THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 55

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 28

 Two silent moves (one of them Russian), one B-noir, and early television drama starring a legendary movie actor. I don't know what more you could ask for. Maybe something you've heard of? Sorry, that ain't my game.

THE DEVIL (1921): Young actors, take note. George Arliss didn't make his first movie, The Devil, until he was 52. And that was 13 years after he originated the part onstage -- his first leading role since becoming a professional actor in 1887! Good things take time.

Arliss is the mysterious Dr. Muller. For no reason other than his own amusement, Muller manipulates two couples, artist Paul De Veaux and his model Mimi, and wealthy businessman Georges Roben and Marie Matin, into thinking they're not really in love with their partners. Faster than you can say, "The devil made me do it," Paul and Marie become lovers, while Muller makes sure Paul and Mimi catch them in the act, all the while acting like a benevolent bystander. When the couples reunite with their former flames, the angry Muller once again plays a game of human chess, arranging for Paul and Marie to innocently meet, while telling Georges they've renewed their affair -- and handing him a gun, just so the cuck can stop their nonsense once and for all. 

After watching George Arliss play enough real-life heroes to fill a history book, it's nice to see him as the personification of evil. The tips of his hair curled up ever so slightly to look like horns; his strange grey eyes looking like they're piercing into people's souls; a smile that doesn't look quite human; the weird dress jacket with lapels resembling bat wings -- you'd think the guy might want to be a little more on the downlow. And while The Devil is a silent picture, anyone who's watched enough of his talkies can "hear" him speak his dialogue via the intertitles. (As for his costars, only Edmund Lowe is recognizable.)

There's not a lot of subtlety in The Devil, especially at the climax when Mimi literally sends Muller back to hell with a Christian prayer that magically creates a crucifix from out of nowhere. But what do you expect from a 1921 melodrama based on a play from almost two decades earlier? George Arliss, both in character and as an actor, looks like he's having one hell of a time in The Devil, which is more than enough reason to watch it.

BONUS POINTS: While the star is called "Mr. George Arliss" in the credits, his wife and co-star Florence, is identified only as "Mrs. Arliss". A producer should suggest Nicole Kidman be credited "Mrs. Urban" in her next movie. You know, just as a joke.

Космический рейс (SPACE FLIGHT, A/K/A COSMIC VOYAGE) (1935): It's interesting that in 1935, the Soviet-era movie industry could produce a remarkably accurate movie about space travel, while still making silent movies. I guess that's an irony similar to a worker's paradise where millions are starving to death. 

The story of Space Flight isn't all that revolutionary (hey, another Soviet irony!) In the futuristic year 1946, Prof. Pavel Sedikh ignores the warnings of others by flying his rocket to the moon, taking along a female professor named Marina, and the adolescent stowaway Andryusha. Upon landing, the three explore the moon's surface, where Sedikh is briefly separated from the others when falling into a crater. After the three are reunited -- and Andryusha retrieves a cat that had been sent up in a previous flight -- the three cosmonauts return home to be welcomed as Commie heroes.

You can't make a Soviet-era movie without a message, and Space Flight's seems to be that space travel isn't just for young men: old guys, women, and children are perfectly capable of making a lunar flight, even if the experts who run the space lab have no faith in them. In fact, Andryusha seems like the kind of kid who'll grow up to put the doubters in front of a firing squad. 

Forget about the story (and the actors' names). What oddballs like me have come for are the visuals. Space Flight impressively predicts spacesuits, weightlessness, and returning to earth via parachute. What it gets totally wrong are Sedikh and Marina packing suitcases for their flight, and the three large water tanks the characters get into to withstand the shock of taking off and landing. Modern viewers used to CGI would probably laugh at the moon set and the miniatures standing in for rockets. To me, the work that went into creating them is far more impressive than programming a computer. Something else I really enjoyed was the occasional use of stop motion to replicate the cosmonauts bouncing around the moon, often with the camera smoothly tracking along with them. But in yet another Soviet irony, Space Flight was soon pulled from release by censors because stop motion was antithetical to "socialist realism". How does a comrade say, "Oh, brother!" in Russian?

BONUS POINTS: The aforementioned suitcases are pretty cool, seeing that the hinges are at the far end, so they open like car trunks. 

I WOULDN'T BE IN YOUR SHOES (1948): Finally -- a film noir where the murder clue is provided by muddy imprints of tap shoes! The police trace them to dancer Tom Quinn, who's also in possession of some of the money that had been stolen from the victim. All this circumstantial evidence leads to Tom's appointment with the hot squat. Police Detective Clint Judd tracks down a more likely suspect -- not so much out of the goodness of his heart but because he has the serious hots for Tom's wife Ann, who recklessly promises to marry him if he reopens the investigation. When the second suspect doesn't pan out, Detective Judd consoles Ann the best way he knows how: getting her a new, furnished apartment that he can also move into as soon as hubby gets fried. What's a soon-to-be-widow to do at a time like this? Maybe take a good look at the money that the horny, crazy cop is carrying...

Don Castle, the Clark Gable of low budget noirs (the previously discussed Roses are Red and Lighthouse among them) is the hapless Tom Quinn, who not only can't catch a break, but almost seems to welcome his pending execution. As with fellow B-lister Tom Neal, Castle's character appears to mirror his real life acceptance of his position in the movie world (both began at MGM before taking the down elevator to Poverty Row studios). As such, he brings some genuine emotion to I Wouldn't Be in Your Shoes, making it one of the few noirs where I was kind of hoping for a happy ending. We know the guy is innocent of the crime, and, frankly, Don Castle deserves some joy, even if it's only in a movie. 

I Wouldn't Be in Your Shoes' other star, Regis Toomey, clicks big as the creepy dick Clint Judd, a combination of his other detective roles with a splash of his psycho killer from Dark Mountain. Early on, he portrays Judd as an honest hardworking cop, while gradually allowing his dark side to seep through. By the climax, even his eyes start to look whacked-out. Toomey wasn't necessarily a great actor, but in roles like this, he was terrific -- one of the few actors, like Richard Dix, whose best performances were flat and lowkey. (Depending on your age, you may remember him as Det. Les Hart in Burke's Law. Yes, another detective.) 

Elsye Knox sells the character of Ann just enough -- you believe a sap like Judd would fall for her false promise of marriage. Ann's guilt for helping to get her husband in this mess, by convincing him to keep the stolen money he found, comes through as well. And she's got an interesting look -- Lizabeth Scott minus the hard edge. Familiar character actors appear, too, inside and outside the prison walls, making I Wouldn't Be in Your Shoes a good fit for a pre-dawn 70 minutes of noir.

BONUS POINTS: In case you were wondering, Tom's shoes wound up in the alley when he threw them at a howling cat. Did anybody ever do that other than in movies, cartoons, and comic strips?

SUSPENSE: A CASK OF AMONTILLADO (October 11, 1949): Rome, V-E Day. A man named
Montresor tells American soldiers that he witnessed the murder of a fascist General named Fortunado. The latter was once a stableboy for him until the war, when he commandeered both Montresor's castle and sister. Having started an affair with another woman, Fortunado killed the sister. In return, Montresor leads the alcoholic general to the basement of the castle with the promise of a cask of you know what. Getting the upper hand on him, Montesor chains Fortunado to the wall and entombs him.

Anyone familiar with A Cask of Amontillado will recognize that Suspense took a few liberties with Poe's short story. But who cares about that when Bela Lugosi stars in his first-ever TV appearance as Fortunado?  Like George Arliss, nobody else matters here -- except maybe for Ray Walston in one of his earliest TV roles as the army officer taking Montesor's confession. You could say Walston gives the best (i.e., most realistic) performance. But only the most fervid Poe fans would watch this if Bela Lugosi didn't have the lead, giving us the rare chance to see him not just on live TV, but in a dramatic role that has nothing to do with horror or the supernatural. He is a character actor, first and foremost. It's a shame that, unlike, say, Boris Karloff, he didn't have more chances to appear on television dramas.

This episode of Suspense (with spooky organ music similar to the still-airing radio version) is also a memento of early televised plays, when brick walls were no more believable than a school play, and walking down a long winding stairway was done on one simple set shot from different angles. Lugosi twice has trouble with his pistol, and also accidentally kicks over a wine bottle -- typical moments when viewers were reminded that they were watching something live with no retakes possible. A Cask of Amontillado, then, is the closest we'll come to seeing Bela Lugosi in a dramatic stage performance. And just to remind you how old this episode is, its setting -- V-E Day -- happened only four years earlier!

BONUS POINTS: The Suspense sponsor, Auto-Lite, reminds us that its spark plugs cause less radio and television interference.

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 16

Someday, I will finally run out of obscurities to while away my early mornings or late nights... at least if my wife has any say. Until then, feast your eyes on four movies worthy of your (or my) time.

IT NEVER HAPPENED (a/k/a TOMATO IS ANOTHER DAY) (1934): You can set your sundial by it: Whenever I
recommend an old comedy by saying, "I thought it was pretty funny," nobody else will like it. It Never Happened probably won't break that streak. This nearly century-old one-reeler is so eccentric, so off-kilter, so damn sure of itself that it had only one theatrical screening before scurrying back where it came from. 

It helps to know ahead of time that It Never Happened (written by Alec Wilder and directed by James Sibley Watson, Jr.) is a low-budget parody of early talkie melodramas, with gratuitously stilted dialogue spoken at a snail's pace, melodramatic make-up, unnecessarily loud sound effects, and overheated sexual shenanigans involving a woman, her husband and her lover. There are also preposterous puns, absurd asides ("Well, it's a cigarette life!"), risqué pre-code dialogue, and senseless gunplay -- all in seven minutes.

If you're looking for stars, go elsewhere. It Never Happened marks the only movie appearances by obscure radio announcer Jack Lee (the cuckolded husband) and Frances Alexander Miller (the wife). Miller's satiric style of speaking verrrrry slooooowly is both hilarious and unnerving. Like other unconventionally attractive women of her day, Miller also appears quite au courant; she could steal the show as "the best friend" in a contemporary romantic comedy. As for the identity of the guy who plays the lover, your guess is as good as anybody's. Did you ever have a great uncle was in a movie once? Maybe it's him.

Likely off-putting to most people today as it was for its one-time-only 1934 audience, It Never Happened is now hailed by others as a Dadaist masterpiece, which itself is amusing -- its creators were just making fun of movies. And not for the last time, I thought it was pretty funny. Be warned. (If you're brave of heart, click here: It Never Happened [Tomato Is Another Day, Tomato’s Another Day] on Vimeo).

BONUS POINTS: The movie's writer, Alec Wilder, went on to compose operas, movie soundtracks, and pop songs, while Frances Alexander Miller was married to Mitch Miller. Yeah, the "Sing Along With..." guy. 

 MAN WHO CHANGED HIS MIND (a/k/a THE MAN WHO LIVED AGAIN (1936): 

Dr. Laurience, your typical mad scientist, has figured out a way to transfer one person's mind to another's. Smelling a new way to sell newspapers, publisher Lord Haslewood finances this breakthrough in exchange for exclusive interviews -- an arrangement the magnate cancels when other scientists literally laugh Laurience off the stage. Laurience gets revenge by transferring the mind of his crippled friend Clayton into to Haslewood's. Clayton's new mind soon goes to his head (see what I did there?), leading Laurience to kill him, then decides to transfer his own mind into that of Haslewood's son Dick, who's engaged to the scientist's former assistant Anna Lee. Talk about mind games!

A fairly unknown, unhinged UK production, The Man Who Changed His Mind was renamed by Warner Brothers for the US release because... maybe they didn't think Americans would get the sly dark humor of the original title? On the other hand, which title sounds more like one starring Boris Karloff as a Frankenstein-type doctor? 

No matter what the movie's called, it's clearly an attempt at an American-style horror movie, and, as such, succeeds.  Not only is the story acceptably strange, the art-deco lab equipment is pleasing to the eye as well. A plot device no longer accepted by society involves Dr. Laurience testing his mind-switching device on two hapless monkeys, one placid and the other rather testy. For some reason, it's eerier and more upsetting than when he does the same thing on humans. Only the British accents and dearth of familiar character actors separates The Man Who Changed His Mind from a first-rate Universal horror picture.

BONUS POINTS: Karloff chain-smokes throughout the entire movie, often dangling the cigarette from his mouth a la Peter Lorre. 

DARK MOUNTAIN (1944): Some movies aren't worth talking about. Dark Mountain -- - the 57-minute B-drama from Paramount about a forest ranger who suspects the woman he loves is being held captive by her gangster husband -- would certainly be one of them if it wasn't for co-star Regis Toomey. Not that Toomey was ever a great actor. Doubling down a bit, it's easy to say his early light supporting roles promised nothing but a quick exit into real estate.

But add a few years, pounds, wrinkles, and a cigarette-stained voice, and what was once a comedic leading man was now exceptional as cynical police detectives or, as in Dark Mountain, the quietly psychopathic criminal Steve Downey, all charm one moment before turning cold and dangerous when things go south. Whether he's killing a cop or his assistant Whitey (the legendary Elisha Cook, Jr.), Toomey is often shockingly violent while everyone else is just going through the motions.

As for the others, nominal leading actors Robert Lowery (forest ranger) and Ellen Drew (damsel in distress) could have been replaced by any second-string actors and no one would tell the difference. The same can't be said as Eddie Quillan, Lowery's comedic sidekick: nobody this annoying comes to mind. Dark Mountain proves that a movie can have a dozen things going against it, but as long as someone like Regis Toomey is around to jazz things up, it's a good way to pass the time over breakfast.

BONUS POINTS: Toomey refers to Lowrey as a "chump" and "squarehead" like he means it.

CRY OF THE CITY (1948): Police Lt. Vittorio Candella is on the trail of Martin Rome, a
small-time gangster who escaped from a prison hospital after killing a cop (and possibly being the brains behind a major jewel robbery). To the lieutenant's dismay, the charismatic Rome appears to be getting help from several people while on the run. Rome's kid brother Tony, girlfriend Brenda, a self-styled psychic named Rose, and a mysterious unnamed teenage girl who was the last person to visit him before his hospitalization all have reasons to protect him. Candella finally tracks Rome down, only to be wounded in a shootout.  But Candella won't let that stop him, even if it means he has to break out from a hospital, too.

If you have a friend who wants to know what a film noir is, Cry of the City -- expertly directed by Richard Siodmak -- would be the place to start. All the noir elements are on display in their dark glory. The haunted cop. The smartass bad guy. Streets wet with rain at night despite sunny skies during the daytime. Dramatic camera angles, dimly lit sets, creepy supporting characters -- if Cry of the City weren't so good, it would almost be a parody of the genre. Even the leading actors -- Victor Mature as the cop, Richard Conte as the bad guy -- are out of a '50s issue of Mad magazine. The difference here is that the two actors, particularly Mature, are far better than one might expect. 

Cry of the City -- a movie about two Italian-Americans on opposite sides of the law, and so overflowing with Catholic iconography that it must be a favorite of Martin Scorsese's -- also features some fascinating character actors pulling out the stops. Barry Kroeger (as a shyster lawyer) talks like Kelsey Grammar but resembles an evil Pixar character come to life. As the psychic, Hope Emerson is straight out of a nightmare. Walter Baldwin, as a prison trustee named Orvy, could be a real-life escapee from a psych ward.  Add Fred Clark, Shelly Winters, Oliver Blake, Roland Winters, and Debra Paget, Cry of the City is a winner for movie fans who like their heroes troubled, criminals doomed, and women tougher than a cheap flank steak at a roadside diner. 

BONUS POINTS: Cry of the City was the umpteenth 20th Century-Fox noir scored by Alfred Newman featuring his theme from the 1931 pre-code drama Street Scene under the credits. An evocative piece of music can go a long way.

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 3

I've come to accept that I'll likely never return to my usual, pre-pandemic sleeping schedule. Not that I was ever one of those lucky, eight-straight-hours-a-night people. But thanks to the internet and occasionally a revisit to a movie from my own collection, there's always a movie or forgotten TV program at my disposal worthy of a brief mention, even if it really isn't worthy. 

ALIBI (1929): Released from prison, gangster Chick Williams resumes his romance with Joan, the daughter of Police Sgt. Pete Manning. When a cop is murdered in a heist, Chick falls under suspicion, despite his seemingly airtight alibi.  With the unlikely help of Danny McGann, who's not the annoying rich lush he appears to be, the killer is found out and, during a police chase, falls off a rooftop because it's more dramatic than being shot.

For me, Alibi ticks all the boxes: gangster genre, early talkie, interesting direction (by Roland West) with touches of German expressionism, art deco sets, and Chester Morris in the lead. Not necessarily a great actor, Morris nevertheless is always interesting, especially when playing heels like Chick Williams. While the other actors are serviceable, Morris brings a simmering tension that breaks at the climax when his character betrays his true personality.

Alibi's only problem is Regis Toomey's portrayal of Danny McGann. Overplaying the stereotypical  drunk, Toomey pulls every cliché in the Hollywood book -- stumbling, slurring, giggling -- that you see only in movies. He also gets the longest, most melodramatic death scene outside that of Sunny von Bulow. If he was looking for the first Oscar nomination for best actor, he must have been chagrined by Chester Morris receiving it instead. 

BONUS POINTS: The expressionistic prison shots at the beginning, making it look like The Hoosegow of Dr. Calagari. 

ALL-AMERICAN CO-ED (1941): Bobby Shepard (Johnny Downs) of Quinceton University pranks the all-girls Mar Byrnn by entering its free tuition contest in drag, only to fall in love with student Virginia Collinge (Frances Langford). And if you think that's a flimsy story for a full length movie, you're right. All-American Co-Ed is one of Hal Roach's 49-minute "Streamliner" releases. And the only reason it's that long is because of its four musical numbers. 

The fun of All-American Co-Ed  -- rightly promoted in newspaper ads as THE SEASON'S GAYEST MUSICAL! -- is how much of its sexualized humor crosses the line of what was otherwise permitted at the time ("Bobbi" Shepard is caught sitting on a guy in what somebody appears to think is the reverse cowgirl position), or how a song laments that the farmer's daughter "can't rhumba with an old cucumber." Wow.  

Most of the music is typical of a 1940s B-picture, with titles like "I'm a Chap with a Chip on My Shoulder", sung by Johnny Downs as his character's nom de drag The Flower Queen(!). On the other hand, Langford's showpiece, "Out of the Silence" is an Oscar-nominated forgotten gem sung, arranged and filmed in an almost hypnotic style far out of step from the movie's silliness. It's the best scene in the picture, and probably the only one from a Roach Streamliner that resembles an A-picture.

A weirdly enjoyable movie, All-American Co-Ed suffers from the appearance of Noah Berry, Jr. and Alan Hale, Jr. as a couple of nitwits who make you realize what Hal Roach lost when he parted ways with Laurel & Hardy. Yet, overall it's still an entertaining way to spend a late night or pre-dawn 49 minutes if you can't sleep or don't want anyone to know the kind of ridiculous movies you watch. 

BONUS POINTS: Harry Langdon shines as the Mar Brynn publicist, while the great African-American actress Lillian Randolph almost steals the movie as a laundress in a hilarious scene that, in lesser hands, would be offensive to modern audiences. In fact, it probably is anyway, but I'm not modern. And look fast for future noir queen Marie Windsor as one of the Mar Brynn cuties. 

THE CASE AGAINST BROOKLYN (1958): New York police detective Pete Harris goes undercover to bust an illegal gambling ring and the crooked cops protecting it. A little too dedicated to his job, Harris's bullheaded approach gets his partner Jess Johnson killed in the line of duty. He also puts his marriage in jeopardy by pretending to romance Lil Polombo, a lush whose husband Gus killed himself rather than being murdered by the mobsters to whom he's deep in debt. But that doesn't matter after Harris's wife is killed in a hit meant for him. Now it's personal! 

The Case Against Brooklyn, based on a true story, is kind of shocking, in that it seems every cop in this particular Brooklyn precinct was on the take. Too, Pete Harris, is fairly unlikeable, putting everybody around him in danger just for a promotion.

Too bad The Case Against Brooklyn -- one of the all- time great titles -- doesn't  live up to its premise. Shot mostly on L.A. soundstages,  it lacks authentic New York atmosphere. But McGavin is fine as the hotshot cop "dating" the alky widow just to get information on the criminals. I just wish this true-crime tale was more realistic. Especially the scene where pop star Bobby Helms sings his latest single in a bar while accompanied by a jukebox.

BONUS POINTS: The only movie I know of with someone murdered by an exploding telephone. 

I, JANE DOE (1948): A woman known only as Jane Doe is found guilty of murdering Stephen Curtis. When she's found to be pregnant with Curtis' child, his widow, Eve, defends her at a retrial. Curtis, we learn, was a two-timer who met and married the defendant -- whose real name name is Annette Dubois -- when he was shot down in action over Europe in the War. He soon disappeared, sending a lawyer to her to sign an annulment. Still in love with Curtis, Annette tracked him down to New York where we learn what really happened the day the two-timing louse was killed.

Like The Case Against Brooklyn, there's nothing really bad about I, Jane Doe. In fact the snappy first reel promises a good noir. But the retrial bogs down with more flashbacks than Brian Wilson's acid experiences, interrupted by the prosecutor shouting his objections and the reaction shots of the title character, played by Vera Ralston, the Greta Garbo of Republic Pictures.

As with her role in Angel in the Amazon, Ralston's emotions run the gamut from A to A-, with her glycerin-teared eyes forever on the verge of running down her face without actually doing so. No other actress had so many close-ups in one movie, likely at the behest of her lover, Republic president Herbert Yates. 

Director Joseph H. Auer does what he can with the material (and Ralston), focusing on the technical aspects, which are often quite good. The best of the primary actors is John Carroll, who makes Stephen Curtis a heel that you eventually believe deserved to get plugged. There's enough in I, Jane Doe to keep you fairly engaged and the bombastic score will keep you awake. Still, it would have been better as a straight-ahead B-picture with 10 of its 85 minutes shaved off. And someone other than Vera Ralston starring in it.

BONUS POINTS: The always-engaging character actor Leon Belasco makes the most of his brief appearance as Curtis's amusingly creepy, slithery, grimacing lawyer. His performance is a master class on making the most out of an otherwise throwaway role, and should be seen by aspiring actors everywhere to let them see a real pro in action. 

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