THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 14

 Two Peter Lorres, one Fred Allen, the return of the always-confounding Vera Ralston -- it's a never-ending waterfall of movie and television revelry. Why couldn't YouTube have existed when I was a teenager?

CRACK-UP (1936): A textbook example of how one actor can elevate an otherwise so-so picture. Airplane magnate John Fleming, whose human mascot is the nutty Col. Gimpey, has hired Ace Martin to fly him non-stop to Berlin in order to test his new propellor -- the plans of which he stole from Martin. Martin's friend Joe Randall steals the plans back, not knowing that Martin intends to sell them to Baron Tagger, a representative of an enemy power. Martin doesn't realize that Tagger has been disguised as the harmless Col. Gimpey. When Fleming, Martin, and Randall embark on their flight, Tagger stowaways with them in order to take the propellor plans to his homeland. Caught in a storm, the plane goes down off the Irish coastline and starts to sink. As a rescue ship nears the plane, only one lifejacket is found to be useable. A gun is fired. Which man will live?

OK, look at the poster. You know who makes Crack-Up worth 75 minutes of your time. In only his third American movie, Peter Lorre acts everyone off the screen without a sweat. So radically different in style, delivery, and looks, Lorre must have had an extraordinary effect on 1936 audiences -- there was simply no one else around Hollywood like him. Because I didn't know Crack-Up's story, Lorre's real character (Baron Tagger) was unexpected and completely believable. Just the way he walks toward the camera after shooting one of his bumbling spies is chilling and, in a dark movie theater on a big screen, probably terrifying.

There's not much else to recommend Crack-Up. Brian Donlevy, as Martin, is second to Lorre in the acting department, giving a hint of his future character work. The only other familiar face is Ralph Morgan (brother of Frank, aka the Wizard of Oz), as Fleming. His wife, having run off to Paris with his business partner, sets in motion the events that land her husband in the cold Atlantic. Served him right.

BONUS POINTS: The awesome gall of Crack-Up's producers. Fully aware that Nazis had final say over Hollywood movies released in Germany, the transatlantic flight is to Berlin, while the "enemy" country is never named -- despite Lorre's accent. Gut gemacht, freund!

THE FLAME (1947): The dying Barry MacAllister gets engaged to his live-in nurse
Carlotta, not realizing she's in cahoots with his half-brother George, who is waiting for the guy to kick off and inherit his fortune. As Carlotta unexpectedly falls in love with Barry, she doesn't know that George has been carrying on with nightclub chantoosie Helene, who's cheating on her boyfriend Ernie. Once Ernie starts to catch on to George's plot against Barry, he instigates a blackmailing scheme. As Barry's health miraculously improves, Carlotta makes it clear to George that she's never coming back. Having nothing to live for, George plugs Ernie with a revolver, as Ernie returns the favor.

I didn't give away the ending there -- we saw the shootout at the very beginning of The Flame, which, in a device ripped off from Double Indemnity, is told in flashback as George waits for the police. And that nurse-marrying-the-sick-guy routine is an echo of Voice of the Whistler. But I cut The Flame plenty of slack since it's Republic Pictures' attempt at competing with the major studios by releasing what resembles a Universal picture. Both the direction (by John H. Auer) and artistic design are top-notch; the supporting players (Hattie McDaniel and Henry Travers) were no strangers to A-features, either.

What gives the game away are the leads. John Carroll (as George), a Clark Gable proxy, was by now a regular presence at Republic. As Barry, Robert Paige seems to be the go-to guy when Ralph Bellamy was unavailable (or too expensive). Two years shy of his Oscar-winning role in All the King's Men, Broderick Crawford overshadows them both as Ernie, the intimidating mugg who's fully aware Helene is using him but just can't shake her. 

The weak link, as she is in all her movies, is Vera Ralston as Carlotta. She tries -- oh, how she tries -- to be Ingrid Bergman, even as her character is French. But to her credit (or, more likely, that of the director), Ralston's performance here is better than two of her previously-discussed pictures, Angel on the Amazon and I, Jane Doe -- that is, she's almost pretty good. If you ever wondered what a B-movie would look like with an A-budget and running time (you mean you haven't?), The Flame provides the required heat.

BONUS POINTS: While the interiors were filmed in Hollywood, The Flame's budget allowed some genuine New York exterior shots of the Hampshire House, Fifth Avenue, and Central Park. Is this really a Republic Picture I see before me?

ARMSTRONG CIRCLE THEATER: FRED ALLEN'S SKETCH BOOK (1954): Contrary to its title, Fred Allen's Sketch Book has nothing to do with the art world. It features, instead, the comedian starring in three playlets. He's a boss trying desperately trying to figure out a math riddle in "Twenty Horses"; a bartender dealing with a customer and his robot in "Hour of Letdown"; and, in a very free adaption of James Thurber's "The Private Life of Mr. Bidwell", a bored partygoer amusing himself to his wife's embarrassment. All this in 30 minutes, including commercials and credits, live from New York. 

A change of pace for Armstrong Circle Theater, Fred Allen's Sketch Book feels like the pilot episode for a series after the star failed with previous attempts in television. He's surrounded by familiar character actors (including Kenny Delmar, who played Sen. Claghorn on Allen's radio show), all of whom could have been regulars on a Sketch Book series. And having someone else write the scripts would have taken a welcome load off his shoulders.

However... while "Twenty Horses" is entertaining (even if I did solve the riddle pretty quickly), the other pieces don't have much of a point to them other than fill out the rest of the half hour; they wring out Allen's famously dry wit until it's positively arid. Only in his (likely) self-written introduction -- where, among other things, he observes that Americans have shorter attention spans in these fast-moving days of 1954 -- does he sound like the Fred Allen that his radio fans loved over the years. A pleasant if slightly disappointing half-hour with a concept, if done right, would work well today, at least for a short attention spanned guy like me.

BONUS POINTS: A wardrobe assistant helps change Fred's look between scenes. As the assistant puts his hand on the bartender hairpiece, Fred asks him to "take off the Sammy Kaye", a reference to the toupee-wearing orchestra leader -- an ad-lib that surprises Fred himself, as he laughs seconds later. That's the Fred Allen we're looking for!

 THE 20TH CENTURY-FOX HOUR: OPERATION CICERO (1956): Turkey, World War II. The British Ambassador's valet is selling top secret information regarding the Allies to the German embassy officials. When the valet, known to the Germans by the codename Cicero, has made enough money, he plans to run away to Rio de Janeiro with his former boss's widow, Anna, who is holding on to the spy's ill-gotten gains for safekeeping. Just as he prepares to sell documents regarding the D-Day invasion for his final payday, Cicero learns that Anna has fled to Switzerland with his money. But wait, there's more! She's also written a letter to the British embassy warning that Cicero is the spy they've been looking for... and another to the Germans claiming that he's been feeding them false information. Despite having two spies for two countries on his tail, Cicero manages to escape to Rio with his D-Day payout, where he plans to live the good life -- a scheme that doesn't go as planned. And the best part? It's a true story!

"Operation Cicero" is an episode of the 60-minute anthology series The 20th Century-Fox Hour, which presented condensed remakes of the studio's movies. And if this is a typical example, each episode used the same sets and exterior shots from the original films whenever possible to speed up production and save some dough. In this case, "Operation Cicero" was based on the 1952 release 5 Fingers, starring James Mason as the spy. Just the 5 Fingers trailer alone shows how the TV version remake slavishly followed the original. 

The remake unexpectedly presents Ricardo Montalban as the spy; it's nice seeing the Latin lover convincingly playing a rotter for a change. Peter Lorre makes the most of what is essentially a glorified cameo as Montalban's German contact. A fascinating, well-paced production, "Operation Cicero" proves that you can tell a forgotten story of World War II in less than an hour that four years earlier took 105 minutes, and not miss a beat. 

BONUS POINTS: One of the actors playing a British embassy official, Alan Napier, would gain fame with a new generation of viewers a decade later as Alfred, the butler on Batman.

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 11

 Having just finished several consecutive 12-14 hour days of background work on a much-anticipated, high-wattage cable miniseries, I have only now gotten around to finishing another entry in my you-may-or-may-not-want-to-see forgotten movies and TV shows of decades ago. And I think I already know what your choice will be. Ring up the curtain!

CLUB HAVANA (1945): It's a busy night at Club Havana. A medical intern is on his first date with a clothing store salesgirl. A middle-aged couple are reuniting after a year's separation. A financially embarrassed money manager is wining and dining a wealthy widow in hopes of handling her millions. A young divorcee learns that the man she's in love with is no longer interested in her. And a customer is recognized by one of the club's musicians as a murderer. By closing time, there will be an arrest, attempted suicide, two killings, a marriage of convenience, and five musical numbers. And no cover charge!

Kind of a musical version of Grand Hotel on a Cracker Jack budget, Club Havana is a genuinely entertaining B-picture from PRC Pictures and semi-legendary director Edgar G. Ulmer. Because of its 62-minute running time, the stories have to move quickly. But take into account those five musical numbers scatted throughout, plus the credits, you have roughly 45 minutes to jam these mini-dramas in -- all but the last five minutes told in real time!

Never have I seen so many people in one movie where I knew the faces, yet almost nobody's name. The exceptions to the latter were Paul Cavanaugh as the investor, and Tom Neal as the lovesick doctor. You could consider Neal as Leonardo DiCaprio to Edgar G. Ulmer's Martin Scorsese, but that might be giving them both too much credit. Whether lovey-dovey with his date or saving a woman from a sleeping pill OD, Neal's constant expression registers as mild concern -- as if he's wondering how much to tip the coat check girl. (His character's treatment for the barbiturate OD: a quart of strong black coffee and a walk in some fresh air. Thanks, Doc, you're a genius!)

Club Havana's raison d'etre seems to be cashing in on the watered down Latin American big band music craze that was sweeping the US, due to Xavier Cugat and his former band member Desi Arnaz. The low-rent musical acts featured were probably scouted from various L.A. nightclubs, giving an idea of what your average patron saw in 1945 as they sipped pina coladas on a night out on the town after taking in Club Havana as the bottom half of a double feature. I'd have been one of them.

BONUS POINTS: The wealthy widow turning the tables on the desperate money manager, as her three bespectacled teenage children watch with fascination, is worthy of an A-picture from any major studio of the time; it's likely the wittiest moment in any PRC production.

FOR YOU I DIE (1947): After being forced into a prison break by fellow convict Matt Gruber,

Johnny Coulter makes his way to a lodge where Matt's ex-girlfriend Hope Novak works. As he waits for Gruber to show up so they can plan their next move, Johnny finds himself the objection of affection by another lodge worker, Georgie, even as he and Hope fall in love. Gruber eventually arrives, when a fight and a shootout ensue. Johnny drives the wounded Gruber to the police. Gruber confesses to forcing Johnny to break out of stir; Johnny is taken back to prison to serve the one year remaining on his sentence, when he will return to start a new life with Hope (and hope).

For You I Die -- now that's a great title for a '40s B-picture. Perhaps too great considering the final product. I guess I was expecting the "sap falls in love with a bad dame" story, minus the prison break angle. You know, a good guy who falls into crime in a frenzy of lust. Adding to the story reversals is character actor Mischa Auer as lodge guest Alec Shaw, a Russian-born cab driver/aspiring actor/amateur artist providing comedy relief and philosophical musings in equal measure. Now, you can never go wrong with Mischa Auer, although his performance is a little out of place in what's supposed to be a dark movie. And when I say dark, I mean literally as well as figuratively; I'm thinking the producers set many of the scenes at night to save on the electric bill.

Speaking of dark, Paul Langton (as Johnny Coulter), whom we last saw as a gumshoe in Murder is My Beat, is something like Humphrey Bogart without the range or charisma. In the few roles I've seen him in, an air of an impending doom hangs over him like an especially heavy fog. Even when his characters are on the right side of the law, it seems like he's hiding a very dark secret. Yet, like Tom Neal, that kind of personality fits these low-budget dramas, as if it was too strong for A-pictures. 

As for the rest of For You I Die's cast, only Jane Weeks really goes toe to toe with Langton as far as style is concerned. Brusque, strident, trampy rather than sexy, Weeks dishes it out but good as the no-good Georgie, who tries blackmailing Hope while wanting to skip town with the unwilling Johnny. (It's shocking that she's only 29 here.) Either she was too realistic for her own good, or decided movies weren't her thing -- of her seven roles, four were uncredited. In other words, she's perfect for a worth-one-look movie like For You I Die. 

BONUS POINTS: Mischa Auer was also the movie's associate producer. As he probably said in half of his movies, How you like that?

VIOLATED (1953): Who is murdering and scalping innocent women in New York? Is it low-rent photographer Jan Verbig?  The creepy, sex-obsessed Joe Summers, just released from Bellevue Hospital? Convicted child molester George Mastro? Or could it be anyone of the suspects Police Lt. McCarthy rounds up at the station house? He better find out soon, before innocent aspiring teen model Susan Grant and zaftig dancer Lili Damar find themselves on the wrong end of a fatal pair of scissors. 

I really have to hand it to everyone involved in this sleazy, low-budget excuse for entertainment -- I felt violated just watching Violated (there's a line that will attract an audience). All the genuine New York locations seen throughout, whether Greenwich Village exteriors, bars, the studio apartment doubling as the photographer's studio, even the Staten Island ferry, look grimier than they really were. This is an Ugly-with-a-capital-U movie.

And the actors! Well, "actors" might be too strong a word. The people being paid very little to walk and talk in front of the movie camera aren't just unphotogenic -- they're actively grubby, shabby, and unkempt. When Lt. McCarthy spits out, "What a buncha crumb-bums!" at a roomful of suspects, you get the feeling they've heard the same thing in real life. Even the "exotic" dancers are repulsive.

Technically, Violated provides everything you'd expect -- simple camera set-ups, sloppy editing and lighting, claustrophobic sound -- that were hallmarks of the grindhouse genre. Then there's the scene with Lili Damar in a tub with a phone and radio on a shelf directly over her head -- did no one think this was an electrocution just waiting to happen? Or was the director hoping to ultimately avoid her paying her salary just to save a few more bucks?

BONUS POINTS: Thanks to one of the Greenwich Village scenes, we can see that furniture movers were still using horse-drawn wagons as late as 1953. You can learn history in the strangest places.

THE COLGATE COMEDY HOUR (4/15/1951): There's some irony that the most popular form of entertainment in the early days of the futuristic medium of television was vaudeville. The most popular series of this type was The Colgate Comedy Hour, hosted by a rotating roster of entertainers; this episode features loud singer Tony Martin. Perhaps because Martin lacked what would be called comedy chops, Fred Allen was brought on not only as the unofficial co-host but head writer as well. 

And this is what makes this episode kind of fascinating. Having hosted his own weekly radio comedy series almost continuously from 1932 to 1949, Fred Allen loathed TV, particularly the Colgate format. Known as a dry, urbane wit, Allen must have squirmed at having to put up with the old-fashioned musical numbers, especially one featuring a little girl fantasizing that Tony Martin was her father. Had Allen presented the same idea on his radio show, the little girl would have sued Martin for bellowing a song into her ear as he does here before switching her allegiance to Frank Sinatra.

Still more irony!  Allen revives one of his radio characters, Chinese detective One Long Pan, in a sketch with Martin and guest Celeste Holm. One Long Pan had been a radio audience favorite; here, seeing Allen -- a strange looking guy to begin with -- in full make-up is actually scary. Naturally, he never misses an opportunity to mangle the stereotypical Chinese accent. (His long-time running gag of pronouncing "revolver" as "lelowler" is revived here.) People today offended by the benign Charlie Chan movies would be positively apoplectic by what goes on here. One wonders what the Chinese/Hawaiian actor Richard Loo thought being in this sketch as, you guessed it, a houseboy (he was 48 years old).

Fred's alleged friend Tony Martin seems aware of Fred Allen's new position in show business, introducing him as "a gentleman you've enjoyed many, many times in the past". It's no surprise announcer Don Pardo excitedly informs us that the hot young duo Martin & Lewis will be emceeing The Colgate Comedy Hour two weeks hence, in addition to being the special guests the week after that when another young up-and-comer, Jackie Gleason, hosts. A former vaudevillian himself, Fred Allen -- whose droll humor peeks through from time to time in this episode -- likely realized he was being overtaken by the kind of new generation of comedians he once symbolized. 

BONUS POINTS: This episode was produced by Sam Fuller, later known as the writer and/or director of non-comedy classics-to-be including Shock Corridor, Pickup on South Street, Crimson Kimono and House of Bamboo. Maybe he saw in Fred Allen what he would become if he didn't carve a new path for himself.

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MOVIE OF THE DAY: "IT'S IN THE BAG!" (1945)

If anyone can be considered both legendary and forgotten, it's Fred Allen. For over 15 years one of the most popular of all radio comedians, he's remembered now only by show business archaeologists. Allen's sole leading movie role, as Fred Floogle in It’s in the Bag!, made at the height of his radio success, was his last shot at Hollywood stardom. 

Unfortunately, he would have to be content with staying on radio for another four years. For while there are strange comedies, and there are strange comedies, It's in the Bag! is a STRANGE comedy that probably baffled as many of his radio fans as it entertained. It was probably ahead of its time in 1945; perhaps it still is.

Floogle and Parker look forward to being in-laws.

The story, freely adapted from the 1928 Russian novel The Twelve Chairs, certainly sounds like a wacky comedy. Fred Floogle happily gives up his flea circus when left his uncle’s $12-million estate, allowing his daughter to marry Perry Parker, the son of an allegedly rich insecticide magnate who's actually just as broke as Floogle. 

Unfortunately, most of Floogle's inheritance has been ripped-off by the uncle’s lawyers; all he has coming to him is a pool table and five chairs. It’s only after selling the chairs to an antiques dealer that he learns one of them has $300,000 hidden inside its seat. Floogle has to track the chairs down to their new owners to get the money. 

Crooked lawyer John Carradine has
arranged for Fred to get hit by a car; just one
of the movie's many "comedy" highlights.

It’s in the Bag! starts off promisingly, with Fred Allen (as himself) addressing the audience in his flat, nasal New England twang, as he makes sardonic comments about the cast and crew throughout the credits. 

One of the credits is unexpected: Alma Reville, aka Mrs. Alfred Hitchcock, the writer of Suspicion, Shadow of a Doubt and The Paradine Case. This possibly explains the plethora of murders, both attempted and successful, including that of Floogle's precocious adolescent son, Homer. 

Allen must have realized the final cut was not only a little gruesome but often quite sluggish -- the kind of back & forth dialogue that worked so well on radio grinds many scenes to a halt. Plus, much of it isn't particularly funny to begin with. 

This is where things get strange. Instead of doing re-shoots as is typical, Allen (as himself) added narration throughout the movie while the onscreen actors, including himself, continue to speak their dialogue. This must explain comedy writer Morrie Ryskind’s credit for his “special contribution.” Thanks, Morrie.

"You mean I have to speak even more narration?!"

Initially amusing, then confusing, the narration devolves into irritating, like having to listen to some big mouth in the row behind you trying to impress his date with his alleged witticisms. More than once you feel like shouting, Shut up! I’m trying to watch the movie! Even if the original dialogue isn't funny! 

And stranger still, there are prints in circulation missing the narration entirely; perhaps it was added after an underwhelmingly-received premiere. If so, it meant early audiences missed Fred's endless, endless jokes about in-laws, relatives and studio executives. Well, maybe "missed" isn't the right word.

Fred is confused by Jack's rouge and lipstick.

The producers must have been nervous about Allen's potential box-office, since he’s surrounded by a bunch of radio guest stars. In what was clearly a favor to his real-life friend, Jack Benny plays his stereotypical cheap self, only with material that would have worked far better on TV in the '50s; director Richard Wallace appears to hold every shot to allow for audience laughter which never comes. Further distracting is Benny's strawberry-blonde dye job and strangely feminine make-up. Well!

Minerva Pious plays Mrs. Nussbaum, a regular character from Allen’s radio program. Her appearances were always a highlight, but you'd never know it here, since much of her dialogue is obliterated by Allen’s narration. I bet she loved that. Oddly, her Yiddish accent often sounds like Gilda Radner's Roseanne Rosannadana. I told you the movie was confusing. 

Jerry Colonna is shocked to get better material than
the star of the movie.

The wonderful Jerry Colonna, on the other hand, scores major laughs as a deranged psychiatrist, while Don Ameche and Rudy Vallee’s understated, self-depreciating performances contrast with Allen’s often-sledgehammer delivery. 

William Bendix has just been shot by six other
gangsters. I told you it was a comedy.

Also supporting -- make that overshadowing -- Fred Allen are character actors including Sidney Toler (sounding an awful lot like his Charlie Chan alter ego) as a cop, John Carradine as a murderous lawyer, Robert Benchley as Parker, and William Bendix as a delicate gangster who ingests vitamins by the jarful to calm his nerves. It’s in the Bag!, then, is a veritable time capsule of the 1945 entertainment world, with one of the biggest names of all in the lead. 

But in the end, It's in the Bag! is as much of a chore as it is a comedy. Too much plot, too little story and, if it’s possible, too many jokes. At its best moments, like the hilarious sequence in a movie theater the size of a dirigible hangar, or every time Jerry Colonna opens his mouth, it seems to anticipate Monty Python. 

Then there are other, silly scenes where you just want them to get on with it. After watching It's in the Bag! three times over the years, I've come to appreciate it; I just don't laugh all that much. As his engaging memoirs Much Ado Me and Treadmill to Oblivion demonstrate, Fred Allen was the rare wit who was actually funnier than many of his own jokes.

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