years later (although released in 1930, it was filmed in 1929), it could have been a better-made, more sophisticated take on the issues it deals with. Still worth its 68-minute watch to see the horrors of World War I unflinchingly portrayed, and an openly racist character get his comeuppance -- although he had to be only half white to do so.

BONUS POINTS: If Mitchell Lewis looks and sounds vaguely familiar, it's because he's the captain of the guards in The Wizard of Oz who says of the Wicked Witch, "She's dead. Dorothy killed her!" The alleged "black baboon" was in reality the Hawaiian surfing champ and five-time Olympic medal winner Duke Kahanamoku, who appeared as himself in the silly semi-documentary Around the World in 80 Minutes with Douglas Fairbanks. 

THE ROAD IS OPEN AGAIN (1933): No other president had Hollywood around his finger like Franklin D. Roosevelt. Even the Republican studio heads felt obliged to jump on the New Deal bandwagon, featuring references and even entire shorts devoted FDR's good works. 

Warner Brothers did its part by releasing the half-reeler The Road is Open Again. Dick Powell is sitting at the piano trying to knock out a new patriotic song. Upon closing his eyes for a moment, he's visited by the ghosts of George Washington, Abe Lincoln, and Woodrow Wilson. Rather than running out of the room screaming in terror, Powell listens to the trio explain how wonderful Roosevelt is, confident that the newly-elected commander-in-chief will right the ship of state. All that is required from the country is faith in their leader, and to buck up, because the road to prosperity is open again.

Huzzah! Dick Powell has the hook for his song. And as the ghosts disappear, Powell sings -- off the top of his head! -- "The Road is Open Again" as newsreels of people going to work and pro-New Deal headlines fill the screen.  And before you can say "massive national debt", the merry propaganda picture is over.

No doubt The Road is Open Again is charming while, according to some economists, completely wrongheaded about the New Deal in general. Yet it reminds us of a time when a president with a good heart and sound mind was able to bring a country together when rabblerousers on both ends of the political spectrum were dividing Americans, unemployment and inflation were on the rise, and dictators were starting to run riot over Europe. So glad things have gotten better!

BONUS POINTS: The lyrics to "The Road is Open Again" appear onscreen so the audience can join in. But just try to sing louder than Dick Powell.

HALLELUJAH, I'M A BUM! (1933): In an unusually witty performance, Al Jolson is Bumper, who lives the happy-go-lucky homeless life with his pals in Central Park. Bumper switches gears when rescuing June Marcher, who tried to end it all by jumping off a bridge into a park lake. June, having lost her memory, falls in love with Bumper. Going gaga himself, Bumper asks his pal John Hastings -- the goodtime Mayor of New York -- to arrange for a job so he can eventually marry June... not realizing she's the Mayor's ex-girlfriend. 

One of the year's biggest financial flops, Hallelujah, I'm a Bum! has so many things going for it. Offbeat direction by Lewis Milestone; a sophisticated screenplay by S.N. Behrman; an incredibly clever score and "rhythmic dialogue" by Rodgers & Hart; and a great supporting cast. Harry Langdon is a riot as Egghead, the Communist trash collector who condemns both the "plutocrats" who run the city and "parasites" like Bumper and his pals who sponge off the workers. The never-disappointing Frank Morgan plays Mayor Hastings with equal parts sophistication and human qualities. There's some racy pre-code dialogue, too, with Madge Evans (as June) involving a pun on "laying a cornerstone", while a gay-coded maid wearing a monocle makes an appearance.

So why did it bomb so badly? Its production history involving three directors, a sneak preview debacle requiring an entire re-shoot with a new script, score, and at least one actor re-casted, along with Jolson's dimming popularity and the unusually sophisticated score all likely contributed. While the pace starts to flag during its final third, Hallelujah, I'm a Bum! (available for free at Internet Archive in an excellent print) is now considered by many contemporary movie critics to be not only Al Jolson's best movie but the pre-code musical most deserving of a revival. I could have told them that upon my first viewing on a UHF channel in 1970, but it's nice being proven right again. (The print I saw back then was the original British release, with the word "Tramp" replacing "Bum" in the title and songs, the offending word having a much different meaning there.)

BONUS POINTS: Richard Rodgers cameos as an assistant photographer, while Lorenz Hart can be seen as a harried bank teller. And six years before co-starring in The Wizard of Oz, Frank Morgan says, "There's no place like home." 

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

THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 64

There are actually actors you've heard of here. I must be slipping.

BEHIND THE MAKEUP (1930): Thanks to copyright expiration laws, a treasure

trove -- make that a pile -- of movies released in 1930 are appearing on YouTube every day. Most of them have been forgotten, and for good reason. But any starring William Powell is always a good bet, for he stands out in his early talkies like an ICE agent at a Quinceanera. But in a good way!

Still transitioning from character actor to leading man, Powell is Gardoni, a comedic entertainer from Italy stuck in New Orleans (why? how?) who teams up with third-rate vaudevillian Hap Brown. Even if you've never seen another movie in your life, you know what's coming. Gardoni steals Hap's material, his girlfriend Marie, and money, but eventually gets dumped by his sidepiece named Kitty. Drowning in gambling debts, Gardoni drowns himself for real, allowing Marie to return to Hap. Frankly, had I been that sap Hap, I'd have said "No sloppy seconds for me, lady!" and let her wallow in misery for the rest of her life.

Powell, per usual, towers over his co-stars, even with an Italian accent that sounds like... William Powell doing an Italian accent. As for his comedy partner/romantic rival, Hal Skelly's Hap doesn't come across well; you feel more contempt than empathy for allowing himself to be humiliated. Same with Fay Wray as Marie. Sure, Hap is a third-string vaudevillian, but how can she not see through Gardoni's "amore mio" routine? 

Likely the best thing to come out of Behind the Makeup was teaming William Powell with Kay Francis for the first of several times. Francis gives Kitty her usual chilly rich bitch style, taking delight in wooing Gardoni and ditching him for a millionaire. It's interesting to see Powell in the rare role of a rejected lover -- Myrna Loy never threw him overboard at MGM. As much as I like Powell, I say good for Kay Francis for giving what Gardoni deserved. Now if Hap had only done the same to Marie.

BONUS POINTS: Someone at Paramount's promo department played it cute, billing William Powell third in the posters and lobby cards, but second in the "cast of characters". 

FAST AND LOOSE (1930): The title of the goofy romantic comedy Fast and Loose seems to refer to the characters' behavior, their way with the truth, and the story itself: Spoiled rich kids fall in love with people beneath their class. Rich mother panics, rich father investigates for himself. Most of them wind up in the clink after a police raid at a restaurant. Stern talking-to, followed by love and kisses all around. You've seen it before, and are probably asking, So what?

This what. While Fast and Loose is predictable, the dialogue is... on the witty side. Sophisticated. Very often chuckle-worthy, going from Not bad to Hey, this is some funny stuff! The people credited with the original source material and screenplay are unfamiliar, but the "Dialogue by" goes to Preston Sturges. Ah ha, that explains it!

In only his second screen credit, Sturges is already displaying his talent for writing upscale dialogue that the average moviegoer could appreciate. Fast and Loose flirts with pre-code situations and conversations while never quite crossing the line -- or if it does, it's so subtle that many people wouldn't quite notice. And as with every Sturges movie I've seen, there's one moment that had me laughing loud and long, causing me to miss several subsequent lines of dialogue. It concerns the use of the word "cremated", which gives you a sense of what I find funny.

Oh, there's a cast, too. Miriam Hopkins (in her first feature), Carole Lombard, and Frank Morgan are the famous faces; they and the forgotten Charles Starrett, Ilka Chase, Barry O'Moore, and Henry Wadsworth all do a splendid job with Sturges' words. Had he written and directed Fast and Loose in the 1940s, it would have starred Veronica Lake, Joel McCrea, William Demarest, Rudy Vallee, and Eve Arden. It would have been even funnier, but the Fast and Loose that we have is more than good enough. 

BONUS POINTS: Miriam Hopkins resembles a 1970s model with her frizzy hair, while the pre-glamorous Carole Lombard is unexpectedly cute and innocent. 

LET US LIVE (1939): At the risk of being accused of heresy, I've never been a big Henry Fonda fan, He usually strikes me as flat and chilly, with cold, steely eyes that signals a hot temper seething underneath. 

Well, you can forget that for now, because the forgotten drama Let Us Live knocked me out of my chair thanks to Fonda's astonishingly emotional performance as Brick Tennant, who, along with his friend Joe, is wrongly sentenced to death row for murder. An upbeat, patriotic guy, engaged to his girlfriend Mary, Brick gradually loses his faith in the law, justice, and America itself as the public, the police, and the D.A. are hellbent on killing the two men even when Mary finds proof of their innocence. Only Lt. Everett, the original cop on the case, believes her, as they race the clock to prevent Brick and Joe from going to the chair.

Fonda's transformation from optimist to bitter cynic is remarkable in its believability. While Alan Baxter's Joe was already a skeptic, Fonda is shocked that everything he believed in America was a lie, making Mr. Smith Goes to Washington

look like a MAGA production (It also lays the groundwork for two future Fonda classics, The Grapes of Wrath and The Wrong Man.) Even the happy ending really isn't happy after all, because it's quite clear that the once-sanguine Brick has been changed forever, and nor for better. 

Credit needs to go to director John Brahm and his technical team for their splendid work with Let Us Live's proto-noir cinematography and lighting. A round of applause as well for Maureen O'Sullivan as Mary (this is the best acting of hers I've seen), and Stanley Ridges as the death-happy D.A. As with his other roles, it took me a few minutes to realize it was him -- he's absolutely the most underrated character actor of his time. And let's give Ralph Bellamy a pat on the back as Lt. Everett just because his character is essential to proving the guys' innocence. Let Us Live comes highly recommended from this movie dork. And it runs only 68 minutes!

BONUS POINTS: You'll get lockjaw from saying, "Oh, that guy!" due to all the recognizable character actors. In addition to the perennial Charles Lane, there's Byron Foulger, Dick Elliot, Henry Kolker, Charles Trowbridge, Clarence Wilson, John Qualen, Sam McDaniel...

CLIMAX!: "NO RIGHT TO KILL" (8/9/1956): It seems to be go-to idea for movie and TV writers: when in doubt, churn out an update of Crime and Punishment. If you're unfamiliar with the details -- other than there was a crime followed by punishment -- the TV Guide outline on the right will suffice.

John Cassavetes was still riding high on the previously discussed live TV play Crime in the Streets as a juvenile delinquent. His performance here as the doomed wannabe writer Malcom McCloud is more age-appropriate but less believable. He seems way too smart to declaim his grandiloquent dialogue ("I shall leave!") even though his character probably would likely speak that way to prove he's more intellectual than his Greenwich Village neighbors. Cassavetes is also saddled with direction that screams I killed the pawnbroker!, which only arouses the suspicion of District Attorney Profear when they meet at a party. (Just how McCloud has a friend who knows the D.A. goes unexplained.)

The two main costars come off better than Cassavetes because they're better fits for their roles. Terry Moore makes her cliched character of the dumb but kindhearted waitress sympathetic and kind of believable. She can't help feeling something for McCloud, who's different from the grabby guys who populate her restaurant. (Climax! host Bill Lundigan reminds us that Moore "appears through the courtesy of 20th Century-Fox and is currently starring in Between Heaven and Hell, a 20th Century-Fox production in Cinemascope". Thanks for appearing on the 15-inch TV screen, Terry!)

No offense to John Cassavetes, but Robert Harris comes out on top as D.A. Porfear. Without anything but a gut feeling to go on, the sly, witty Profear gradually allows McCloud to confess without using the third-degree. I will bet a C-note that Harris patterned his performance on that of Edward Arnold, who played the role in the 1935 version of Crime and Punishment opposite Peter Lorre. While Cassavetes is the draw today in No Right to Kill, Harris is the one you wind up remembering.

BONUS POINTS: The commercials for the 1956 Chryslers are impressive, seeing there are up to five on stage at one time, and have pretty cool windows, too! 

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

THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 60

Two more obscure European movies take their place alongside a pre-code political drama and a legendary early talkie that marked the beginning of the end of one of the most popular silent actors of his time.

HIS GLORIOUS NIGHT (1929): You might not have heard of His Glorious Night, but if you're a fan of Singin' in the Rain, you're definitely aware of it. You know the scene when Gene Kelly's character bombs in his first talkie while moaning, "I love you, I love you, I love you"? This movie was the inspiration. To quote Paul Harvey, now you know the rest of the story.

The mockery inflicted on Gilbert at the time of His Glorious Night's release was unfair and cruel (even if he over enunciates the word "cruel" with two syllables throughout the movie.) Yes, the love scenes between Gilbert and leading lady Catherine Dale Owen are overwrought, and in need of rewrites. But contrary to legend, Gilbert doesn't have a squeaky voice. Rather the deep resonance that his silent movie roles implied, he sounds like a normal person. Too, the romance genre he specialized in during the silent era became a thing of the past in favor of musicals, gangster pictures, and wisecracking comedies.

So after nearly a century of being buried in the MGM vaults, the biggest realization of the recent restoration of His Glorious Night -- a truffle of a trifle about royal love lives, mix-ups, and the like -- is that it's a comedy. It's supposed to be funny, and, when Gilbert and Owen aren't pitching woo, they're funny, too, as are the supporting characters, including Owen's mother and a perpetually squabbling couple who appear throughout. Shout out, too, to Gustav von Seyffertitz, hilarious as the nervous, confused police commander. I laughed out loud a good half dozen times during His Glorious Night, and always on purpose. 

The production's problems lie not with Gilbert but the technical crudeness inherent in early talkies, along with the pedestrian direction by Lionel Barrymore. Had Ernest Lubitsch, the master of the sophisticated sex comedies, called the shots, His Glorious Night would have turned out better all around, and maybe have given John Gilbert a better transition to sound. His later movies, like the edgy pre-code Downstairs, proved he was as good as many of his contemporaries. His Glorious Night might not be glorious but doesn't deserve the negativity from by wiseasses who don't know any better. (You can tell what kind of a life I lead when I sob Leave John Gilbert alone!)

BONUS POINTS: Gustav von Seyffertitz's pledge, "I know nothing!" would later be echoed by Sgt. Schultz in Hogan's Heroes. Must be a German thing.

THE BILLION DOLLAR SCANDAL (1933): At a time when it seems like the 1% can
get away with anything, up to and including murder, it's nice to see when one of them gets it, even if it's only in a pre-code picture. The big money scandal here involves the fleecing of the American taxpayers by a group of oil magnates led by John Masterson. His live-in physical trainer, ex-con "Fingers" Bartos, turns states evidence against them at the behest of a crusading newspaper publisher. Knowing their lives will be ruined if Bartos testifies before a closed-door Congressional committee, Masterson and his pals hire a fixer named Carter B. Moore to keep the guy's yap shut. And by fixer, I mean hitman.

The one-sheet on the right implies that The Billion Dollar Scandal is based on a true story, although my research can't confirm it. This doesn't prevent the movie from being an interesting slice of life drama when Depression-era audiences had it in for the uber-rich who never seemed to pay for their crimes while petty transgressors like Bartos and his pals Ratsy Harris and Kid McGurn spent years up the river simply for lack of a good lawyer. Almost a century later, the oil barons portrayed here are as hateful as any of today's tech billionaires -- they boast of their illegal behavior and how they're out to help only each other while screwing over the rest of America.

Robert Armstrong (the poor man's Victor McLaglen) kind of overdoes the "dese and dose" routine as Fingers, who will do anything to protect his kid brother, right down to trying to break up his romance with Masterson's daughter Doris -- which Masterson himself is trying to do as well. Still in pre-MGM befuddled character days, Frank Morgan shows what a good dramatic actor he was as the despicable Masterson, the oily oil oligarch who destroys people's lives simply for sport. Wardrobe and slang aside, The Billion Dollar Scandal resonates that the wealthiest among us will always pull society's strings because no matter how much money they have, it's never enough.

BONUS POINTS: The Billion Dollar Scandal is one of the few movies where I recognized damn near everybody. In addition to Frank Morgan (The Wizard of Oz) and Sidney Toler (the Charlie Chan Monogram mysteries), and dozen or so character actors, there are representatives from a slew of classic horror movies of the time: Robert Armstrong (King Kong), Edward van Sloan (Dracula), Olga Baclanova (Freaks), and Irving Pichel (Dracula's Daughter). For me, this is cinematic comfort food.

SZIRUSZ (SIRIUS) (1942): Recently I was in the mood for a 1940s Hungarian time-
travel/romantic-comedy/sci-fi musical. Lucky me, I stumbled across Sirius. See what happens when you wish hard enough? 

Count Tibor Akos is taken to 1784 Austria in eccentric Professor Sergius's mini-rocket. Still dressed in his era-appropriate costume party outfit, Tibor spends his time at a royal party, where he falls in love with Italian opera singer Rosina Beppo, and insults everybody else. Tibor's misbehavior climaxes in a duel with his own great-grandfather. As Tibor is wounded, Sergius returns in time to bring them both back to 1942 Hungary.

Other than the shockingly diaphanous slips worn by ballerinas in a dance sequence, there's nothing in Sirius that wouldn't have been out of place in a Hollywood movie of its time. Tibor continually mentioning future events to the baffled 18th-century royal court; the only-a-dream copout; and the climactic reveal of Sergius's daughter being Rosina's lookalike great-granddaughter (which anyone familiar with old movies would have predicted before the mini-rocket even took flight to the past). 

Well, so what? Sirius is a charming, witty movie, similar to Leslie Howard's time-travel move of a decade earlier, Berkeley Square, only with laughs. Even when Sergius is carted off to the bughouse, babbling about how he stood beside Atilla the Hun and witnessed the creation of earth on his travels, you want to believe the men's adventures. That whole "explanation" of how the mini-rocket crashed after two seconds in the air? Hungarian goulash, if you ask me!

BONUS POINTS: Viewers can come up with their own ideas of a 1942 Hollywood version of Sirius. Fredric March insults the royal court of 1784 Germany while falling in love with a French opera singer played by Alexis Smith. Alan Mowbray as March's great-grandfather, George Zucco as the nutty professor -- why didn't Warner Bros. buy the American remake rights?

KRAKATIT (1948): Attention, fans of science fiction, film noir, obscurities, and all-around strange stuff. The year American studios were churning out detritus like The Babe Ruth Story and My Dog Rusty, the Czechoslovak Film Company released Krakatit, a production that anticipated the atomic bomb scare of the 1950s the hallucinogenic 1960s, and the all-round paranoia of 1970s. And to make it that much more futuristic, it's based on a 1924 novel, long before Robert Oppenheimer had even heard of a place called Los Alamos. 

Krakatit's opening scenes could be right out of a typical Hollywood film noir of the time. A dangerously ill unidentified man has stumbled into a hospital. Strapped with an oxygen mask to stay alive, he falls unconscious, leading to a flashback that carries the rest of the movie. He's a scientist named Prokop, and has developed Krakatit, a weapon (named after the Krakatoa volcano) that makes the A-bomb look like a water balloon. Falling ill after a small sample blew up in his lab, he had given the formula to a friend.  In short order, Prokop receives a letter from his colleague's girlfriend... stumbles to the home of a village doctor... is approached by a strange man named Carson acting as a representative for a country wanting the formula... creates another bomb made out of cosmetics...  and experiences still more adventures, climaxing with Krakatit destroying several European capitals. 

Is any of it real? Are they dreams? Hallucinations? Hallucinations of dreams? Dreams of real events? Real events made hallucinative through his illness? Take your pick, folks. All I can tell you is that Krakatit  doesn't resemble any other movie of its time. 

Karel Hoger gives Prokop a haunted, guilty demeanor throughout, ashamed of his "talent" for creating explosives out of anything handy.  Worthy of mention is Eduard Linkers as the chatty, nattily-dressed Carson. His lighthearted performance is similar to the pre-Bilko Phil Silvers during his movie days, and gave me a smile every time he appeared onscreen. Had Krakatit been made in Hollywood by an independent studio like Monogram with a larger than normal budget, it would be considered a movie landmark, and the greatest American sci-fi noir (if there is such a genre) ever made. 

BONUS POINTS: Four years before the publication of the novel Krakatit, its author Karel Capek wrote the stage play R.U.R., which introduced the word "robot". This guy was really on to something.

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

THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 38

 The only thing these four movies have in common is murder. I must get out in the fresh air some more.

PICCADILLY (1929): Likely one of the last great silent movies out of the UK, Piccadilly is probably one of the handsomest as well, a big-budget drama that could pass for a major US studio release (no offense to the British film industry), and a terrific vehicle for German director E.A. DuPont as much as its star Asian-American legend Anna May Wong. From its clever opening credits (resembling bus advertisements) to its ironic closing images, Piccadilly is often startingly entertaining. 

For some sensitive souls, its story might border on -- oh heck, let's say proudly resides in -- Asian-fetishization. Which is the whole point, children. Nightclub owner Valentine Wilmot falls hard for scullery-worker-turned dancer Shosho. This puts him in dutch with Mabel Greenfield, his club's former star and longtime paramour. Shosho, having lived forever in a Limehouse flophouse, is more than willing to take advantage of Wilmot's attentions, even if it means risking the relationship with her Chinese boyfriend Jim. Both Jim and Mabel notice what's going on; sooner or later one of these saps is going to snap.

One of Piccadilly's more interesting takes is how the principal Chinese characters positively drip with contempt for their white "betters". (King Hou Chang, as Jim, puts a whole new spin on the fine art of sneering.) Say what you want about Wong's Shosho, she is 100% in charge of her relationship with Wilmot, even when such a thing was, if not verboten, at least frowned upon. (It's easy to think that top-billed Gilda Gray felt like her character Mabel while watching Wong steal the movie from under her dancing feet.)

Aside from Jameson Thomas as Wilmot, a couple of other actors are worth a mention. If you were one of those kids in the 60s who watched Mary Martin's Peter Pan, you'll likely not recognize its Captain Hook, Cyril Ritchard, in his brief role as a dancer. But you absolutely cannot miss 30-year-old Charles Laughton in his even briefer part as the grotesque, demanding guest eating dinner at the club, in what looks like the prototype for the character of Mr. Creosote in Monty Python and the Meaning of Life. Almost a century after its release, the British Film Institute's restored print of Piccadilly (and its classy new score) can easily hold the attention of a willing, receptive audience.

BONUS POINTS:  Piccadilly has a five-minute sound prologue featuring Jameson Thomas and an unidentified actor setting up the story, filmed as a sop for audiences who were already turning their back on silents. Technically crude and creaky, it's a harbinger for what movies would become for the next year or two before coming up to speed.

THE KISS BEFORE THE MIRROR (1933): Vienna: Land of sausages! Snow globes! Murdering your wife for cheating on you! Well, at least that what Walter Bernsdorf thinks. As his lawyer, Paul Held, tries to put together a defense, he discovers that his wife, Maria, is behaving identically to how Walter's wife Lucy did before her demise. If a plea of momentary insanity works in Walter's case, then it should in Paul's, yes? 

Although a Universal picture, The Kiss Before the Mirror gives off Paramount vibes with its glossy sophistication. All credit goes to its unlikely director James Whale, between his classics Frankenstein and Bride of Frankenstein. Perhaps interested in discombobulating his audience, Whale sets up the movie as a typical romantic comedy of the time, allowing viewers to live vicariously through the adulterous lovers, before Walter unexpectedly shows up to blow his wife's brains out. It's a director's way of saying, Not so cute, is it?

Paul Lukas, as Walter, is a little pathetic -- why do these "mature" guys marry younger women who are way too sexy for them? Yet he offers to plead guilty to murder rather than see Paul kill Maria. And what a pleasure that Paul is played by Frank Morgan, who, as with his appearance in Any Number Can Play, easily makes you forget his dithering comedic parts. This guy had far more range than given credit for.

The Kiss Before the Mirror's nominal star, Nancy Carroll, is Maria (another wife too young for her husband!), whose sweet-on-the-surface behavior flips when Paul rightly suspects her of adultery. But the more interesting casting choice is Walter Pidgeon in his five-minute role of Walter's wife's paramour. Pidgeon's leading man career had momentarily derailed; perhaps Whale took pity on a fellow gay man by giving him what looks like a one-day job. (Pidgeon's primping and pirouetting before his date with Lucy appears to be a deliberate directorial signal to hipper audiences of the day). A forgotten gem, The Kiss Before the Mirror is marred only by what seems to be a studio-imposed happy ending -- which is nicely undercut by a shattered mirror symbolizing Paul and Maria's very imperfect future together. At least that's how I see it.

BONUS POINTS: Michael Mark, best known as the father of the drowned little girl in Frankenstein, is a courtroom spectator. James Whale sure was good to his friends and actors. 

 WHEN STRANGERS MARRY (1944): At the time of When Strangers Marry's release, Orson Welles declared the modest B-picture better directed (by William Castle) and acted than two recently acclaimed big budget releases, Double Indemnity and Laura. And while Welles's opinion is up for debate, When Strangers Marry is nevertheless several cuts above the average B of the time.

In presenting the story of a woman's marriage to a man she's known only three days -- and soon suspects of murder -- Castle manages to evoke more unease than the story has already. Sudden noises, harsh neon lights, confusion as to whether she's seen her husband or has hallucinated him -- no scene ends without a moment of foreboding. No supporting character actor looks ordinary when weird will do. In portraying the couple, Kim Hunter and Dean Jagger manage to squeeze every drop of angst the story offers, while soaking up some more and wringing it out again. Her husband, after all, is a killer... isn't he?

Kim's ally in this nightmare is Fred Graham, played by a fellow named Bob Mitchum. It would be interesting to know what audiences at the time thought of the tall, sleepy-eyed, drawling actor, seeing that even for a B movie he was way different from others of the day. It's a good bet that co-star Neil Hamilton, a veteran of silents, probably looked upon him as other older actors did Marlon Brando some years later: Who is this guy, where is he from, and why does he talk like that?

Within a year, when everyone definitely knew who he was, Monogram re-released When Strangers Marry as Betrayed, changing Bob to Robert to reflect his "new" billing in his star-making role in The Story of GI Joe, and bumping him from third to first place in the credits. As with Humphrey Bogart "starring" in a 16 year-old movie Call it Murder originally titled Midnight, Mitchum probably had a good laugh and toasted the ticket-buyers who were fooled into watching the same movie twice. But you know what? It was worth it. When Strangers Meet may not be Double Indemnity, but it's singularly fascinating, almost entirely thanks to William Castle's unique vision. 

BONUS POINTS: The nearly dialogue-free sequence of Mildred and Paul avoiding the police by wandering through Harlem before winding up at a gin joint is brilliant, and possible only in a B movie.

GREEN FOR DANGER (1946): At a small-town hospital in wartime England, Police Inspector Cockrill investigates the mysterious death of patient Joseph Higgins and flat-out murder of Nurse Bates. Sizing up two doctors and three nurses, Cockrill notes that they're the only ones who were connected to the victims. When one of them, Nurse Freddie Linley, almost becomes the third victim, Cockrill decides he can break the case with a scheme that could leave her on death's door a second time.

The British production Green for Danger is as good an example as any of David Mamet's dictum that any movie can be improved by getting rid of the first 10 minutes. Over half an hour is needed setting up the suspects' personal, psychological and sexual conflicts that would make Fleetwood Mac envious. But when Inspector Cockrill finally takes charge, the story finally works up to a good trot.

As with all good vintage mysteries, Green for Danger's suspects appear to have a motive, or at least act that way, so that our suspicions of the guilty party shift from moment to moment. A love triangle involving Nurse Freddie and the two doctors? The anesthesiologist's previous accidental patient death becoming known? And why did the mailman insist he heard a nurse's voice somewhere recently -- like maybe on a Nazi shortwave propaganda broadcast -- just before his death? 

Yet none of this would matter without Alastair Sim's wonderful, hilarious portrayal of the inscrutable Cockrill. The inspector takes delight in needling the suspects with his keen mind, dry wit, and quiet sarcasm. With a slouched manner and cool fedora, Sims makes Cockrill the British Sam Spade, only funny. Had Green for Danger starred almost any other British actor of the '40s, it would be a pleasant if unremarkable 90 minutes. With the brilliant Alastair Sim running the show, it proves how a truly great actor can, depending on your point of view, elevate a project or fool you into thinking you're watching a movie better than it really is. 

BONUS POINTS: Despite the credits reading "Presenting Alastair Sim as Inspector Cockrill", this was his 35th movie appearance in 11 years. Either Green for Danger was intended as the first in a series with the Cockrill character, or someone at the studio was really unfamiliar with his C.V.

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

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.

                                                            ***********