THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 59

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 53

 It's an all-star Early Show spanning 24 years of movies and television, with gangsters, reporters, doctors, and juvenile delinquents ready to entertain, threaten, and shill for the sponsor.

THE GUILTY GENERATION (1931): Gang boss Tony Ricca pays an unexpected visit to his son, a promising architect who's changed his name from Marco Ricca to John Smith in order to hide his parental heritage. Wanting to make amends with his son, Tony promises to set him up with his own architectural business. Marco/John wants nothing to do with him or the whole dirty world of yeggs, tommy guns, and bootleg giggle water. So what is he to do when learning that the girl he falls in love with, Maria, is the daughter of Mike Palmero, another gang leader who's also Marco Ricca's chief rival? 

There's no reason to delve further into The Guilty Generation's story. Just think of Romeo & Juliet mashed with Little Caesar. Now picture Ricca padre e figlio played by pre-Frankenstein Boris Karloff and 24-year-old Robert Young.  Now we're talking Entertainment with a capital ENTER, whether either of them seems Italian or not. (Karloff's attempts are limited to one-word sentences like "grazie" in his British accent).

Too bad The Guilty Generation never lives up to what it promises in the first reel, since Karloff is barely seen again. Apparently, Columbia Pictures decided it was best to give dialect actor Leo Carillo (If You Could Only Cook) the bulk of the movie as Mike Palmero with his "whatsamatter with you, eh?" routine on full display. It's only when Palmero learns that his son has been knocked off by Ricca and finds out John Smith's real identity that Carillo's performance gets serious. Like, real serious.

Constance Cummings isn't given much to do as Maria Palmero except moon over Robert Young and show embarrassment by her brother Joe's drunken antics. Leslie Fenton (The Hatchet Man) jumps into Joe's role with nasty gusto, lashing out at his father and whoever else strikes his fancy.  If Karloff and Carillo had switched roles, The Guilty Generation wouldn't have been guilty of overpromising and underdelivering. 

BONUS POINTS: The startling way Mike Palmero's mother prevents him from interfering with his daughter's happiness still startles nearly a century on.

CLEAR ALL WIRES! (1933): 

From roughly 1932 to 1934, movies were awash in zany political satires, mocking capitalism, communism, fascism, and in the case of Clear All Wires!, journalism. And during that time, you couldn't have a fast-talking, double-crossing, woman-chasing reporter played by anyone other than the great Lee Tracy.

No stranger to faking his own kidnappings, twisting the news to guarantee headlines, or double-crossing his rivals, Chicago Globe reporter Buckley Joyce Thomas and his right-hand man Lefty fly to Moscow to cover the 15th anniversary of the Russian revolution, promising top officials that Pres. Roosevelt will recognize the communist government if they just sit down for an exclusive interview. Faster than you can say dobroye utro tovarishch, Thomas is hanging with Stalin, a commissar, and a disgruntled Marxist who wants to overthrow the current Communist government. But just as Thomas is making room for a Nobel Prize, the head of the KGB learns that his attempted assassination was arranged by the reporter. Not for real, mind you, just for the headlines. Tell that to the firing squad.

Few movies at the time of Clear All Wires!' release were so relentless in satirizing real-life politics and culture as is done here. (Would you expect to see a sight gag involving Stalin?) Yet instead of dating the movie, it oddly feels contemporary in its topical, SNL-style. It's easy to picture young men at the time wanting to become newspaper reporters due solely to the way Lee Tracy makes the job seem so damn fun. Other than that firing squad, that is. 

With James Gleason as the side-of-the-mouth-talking Lefty and Una Merkel as Thomas' ex-lover (and current girlfriend of his editor), and, of course, Lee Tracy's rat-a-tat delivery, Call All Wires! is a banger of a comedy offering an impressive number of big laughs. Highly recommended especially for those unfamiliar with its sadly forgotten star. Maybe I should run a Lee Tracy retrospective in my living room sometime.

BONUS POINTS: As with the Humphrey Bogart picture Sirocco, the dialogue heard in opening scene with Thomas chatting with an Arab chieftain could be taken from a similar interview today.

BEDSIDE (1934): X-ray technician Bob Brown becomes a physician the old-fashioned way: buying the medical diploma off of a washed-up doctor-turned-morphine junkie going by the name of John Smith. (Can't anyone come up with a better alias?) By hiring a real doctor to do the heavy lifting and a PR rep named Sparks, Brown soon becomes the toast of New York society hypochondriacs. But as his lack of medical knowledge and the junkie doctor catch up with him, Brown learns that a piece of paper doesn't make you a real doctor -- especially when he's expected to perform brain surgery on his nurse.

By 1934, Warren William had made a career of playing scoundrels, cads, and scalawags, but his quack role in Bedside takes the bedpan. He gambles away the $1500 his girlfriend Caroline lent him to finish med school; turns away from examining a sick child because he can't be bothered with her; spends more time clipping his photos from newspapers than most doctors do on the golf course; and comes thisclose to killing a patient. And when he isn't at the office -- and often when he is -- he's gambling and drinking his life away. Even I started to find the guy despicable, and I love Warren William.

You know who else loves him? His nurse Caroline (Jean); his medical partner Dr. Wiley (David Meek, the actor who always is meek); and his PR pro Sparks (the ever-reliable Allen Jenkins). The only person on to him is the hophead who sold him the med school diploma (David Landau), and who continues to haunt him by returning uninvited for his morphine fix. (By the end, he's rubbing his nose and talking a mile a minute, indicating that he's become a cokehead, too.) To see a Warren William character brought low due to his own misbehavior isn't all that unusual. But what is, is how low a louse he eventually becomes, and how you wind up rooting for the law to catch up to him. Don't see Bedside before your next annual check-up. And if you do, ask the doc if he knows how to correctly perform a simple suture. You'd be shocked to learn how some so-called medical professionals don't.

BONUS POINTS: Director Robert Florey goes in for a little German expressionism in the climactic scene with Landau taunting William in the o.r. 

THE ELGIN HOUR: "CRIME IN THE STREETS" (1955): This live television play might have introduced every juvenile delinquent cliche of the '50s. The angry young teen out to murder someone just because. His overworked mother blaming herself for how he turned out. His frightened little brother. The Italian immigrant who owns the corner malt shop and whose son is part of the neighborhood gang. The social worker who understands that the kid acts the way he does because he's had a rough life and wants some attention.

You've seen it all before, somewhere or another. But per usual with productions like this, its creators and cast that make it worth 60 minutes of your time. Script by TV legend Reginald Rose, direction by Sidney Lumet. Robert Preston as social worker Bob Wagner. Former Warner Bros. star Glenda Farrell as Frankie's mother. Future Oscar-nominated director Mark Rydell as gang member Lou. Future musician/songwriter/Brian Wilson collaborator Van Dyke Parks as Frankie's little brother Richie. And as the incorrigible Frankie, the future incorrigible director John Cassavetes. All this and the original Elgin Watch commercials!

As good an actor as Cassavetes was, it must have been kind of a stretch for the 26 year-old to play the eight years his junior Frankie. He doesn't look 18 but is convincing enough as one kicked around by life to age beyond his years. Only Mark Rydell (also 26) rivals him in striking looks and talent as the crazy-eyed Lou, who appears headed to the psych ward instead of prison.

As with many 1950s TV productions, Crime in the Streets presents old school stars going toe to toe with young Method-era whippersnappers.  No question Crime in the Streets is dated but is still a good example of a time when TV presented live plays with top-notch New York talent before everybody moved to Hollywood and got as many takes as they wanted with video tape. Meh.

BONUS POINTS: When Frankie and his gang synchronize their watches, it gives us a chance to see a close-up of -- guess what -- Frankie's Elgin watch. How do these ruffians afford them? Oh wait -- they're on sale this week at your local department store!

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 42

By sheer coincidence, three of these titles are from 1951, which will never be confused with 1939 as a classic year for movies. 

SKYSCRAPER SOULS (1932): Warren William, the King of the Pre-Codes,
temporarily left his homebase at Warner Bros. for M-G-M as super-rich banker David Dwight, who isn't super-rich enough to outright own the skyscraper he's built. Nor is he moral enough to stop stringing along his loyal secretary Sarah while he woos her beautiful young niece, Lynn, who's currently dating Tom, a bank teller. Dwight solves the first problem by taking on a partner and issuing stock. As they start manipulating the market, everyone who bought shares in the stock -- including Tom -- lose their money, with unintended consequences all around.

While the story of Skyscraper Souls is pure Warners -- amoral boss, willing secretary, sex without guilt -- its gloss is M-G-M all the way. Warren William never starred in a better-looking movie, that's for sure. Louis B. Mayer must have gazed enviously at the box office take William's movies provided, and wanted a piece of the action, budget be damned. In fact, bigger budgets were the studio's whole reason for being. An overhead shot of the Dwight Building lobby is breathtaking in its size and scope -- this is a place where anybody would want to work, even if the boss is lecherous and, ultimately, near-sociopathic in his plan to bankrupt innocent  investors in order to gain entire ownership of his office tower, leading to one of the pre-codes' more genuinely shocking climaxes in what was, until then, something of a nasty joyride of a picture. 

Thanks to the seemingly different way people aged a century or so ago. 38 year-old Warren William and 29 year-old Verree Teasdale both look middle-aged, all the more commendable to be paired as lovers as well as boss and secretary, making his affair with 22 year-old Maureen O'Sullivan (who definitely looks her age) likely that much more risible to some audiences today but perfectly acceptable (and understandable) in 1932, even if she already has a boyfriend. There's a price to be paid for all those sexual and financial shenanigans, unusual in a pre-code like Skyscraper Souls, yet fitting nonetheless. 

BONUS POINTS: Boris Karloff can be seen in a two-second walk-on in a bank scene. Was his role meant to be larger, or was he between takes of The Mask of Fu Manchu at Metro when Skyscraper Souls director Edgar Selwyn put him through make-up and wardrobe just for fun?

YES SIR, MR. BONES (1951): Over five decades ago, I stumbled upon Yes Sir, Mr. Bones while flipping through the TV dial, and what little I watched scared the hell out of me. Since then, the very idea of minstrel shows has become more bizarre even as "all in good fun" blackface has had a resurgence. Ergo, I'm asking for trouble by even watching this super-cheap release from poverty row studio Lippert Pictures, while saving you the guilt you'd feel from watching it yourself. 

Hanging on by the barest of plot threads -- a little boy visiting a rest home for former minstrel entertainers gets to imagine what one of the shows was like -- Yes Sir, Mr. Bones is historically important for two reasons, even if only one of which would be acceptable today. First, it features entertainers who actually appeared in minstrel shows of yore, including husband and wife team Chick & Cotton Watts, the remarkably offensive Slim Williams, and the legendary Emmett Miller, whose eerie "high yodeling" singing influenced Jimmy Rodgers and, eventually, Hank Williams. Unfortunately, Miller gets only a few seconds demonstrating his style, spending a large chunk of his time doing a typical mushmouth routine with Ches Davis.

A more acceptable -- and entirely unsurprising -- reason to watch Yes Sir, Mr. Bones is that the handful of black entertainers featured are so much better than the ofays in blackface. Monette Moore's vocalizing of "Stay Out of the Kitchen" (likely sung this one time only) makes up for her Aunt Jemima wardrobe, while Brother Bones's whistling and "bones"-playing of "Listen to the Mockingbird" amazes even today. But it's the hilarious team of F.E. Miller and Scatman Carothers (who would later drop the "a" from his last name) that steal the show with a sample of the so-called "never-ending" conversation that Miller shared years earlier on stage with Mantan Moreland. (They were teamed in the previously-discussed Mr. Washington Goes to Town.) These two pros are so brilliant that it makes you wonder what they and their brethren thought of being onstage with dopey guys in blackface. From start to finish, Yes Sir, Mr. Bones is only an hour long, which, along with its restoration, may or may not be enough to get you interested in watching it on YouTube. (I know, I know -- somebody spent good money on restoring Yes Sir, Mr. Bones? There must be a big audience for blackface in the 21st century.)

BONUS POINTS: Never heard of Brother Bones? If you've ever watched the Harlem Globetrotters, you've definitely heard his 1949 recording of "Sweet Georgia Brown". Scatman Crothers went on to make 134 movie and TV appearances, his best-known being Halloran, the hotel maintenance man in The Shining. 

THE HOODLUM (1951): Against the advice of the warden, 12-time loser Vincent Lubeck is let out of stir and into the arms of his dear old mother. His younger brother Johnny isn't so welcoming, but at the behest of mom gives Vince a job at his gas station. Vince returns the favor by driving away customers, knocking up Johnny's girlfriend Rosa, and plotting a bank heist with some of his chums from the old days. You can get dizzy counting the number of subsequent deaths, including mom (by heartbreak), Rosa (via swan dive off an apartment building) and Vincent himself. Well, at least Johnny still has the gas station.

Lawrence Tierney was still riding the fumes of his star-making role in Dillinger from 1945 when The Hoodlum was released. This low-budget programmer has every cliche in the screenwriters' book, including the gray-haired mother with an Easter European accent, and a robbery that doesn't go as planned. But none of that matters with Tierney in the lead. Not a great actor by any stretch -- he's only marginally better than George Raft, whom he also sounds like -- Tierney nevertheless is one of the scarier bad guys of his time. Maybe he was drawing from his real-life exploits of bar fights and beating up cops (which derailed his career), but there's something undeniably unnerving about his performance in The Hoodlum, or any of his bad-guy roles. 

You can't say he has no depth as an actor; you can see Vince's shame when, on the run from the cops, his dying mom admits to being wrong about urging the parole board to free him from prison. But until that point, Tierney is at his best treating Rosa like dirt after she asks him to run away with her, splashing a car with gasoline because he doesn't like the driver, or shooting as many bank guards as possible at the robbery. 

Edward Tierney, Lawrence's real-life younger brother, is strictly one-note as Johnny, perhaps due as much to the script as his talent, although it's pretty interesting to see the two siblings going at it the way they do. By the climax, when Johnny pulls a gun on Vince with the promise to kill him at the town dump, you wonder if any of what you're watching was cathartic for Edward, whose career didn't go much of anywhere. As for Lawrence, he was already on the fast-track to smaller roles and only the occasional TV appearance before his great comeback in Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs in 1992, where he had become unrecognizable from the almost handsome but still scary actor he was in The Hoodlum. 

BONUS POINTS: Shaky rear-projection in the apartment rooftop scene makes L.A. look like it's experiencing a 2.0 earthquake.

SIROCCO (1951): Outside of In a Lonely Place, Humphrey Bogart's self-produced movies for Columbia aren't highly regarded. But give one of them, Sirocco, credit for being intriguing if nothing else, as Bogie portrays a genuine antihero that you're not sure you want to root for, seeing that his character, Harry Smith, is smuggling weapons to Syrian terrorists -- or are they freedom fighters? -- battling the French occupational force in 1923. (The sounds of violent street fighting run almost nonstop until the very end.) Smith finds himself attracted to Violette, the sidepiece of Col. Feroud of the French army, who makes the smuggler his number one target more for personal than professional reasons. After being informed on by a colleague, Smith suddenly finds himself shunned by almost everybody he knows -- except, ironically, Feroud, who does him a favor, ultimately at the cost of one of their lives. 

As with another of Bogart's Columbia releases, Tokyo Joe from two years earlier, Sirocco gives off a Casablanca vibe; hell, nine years after that classic's release, the tagline on the one-sheet above doesn't even try to hide it. Mideast intrigue, guys in fezzes, a foreign dame, and the lead character who has no cause to believe in, no loyalty to any side -- he can even get you out of the country for a price. The difference is that you know from the get-go that it's all a front for Casablanca's Rick Blaine. Sirocco's Harry Smith is a cynic bordering on nihilist, seeing that he doesn't care who or how many die as long as he gets paid. And he walked out on his wife back in the States!  In a way, it's kind of a refreshing change to see him not as a conventional hero or bad guy but something in between -- or, perhaps, out of bounds.

Also going for Sirocco is the fine cast of supporting characters actors. Bogart, comfortable in his own skin on and offscreen, seems to have no problem being upstaged every time he turns around. He must have enjoyed working with Everett Sloane and Zero Mostel on his previous movie The Enforcer, seeing they appear here respectively as the French commanding officer Gen. LaSalle and smuggler Balukjiaan, the man who drops a dime on Smith to save his own neck. The familiar Peter Brocco and Jeff Corey underplay to good effect as a sarcastic barber and witty jewel thief, while the lively Nick Dennis (Harry's sidekick Nasir) unashamedly steals every scene from Bogart with the ease of Jerry Colonna, whom he resembles. As with The Enforcer, Sirocco provides proof that a new generation of actors had come along who undoubtedly admired Bogart but had their own way of doing things. 

So it's kind of strange that the biggest name outside of Bogart, 40-year-old Lee J. Cobb, doesn't register well as Col. Feroud. Hulking, jealous, prone to anger yet desirous of brokering a truce between the French and Syrians, Cobb is nevertheless wrong for the part. (He and Everett Sloane might have swapped roles to better effect.) As for Marta Toren as Violette, whatever sex appeal she exudes -- which isn't much -- is overpowered by her character's greed. You just don't buy Smith's attraction to her, unless it's because she's a woman who matches him in misanthropy. These little problems aside, Sirocco overall is a well-made, fascinating drama, and probably the second best of Bogart's Columbia pictures.

BONUS POINTS: Cobb's dialogue with LaSalle and the emotionally cold leader of the Syrian underground proves nothing has ever changed in the Middle East and never will. Maybe Harry Smith was onto something after all.

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 33

The years 1931-1933 are spotlighted here, with three pre-code features and one short. You won't find these on any of those "Movies You Must See Before You Die" lists. Unless I'm compiling them.

THE VICE SQUAD (1931): While Warner Brothers was getting condemned for allegedly "glamorizing" criminals, here Paramount went in the other direction by exposing crooked cops. For two years, former upright lawyer Stephen Lucarno has been blackmailed into being a stool pigeon by Vice Squad commander Matthews. Having disappeared from his old life, Lucarno now drinks his days away while waiting to frame hookers at night. His life seems to turn around with a chance meeting with his friend Judge Tom Morrison, whose sister is Lucarno's ex-fiancée Alice. But just as a reconciliation with her seems imminent, Lucarno learns an innocent acquaintance, Madeline Hunt, has been framed on a trumped-up charge. Alice gives Lucarno a choice -- return to her and the life he once knew, or lose it all by testifying on Madeline's behalf. 

The Vice Squad plays cute by having cops referring to hookers as "vagrants" and prostitution as, you guessed it, "vagrancy", despite it never being in doubt what these dames are up to. As with a lot of pre-code pictures, The Vice Squad never really comes down hard on these women. If anything, their plight appears to be the fault of society, the Depression, and guys like the ogrish Det.-Sgt. Matthews, who roped Lucarno into being a stoolie when the latter refused to identify a sidepiece who fatally ran down a cop. Better to keep the arrest numbers up than trying to solve the murder of a colleague!

Despite Lucarno getting himself into his mess, Hungarian-born Paul Lukas (Address Unknown, Downstairs) gives the character humanity; his shame at falling so far is shown right down to the worn-out tips of his dress gloves. While only 36, Lucas passes for a middle-aged man who has thrown his life away. (Judith Wood, as Madeline, was 25 but looks two decades younger than him.) Kay Francis, not quite yet the queen of pre-codes, doesn't have a whole lot do other than moon for Lucarno, but she does it with her usual class, style, and lisp. The gaudily-named actor Rockliffe Fellowes makes you hate Matthews even more than you normally would -- here's an guy unafraid to be make a bad cop look even worse. Credit The Vice Squad for giving 1931 audiences the chance to boo the alleged good guys and sympathize with the so-called criminals for once. But did it occur to them that the woman who killed the cop in the first reel got off scot-free?

BONUS POINTS: Street names are altered just enough -- Barrow to Harrow, Christopher to Cristobal -- so it isn't necessarily the New York vice squad that's corrupt. It just... sounds like it.

FALSE FACES (1932): Dr. Silas Brenton, having been thrown out of Bronx General

Hospital for unethical behavior, sets up shop in Chicago where he becomes a plastic surgeon despite lacking the proper training. As Brenton's business and fame grow, his scruples lessen, promoting skin creams, hosting his own radio show, and starting an affair with Florence Day, the wealthy adult daughter of his latest patient, while still sleeping with his secretary Elsie. Brenton's luck runs out when his treatment of a patient's bowlegs ends in an amputation. Acting as his own attorney, Brenton's melodramatic closing arguments sway the jury in his favor -- but his unfortunate patient has the final word. 

Rat bastards weren't uncommon in pre-codes, but Silas Brenton is one for the books -- he lost his Bronx job by extorting money from poor patients at what was supposed to be a free hospital. In Chicago, he refuses payment from a famous actress, then sues her for non-payment to get his name in the papers. He promises to fix the droopy eye of Florence's mother, while knowing all along it'll never work. He refuses to answer the telegrams from the nurse he was sleeping with in the Bronx. Lowell Sherman (who also directed) plays Brenton so that the audience feels pure joy when fate finally catches up to him. He's quite good, often reminiscent of his friend (and real-life brother-in-law) John Barrymore, clearly loving this monstrous character. 

Speaking of pre-code, Sherman's direction gets the idea across of Benton's relationship with Georgia, the Bronx nurse, as he helps her with her coat while the image of his unmade bed lingers in the background. He also gets fine performances from familiar supporting actors including David Landau (70,000 Witnesses) and the doomed Peggy Shannon (Turn Back the Clock). This surprisingly good looking, low-budget release from Sono Art-World Wide (the studio with the outrageous logo) might be called False Faces but is a real treat.

BONUS POINTS: Eddie Anderson has a brief scene as a chauffeur, five years before gaining fame as Rochester on The Jack Benny Program.

FROM HELL TO HEAVEN (1933): This might as well be titled A Grand Hotel Day at the Races. A bunch of couples, singles and suckers, all betting on different horses in the same race, have good reason to hope their choices pay off. Wesley Burt needs to repay the $3,000 he embezzled from his employer. Two-timing dame Colly Tanner is $10,000 in the hole. Horse owner Pop Lockwood is down to his last bale of hay. Sam the bellhop just wants to make an extra buck or two. And a criminal is going for some extra dough before he blows town -- and perhaps for good reason, seeing that his name is Jack Ruby. Stay outta Dallas, Jack!

It would be nice if Universal Pictures, which owns the rights to Paramount's pe-1948 movies, restored the latter's obscure movies for limited-run DVDs. Instead, we have to put up with washed-out prints of From Hell to Heaven on YouTube. It's a real shame, for this is a fun little comedy-drama that never outstays its 67-minute welcome. (Some prints online are missing the first 10 or 15 minutes!). Nor does it shy away from its obvious Grand Hotel influence, seeing that Jack Oakie repeats Lewis Stone's observation that "nothing ever happens" at the resort where most of the action takes place. (Oakie even shoots a knowing glance at the camera when he repeats it at fade-out.) I'll stake my "reputation" and say out loud that From Hell to Heaven is better than Grand Hotel. It's certainly shorter.

In addition to Oakie and fellow Paramount contract player Carole Lombard (whose character is willing to sleep with her ex-bf in exchange for 10-grand), there are enough freelancers and loan-outs from other studios to fill the Kentucky Derby. Berton Churchill and Eddie Anderson (both featured in False Faces), David Manners (A Bill of Divorcement), Clarence Muse (Black Moon), Thomas E. Jackson (Broadway), and a dozen or so more, all playing to type. As each character bets on a different horse at the climax, you may find your loyalty shifting during the race (I was siding with the embezzler). There can be of course only one winner, yet all of the bettors get what's coming to them. Which, unfortunately, will probably never happen to people wanting a restoration of From Hell to Heaven. And you can bet the DVR on that.

BONUS POINTS: As someone who can neither sing, play piano, nor tap dance, I was in awe of Jack Oakie doing all three simultaneously. 

JUST AROUND THE CORNER (1934): Imagine entertainment-starved audiences reacting to a short starring Warren William, Dick Powell, Bette Davis, Joan Blondell, Ruth Donnelly, and Preston Foster! And with music from the still-hot 42nd Street under the credits, Just Around the Corner promised to be a slam-bang, two-reel extravaganza featuring the cream of Warner Brothers' contract players. 

The story doesn't seem to be anything to get excited about -- office drone 

Dick Powell inviting the boss Warren William and his wife Ruth Donnelly over to the house for the weekend for some trout fishing -- but isn't that true of all musicals? Sure, it's strange when Powell makes a point of pointing out the General Electric spotlights in the back yard... Ahh, but there's Bette Davis in the atypical role of happy housewife showing off her wonderful General Electric dishwasher... and General Electric refrigerator... and General Electric oven... and General Electric doorbell -- Uh, what's going on here? And how do they afford this stuff on Powell's salary? 

Glad you asked! It's easy on the General Electric payment plan! Once the dishwasher's paid off, they're getting a General Electric washing machine and iron, too! As THE END appears onscreen, that same entertainment-starved audience is probably thinking, We just paid good money to see a 20-minute commercial!

Actors knew what they were getting themselves into when they put their signature on the dotted studio line, but there was no way these folks ever expected Warner Brothers to throw them into a two-reel theatrical commercial for G.E. It's easy to picture Bette Davis, even at this early stage of her career, being one step away from shoving Jack Warner's hand down a General Electric garbage disposal. From a 21st-century perspective, Just Around the Corner is funnier than anything else Warner Brothers ever released. I mean, not only do Davis and Powell keep reminding us that G.E. appliances save time and money with the quiet repetition of a jackhammer, the refrigerator somehow saved the life of their little daughter! Buy General Electric products: a life may depend upon it.

BONUS POINTS: Joan Blondell gets off easy in her one scene, eating breakfast in bed and never once mentioning the words General Electric.

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MOVIE OF THE DAY: "FEAR" (1946)

The best thing to have happened to movies in the last 30 years is the art of restoration. For the first time since their original releases, classic studio movies are being seen they way they were originally presented. At times, they have the appearance of live television, startling in their clarity.

Then there are the public domain movies -- orphans -- from Poverty Row studios no longer in existence. Low budget to begin with, these movies have been around the block more than once and show their age. Lacking a negative or a clean original print, these pictures still have the faded, battered look people were used to when TVs were connected to rabbit ears. Their overall cheapness takes on a dreamlike -- nightmarish, really -- quality not necessarily intended. Yet this often works when it comes to B-movies, film noir-wannabes in particular. Movies like Monogram's Fear.

It's difficult to picture what Fear looked like during its original 1946 run, with the clarity and contrast that even low-budget movies like this had. Every scene, from the protagonist's apartment to the diner where he eats to the stationhouse, looks grimy. Even the nighttime scene at an innocent city park takes on a foreboding look, like a set from one of Monogram's monster movies (which it probably was).

Prof. Stanley is about to grade his last paper.

The story certainly fits the atmosphere. College student Larry Crain, facing a cut-off of his scholarship, murders his professor, who doubles as the local pawnbroker. (Unusual extracurricular activities on both their parts.) Leaving before the next customer arrives, Larry forgets the dough he killed for. In an overload of irony typical of B-movies, the next day Larry receives $1000 for a magazine article and learns that his scholarship has returned. Sucker! 

Immediately coming under suspicion by Police Captain Burke, Larry plays it cool. But as Burke and his sidekick Detective Shaefer gradually turn the screws, Larry can find no comfort anywhere, even in the arms of  his waitress girlfriend Eileen. When a simpleminded house-painter confesses to the crime, Larry feels he's gotten off scot-free. Relaxed at last, Larry decides to lam it out of town. Spotting Eileen on the next corner, Larry crosses the street, not looking at the traffic light or the truck heading his way...

"Why are we suddenly speaking Russian?"

It's a credit to my intellect that it took me only 50 of Fear's 67-minute running time to realize I was watching a cheapjack update of Crime and Punishment. Not that I'm a scholar of Russian literature. It's just that I recently watched the 1935 movie version starring Peter Lorre and Edward Arnold in what you might call the title roles. It would be generous to regard Fear as Monogram's attempt at class; more likely, it was easier than coming up with an original story, the novel was out of copyright and Dostoyevsky couldn't sue.

Larry orders the leg of Eileen.

But he probably would have returned from the grave had he known that Fear pulls the cheapest stunt in the Hollywood book near the end when we learn that the whole thing was a goddamn dream. There was no police investigation because there was no murder! Instead of getting mowed down by a truck, Larry receives a loan from his professor, a scholarship from the college, and discovers that Eileen is moving into his apartment building. This inexplicable bullshit ending (to paraphrase the late Thomas Edison) had me booing out loud from my armchair. It completely negates the entire reason for the movie's existence. I mean, you know going in that Fear it isn't real. But when you learn it really isn't real, it's like slipping on a banana peel placed in front of you by a tour guide. Bull. Shit.

Not that Fear would have ever been considered a classic in the classic sense of the word. Peter Cookson plays Larry in the key of stiff, although that might have been the idea; he appears to be in a haze just walking up the two flights of stairs to the professor/pawnbroker. (It's really gratifying to know that teacher's standards were low even then.) It's difficult to understand what his sweetie, Eileen, sees in him -- especially when she's played by Anne Gwynne, a dish with dimples the size of Arizona's meteor crater.

Darren McGavin, on the far right, suffers the
 indignity of being upstaged by actors nowhere near
as good as him.

None of the actors playing Larry's college friends registered, until I suddenly recognized a very young, very blonde, uncredited Darren McGavin, known to me as the star of the lamentably short-lived
Kolchak TV series, and everyone else as the father from A Christmas Story. Of all the college kids, McGavin alone shows any kind of real expression; his brief moments preview great things to come for him.

Eileen informs Det. Shaefer her boyfriend
isn't on the menu.

As usual, it's up to the police to clean things
up, both legally and, in this case, artistically. Nestor Paiva's Det. Shaefer is unsettling, a cop who turns up almost magically anywhere Larry happens to be, whether at home, the diner or the park. With an acting style as unusual as his name, Nestor Paiva looks like he should be in B-movies -- he doesn't have a face so much as a mug -- yet possesses the quality of an A-actor all the way. You notice him from the get-go, even start to look forward to his sudden, creepy appearances here. He completely outshines the rest of the major players in Fear...

"Hello, ladies! Like what you see?"

Except for Warren William. Stylish, well-dressed, polite yet a master of mind games, William gives Capt. Burke a manner alternating between respectful and menacing. Sounding almost British -- although born in Minnesota -- he seems too sophisticated for your typical B-movie cop, which isn't a surprise. In his glory days (1932-1935), William was the top leading man at Warner Brothers, the king of pre-code movies and enormously entertaining. He specialized in scoundrels, womanizers, cads and lotharios, ignoring young women's innocence and wedding vows with equal vigor. (I once referred to him as "the poor man's Barrymore" in the '80s. Now, you can't read a piece about William without seeing that phrase, once again proving my enormous power.) But when the censors started cracking down, it appears his type was no longer wanted. Over the years, like too many actors mentioned on this site, he gradually took a one-way ride to low-budget productions before dying two years after making Fear.

Don't get me wrong; there's plenty to enjoy in Fear. The atmosphere. The audacity of Monogram going all Dostoyevsky on its unsuspecting audience. Warren William and Nestor Paiva. (Why does his name look like it's spelled backwards?) You can deal with the so-so actors who hog most of the camera time, because, well, it's a Poverty Row production, and actors who started there tended to stay there for a reason (Darren McGavin excepted). But that ending! That lousy, good-for-nothing ending! For that alone, there's no way any self-respecting movie fan could watch Fear more than once. 

Just why the people involved thought this dream trope was a good idea is a mystery greater than any Monogram ever released. I keep hoping I'm dreaming it, and that I'll wake up to see Peter Cookson get mowed down by a truck, while Warren William heartlessly seduces and abandons Anne Gwynne before moving on to his next conquest. Now there's a movie worth re-watching.

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