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 an 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. 57

Three movies made during the changeover from silent to sound, and one from a decade later featuring what was briefly Paramount's B-movie stock company.

THE DOCKS OF NEW YORK (1928): There's nothing about The Docks of New York promising greatness. A ship's stoker saves a hooker who tried to drown herself in the East River. They go to a dive bar, get married, spend the night the together before he ships off the following day. He has a change of heart and swims back to land, where he learns she's in night court for a crime he committed. He confesses, gets sentenced to 60 days. The hooker promises to wait for him.  

Would you watch such a movie? Well, maybe you should, just to see how important a great director can be. For Josef von Sternberg elevates a cliched tale into something both human and humane. The first reel or two feature situations and characters you've seen in countless old movies, particularly silents like this. Yet von Sternberg molds it all into something that you gradually come to understand and care about. Sure, George Bancroft (the stoker) is rough around the edges -- drinking beer straight out of a keg -- and Betty Compson (the hooker) has been beat around by life pretty badly. Yet each brings out something positive in the other. For Bancroft, it means a real love he's never felt for any woman. For Compson, it's a belief that it's possible to find a man who cares about her.

Von Sternberg transforms these battered people into a couple you root for even in their tawdry surroundings; it's a master class for anyone who wants to learn what an "actor's director" is. Watch the dozens of extras in the bar -- each one appears to have gotten personal instruction from von Sternberg; their action never looks forced or phony. (One funny moment comes when Bickford and Compson converse in a corner, completely ignoring a rowdy fight going on in a mirror's reflection above them.) 

There's more, much more, in The Docks of New York than is covered here, from the genuine filth covering the stokers, to how Betty Compson begins rock hard and slowly softens into the kind of woman her character probably dreamed of becoming when growing up. If von Sternberg's first movie, Salvation Hunters, was the work of a self-styled artiste trying too hard to say something important, The Docks of New York is a masterpiece of an unexpectedly mature drama from a bold, thoughtful director. Spoiler alert: the happy ending feels neither forced nor tacked on. 

BONUS POINTS: Gustav von Seyffertitz (born in 1862!) steals his five-minute scene as "Hymn-Book Harry", the priest who reluctantly marries the wayward couple in the dive bar. With a mere look in his eyes, von Seyffertitz reminds all the barflies (and us) of the solemnity of the moment. Brilliant stuff.

INTERFERENCE (1928): As you could guess from the advert on the right, Paramount's first talking feature Interference has nothing to do with football. It is, rather, a melodrama of the British upper-class involving hidden identity, divorce, blackmail, and murder. Kind of like the royal family if you dig hard enough. 

While Interference possesses many of the drawbacks prevalent during the early days of sound, its story is actually quite involving. Phillip Voaze has a chance meeting with first wife Deborah Kane a decade after his disappearance in World War I. In need of a few shillings, Deborah hatches a blackmailing scheme involving letters written to Voaze years earlier from his former sidepiece Faith. Without knowing what the others are doing, Voaze, Faith, and Faith's current husband Sir John Marlay each visit Deborah. One of them would like to kill her, another really does, while the third is arrested for it. All this hubbub for a few old "Oh baby, what you do to me" mash notes! People sure were touchy in 1928.

There are coincidences galore throughout Interference, like Voaze just happening to choose Marlay as a doctor, but that's to be expected in any movie of this type. Evelyn Brent and Doris Kenyon (as Deborah and Faith respectively) get the lion's share of histrionics. Clive Brook, the kind of distinguished Brit that talkies were created for, is agreeably lowkey as the stiff upper-lipped Sir John, the doctor whose prescription for blackmail is a dose of lethal threats. 

But it's William Powell, as the sickly Voaze, who steals Interference. His clipped, eloquent delivery, heard onscreen for the first time, must have convinced the boys at Paramount's front office that he was far more suited to leading roles than his often-villainous supporting parts in silents. No surprise that his next movie, a silent titled The Canary Murder Case, was immediately reshot with sound. Now that kind of studio interference makes sense.

BONUS POINTS: One credit reads "Dialogue Arranged by Ernest Pascal", as if the guy cut up the script, tossed the shreds up in the air, and glued them together at random like William Burroughs. Another credit, "Based on a Lothar Mendes Production", refers to Mendes' direction of the silent version of Interference, which Roy J. Pomeroy followed for his direction of the talkie version, which was shot simultaneously. As with The Canary Murder Case, those were the days when studios could pay actors once for making a movie twice.

THE SQUALL (1929): The funniest feature of 1929 must have been The Squall. And making it even more of a hoot is that it's a drama. Ergo, if you ever want to convince your friends that early talkies get a bad rap, this is not the movie to show them. 

In a small Hungarian village, middle-aged couple hire a young Gypsy woman named Nubi as their housekeeper. She shows her gratitude by seducing every male in the household and turning all the women against one another. Money goes missing, the maid and gardener quit, Paul breaks up with his fiancée Irma, fights break out -- and Nubi the housekeeper doesn't even sweep the floor! 

Absolutely nothing else happens in The Squall, other than the audience wondering why Nubi wasn't fired after her first day on the job. As for the acting -- hoo boy. Myrna Loy -- still stuck in "exotic" roles -- is Nubi. She's supposed to be sexy but appears to be a thousand kernels short of a cob. Too, Nubi (or, rather, Loy) is stuck with 90 minutes' worth of dialogue along the lines of "Nubi not happy!" or "Nubi like diamonds!" Loretta Young, as Irma, sounds exactly what she was in 1929: a 16 year-old girl badly reciting lines for the first time. Yet nobody beats Caroll Nye as Peter, emoting his already purple dialogue to the point where his mouth probably tasted like grapes. As for the direction, Alexander Korda makes sure to keep The Squall at a dead snail's pace. 

Somehow, Loy, Young, and Korda eventually proved to be far better than The Squall would have you believe. In later years they all probably shook their heads just hearing the word "squall" in weather forecasts. As for the rest of us... the forecast for watching The Squall is a 100% chance of disbelief mixed with unceasing laughter.

BONUS POINTS: The miniature horse & wagons standing in for the travelling Gypsy camp manage to be laughable and utterly charming all at once. In fact, they give a better performance than any human in the picture.

KING OF CHINATOWN (1939): 

Paramount must have been pretty pleased with the previous year's Dangerous to Know, because they rounded up much of the same cast for this well-made crime caper. Give the studio credit, too, for trying to revive Anna May Wong's sputtering career even in B-pictures like these. 

If there's a problem for fans of top-billed Wong, it's that her character, surgeon Dr. Mary Ling, is often overshadowed by Frank Baturin, the white leader of a Chinatown protection racket, who was shot by his underling Mike Gordon on orders of the gang's accountant (nicknamed The Professor). After performing life-saving surgery on Baturin, Dr. Ling becomes his temporary live-in caregiver. As Gordon and The Professor take over the racket, Baturin decides to break up his criminal band, furthering the accountant's desire to get him out of the way once and for all. Moral: always be good to your money manager.

King of Chinatown is unique in that the sex and race of Wong's character are never a subject for conversation or contention -- she is simply a brilliant surgeon, period. But unwilling to leave well enough alone, Paramount cast white actor Sidney Toler as her Chinese father because... well, he was currently playing Charlie Chan over at Fox! And why is Armenian-American Akim Tamiroff using an Italian accent when playing a character with the Ukrainian name of Maturin? Oh heck, let's continue with busy second-rate dialect actor J. Carroll Naish using an Irish accent as The Professor for no reason other than Chinese and Italian were already taken. Mexican-born Anthony Quinn, as the red-blooded American gunsel Gordon, already lost his accent, so he gets a pass.

All this confusion helps to make King of Chinatown an even more fun 56 minutes than it already it is. And despite the odd casting (and accent) choices throughout, Anna May Wong was probably grateful for the chance to prove she could do something other than the usual Dragon Lady routine. But I still wonder how she felt about a white guy playing her Chinese father. 

BONUS POINTS: Super-annoying actor Roscoe Karns disappears from King of Chinatown before the end of the second reel, as if director Nick Grinde realized they didn't need an ambulance driver character ripped-off from MGM's Dr. Kildare movies.

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 24

Every time I consider watching movies that critics put in their "Top 50" lists, I usually come to my senses. Life is too short to miss the films (and TV shows) nobody wants to see.

ADVENTURE GIRL (1934): Here's an idea. Next time you take a vacation, lie about it and "recreate" your "adventure" with a camera crew. That's what former movie extra/bit part player Joan Lowell did with Adventure Girl. When the prologue describes her story as "well-nigh incredible", they don't know the half of it.

Better suited as a Vera Ralston jungle picture, Adventure Girl is also narrated by Lowell, who likely realized the only way she was going to be a real actor was to make a phony docudrama on the cheap. (It's essentially a silent movie with narration and sound effects.) Lowell further puffs up her faux-C.V. by coming up with every allegedly good idea during her voyage to South America, despite the crew including her lifelong-seafaring father and two former Marines. About the only thing she doesn't claim credit for is building their yacht -- and that's only because she's too busy bragging about saving everyone from certain death.

Adventure Girl's primary story concerns Lowell searching for a mysterious emerald belonging to a tribe in Guatemala. In order to find it, Lowell promises them that she'll retrieve the rich minerals hidden on their land. Displaying the worst side of "civilized" explorers, Lowell admits to us that it's all a lie, and that she really intends to steal the emerald. 

Yet we're supposed to sympathize with this thief when the tribe catches her in the act -- a crime punishable by death on a fiery bale of hay. And by God, she deserves it! Unfortunately, her first mate arrives to untie her just as the flames are touching her tush. They hop on their raft and make their escape from the villagers by setting their river on fire with gasoline. Adventure Girl is one of the few movies where you're disappointed the so-called good guys get out alive.

BONUS POINTS: A couple of scenes feature jungle animals engaged in fights to the death, including one featuring a mongoose and a snake that reminded me of a similar moment in The Letter. They might be a little difficult to watch, but at least they're real, unlike the rest of this claptrap.

 THE TRUMPET BLOWS (1934): Some movies are worth talking about due only due to their sheer absurdity. The Trumpet Blows is as good (or mediocre) as any. I mean, do you buy George Raft and Adolph Menjou as Mexicans? 

The American-educated Manue Montes (Raft) returns home to live with his big brother Pancho (Menjou), who has disguised his criminal past by becoming a successful rachero. Before you can say Hola, Manuel sleeps with Chulita, the woman Pancho wants to marry.  (It happens to the best of us, right?) The next morning, Manuel takes off for Mexico City to pursue his dream of being a bullfighter. He renews his affair with Chulita, who, realizing Manuel sucks at his new job, convinces Pancho to talk sense into him. He should have started by convincing him that they quit this movie instead.

There's a reason why I had never heard of The Trumpet Blows until recently reading about it in a book about pre-Code movies: it's ridiculous. I don't care how big a sombrero Menjou wears, how dark Raft's makeup is, or how much mascara and lipstick is smeared on Frances Drake (Chulita): nobody, and I mean NOBODY with a speaking role here is convincing as a Mexican. Menjou ditches his dubious accent before the end of the first reel, while Raft -- never an actor with any range -- doesn't even try. Too, Raft definitely isn't credible as a bullfighter -- especially one who lacks a killer instinct -- seeing that most of those scenes are stock shots of the real thing. When Raft is briefly swinging his red cape, the bull he's facing is a very obvious rear projection, like a dramatic version of the Three Stooges' short What's the Matador?. 

There are a few moments here that shocked the bluenoses, like the way Raft tells the housemaid, "Pour me my coffee" while lying in bed, making it sound like a filthy come-on. And it's clear that he and Chulita hit the sack on their first "date" and start shacking up later on. None of this makes The Trumpet Blows -- a title begging for a nasty wisecrack -- worth watching, however, unless you're looking for 72 minutes of unintended laughs. 

BONUS POINTS: Pancho's sidekick Pepi is played by Sidney Toler, who, four years later, would go the yellow-face route as Charlie Chan. And, as always, he still looks and sounds Asian despite being caucasian. Ai yi yi!

A WELCOME TO BRITAIN (1943): When American soldiers were shipped to the UK during World War II, Britain's Ministry of Information provided them with a 40-minute instructional film advising them of their host country's ways and manners. Starring actor and Air Force Captain Burgess Meredith, A Welcome to Britain was later renamed How to Behave in Britain, which is a more accurate title for those rowdy GI's.

Meredith, who also had a hand in writing and directing A Welcome to Britain, was an excellent choice for the job; while recognizable, he looks and sounds more like one of the soldiers who watched this than your typical actor. Leading us on a casual tour of the quaint UK countryside, we learn how to handle yourself in a pub (be quiet; they'll come around and chat to you eventually); what to do when invited to a civilian's home for dinner (food was even more strictly rationed than in the US, so take it easy on the helpings); and offer American cigarettes to everyone you meet (I guess Lucky Strikes were better than Woodbines). And talk about the Brits being friendly people! Even the stationmaster offers Meredith a spot of tea -- and in a china cup, yet.

A couple of segments are interesting for different reasons. The first is when Meredith warns white American soldiers they better get over any prejudice against blacks. Not only are there "less social restrictions in this country", black soldiers are fighting this war, too. Of course, Meredith refers to one of them as a "colored boy" but, hey, it's a start! Later, while Meredith tries to figure out the local currency with a cab driver, Bob Hope unexpectedly appears, not so much to help, but fast-talk his way into relieving his co-star's money before taking off as fast as he arrived. Hope, here in his prime, gets laughs (from me, anyway) with his brilliant delivery. US soldiers couldn't have gotten a better Welcome to Britain than this movie, which holds up both as entertainment and a piece of history. Anybody know if the Brits still offer a cup of tea to strangers in uniform?

BONUS POINTS: While I'm no smoker, it's kind of a relief to see people puffing away without holier-than-thou folks showing their displeasure by pretending to cough.

THE STEVE ALLEN PLYMOUTH SHOW (11/16/1959): There are so few surviving videotaped color TV shows from the '50s that it feels almost imperative to watch them. But color doesn't translate to great. This particular episode is a disappointment for Steve Allen fans who remember his myriad of entertaining talk shows over the years. The Plymouth Show was a variety series, with little room for the spontaneity he excelled at.

While music is provided by Pam Garner and Frankie Laine, the comedy skits include Steve interviewing three "scientists" looking for a cure for the common cold. Louis Nye and Don Knotts do the best they can here with the so-so material. However, Dayton Allen -- you might remember his catchphrase Whyyyy not? -- is hilarious; this guy really knew how to elevate a script just by being funny. On the other hand, a sketch featuring guest William Bendix about the overuse of laugh tracks and violence on TV is dull going. As for Steve himself, he opens the show with silent blackout skits accompanied by music (ripped off from Ernie Kovacs) but redeems himself in the entertaining Question Man segment (later ripped off by Johnny Carson as Carnac the Magnificent).  

What makes this otherwise meh episode legendary is the appearance of the least-anticipated variety show guest ever, beat generation icon Jack Kerouac. Looking bored, embarrassed, and/or inebriated, Kerouac gamely submits to a brief interview (asked to define the term "beat", he replies, "sympathetic"), before reading from On the Road while Steve noodles a jazzy piano improv. Even more head-spinning is when Kerouac returns with the rest of the cast for a final bow, uncomfortably placed between William Bendix and Frankie Laine. If a Steve Allen Plymouth Show episode had to exist, thank God it was this one -- because if it didn't, you wouldn't believe it ever happened. 

BONUS POINTS: During one of the commercials, the Plymouth spokesman compares the car's fins to a toy boat's rudder. And by the way, they aren't really fins, they're stabilizers, so get it straight, people.

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MOVIE OF THE DAY: "THE LONGEST NIGHT" (1936)

Some movies are worth watching because they're great. Some, simply because
they're good, Others, because they're strange, or even ridiculous.

Then there's The Longest Night, a movie that falls into its own category: worth watching -- once -- just because it exists. Told essentially in real time, it's the story of  Charley Phelps, who solves two (or was it three?) murders connected to a crime ring operating out of his department store. Oh, and it's a romantic comedy! Are you laughing yet? 

There are more suspects than there are reels, because The Longest Night runs only 51 minutes. Either there was a lot of work going on in post-production, or it was a short subject that got out of hand. And this is an M-G-M movie! Even Monogram pictures were at least 10 minutes longer.

So there's one reason to watch it: by the time you're ready to give up on it, it's over. (It's one of those movies that's best watched late in the evening, when your expectations are lowered).  Then there are the two other reasons. 

Not even Young's co-stars can believe the dreck
that the studio puts him in.

Well, let's make it three, just because I'm a nice guy. And you know who else is? Robert Young. People of my age always associate him with two TV series: Father Knows Best and Marcus Welby M.D., so it often comes as a shock to see him in movies 80 or so years old. 

It must have been frustrating for Young, as a Metro contract player, to have leads in Bs like The Longest Night, and very small supporting roles in his few As at the time. Particularly when the very same year as The Longest Night, he was loaned to out to Alfred Hitchcock (still working in the UK) who cast him in Secret Agent alongside John Gielgud! No wonder Young became an alcoholic.

Ted squints his eyes to make sure he's not acting
opposite Mitch McConnell.

Reason number two for viewing The Longest Night is Ted Healy as the archetypal stupid cop. Known by no one other than wackos like me, Healy is the guy who put together Three Stooges. The handful of movies they made at Metro, with Ted as their ringleader, irritate Stooge fans today who resent this alleged outsider hogging the spotlight. 

Over the years, I've warmed up to Healy, especially when he's working solo (he and the Stooges parted ways in 1934). There's something dry and oddly witty about his fast-talking style when playing a conman or reporter. But watch him in The Longest Night, where he's a little more low-IQ than usual, and you can see just how influential he was. From his delivery to his double-takes and slapstick physicality, it's obvious that Moe Howard took Ted Healy's entire shtick when he became the top Stooge. Yes, Stooge fans, I like Ted Healy, So there.

"Confucius say, Man who owns department store --
wait, wrong movie."

Once Sidney Toler (a/k/a reason number three), as the detective in charge of the investigation, opens his mouth, he's instantly identifiable as the guy who took over as Charlie Chan after the death of Warner Oland.

When I say identifiable, I'm not kidding.  I could put it down to being aware he was Charlie Chan. But you could show The Longest Night -- or any non-Chan Toler movie, for that matter -- to anybody, and they'd say, "Why's he talking with a Chinese accent?" And here's the thing: watch him long enough and he starts to look Chinese. Either Sidney Toler was a total stiff or a real-life shapeshifter.

Not their best movie, but at least Groucho is funnier
than Sidney Toler.

Three actors and one short running time: those are the reasons to watch The Longest Night.. But wait, there's more, and even odder than anything else. Five years later, it was remade as The Big Store starring the Marx Brothers in their final Metro picture. Same plot, same character names, only with music, even more of a romantic subplot, and Groucho in the Sidney Toler role. 

Although The Big Store runs 1'23", it probably contains only 51 minutes of genuine entertainment. That should tell you something about both movies. But at least The Longest Night is upfront about it.

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

 For more on young Robert Young, go here.

For more on Ted Healy, go here.

For more on Sidney Toler, go here.

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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