Terminal Sigma

Black Legion (1937)

2011-06-09T18:28:00.000-07:00

Bad times have a way of bringing out the worst in otherwise normal people, and the Great Depression was certainly no exception. In 1935, a WPA worker in Detroit was killed by members of an organization known as the Black Legion, a northern offshoot of the Ku Klux Klan which was later revealed to have a significant membership across Michigan and Ohio. The sensational headlines that arose in the wake of the incident made great fodder for Hollywood screenwriters -- Warner Bros. adapted the story into a feature film aptly entitled Black Legion, which was released in January of 1937.

Black Legion tells the story of Frank Taylor, a factory worker who aspires to be the next foreman of the shop. Frank is more than a little frustrated, however, when he is passed over for the promotion in favor of Joe Dombrowski, a Polish immigrant with an apparent knack for machinery. Picking up on Frank's resentment, a fellow worker invites him to join the Black Legion, a shadowy organization purportedly out to defend the interests of "real Americans" from foreign infiltration and subversion. Under cover of darkness, Frank and the other legionaries put the torch to the Dombrowski farm and forcibly expel Joe and his aged father from the town. With Joe conveniently out of the picture, Frank is made the new foreman of the shop.

For a while at least, things appear to be going well for Frank -- he finally gets that new car he's been coveting, and his wife Ruth gets a much-needed new vacuum cleaner. Before long, however, Frank's involvement with the Legion begins to interfere with his life at home and at work. The Legion's nocturnal raids keep Frank away from his wife and son, and pressure to recruit new legionaries distract him from his work as shop foreman -- a costly accident occurs while Frank is attempting to enlist a worker into the ranks of the Legion, which leads to Frank being demoted from the position. Mike Grogan -- Frank's Irish neighbor -- replaces him as foreman. Once more, the Legion intervenes on Frank's behalf -- Grogan is dragged from his house in the middle of the night and flogged to within an inch of his life.

Suspecting both foul play and Frank's involvement therein, Ruth takes their son and goes to live with her parents. Despondent, Frank takes to drink and accidentally spills the beans about the Legion's activities to his friend Ed Jackson, who had been concerned about Frank's suspicious behavior for some time. Ed threatens to go to the police, prompting Frank to report him to the Legion. Ed is seized by the legionaries, who intend to beat him into silence. When Ed attempts to escape, Frank guns him down. Frank is overcome with remorse and flees into the night, only to run into the police, who arrest him for Ed's murder.

With Frank about to stand trial and the incident drawing much unwanted attention from the press, a lawyer in the covert employ of the Legion provides Frank with an alibi of self-defense -- and tells him that he'd better stick to it if he ever wants to see his wife and son again. The legionaries even attend the trial to ensure that Frank doesn't lose his nerve. Frank's conscience gets the better of him, however, leading him to confess to Ed's murder and turn in the other members of the Legion. For their crimes, Frank and the rest of the Black Legion are sentenced to life in prison.

Though Black Legion rightly condemns the xenophobia and bigotry it depicts, it does so in a thoughtful manner. Most significantly, the film illustrates quite credibly just how Frank Taylor -- an otherwise perfectly decent guy -- can succumb to the allure of extreme rhetoric, especially when times are tough. While Frank may not be an especially sympathetic character, he is most certainly a believable one. His family life, his professional ambitions and his workplace frustrations are remarkably true-to-life, particularly for post-production code Hollywood. Moreover, Frank's shortcomings ultimately serve to amplify the believability of his character -- most notably, his petty jealousy of Joe Dombrowski's success is the tragic flaw which leads him to join the Legion in the first place. Studio heads initially planned to offer the role to Edward G. Robinson, but for a variety of reasons -- among them the fact that the Jewish Robinson looked a bit too ethnic to really fit the role of a middle-American average Joe -- the role was eventually given to a lesser-known player named Humphrey Bogart. Bogie handles the part of Frank Taylor superbly, demonstrating in this early role the sort of acumen which would eventually land him among Hollywood's foremost stars.

In many ways, Black Legion feels quite similar to others the numerous, gritty "message pictures" for which Warner Bros. became known (it helps that director had many such pictures under his belt after several years at the studio). What sets the film apart from the other message pictures of the day, however, is that while bootlegging and speakeasies are largely relics of the past, the issues which Black Legion addresses continue to be problematic in American society. In one particularly memorable scene, the judge explains to the condemned legionaries that to engage in violent repression against a given group of people in the name of America is an utter perversion of the democratic principles upon which the nation was founded. It's actually one of the better patriotic monologues I've yet heard -- second only perhaps to Jimmy Stewart's impassioned speech before congress in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington -- and its message is one that bears repeating in the face of the current political climate.

Although not one of classic Hollywood's most renowned pictures, Black Legion is nevertheless a very good one. Its direction is solid, its acting is top-notch (especially where Humphrey Bogart is concerned) and its social themes are as pertinent today as they were in 1937. As fascinating as it is entertaining, Black Legion is definitely a must.

[Image Sauce]

Characters I Like, Ep. 3

2011-05-05T18:30:00.000-07:00

1945's The Lost Weekend might be the quintessential film about alcoholism. Drunkenness was hardly uncommon in films beforehand -- indeed, booze was a staple of pre-code films and and gangster dramas -- but alcohol was almost universally handled in one of two ways. Drinking was either played for laughs on the one hand or vilified as being symbolic of a greater moral failing on the other. The only sympathetic portrayals that readily come to mind are Lowell Sherman's Max Carey in What Price Hollywood? and Fredric March's Norman Maine in the original version of A Star is Born (given the similarities between the two films, these are almost the same character). What sets The Lost Weekend apart from these and other earlier films, however, is that the story is told from the perspective of the alcoholic protagonist, a struggling writer named Dan Birnam.

Dan Birnam -- played very ably by Ray Milland -- is the sort of character who might make easy fodder for a morality play. He lives with his brother, has no real job and goes on spectacular drinking binges with unpleasant regularity. Dan reveals that he dropped out of college in order to pursue a career as a writer, only to have that career stall out when he was unable to produce a successful piece. Increasingly distraught, he found solace in liquor. Don's story is true to life -- in writing the novel upon which the film is based, Charles R. Jackson drew significantly on his own experiences as a struggling writer during the Depression. This touch puts a very human face on Dan and his alcoholism, thereby making his story all the more compelling. Hardly if ever, one ought to understand, does someone take up serious drinking just for the hell of it; rather, alcoholism is more often than not a coping mechanism of one sort or another which evolves into a chemical and psychological dependency. This unfortunate series of events is precisely what has befallen Dan Birnam.

In one the film's most memorable bits of dialogue, Dan offers up a remarkably eloquent description of the allure of drinking:

It shrinks my liver, doesn't it, Nat? It pickles my kidneys, yeah. But what it does to the mind? It tosses the sandbags overboard so the balloon can soar. Suddenly I'm above the ordinary. I'm competent. I'm walking a tightrope over Niagara Falls. I'm one of the great ones. I'm Michaelangelo, molding the beard of Moses. I'm Van Gogh painting pure sunlight. I'm Horowitz, playing the Emperor Concerto. I'm John Barrymore before movies got him by the throat. I'm Jesse James and his two brothers, all three of them. I'm W. Shakespeare. And out there it's not Third Avenue any longer, it's the Nile. Nat, it's the Nile and down it moves the barge of Cleopatra.

To anyone with a particular fondness for the creature, this sensation described in this passage might seem eerily familiar (it certainly did to me). The painful irony of this is that an inability to write well drove Dan to drink, and yet a few drinks elicit from him a decidedly articulate streak. But when Dan, newly inspired, sits down at his typewriter to begin the book he's been meaning to write for so long, he loses his nerve -- he needs yet another drink to steady himself, which in turn leads to another and another, and further down the slippery slope he slides.

Dan's downward spiral leads him into some rather inglorious circumstances. He is thrown out of a ritzy club for attempting to steal a woman's purse (he wouldn't be able to pay his tab otherwise), he tries unsuccessfully to hock his typewriter for booze money (all the pawn shops are closed for Yom Kippur!) and eventually passes out, only to come to in the alcoholic ward of the local sanatorium. When the staff is distracted by several patients caught in the throes of delirium tremens, Dan manages to escape. He makes his way back to his brother's apartment, only to fall prey to the DTs himself. Dan eventually recovers with the help of his devoted girlfriend Helen (Jane Wyman), but realized that he cannot save himself and makes plans to end it all. Helen intervenes once more, however, and manages to convince Dan to try his hand at writing his book once more (as an aside, Helen must have a superhuman quantity of patience, having been with Dan for three years at this point. Most reasonable women, I imagine, would have walked out on him years ago, and quite rightly so).

To the casual observer, Dan Birnam is hardly an admirable figure. Indeed, in some regards he seems much like Patton Oswalt's Paul Aufiero in Big Fan. What sets them apart, however, is that while Paul lacks any significant direction and appears to care for little else but football, Dan aspires to great things but feels he is unable to achieve them. Further, Dan is well aware of -- and decidedly guilt-stricken by -- the drain he poses to his friends and family, whereas Paul was largely oblivious to anything beyond the boundaries of his insular world. Dan Birnam is, at heart, a good guy, and it is this aspect of his character that makes him so believable and sympathetic.

Anyone who has undertaken an ambitious creative endeavor will tell you that there are few things more soul-crushing that to wish to create without being able to. My own experience has taught me as much. I couldn't help but recognize in Dan Birnam's struggles an exaggerated reflection of my own, to the degree that I occasionally got the feeling that while watching The Lost Weekend I was also watching some sort of dystopian vision of my own future. Like Dan, I struggle with writing and, also like Dan, I have a greater fondness for the creature than I perhaps ought to (I hasten to add, however, that I am hardly as terminally dependent on the stuff as Dan is).

The hard-drinking protagonist has become a fairly commonplace trope in the sixty-odd years since the premier of The Lost Weekend, to the degree that heavy drinking plays significantly in a character's coolness factor (the same can be said of other self-destructive habits, smoking in particular, but I digress). Nevertheless, Dan Birnam's whiskey-soaked odyssey retains the same powerful effect it had back in 1945, in large part because it feels so sincere. Ray Milland won the Academy Award for best actor for his role as Dan Birnam, and well-deservedly so -- that Dan is so sympathetic a character is due as much to Milland's affecting performance as it is to the solid writing and direction of the film as a whole (Billy Wilder won the Award in both of those categories, and The Lost Weekend won Best Picture of the year). After only two viewings, The Lost Weekend has become one of my favorite films, and Dan Birnam is easily one of my favorite characters.

Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans (1927)

2011-03-31T18:23:00.000-07:00

1927's Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans has the distinction of being the only film in the history of the Academy Awards to receive an Oscar in the category of “Most unique and Artistic Picture.” It is a film quite deserving of that appellation – it is a film that emphasizes atmosphere and theme over plot and characterization. This is not to say that the narrative – or indeed the film as a whole is incoherent or disjointed, only that the film relies on the bare essentials of storytelling to get its point across. The settings and characters remain anonymous, and the themes which the film discusses are hardly groundbreaking. Indeed, Sunrise feels like nothing so much as a fairy tale set to celluloid. It is a rather unorthodox approach, but thanks to the excellent direction and cinematography of Friedrich Wilhelm Murnau – most famous for directing the 1922 German film Nosferatu – it is quite effective.

As the film begins, we learn that a Man (George O'Brien) and his Wife (Janet Gaynor) have become increasingly estranged from one another. The reason for their marital troubles is a Woman from the City (Margaret Livingston), with whom the Man has been carrying on a less-than-covert affair. During one of their moonlit liaisons, the Woman asks the Man to return to leave his homestead behind and go with her to delight in the pleasures of decadent city life. As for his wife, the Woman suggests that she be removed from the picture by an unfortunate “accident.” Unable to resist the Woman's seductive temptations, the Man agrees to go through with the plan.

For several reasons, this decidedly Faustian sequence is one of the most fascinating in the film. First off, we are treated to an impressive montage of the sights and sounds of the City – the music, the booze, the dancing and the rest of the hustle and bustle. In a film where dialogue is absent and intertitles are few and far between, such striking effects are a huge positive (for what it's worth, even the intertitles are visually distinctive in this film). Secondly, Margaret Livingston is perfectly cast as the sultry temptress – she is dark and alluring, and at the same time vivacious and full of sex appeal. A rather convincing portrayal, to say the very least.

The next day, the Man offers to take his wife on a boatride, an offer which the Wife accepts, blissfully unaware of his nefarious intentions. Once the boat is sufficiently far from shore, the Man rises and, looming monstrously over his cowering wife, prepares to throw her overboard. Thankfully, the Man realizes that he cannot bring himself to carry out the deed and relents, rowing feverishly for the opposite shore. Understandably, the Wife flees for her life as soon as the boat reaches dry land. The Man follows her, begging her forgiveness. They ultimately wind up in a chapel where, as fate would have it, a wedding ceremony is taking place. So moving is this ceremony – reminding them, perhaps, of their own wedding – that the Wife is able to forgive her husband for the crime he nearly committed, and the two leave the chapel with a newfound appreciation for one another.

Several reviewers take issue with this scene, specifically, the speed with which the Wife forgives the Man for very nearly attempting to kill her (for more on that, see Chris Edwards' review at Silent Volume). It's an objection I find hard to dispute. This is no mere argument over the dinner table; an attempted murder is hardly the sort of incident one can easily sweep under the rug. The Wife would be perfectly justified in making for the nearest courthouse and filing for divorce and a restraining order. That the Man and the Wife are so quickly reconciled seems more than a little improbable. Far-fetched though it may be, however, it is not entirely outside the realm of possibility. The Wife, by every indication, is a simple peasant woman -- her home, her child and her husband likely constitute her entire world. Without these pillars, that world would come apart at the seams. For her, it is better to have a husband and run the risk of running afoul of his violent temper than not to have one -- think, for example, of the battered women who, for reasons that make sense only to them, refuse to leave their abusive husbands. Attempted murder is obviously more grave than garden-variety domestic violence by several orders of magnitude, but it is quite possible that such a mindset is at work here.

A simpler way of getting around this problem, however, might be to consider that, at least in the context of this film, reading too deeply into characterization (as I just spent the last paragraph doing) is perhaps counterproductive. This film presents us not so much with fully fleshed-out characters as with representitives of types. Much like the figures in a fairy tale by the Brothers Grimm, one gets the impression that one need not understand why a character does what he or she does, but only that he or she does (does anyone question why, for example, Jack is gullible enough to exchange the family cow for a few magic beans, or why Goldilocks has no qualms about sneaking into a house while its occupants are out?). This approach would more than likely fail in a talking picture or a stage production, as those are heavily dependent on on characterization and dialogue to communicate. In a silent film, however, the means of communication is almost entirely visual, so this approach to storytelling manages to be effective.

The scenes which follow the reconciliation -- however improbable it might be -- mark a significant shift in tone from the earlier portion of the film. Whereas the buildup to the near-killing feels dark and increasingly suspenseful, the film takes on a much lighter aura in the wake of the cathartic scene in the chapel -- it's as though the audience is privy to the Man and Wife newfound happiness. The Man and Wife eventually arrive at an amusement park, where they cavort like a young couple on their first date (indeed, their first date might well have been here). The scenes in the amusement park are perhaps the most visually appealing in the film -- F.W. Murnau's expressionist pedigree manifests itself in the art direction here, as the amusement park looks like an amalgamation of Asbury Park and The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.

Having had a delightful evening, the Man and Wife return to their boat and set out for home. A fierce storm kicks up, however, and the boat is capsized by turbulent waters. The Man is able to reach the safety of dry land, but the Wife is nowhere to be found -- a search party is organized, but to no avial. Devastated, the Man returns to his house. Meanwhile the Woman from the city, noticing all the commotion, assumes that the Man has carried out her plan and goes to him under cover of darkness. She does not, however, receive the loving welcome she was expecting: ostensibly blaming her for his wife's death, the Man seizes the Woman by the throat, intent on choking the life out of her. The Woman is saved, however, when an old maid calls out for the man -- the Wife has been found, and is still alive. As the sun rises over the village, the Man and the Wife are joyously reunited, and the Woman from the city makes her exit, sulking on the back of a horse-cart.

Although it isn't without its shortcomings in the plot department, Sunrise is a fantastic movie in just about every other respect. The film is beautifully shot, the performances are solid all around and F.W. Murnau manages to cover a lot of emotional ground without it ever feeling too forced. The film was widely acclaimed by critics at the time of its premiere, but audiences were rather less enthusiastic -- in spite of its unique recognition as an artistic success, Sunries was not a hit at the box office. Fortunately for us, a copy of the film has survived in surprisingly good condition, and was added to the National Film Registry in 1989. Sunrise airs on TCM occasionally, and is also available on DVD. However you see it, Sunrise is an extremely worthwhile investment, and is, at least in my estimation, one the best pictures from the silent era.

Coming Back for More

2011-03-13T10:50:00.000-07:00

I have not been in the habit of re-reading books -- outside of books assigned for college courses, the only books I have re-read have been written by Kurt Vonnegut. I read Breakfast of Champions twice in high school, and I just recently finished A Man Without a Country for the second time. Much to my surprise, I found that I enjoyed it even more this time around than I did on the first read-through. This has convinced me that I need to give more than a few of my books a second reading.

If you are a bibliophile enraged at my ignorance, I must ask you to kindly put down that revolver before you do something you will regret later. Hindsight has made it quite clear to me that my erstwhile reading habits sprang from precisely the wrong attitude. Literature is art, and a work of art is not a merit badge to be earned and promptly forgotten. This is a long-standing objection I have had to the "1001 Maguffins you must Kerfuffle before you Die" series of books -- to experience something merely for the sake of experiencing it cheapens its value, and dimishes whatever reward you might hope to get out of it. It was only recently that I realized that I was falling prey to the same attitude.

You may be wondering why I haven't read the majority of my books more than once, especially considering that I have watched the same movies multiple times, have listened to the same albums over and over again and have played through many games more times than I care to remember. To be perfectly honest, I have no real answer -- it just never felt necessary to read a book over again. That reading a book -- especially a sizeable novel -- necessitates a considerable investment in time might have been part of the problem, but that really isn't an excuse. The time it takes to experience a work of art really hasn't much bearing on what I get out of it. This is especially true given that I have kept the majority of the books I have enjoyed.

Perhaps it's time to revisit the old favorites after all.

Pandora's Box (1929)

2011-02-21T18:40:00.000-08:00

Once in a blue moon, a director will chance upon the perfect player for a particular role. When such a stroke of luck occurs, the result is often a thing of beauty. One would be hard pressed to produce a better example of such perfect casting than director Georg Wilhelm Pabst's decision to choose Louise Brooks to play the role of Lulu in his 1929 film Pandora's Box. From the moment she appears on screen until the film's final fadeout, this is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, Louise Brooks' movie.

Pandora's Box -- or, if you prefer, Die Büchse des Pandoras -- tells the tale of Lulu, a woman with a dubious past and an irresistible sex appeal. The latter is a potent means by which she procures whatever it is her heart may desire, leaving in her wake a string of ruined men and discarded lovers. She is the archetypal "bad woman" about whom mothers warn their sons. Lulu's escapades take her from the stage of a Weimar cabaret to a dockside gambling house and finally to the slums of London, where she meets an inglorious end at the hands of a serial killer very much reminiscent of Jack the Ripper.

Lulu's story is told in a series of chronological acts that illustrate episodes in Lulu's torrid life (this narrative structure has the added bonus of keeping the story moving at a healthy pace; rarely, if ever, does the film feel as though it's dragging on). Lulu's only constant companions throughout her travails are a crusty old drunkard named Schigolch and Alwa, a young man who is hopelessly in love with Lulu. Schigolch is a particularly interesting character who would hardly be out of place in a novel by Charles Bukowski. Lulu describes him as her "first patron," which leads us to believe that he may be some sort of pimp. Later, however, our understanding of their relationship is muddied significantly when Lulu, in an attempt to save him from one of her lovers, claims him to be her father. This may not necessarily be true, but it is a tempting possibility, as there are a few instances in the film where Schigolch does seem to display some genuine paternal affection for Lulu. Furthermore, Schigolch is the only major character in the film whom Lulu does not screw over (or, just plain screw, for that matter). It's difficult to fathom a father who has no objection to his daughter sleeping around and eventually prostituting herself, but this is just the sort of moral ambiguity of which this film is quite fond of presenting to its audience.

Alwa, meanwhile, is quite possible the most pitiable and sympathetic character in the film. Even though it is painfully obvious that he is little more to Lulu than a boy toy with a well-stuffed wallet, Alwa is much to smitten with Lulu to bring himself to leave her. One can almost feel his soul being pounded into dust as he watches Lulu flirt and philander with other men (and women, as the case might be). The hopelessness of his emasculating circumstances are hardly lost on Alwa -- having fallen with Lulu into the gutters of the London slums, he laments to a curious Salvation Army worker that nobody can help him.

As complicated as are Lulu's relationships with her companions, her relationship with the audience is no less conflicted. Lulu is unrepentantly wicked and undeniably ruthless, yet in spite of that she is also somehow sympathetic. Reviving the theme of moral ambiguity, one finds that one is caught between wanting to see such an unscrupulous character get her much-deserved comeuppance on the one hand, and to see her escape punishment on the other. That such a contradiction is able to exist is due in no small part to the inimitable screen presence of Louise Brooks: here is an instance where one should believe the hype.

As Lulu, Louise Brooks blends a vivacious, girlish innocence with an artful and imperious sexuality -- she is no mere man-trap but a veritable Charybdis of feminine wiles. It is night on impossible to imagine a contemporary actress who could have handled the role as perfectly as Louise Brooks -- in the hands of a lesser actress, the character of Lulu might have suffered, but Louise gives the character such life that she almost seems to be playing herself (it is appropriate, if accidental, that the actress and the character should be so similarly named). Walking out on Paramount might have curtailed her career in Hollywood, but the end result is that Louise's legacy has far exceeded that of any of her more conventionally successful contemporaries.

Pandora's Box leaves me with little about which to complain (a noteworthy achievment, considering how much I like to gripe). To find fault with this film, at least for me, would be to split hairs. This is easily one of the best films of the silent era, and moreover one of the best to be created during the fruitful but all-too-brief flowering of the cinematic artform in the Weimar Republic (German cinema, it seems, can be added to the list of things which the Nazis ruined). Pandora's Box is available on DVD through the Criterion Collection -- a bit pricey, perhaps, but a worthy investment for anyone who enjoys quality films. This one is not to be missed.

Housekeeping

2011-02-20T12:18:00.000-08:00

It's been quiet around here, I know. There is, however, a good explanation for it. I want to reserve this blog for more meaningful, long-form writing, so to that end I've decided to get back into the tumblr game. Henceforth, all perfunctory image and video posts will be found at http://terminalsigma.tumblr.com/.

In the meantime, I've been working on another film review and I hope to have it up here in the next few days.

Intolerance (1916)

2011-02-05T10:40:00.000-08:00

D. W. Griffith's Intolerance is one of those films whose considerable reputation precedes it. Indeed, the only thing bigger than the film's reputation might be the film itself. Everything about Intolerance is grandiose, from the film's set design to its ambitious narrative scope. Even the film's subtitle -- Love's Struggle Through the Ages -- has an epic flourish about it. In one leviathan of a production, D. W. Griffith attempts to weave four episodes from human history into a single cohesive narrative, centering on the theme of the ruinous effect of intolerance on the course of human events. That Intolerance represents one of the watershed moments in the history of cinema is well documented, so it isn't necessary for me to give a dissertation about that aspect of the film. More interesting, rather, is the question of how well Griffith's film works as a individual opus. Was Griffith able to accomplish his goal of integrating four disparate stories into a single piece while simultaneously delivering a poignant message about the perils of intolerance? The answer is a resounding "sort of" -- the ambitious nature of the film is one of its strongest assets, yet at the same time, its most glaring weakness.

Intolerance is divided into four stories -- Judea at the time of Jesus, the Babylonian Empire, 16th century France and contemporary America (contemporary, that is, as of the 1910s). In each era, Griffith presents the audience with a different example of social or religious strife, and proceeds to illustrate how it has catastrophic consequences for those involved. In the modern world, a combination of puritanical social reformers and ruthless capitalists nearly ruins the lives of a working class boy and girl; in France, enmity between the Catholics and the Huguenots boils over in the form of the St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre; discord between followers of Ishtar and worshipers of Bel-Marduk leads to the conquest of Babylon by Cyrus the Great of Persia. As for Jesus, I think just about everyone knows what happened to him. Interspersed with all of this is a recurring image of a mother rocking the cradle while the three fates hover ominously in the shadows nearby. To make something of an understatement, there is a lot going on in this film.

Of the four episodes, far and away the most interesting is the story of Babylon. There is hardly a single shot of this segment that doesn't ooze with spectacle. Perhaps the most enduring image of the Babylonian segment is that of the Great Hall set, rightfully so -- the set was not just a model, and it most certainly wasn't computer-generated, but was a massive structure built to scale. A still image fails to do it justice; to truly appreciate the immensity of the set, one has to see it in motion, with legions of extras milling about it like bees in a gargantuan hive. No less impressive is the epic battle scene between the Babylonians and the besieging Persians, complete with siege towers, swarms of arrows, boiling oil, severed heads -- the first decapitations in film history, perhaps! -- and some sort of Babylonian flamethrower-tank which, despite being of dubious historical accuracy, is awesome as hell none the less. Add to this already potent mixture a few gratuitous scenes of scantily-clad harem girls going about their scantily-clad business (which apparently entails doing some sort of funky Babylonian macarena -- and the result is that D. W. Griffith seems to have captured the essence of Heavy Metal some sixty years before its inception! Finally, the Babylonian sequence also includes the most memorable character in the film: the Mountain Girl, as portrayed by Constance Talmadge. Not only is the Mountain Girl a certifiable badass -- she drives a chariot and launches arrows at the invading Persians during the siege of the city -- but Constance appears to be having the time of her life playing the character (for what it's worth, she actually piloted the chariot herself).

Although not without its highlights, the remainder of the film doesn't quite hold up to this lofty standard. The modern day storyline has a good deal of potential, but jumps the proverbial shark with a chase scene that seems a bit out of place in the film; it might be more at home in a slapstick comedy. There is, however, a particularly notable moment where we see that the trapdoor of the gallows where the nameless protagonist is sentenced to hang is triggered by the severing of three cords -- a timely visual allusion to the three fates of Greek mythology. Despite its drawbacks, the story still hangs together nicely.

Less captivating is the portion of the film which occurs in 16th century France. This segment is not as fleshed-out as its Babylonian and 20th century counterparts, and the acting is occasionally a bit too histrionic at times (King Charles, in particular, chews the scenery like nobody's business). Douglas Fairbanks does will in his role, and the St. Bartholomew's Day massacre is quite effective, but the build-up to the climax just isn't all that compelling. Finally, the biblical portion of the film feels tacked-on, as though it were a means of beating the audience about the head and ears with a religious and moral message (subtlety, it seems, was not D. W. Griffith's forte).

What is unfortunate about all this is that each of the four scenarios presented in Intolerance would likely work quite well if produced as individual feature films. Indeed, the excellent Babylonian segment did receive such a treatment -- Griffith re-released it as a stand-alone film in 1919 as The Fall of Babylon, and in the same year the modern storyline was re-released as The Mother and the Law. With a bit more development, the French scenario could work as the sort of swashbuckling historical adventure for which Douglas Fairbanks became famous. As for the biblical plot, the sheer number of (at least commercially) successful films about Jesus -- from King of Kings to The Passion of the Christ -- is proof that the story holds a wide and lasting appeal. Cramming all these elements into a single production, however, is like tap dancing and building a ship in a jar at the same time -- it's a classic example of trying to do too much at once.

My other complaint lies with the film's ending. In the closing minutes of the film, D. W. Griffith sermonizes on the importance of tolerance with a series of heavy-handed visuals -- smiling children, prisoners miraculously vanishing from jails, soldiers laying down their weapons and a heavenly host of angels hovering overhead. Rather than allow the common theme of his four stories speak for itself, Griffith opts to beat the audience over the head with the point he's trying to make. It's about a subtle as an axe to the forehead.

Intolerance was a critical -- if not commercial -- success when it was released, and continues to be regardes as one of the most important films ever made. Although I do have my complaints about the film, I cannot disagree about its significance. Intolerance was a paradigm shift in the history of film and in the art of film making. It is not without its flaws and its style may be somewhat dated, but the film's monumental importance makes it required viewing. Besides, the Babylonian sequence alone makes Intolerance worth watching at least once. If, as happened to me, you should find yourself stuck in a blizzard with an afternoon to kill, consider it a golden opportunity to watch one of the most epic pictures ever set in celluloid.

First in the Talkies

2011-01-24T19:30:00.000-08:00

The four Warner brothers (Bette Davis not pictured).

The more films I watch from the early sound era, the more it seems that Warner Bros. had the superior track record in comparison to MGM. Metro may have had the prestige, the star power and the production values, but Warners' comparably modest pictures seem to have aged much better. Much of this, I suspect, has to do with the material the two studios chose to adapt to the screen.

In its glory days, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer gave every indication that it thought of itself as a purveyor of high-minded and respectable material. This approach, if nothing else, was certainly profitable -- it played quite well to the American social mores of the day. To be sure, MGM did make quite a few good films at the onset of the talkies, but as the years have gone by many MGM productions of the time have begun to feel stodgy and antiquated. Many Metro pictures of the day were society dramas, adapted from the stage -- at their core, episodes in the lives of attractive, well-to-do Anglo-Americans with problems, typically of the marital variety. There are several such films that remain quite watchable to this day, but most feel a bit highfalutin and tedious.

Although Warner Bros. did try its hand at several such pictures, that studio demonstrated a much greater willingness to probe uncharted territories (indeed, it was Warner Bros. who began the talking pictures revolution with The Jazz Singer in 1927). Where MGM stuck with glamor, Warners' took a decidedly grittier angle -- the studio came to be specialize in pictures seemingly torn from the real world of the depression, in the process virtually inventing the gangster film as we know it today. The studio also imported from the theater the right kind of talent for these pictures -- James Cagney, Edward G. Robinson, Joan Blondell and Paul Muni, to name just a few (a bit later, the studio brought in a guy named Humphrey Bogart; you might have heard of him).

The pre-code crime drama was not the only area where Warner Bros. proved willing to blaze a trail. In 1932, the studio gambled on revitalizing the then-stagnant genre of the musical, beginning production of 42nd Street. The picture was a major success when it premiered in February of the next year, and Warner Bros. followed up with a series of successful musical pictures.

In both categories, MGM had to play catch-up. Although Metro had cornered the market on musicals by the 1950s, it never did achieve what Warner Bros. in the field of the crime drama. Fortunately for them, Metro's prestige pictures remained wildly popular, and in flux of new talent -- both on-screen and behind the scenes -- allowed the studio to be the only consistently profitable studio throughout the depression. Yet even if its pictures were not as immediately lucrative, the willingness of Warner Bros. to push the envelope has given many of its films a far more lasting appeal.

[Image Sauce]

Characters I like, Ep. 2

2011-01-17T16:53:00.000-08:00

*Jean Arthur not included.

More than once I've wondered what I would do if I were to somehow come into a major financial windfall. My inner cynic suspects that I would probably blow a significant portion of my money on a luxury condominium and a high-end booze (lots and lots of high-end booze), but the better angels of my nature would, I hope, convince me to devote at least as much wealth to some noble act of philanthropy, very much in the spirit of Gary Cooper's Longfellow Deeds.

Longfellow Deeds is the eponymous character in Frank Capra's 1936 picture Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, in which an unassuming guy from the picturesque burg of Mandrake Falls inherits a fortune from a distant uncle in New York. When he arrives in the city, Mr. Deeds is besieged by all manner of spongers and opportunists out to turn a profit at the expense of the rube cynically dubbed the "Cinderella Man." Far from being a small-town dullard, however, Longfellow Deeds is a quirky mix of pragmatism and eccentricity. Put simply, he's the sort of fellow who will insist on hearing the treasurer's report before allowing the Opera committee to make a decision on funding, but on the other hand will slide down the banister of his staircase, chase after firetrucks in hopes of helping to put out a fire, and play his tuba in order to concentrate.

Such personality quirks are an essential part of the reason why I identify with the character like I do. Just as Longfellow's tuba-playing is cited as evidence of his being "pixilated", I too have a few unconscious tics that manifest themselves when I am thinking about something (these habits were once mistaken for symptoms of autism when I was a kid). Another aspect of Longfellow's personality to which I can relate quite well is the fact that he is no suave lady-killer -- the slightest attention from a pretty girl causes him to act like a big dope. This is most perfectly illustrated by a scene wherein Deeds, following a successful date with girl reporter Babe Bennett (played memorably by the inimitable Jean Arthur), is so excited that he runs down the street at full speed, only to crash headlong into a garbage can. Undeterred, he gets right back up and charges around the corner (at which point we hear him plow into another trash can as the scene fades out). It's precisely the same sort of oafish thing I would probably do (if I ever had occasion to, anyway). Along similar lines, I can't help but appreciate his seemingly out-of-place sense of chivalry -- specifically, Longfellow dreams of rescuing a lady in distress. I don't know that I've ever held such romantic delusions, but I can certainly understand the sentiment.

As Longfellow Deeds, Gary Cooper nailed the "average schmuck" angle so perfectly that it allowed him to virtually reinvent his screen persona. Previously primarily a dashing hero of western and adventure pictures, Cooper came, in the wake of Mr. Deeds, to typify the everyman protagonist (not that he wouldn't return to the Western hero well a few times in his career). Indeed, he and director Frank Capra reunited five years later for a similarly-themed film entitled Meet John Doe. To make a tired point, it's virtually impossible not to like Longfellow Deeds as Gary Cooper portrays him, and it's very nearly as difficult not to identify with him in a least some way. Even if Gary Cooper hadn't brought him to life so perfectly, the character of Longfellow Deeds would still be an agreeable one -- I find it hard not to like a guy who has a left hook like Jake LaMotta and yet plays the tuba to help himself think.

Pink Floyd - The Division Bell (1994)

2011-01-08T14:53:00.000-08:00

As the years have gone by, my tastes in music have evolved and changed drastically. To give but one example, in 2007 I was very much into Black and Death Metal, whereas nowadays I am much more likely to listen to Benny Goodman or Starship Amazing than, say, Deathspell Omega. Yet amidst the ebb and flow of ever-changing musical tastes, there have been a few bands, albums and even songs that have stood the test of time. Foremost among this select few may be counted Pink Floyd, one of the most enduring bands in the history of Rock music. When pressed to name a favorite album of, most Pink Floyd enthusiasts will pick either Dark Side of the Moon or Wish You Were Here. These are certainly difficult choices to argue against -- although I am curious as to what degree these choices might be influenced by nostalgic recollections of listening to the albums on 8-track tapes whilst hot-boxing the back of a van -- but I would have to go with a more unorthodox option: 1994's The Division Bell.

This is perhaps a difficult choice to justify. Despite achieving double-platinum status in a matter of months, The Division Bell was panned by critics upon its release. Much of the bellyaching seems to revolve around the fact that The Division Bell sounds so very different from other Pink Floyd albums. This is an understandable complaint -- much of the music here seems more like experimental Space Rock than the sort of Classic Rock prevalent in Pink Floyd's earlier work (indeed, one critic dismissed it as "New Age noodling"). It should be remembered, however, that this was not the same Pink Floyd that recorded Dark Side or Wish You Were Here. Roger Waters had ended his association with the band nearly a decade earlier, and his absence is audible on The Division Bell -- put simply, the album just feels much different from its predecessors. Why, though, should that be such a bad thing? The Division Bell deserves to be judged on its own merits.

Those merits, it turns out, are considerable. With David Gilmour at the helm, the music here has a decidedly introspective and meditative character about it. Throughout the album there is a recurring theme of human communication, on various scales, whether it be a song of two humans, a cacophony of nations or a single man's alienation from the world around him. The point is perhaps made most manifest by none other than Stephen Hawking who, in one song, reminds us that "all we need to do is keep talking." Some critics have claimed that Gilmour's guitar work is somehow uninspired in comparison to his earlier work, but to perfectly honest, I just don't hear it. The musicianship on The Division Bell is no less impeccable as any of Gilmour's work before or since.

Although every track on the album is enjoyable, "High Hopes" would have to be my favorite. All at once it feels like both an overture and an encapsulation for the album as a whole. It is also the most personal song on the album, written by Gilmour from an autobiographical perspective. The song feels very epic -- not merely because it is long, but because it carries with it so much weight. More than any other song on the album, "High Hopes" is highly evocative of images. It's difficult to explain, but give it a listen and I'm sure you'll get what I'm on about.

The Division Bell was the last studio album ever released by Pink Floyd. It may not be as critically acclaimed as earlier entries in the Pink Floyd catalog, but it is nevertheless a great album in its own right, and a worthy concluding chapter to the history of one the most influential bands of the last century.

Musical Interlude: Солдатушки

2011-01-04T21:30:00.000-08:00

You know what we haven't had around here in a long time (besides much of anything)? Why, a musical interlude. Let us rectify this situation in style, with a Russian marching tune that dates back to the days of the Napoleonic Wars.

Obligatory Christmas Post No. 2

2010-12-20T18:26:00.000-08:00

Norma Shearer has nobody to kiss her under the mistletoe. I know I would.

Obligatory Christmas Post No. 1

2010-12-18T14:59:00.000-08:00

Anita Page shows off her considerable, ah, Christmas cheer.

Five More Movies I'd Like to See on DVD

2010-12-05T12:22:00.000-08:00

In August of last year, I drew up a list of five films I'd like to see released on DVD. Sadly, I'm still waiting for the vast majority of them (with one quite notable exception; see the previous post). Of course, I'm not about to allow that little detail to dissuade me from making more requests.

1. Ladies of Leisure (1930)

Ladies of Leisure is the story of hard-boiled dame who becomes the muse of an idle rich painter, in the process learning that there is more to life than cigarettes and gold-digging. This was the first collaboration between director Frank Capra and actress Barbara Stanwyck -- easily one of Hollywood's most fruitful collaborations -- and indeed it deserves to be included among the best of their work together.

2. What Price Hollywood? (1932)

What Price Hollywood? is a moving juxtaposition of a director rapidly slipping into drunken decline (as played by Lowell Sherman) and the aspiring actress whom he lovingly propels to stardom (as played by Constance Bennett). Although similar in many respects to the two iterations of A Star is Born, this film stands apart quite noticeably from those later pictures, thanks in no small part to the direction of George Cukor. Highly sympathetic performances from Sherman and Bennett add even more to the film. What Price Hollywood? was released on VHS in 1991, but a DVD release is very much in order.

3. Beverly of Graustark (1926)

Although I haven't actually seen this film just yet, there are quite a few reasons that I would very much like to. Among these may be counted the film's two-strip technicolor final scenes, its high marks on IMDB, its appealing mise-en-scene and Marion Davies in military regalia (don't give me that look; it's hot, and you know it).

4. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (1921)

Considering the fact that this was the film that made Rudy Valentino a household name, it's somewhat surprising that it has not yet been released on DVD. Adapted to the screen by June Mathis and directed by Rex Ingram, The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse tells the story of a family divided -- and ultimately nearly destroyed -- by the Great War (the traumatic memory of which was no doubt still quite fresh at the time of the film's release). This film absolutely floored me when I watched it, and I'm willing to bet it will have -- or has already had -- the same effect on you.

5. The Merry Widow (1925)

How well could an operetta possibly be adapted to a silent film? Extremely well, as it turns out. Great performances all around by Mae Murray, Roy D'Arcy and -- of course -- John Gilbert. In addition to that is the superb direction of Erich von Stroheim (on a much shorter leash from the MGM studio heads after the leviathan that was 1924's Greed). Part romance, part drama of royal succession, The Merry Widow is among the best films of the silent era.

Oh Happy Day

2010-11-27T14:46:00.000-08:00

Thank heaven for the Warner Archive collection!

Meant to Post this Earlier...

2010-11-25T18:46:00.000-08:00

...but better late that never, right? Happy turkey day, Internet!

Lola Lane

2010-11-22T15:30:00.000-08:00

Because damn. God damn, even.

The Most Dangerous Game (1932)

2010-11-15T18:05:00.000-08:00

I must admit: the first time I watched The Most Dangerous Game (1932) I wasn't all that thrilled with it. On watching it a second time, however, I found that I like it a lot more. I'm not entirely sure why -- perhaps because I'm more accustomed to the film-making techniques of the era, having seen so many movies of the same time period since the first go-around. It does have its fair share of flaws, but on the whole this is a fairly good picture.

The film begins with renowned hunter Bob Rainsford (Joel McCrea) aboard a yacht with a few of his pals, amicably discussing the merits of hunting for sport over glasses of scotch. Their conversation is interrupted when the ship, led astray by misplaced signal buoys, crashes into a reef off the coast of a Mysterious Island. With the rest of the crew drowned or eaten by sharks, Bob is left to swim ashore by himself. On the Mysterious Island he stumbles upon a Mysterious Castle, inhabited by an eccentric Russian Count named Zaroff (Leslie Banks) who shares Bob's passion for hunting and explains that he came to the island in order to hunt "the most dangerous game." Zaroff introduces Bob to a pair of fellow castaways, a sister named Eve (Fay Wray) and a brother named Martin (Robert Armstrong). After a little polite socializing, Zaroff sends Eve and Bob to bed, but offers to show Martin -- who is by now quite drunk on vodka -- his trophy room.

When neither Zaroff nor Martin return, Eve begins to worry and asks Bob to sneak into the trophy room with her. There they are mortified to discover that Zaroff's trophy collection consists primarily of severed human heads. Shortly after this revelation, Zaroff returns with Martin's body -- his newest trophy. When Bob confronts Zaroff, the Count offers him a choice: either hunt alongside the Count or become his next prey. Being a fine and upstanding gentleman, Bob refuses the offer and is consequently set loose in the jungle with nothing other than a knife and his wits (Eve has opted to come along with him, understandably preferring Bob's company to that of Zaroff, who has quite clearly explained his plans to give her the old in-out after killing Bob). If Bob can survive for twenty-four hours, he and Eve will allowed to escape the island.

The central premise of the film is an intriguing one, and for the most part it is executed quite well. The film moves along at a healthy pace and never drags -- indeed, at only just over an hour in running time, it's a fairly short and sweet affair. The camera work is solid, with a few particularly interesting shots -- most noticeably a few first-person perspective shots of running through the jungle during the hunt.

The acting is competent, if a bit hammy in parts. Joel McCrea is good enough as Bob Rainsford, but Leslie Banks cuts it a bit too thick as the count (not that it really detracts anything from the picture). Although she does overplay the "swooning damsel" aspect of her character, Fay Wray is otherwise agreeable in her performance, showing off her particular flair for looking positively scared shitless (it should also be noted that she looks quite fetching with her hair its natural dark color). Finally, Robert Armstrong's appearance as the obnoxious, drunken Martin is brief but memorable.

What I noticed in watching the picture a second time is that in many ways, The Most Dangerous Game feels like a spiritual predecessor to King Kong. There are a few reasons for this. To begin with, both pictures were produced and directed by the team of Merian C. Cooper and Ernest B. Schoedsack. Both pictures featured Robert Armstrong and Fay Wray, the latter spending a healthy portion of both movies running around the jungle in a dirty dress. Even the jungle itself feels similar in both films, right down to the log suspended over a gaping chasm (I'm not certain if that was that meant to be so Freudian, especially given the implicit threat to Fay Wray's chastity that is present in both films. Then again, sometimes a log over a chasm is just a log over a chasm). Finally, the same campy spirit that makes King Kong so great is present in The Most Dangerous Game, even if it isn't on the same grandiose scale. As with King Kong, it's very much because of the picture's camp that I wound up enjoying it.

The film's reliance on the tried-and-true cliches of the adventure genre has a way of winning one over. It's not a picture that's going to have you on the edge of your seat, but The Most Dangerous Game is fun enough to merit at least one viewing (and hey, as luck would have it, the movie is now public domain, which means you can watch it in its entirety at the Internet Archive).

In Which I Attempt Fiction

2010-11-08T21:53:00.000-08:00

This is the beginning of that book I mentioned in an earlier post.

The kitchen sink, as it ever seemed to be, was full of dirty dishes. Some were stained with pasta sauce so old that had begun to petrify into a brownish crust that, for whatever reason, reminded me of Yellowstone. The plates, at least, were mostly dry. It was in the water filled bowls that the true horrors of bachelorhood revealed themselves. What was once a bowl of banana bread-flavored oatmeal was now a primordial swamp out of which, at any given moment, I expected an heretofore unknown species of nematode to come crawling. Ours was less a kitchen sink and more a tiny cosmos; I less an underemployed Bachelor of the Arts and more a wrathful god, with the power to give life to a billion microbes with my munificent leftovers or to snuff it out in a moment with the cataclysmic power of soap and sponge.

The time had come for me to pass my apocalyptic final judgment over the kitchen sink once more, since all our forks were dirty and because Bryan Munzie – Bryan fuckin' Munzie! – had neglected to do the dishes like he'd promised he would.

“Aw shit, sorry man,” he said, clutching his head in his hands. “I forgot all about it. I thought up this awesome riff this morning and I spent all day trying to work it into that song I've been writing. Here, let me play it. It's fuckin' heavy.”

As he so often was about these sorts of things, Bryan was right – the riff was both awesome and fuckin' heavy. Not so much that it made up for the smell that was beginning to emanate from the kitchen, but enough so that I could overlook this latest transgression. This was vintage Bryan Munzie – he had a way about him that couldn't always keep his friends from being pissed at him, but could without fail keep them from staying that way. It was, perhaps, the same inexplicable personal charm that allowed him to bring home a different girl every other weekend in spite of the fact that he couldn't hold down a steady job to save his life. There was something about his mellow voice and scruffy beard that the ladies just seemed to find irresistible.

I, on the other hand, seemed to register somewhere between creepy and annoying to just about every girl with whom I would try to strike up a conversation. I always tried to be as gentlemanly and charming as I could, but I inevitably bungled every advance I made – I aimed to be like William Powell, but ended up like Jerry Lewis. Without fail, Bryan would come home with some starry-eyed girl on his arm while I came home with a half-empty hip flask and drunkenly crooning “Shuffle off to Buffalo” to nobody in particular. Bryan would take his lady friend du jour to his room and show off his collection of musical equipment and wow her with his schtick about being in a band and writing songs for their album. Sometimes, if she seemed like the sort of girl who liked such things, he would play a song or two for her on his guitar – he was, I must admit, a talented guitarist. What he and his girlfriend did next goes without saying. While all this was going on, I typically sat on the back porch, finishing whatever was left in my flask and having long, meandering conversations with the moon. Weather permitting, of course.

I probably should have resented Bryan's musical talents and success with women, but I didn't – at least not most of the time. In spite of his talents – and what many a guidance counselor would call potential – Bryan was very much a helpless sod. He was full of big ideas and ambitions, but lacked the motivation to pursue them. The band of which he spoke so proudly was essentially him, a few on-again-off-again buddies and some pirated software. It was certainly telling that I was the responsible flatmate.

Not that I had much room to criticize anyone. My only work came through the temp agency with which I was registered, and my only real motivation to work was to not seem as much of a failure as I sometimes felt like I was. I did have ambitions of my own – most significantly, I wanted to someday be a wealthy something-or-other with a pretty Armenian mistress whom I'd dress in the finest clothes, take to dinner at the finest restaurants and with whom I'd travel to all the wonderful and exotic places she and I could ever want to go. Of course, my ambitions were completely impractical and unrealistic – perhaps even more so than Bryan's loosely-defined dreams of a Bohemian Shangri-La – and even if they weren't, I was secure in my knowledge that little miss Sarkissian – or whatever her name might be – would eventually become smitten with a handsome young Italian who owned a winery in the Po Valley and a ranch in the Argentine, a development which would prompt me, in a fit of jealous rage and heartbreak, to shoot first him and then myself, leaving her her to return home and, at long last, marry that nice Armenian boy down the street like her parents wanted her to do in the first place. She will hopefully have by then learned an important lesson about the inability of money to buy true love and happiness (or some such bullshit).

I, however, was a million miles from the Po Valley and the Argentine, a million miles from pretty Armenian girls, a million miles from anything. There was only me, a temp agency, a mercurial roommate, booze bottles, beer cans, bong hits, bootlegged prescription painkillers, bar-stools, bills, and, perhaps most pressingly of all, a sink full of dirty dishes which, once again, I had to fucking clean.

Relevant to my Interests Ep. 24

2010-11-01T15:50:00.000-07:00

Any major dude will tell you that looks aren't everything, and they'd be right. Glenda Farrell definitely wasn't a knockout by most standards, but one would be hard pressed to find an actress who encapsulated the hard-boiled dame of the 1930s as well as she did. Glenda's output while under contract at Warner Bros. can best be described as workmanlike -- between 1932 and 1934, she appeared in over two dozen pictures. To put that figure in perspective, Joan Crawford appeared in only eight pictures in the same time frame, while Norma Shearer and Greta Garbo appeared in only four. That's dedication to the craft, my friends. Glenda may not have had the prestige or the glamor of some of her contemporaries, but her parts are usually pretty memorable, and she rarely fails to entertain. That, combined with the fact that she seems like she could beat you in foosball while drinking you under the table, makes Glenda Farrell a pretty cool gal.

Busby Berkeley alla Cockroach

2010-10-31T10:36:00.000-07:00

Design for Living (1933)

2010-10-21T16:10:00.000-07:00

I had relatively high hopes for Design for Living, and I am pleased to report that for once I was not disappointed. I could throw around the superlatives usually assigned to Ernst Lubitsch films -- everything from sophisticated to smart to sexy -- because just about all of them are applicable here. Hollywood just doesn't make romantic comedies like they used to.

Design for Living truly excels in the casting department. It's four primary players are Fredric March, Gary Cooper, Miriam Hopkins and Edward Everett Horton, and each of them is absolutely perfect in their role -- Fredric March as the snarky playwright, Gary Cooper as the furniture-smashing painter, Miriam Hopkins as the classy minx and Edward Everett Horton as the straight-laced yet flustered milquetoast. March and Cooper play off one another extremely well, exhibiting both camaraderie and jealousy. Both also demonstrate great chemistry with Hopkins in the romantic scenes (for her part, Miriam displays significant presence while on screen). Finally, Horton's part as the jealous friend seems at first like an unusual heel turn for him, but ultimately works out just as well.

Definitely give this one a watch if you get the chance.

Fear Before the (Fredric) March of Flames

2010-10-13T17:33:00.000-07:00

As most of the classic film blogosphere is well aware, TCM's Star of the Month for October is none other than Fredric March. As he is one of my favorite actors from back in the day, you can probably imagine that I'm pretty thrilled with this. I listed some of the films in which he appears in my review of A Star of Born (which, perhaps not coincidentally, I watched again last night). To that list I can add the 1935 screen adaptation of Les Miserables (which also featured the great Charles Laughton), the Hal Roach-produced romantic comedy There Goes my Heart (1938, also starring Virginia Bruce and a Todd-less Patsy Kelly), and Nothing Sacred (1937, directed by William Wellman and co-starring the always entertaining Carole Lombard). Last but not least, March was fantastic opposite an equally-awesome Spencer Tracy in Inherit the Wind (1960).

I am eagerly anticipating Design for Living (1933) when it airs later this month -- with Ernst Lubitsch directing a film adapted from a play by Noel Coward, how can one go wrong? Hopefully I be able to write a glowing review. Most of the films I've mentioned in this post will be airing on TCM this month. Hopefully you'll catch as many of them as you can.

ADDENDUM:

I just watched Bedtime Story (1941, co-starring Loretta Young and her menagerie of outlandish early 40s hats). I enjoyed this one, as well. The climactic scene in the hotel room brings to mind the stateroom scene from A Night at the Opera, I thought.

The Criminal Code (1931)

2010-10-11T20:43:00.000-07:00

Directed by Howard Hawks and released by Columbia Pictures in 1931, The Criminal Code bears a few marked similarities to The Big House, a film released by rival studio MGM the year before. Both films follow the story of an otherwise good fellow who is convicted of an accidental killing while under the influence of alcohol, both films attempt to illustrate the brutal conditions of American prisons, and both films feature highly improbable romantic subplots. Only one of these films, however, has Walter Huston.

In The Criminal Code, Walter Huston plays hard-nosed D.A. Martin Brady, who pursues a ten-year sentence for Robert Graham (Phillips Holmes), who accidentally killed a man in an altercation in a nightclub. Fast forward six years, and Brady is installed as the warden in the same prison where Graham has been serving his sentence. The horrendous conditions in the prison have taken their toll on Graham, who has begun to break down. On the recommendation of the prison doctor, Brady takes Graham out of the juke mill and takes him a his personal chauffeur. It is in that capacity that Graham meets Mary -- Brady's daughter, played by Constance Cummings. Romance ensues, but the situation is complicated when Graham witnesses the murder of a stool-pigeon by his cell-mate Galloway (Boris Karloff). Brady -- along with several guards -- finds Graham with the body, and Graham is compelled to choose between his saving his own skin or becoming a stool-pigeon himself.

The Criminal Code is dominated from beginning to end by Walter Huston, who gives a dynamic and lively performance. Huston truly deserves to be counted among the best actors of his era, and his work in this picture is good evidence of that claim (to say nothing of Dodsworth, Rain and a host of other pictures I ought to see). Although his part is comparatively small, Boris Karloff is also good here, being suitably menacing as the convict with a score to settle.

On the other hand, Phillips Holmes and Constance Cummings are comparatively lukewarm in their roles. Furthermore, their romantic subplot does seem more than a little improbable, although this does not detract too much from the film as a whole.

The Criminal Code is an example of an early talking picture that truly benefits from great direction -- the common complaints of static camera work and stiff acting really don't apply here, and I'll wager that the direction of Howard Hawks can be credited for that. It isn't without its drawbacks, but nevertheless it's definitely one worth checking out.

Holy Hell, I've Been at This for Three Years

2010-10-09T10:32:00.001-07:00

It just dawned on me that my last post marked three years to the day that I started this blog. It was initially just meant to be something to play around with, but through the march of time it has become something a bit more important than that. Although it's been sparse here as of late, I have no intention of quitting or going on any sort of hiatus (you'll be greatly relieved to know, I'm sure). I've been grappling with that damned book I'm trying to write, which has been something of a black hole from which none of my attention can escape (that, plus all those damned computer games).

In the meantime, I'm going to try to recommit myself to posting some more meaningful musings for you passers-by to read. Thanks for taking moments of your life to read my scribblings -- it's good to know that there's someone out there in the blackness of space.

This Would Have Made The Movie Ten Times Better

2010-09-29T19:53:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately, it's kind of a scientific impossibility.

In Which Cary Grant Uses the Force

2010-09-18T10:11:00.001-07:00

Also: Harpo shot first.

The Student Prince in Old Heidelberg (1927)

2010-09-16T17:54:00.000-07:00

With the exception of my bargain-bin copy of Nosferatu, the first proper silent movie I ever watched was 1927's The Student Prince in Old Heidelberg. In retrospect, I could not have asked for a better introduction to that era of film making. With a great cast, superb direction, top-notch production values and nary a word of spoken dialogue, The Student Prince is one of the primary examples of just how great silent movies could be.

The Student Prince in question is Karl Heinrich of the fictional kingdom of Karlstadt, played here by Ramon Novarro (in the films first few scenes, the Prince is played as a boy by Phillipe De Lacy). Karl Heinrich is stuck in the stifling rigidity of court life, his only friend being his kindly tutor Dr. Jüttner (Jean Hersholt). Upon the completion of his primary education, Karl Heinrich in granted leave to complete his studies in the picturesque city of Heidelberg with Dr. Jüttner as his chaperon. In Heidelberg Karl Heinrich tastes freedom for the first time, carousing and tossing back steins of beer with the vivacious cadets of the Corps Saxonia. Most importantly, however, Karl Heinrich meets a beautiful barmaid named Kathi (Norma Shearer), and the two fall truly, madly and deeply in love.

In some of the most beautifully shot scenes in the film, Karl Heinrich and Kathi share a positively idyllic romance. Their bliss comes screeching to a halt, however, when Karl Heinrich receives news that the king of Karlstadt has fallen terminally ill and is compelled to return home. With the king on his deathbed, Karl Heinrich is forced to chose between his duty to Karlstadt and his love for Kathi.

Although the plot is far from groundbreaking, the picture is so well put together that what in other hands would be a strictly formulaic affair is quite touching. The film was produced at the very height of the silent era, and it shows. This is due, in large part, to the the excellent direction of Ernst Lubitsch, who amply demonstrates in The Student Prince his singular talent as a director of romantic pictures. Norma Shearer is as charming as ever as Kathi, and Jean Hersholt is particularly likable as Dr. Jüttner. Ramon Novarro carries the picture quite well, giving a highly sympathetic performance as Karl Heinrich.

One thing that really enhances the viewing experience is the musical accompaniment. One wouldn't normally expect that from a silent film, but here is one area where the march of time has worked out to our advantage. The print which TCM usually shows is accompanied by a full orchestral score, composed by Carl Davis and performed by the London Philharmonic Orchestra. Davis has composed new scores for several silent films, including Ben-Hur, The Big Parade and Phantom of the Opera, to name a few. Davis' score is a perfect counterpart to the picture, and the man deserves mad respect for his contributions to the survival of silent films.

I just recently saw The Student Prince in Old Heidelberg for the third time, and I found that I enjoyed it just as much as the first time (if not more so, now that I have become a bit more learned in the ways silent pictures). Although it has been released on VHS, The Student Prince is not yet available on DVD (here's hoping it will see a release through the Warner Archive collection before too long). Fortunately, the film airs on TCM with relative regularity. I strongly recommend watching The Student Prince in Old Heidelberg the next time you get a chance.

[Poster via Dr. Macro]

What a Manuscript Looks Like

2010-09-15T22:18:00.001-07:00

I realize that it's been somewhat sparse around here for the last month or so, and for that I do apologize. However, I do have what I hope is a reasonable excuse -- I've been trying to write a book (emphasis on the trying bit). And when I say write, I do mean write. For whatever reason, I find that the words just flow more readily with pen and paper than with keyboard and word processor (many of the longer posts here were handwritten as drafts, in fact). Besides, I still have a New Year's Resolution which remains unfulfilled.

We'll see where this leads me. Probably nowhere, but hey.

For Whatever Reason...

2010-09-12T12:14:00.000-07:00

...I found this to be poignant (click to view larger; you know how it works).

I Dream of Jeanie

2010-09-05T19:38:00.000-07:00

I recently finished reading John Oller's excellent biography of Jean Arthur -- aptly entitled Jean Arthur: The Actress Nobody Knew -- and I have to say that I really rather liked it. Oller's book is exhaustively researched, highly readable and sympathetic to its subject while remaining faithful to its sources. Furthermore, it also answered a question I posed in an earlier post: as it turns out, both Jean Arthur and Norma Shearer were working as models in New York in the early 1920s, which explains the mystery photo.

On a personal note, I must admit that I am now crushing pretty heavily on Miss Arthur after having read the book -- to quote Eddie Cantor, that's that kind of a baby for me! (although I do like her better as a brunette, as pictured above).

I definitely recommend giving this book a read -- it is easily the seminal work on the subject of Jean Arthurology (and if that isn't a legitimate field of study, it bloody well ought to be).

And Finally...

2010-08-31T16:26:00.000-07:00

...Rounding off our impromptu trio of ladies who are just too damn fine to go unmentioned for so damn long is Thelma Todd. She's only been here twice before, and she was dead on the first one! Fortunately for us, she's very much alive here.

And While We're on the Subject...

2010-08-24T23:00:00.000-07:00

Here's some Dorothy Sebastian, because it's also been far too long since she's been here.

Because She Hasn't Been Around for a While...

2010-08-18T19:41:00.000-07:00

Here's some Evelyn Brent.

Characters I Like, Ep. 1

2010-08-09T21:48:00.001-07:00

In a fragmentary post rather some time ago, I described my aversion to heroic characters. In this series I'll be looking at some characters whom I do like.

Big Fan (2009) is the story of Paul Aufiero, a native of Staten Island and an aging man-child who still lives with his mother, and whose sole passion in life is New York Giants football. He is particularly enthusiastic about fictional Linebacker Quantrell Bishop. While working at his dead-end job as a parking attendant in New York, he passes his time by meticulously scripting his telephone rants for a late-night Sports Talk radio show (rather pathetically, Paul is forced to deliver these rants in hushed tone, so as not to disturb his mother in the next room). Paul has no girlfriend of whom to speak, and at no point in the film is he provided with even a passing romantic interest. His only real friend is Sal who, notwithstanding his Giants fandom, is rather a dullard. The life situation of Paul and Sal is quite perfectly encapsulated by a recurring shot of the two fans tailgating alone in the parking lot of Giants Stadium, watching the game on a portable television set powered by a car battery while everyone else in the stands, watching the game in person.

In sharp contrast is Paul's brother Jeff, an archetypal ambulance-chasing lawyer who owns a respectable house and has a wife and several children -- these being the hallmarks of a real life, according to Paul's mother, and also things which Paul insists he does not want. What Paul does want is not made clear, as it is probable that he himself does not know.

Paul's unremarkable takes a sudden turn when he follows Quantrell Bishop into an upscale Manhattan strip club: Bishop takes Paul for a stalker and beats the living tar out of him. Paul awakes from a coma three days later and discovers that Bishop has been suspended as a result of the incident, and may be charged with assault.Owing to Bishop's absence and the off-the-field-distraction, the Giants begin to perform increasingly poorly (a moment of realism in film, I might add). Although his family pushes him to file charges against Bishop, Paul's primary concern is that Bishop's continued absence could cause the Giants to miss the playoffs and he claims to have no memory of the incident.

Clearly, Paul Aufiero is no superhero. On the contrary, he is quite painfully average. Whereas characters like James Bond never lose, Paul Aufiero never wins. When Paul finally meets his hero, he gets an ass-kicking instead of an autograph. In spite of Paul's protests, his sleazy brother seizes upon his injuries as an opportunity to sue Quantrell Bishop for millions of dollars. His identity is exposed by a bellicose Eagles fan named Philadelphia Phil. Finally -- and perhaps most painfully of all -- Paul's mother embarrasses him on live radio when he calls his favorite Sports Talk show to make a statement about the incident.

Paul Aufiero is by most reasonable standards quite pathetic, a loser in the fullest sense of the word. Perhaps because of this, I cannot help but identify with him. Like Paul, I haven't many career aspirations of which to speak -- my job doesn't thrill me at all, and I too spend my down time scribbling my thoughts on a notepad. Like Paul, I cannot bring myself to want all the things one is supposed to want -- the high-profile job, the big house, the happy family. Like Paul, I find more meaning in trivialities like football -- or movies from the 20s and 30s, for that matter -- than most people would think reasonable. The world doesn't seem to have much use for people like us.

Big Fan captures quite well the reality of what it is to be wholly unremarkable, and it is precisely because its protagonist so unremarkable that I cannot help but see a little bit of myself in him.

When Legends Gather

2010-08-02T20:26:00.000-07:00

I'd like to know what led to this meeting of Jean Arthur and Norma Shearer in their younger and more vulnerable days. Was it some sort of neck-wear convention? The world may never know.

The Perils of Pauline

2010-07-25T13:20:00.000-07:00

Pauline Starke wonders what to do with her Sunday afternoon. Perhaps, she thinks, it is time to summon the meteors.

Fin.

The Truth About Youth (1930)

2010-07-21T19:26:00.000-07:00

Dating from 1930, The Truth About Youth is a surprisingly enjoyable potboiler from First National and Vitaphone Pictures -- definitely a B-List production, but one starring a pair of future A-Listers (namely Loretta Young and Myrna Loy) who show some significant talent in spite of the somewhat limited material. The only real stumbling point in this picture is the ending which features a twist that might make even M. Night Shyamalan raise an eyebrow (and no, Loretta Young does not see dead people).

The plot here is fairly straightforward: Richard Carewe (Conway Tearle) has raised Richard "The Imp" Dane (David Manners) in his father's stead, and has arranged for him to marry Phyllis Ericson (Loretta Young), but whilst out on a tear (under the premise of attending a psychology lecture) he becomes smitten with a nightclub singer named Kara (alias The Firefly, played by Myrna Loy). The Imp convinces Kara that he is a rich young bachelor and marries her in secret. When Phyllis discovers a letter from Kara to The Imp, Richard the Elder deftly convinces her that the letter was actually written to him -- the letter having been addressed only to "Richard" -- and sets about trying to fix the whole mess. He bribes Kara into pretending that she and he are in love, and shenanigans ensue.

It's a standard Good-Woman-Bad-Woman motif, with Loretta Young as the innocent sweetheart and Myrna Loy as the money-grubbing chiseler. Loretta gets top billing and does a good job with her character, but as she is wont to do Myrna basically steals every scene in which she appears, and by and large steals the whole movie -- in one particularly memorable scene she throws a delightful little fit, replete with slapping of man-face and tossing of pottery (this after The Imp admits that he isn't all he claimed to be). Myrna also sings two numbers in the nightclub, although it's fairly obvious to the attentive viewer that it isn't her voice, and that she is only lip-syncing. Still, she sells the hell out of it, bless her heart.

Loretta and Myrna appear in only a single scene together, but it is easily the best scene in the movie. Phyllis follows Richard to the nightclub and pretends to be starstruck by Kara, essentially telling Richard that she wants to be just like Kara when she grows up, much to his consternation (she suspects that Richard's courtship of Kara isn't on the level, as the saying goes, and it's clear that her praise is purely to test Richard).

The male leads, on the other hand, aren't nearly so interesting. Conway Tearle does a decent job with his character, but there isn't much about his role that's particularly memorable. The same goes for David Manners, whose character's nickname might be the only really notable thing about him -- he doesn't do much to break the mold of the Generic 30s Guy, although it should be said that the script doesn't really give him much opportunity to do so.

Finally, there's the ending. Although Richard manages to get The Imp to divorce Kara, he refuses to marry Phyllis, claiming that he never actually loved her. Phyllis takes the news shockingly well, exclaiming that she really loved Richard the whole time. This ending really doesn't make much sense at all, which has the unfortunate effect of upending the picture in the last five minutes. We do see that The Imp's devotion to Phyllis is questionable, but the movie gives us no hints whatsoever that Phyllis is really in love with Richard. It's kind of a shame, since I really enjoyed the picture up until that the script decided to drop that pipe-bomb in my lap.

Yet even if the ending doesn't really work, the picture is still enjoying. The acting feels quite crisp for its time, and the camera work here isn't nearly as stiff as in other movies from the same time. Then, of course, there's Myrna Loy, who has an uncanny ability to make any movie better by here mere presence. Indeed, she's pretty much the number one reason to watch the picture. The Truth About Youth is worth at least one viewing, especially for Myrna Loy fans.

[Image Sauce]

A Profile in Greatness

2010-07-15T20:25:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you about John Barrymore. This guy. This guy is un-fucking-believable. He gives a great performance in every picture of his I've seen. I've already touched on his talent in When a Man Loves, and he brings similar energy and gravity to Beau Brummel, with equally superb results. His portrayal of the eponymous villain in 1931's Svengali was easily the best part of the picture -- in a film full of uncomfortably stiff acting, Barrymore's delightfully over the top performance really carries the whole movie.In the all-star bonanzas of Grand Hotel and Dinner at Eight, John Barrymore delivers a pair of memorable performances, his portrayal of a tragically forgotten silent film star in the latter picture being particularly moving. He is similarly great as Mercutio in the 1936 production of Romeo and Juliet (this in spite of the fact that he, along with just about every other member of the cast, was at least twice as old as the character he was playing, if not more so).

The fact that John Barrymore turned in such great performances throughout his film career becomes even more impressive when one remembers that he was partying like the proverbial Rock Star the whole time, raising the devil with his frequent drinking buddies W.C. Fields and Errol Flynn. It seems that this lifestyle caused trouble for him as early as 1933, as he apparently had such difficulty remembering his lines that he resorted to using cue-cards placed off camera and around the set -- of course, the guy is so good at what he does that it's impossible to tell.

On and off the screen, John Barrymore is one of my favorite actors. He had talent that I can only dream of having, and maintained a lifestyle that I can only dream of emulating. To put it simply, John Barrymore: a pretty cool guy.

[Image Sauce]

Starship Amazing - The Power of Science is Staggering (2008)

2010-07-10T17:42:00.000-07:00

In the not-all-that-distant past I was into electronic music, primarily the more dance-oriented stuff. Although it's quite a different from what I listened to in those days, The Power of Science is Staggering by the Alaskan duo Starship Amazing is nevertheless an excellent example of just how good electronic music can be, and indeed a reminder of why I got into this style of music in the first place.

The Power of Science is Staggering features thirteen diverse tracks, which run the gamut from laid back, hip-hop ("This is My Ideal World!" and "Kill the Body, Keep the Parts") to energetic drum and bass ("Judging By The Size of This Crater, Someone Brought the Ruckus") to more atmospheric compositions (e.g. "Finally!"). Each track is comprised of a variety of unique elements, which the result that each track is enjoyable in its own special way. Tracks such as "Finally!" and "Anyone Who is Down" feel particularly well-suited to driving around town at night, while "In a World Where Only the Strong Survive, Only the Strong Survive" seems better suited to shooting enemy robots with green laser beams while flying around in a spaceship. Then there's "Pokemon ≠ Pokemon", a song which features voice samples from Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street and is just plain fun to listen to.

If you couldn't tell by the song titles (or the name of the band, for that matter), Starship Amazing perhaps may not be taking themselves entirely seriously. Of course this only adds to the charm of the music, and when combined with the fact that Starship Amazing also seems to be quite heavily influenced by video game music makes the album that much more fun to listen to.

In all honesty, I was quite pleasantly surprised by just how much I enjoyed this album. Whether you're a long-time fan of electronic music or just in the market for something new and exciting, you owe it to yourself to give The Power of Science is Staggering a try, and the fact that Starship Amazing has made the entire album available for free listening and download means you really have no excuse not to. Go check it out. I don't expect that you'll be disappointed by what you find.

P.S. Starship Amazing also produces a weekly podcast that is extremely entertaining. I highly recommend listening to that, as well.

Miss Loy

2010-07-06T22:34:00.000-07:00

Having recently finished reading her autobiography, I can now say with some certainty that Myrna Loy was one of the coolest people to ever walk the face of the earth. Seriously people, go hunt down a copy and read that shit. It's an enlightening and enjoyable read.

Relevant to my Interests, Ep. 23

2010-06-24T22:25:00.000-07:00

Here's a fun fact about Jeanette MacDonald: apparently, my grandfather had a thing for her, too! My father also admits that she is -- as the kids say these days -- hot, which means Jeanette has three consecutive generations of approval. If that isn't evidence of transcendental beauty, I don't know what is.

P.S. It also helps that she looks like this girl I had a major crush on in college.

The Harry Warren Countdown, No. 1

2010-06-19T16:14:00.000-07:00

1. "Dames" (1934)

Man, do I love this damned song. "Dames" was the eponymous song from the 1934 picture, and just about everything about it is great. An energetic and memorable tune, a toe-tapping rhythm, humorous lyrics and one of Busby Berkeley's best production numbers to go along with it. I'm hardly an expert on the subject, but nevertheless I'll put this song forward as one of the best of the pre-swing era.

The version featured above is a great recording by British singer Leslie Holmes, about whom very little information seems to be extant. Dick Powell -- there he is again! -- sang the song in Dames, but I actually think Leslie Holmes' performance is just a little bit better, even without a production number to go with it. Feel free to check out said production number the film, and see which one you like better.

The Harry Warren Countdown, No. 2

2010-06-18T18:13:00.000-07:00

2. "Keep Young and Beautiful" (1933)

If this song isn't obscure, the picture in which it premiered more than likely is. "Keep Young and Beautiful" was introduced by no less a personage than Eddie Cantor in the picture Roman Scandals, one of a half-dozen movies Eddie made at Samuel Goldwyn Studios. It's certainly one of the most energetic songs on this list, with a upbeat rhythm and an obscenely memorable melody to go along with it -- I've had this song stuck in my head for weeks at a time.

Yet although it's among the best songs in Harry Warren's oeuvre, it isn't nearly as well known as many of his other tunes -- aside from an Annie Lennox cover in the early 90s, it has largely faded into obscurity. Much of this is due, I suspect, to lyrics that could easily be construed as sexist -- e.g. "What's cute about a cutie? / It's her beauty, not brains!" -- and an accompanying production number that could even more easily be construed as racist (blackface, for good reasons, isn't held in very high regard these days). Even so, you oughtn't let trifling matters like political correctness keep you from enjoying a damned good song.

The Harry Warren Countdown, No. 3

2010-06-17T17:42:00.000-07:00

3. "You're Getting to Be a Habit With me" (1932)

This is song that has appeared on this blog before, but I suppose that only serves to demonstrate how much I like it. Along with "Young and Healthy", "You're Getting to Be a Habit With Me" worked wonders to keep my spirits up during my year-long stint in the poorhouse (they also helped make 42nd Street one of my favorite movies, but I digress). As with its earlier appearance, the song is here performed by none other than Bebe Daniels, although this interpretation is more down-tempo and balladic than the version I posted a while back.

For a good orchestral rendition, check out this recording by Waring's Pennsylvanians.

The Harry Warren Countdown, No. 4

2010-06-16T17:39:00.000-07:00

4. "Young and Healthy" (1933)

This song has a special place in my heart. It's bright and springy melody kept me going during the long, dark days of late 2008 (along with a certain other song, which I'll be featuring tomorrow). As was the case with several of the other songs on this list, it was introduced on film by Dick Powell, whose upbeat performance of the song still remains the gold standard of "Young and Healthy" renditions. It's featured above, and if it doesn't at least motivate you to get up and move around a little bit, you may want to check yourself for a pulse.

The Harry Warren Countdown, No. 5

2010-06-15T16:11:00.000-07:00

5. "I Only Have Eyes for You" (1934)

Aside from "We're In the Money", "I Only Have Eyes for You" might be the most recognizable song in the Harry Warren catalog. Since its debut in 1934's Dames (where it was sung by Dick Powell and a battalion of chorus girls), Countless versions of the song have been recorded, including renditions by such Jazz legends as Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holliday and Frank Sinatra himself. Hell, even Art Garfunkel recorded a version. Although the original musical number was memorable in and of itself -- Ruby Keelers, millions of em! -- the song has since surpassed the movie in fame and renown.

The version of "I Only Have Eyes for You" featured above is a 1934 recording by Eddy Duchin and his Orchestra which quite closely resembles the original version from Dames.

The Harry Warren Countdown, No. 6

2010-06-14T15:45:00.000-07:00

6. "I've Got to Sing a Torch Song" (1933)

Although it isn't one of the better known songs from the picture, "I've got to Sing a Torch Song" nevertheless features prominently in Gold Diggers of 1933 -- It plays during the introductory credits and as background music in various scenes, and Dick Powell sings the song when Ruby Keeler asks him to demonstrate some of his music for the forthcoming revue. "I've Got to Sing a Torch Song" is a surprisingly versatile tune, which lends itself nicely to both slower, balladic renditions and to more upbeat and jazzy interpretations. Dick Powell's rendition featured above falls distinctly into the former category.

The Harry Warren Countdown, No. 7

2010-06-13T15:45:00.000-07:00

7. "Cryin' for the Carolines"

Perhaps the most obscure song on the list so far, "Cryin' for the Carolines" is also the most blues-styled song so far. It was first popularized by Ruth Etting, and later appeared in the 1930 picture Spring is Here, where it was harmonized by the Brox Sisters trio. There were quite a few recordings made of the song -- evidence of its popularity -- but this particularly bluesy rendition by Ben Bernie and the Hotel Roosevelt Orchestra seems to capture the melancholy nature of the music particularly well.

The Harry Warren Countdown, No. 8

2010-06-12T15:46:00.000-07:00

8. "Lullaby of Broadway" 1935

Introduced by Winifed Shaw in a jaw-dropping production number from Gold Diggers of 1935, "Lullaby of Broadway" went on to win an Academy Award in the category of Best Original Song. With it's energetic melodies and cheeky lyrics, it's easy to understand why. Versions of this song were recorded as late as 2006, and readers of a certain age might recall seeing a rendition of it on The Muppet Show.

Busby Berkeley's grand production number from Gold Diggers is featured here. It's so grand, in fact, that it has to be shown in two parts! After checking out part one above, do check out part two, as well.

The Harry Warren Countdown, No. 9

2010-06-11T17:37:00.000-07:00

9. "On the Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe" (1944)

A number one hit in 1945, "On the Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe" is an undeniably infectious swing tune. The song was popular enough to warrant recordings by numerous singers, among them Bing Crosby, Judy Garland (who famously sang the song in 1946's The Harvey Girls) and Johnny Mercer (who actually wrote the lyrics).The latter version is posted above, for your listening pleasure.

The Harry Warren Countdown, No. 10

2010-06-10T19:56:00.000-07:00

If you don't know the name Harry Warren, you should. Even if you've never heard of the man, odds are that you've heard his music. Harry Warren -- born Salvatore Antonio Guaragna in Brooklyn -- wrote an astounding number of songs in his lifetime, which run the gamut from Academy Award-winning musical numbers to enduring Jazz standards. A cursory glance at his curriculum vitae will likely reveal at least a half-dozen recognizable songs, even for those who aren't big on classic movies.

For the next ten days, I'll be enumerating my ten favorite Harry Warren songs (and trust me, narrowing it down to just ten is no easy task). So, without further ado...

10. "Forty-Second Street" (1933)

The titular song and grand finale number from the movie that just about single-handedly revitalized the Musical genre, "Forty-Second Street" combines an almost martial cadence with a jazzy and endlessly catchy melody. The end result is a song that perfectly captures the energy of its subject matter, perfectly accentuated by the visual accompaniment in the film 42nd Street, as shown here (Ruby Keeler's obvious lip-synching notwithstanding). It's an enduring classic.

The Wrestler and The Champ

2010-06-03T17:17:00.000-07:00

Memorial Day is customarily a day for war movies, more often than not featuring Audie Murphy or (less enjoyably) John Wayne. I opted to break with tradition, however, and watched The Wrestler.

Here is a movie with a lot to like about it. First and foremost is the great performance by Mickey Rourke. In a picture that is by and large a character study, Mickey Rourke really brings the downtrodden Randy "The Ram" Robinson to life (apparently, he improvised significantly in several scenes, adding to the naturalistic feel of his performance). Secondly, the mise-en-scene is truly fantastic -- in addition to the gritty camera work, the film's setting in central New Jersey really enhances the feeling of decrepitude that is prevalent throughout the film, particularly the scenes on the ruined boardwalk in Asbury Park (indeed, much of the filming was done in and around Elizabeth, not far from my old hometown of Passaic). Then there's the surprisingly appropriate soundtrack composed largely of 1980s Glam and Heavy Metal tracks, alongside similarly styled original compositions (performed by former Guns 'n' Roses guitarist Slash). Finally, the film also provides a fascinating behind-the-scenes look at the world of independent wrestling promotions (full disclosure: I was big wrestling fan in the mid '90s. Of course, I still thought it was real back then).

To put the matter simply, The Wrestler is truly a very good movie. I couldn't help but notice, however, a few striking similarities between this movie and King Vidor's 1931 film The Champ. To begin with, the protagonists of the two pictures are very much alike -- Mickey Rourke's and Wallace Beery's respective characters are both former champs long past their prime, living in destitution and just managing to eke out a living by fighting in obscure matches. Even their names are similar -- compare Mickey's Randy Robinson to Wally's Andy Purcell. Perhaps the most significant similarity, however, is the fact that both Randy and Andy suffer from dangerous heart conditions.

One significant point of departure, on the other hand, is the protagonists' relationships with their children. In The Champ, Andy Purcell's relationship with his son Dink (played by Jackie Cooper), although quite strained at times, is nevertheless a loving one. Although he drinks heavily and gambles uncontrollably, Andy still cares a great deal for his son, and Dink looks up to him in spite of his flaws. Although Randy Robinson cares for his daughter Stephanie and regrets not having been a better father to her, it's nevertheless clear that, despite Randy's best intentions, their relationship is largely damaged beyond repair.

Yet the most compelling point of comparison between the two movies might be -- perhaps naturally -- their endings (spoilers ahead, by the way). In a final gamble to turn their lives around, Randy and Andy enter into climactic matches. Although they both emerge victorious, in both cases the victories come (or at least seem to come) at too great a cost. Andy manages to rally from a brutal beating to knock out his opponent, but suffers a fatal heart attack in the wake of the match (as an aside, Jackie Cooper is great in these final few scenes -- his tearful performance doesn't just tug at your heart's strings, it tears the whole thing out of your chest and throws it down at your feet). Meanwhile, Randy is on the way to winning his match when he begins to suffer from heart attack-like symptoms. With his opponent on the mat, Randy pulls himself up to the top turnbuckle for one last leap (this after delivering a heartfelt oration prior to the match, in which he tells the audience that they are his true family). One does not know beyond a doubt that Randy dies after his leap, but it isn't hard to imagine that he does.

Both Andy Purcell and Randy Robinson go out in a last blaze of glory. In doing so, they redeem themselves in the eyes of those dearest to them -- Andy proves his worth to both his son and his estranged wife by sacrificing his life to ensure that Dink has enough money to live on, and Randy manages, even if only for a little while, to once again win the hearts and minds of his own "family."

Of course, this isn't to say that The Wrestler is a rewrite of The Champ; In fact, I'd be surprised if The Champ actually was the first movie to tell this sort of story. The story of a broken man who, even if only a small way, manages to set things right is a theme with a timeless appeal, and one at the very heart of both movies. Although the films are poles apart in terms of feel and technique, it's their common theme that makes The Wrestler and The Champ such excellent movies. Do yourself a favor and watch them both.

Re: Dennis Hopper

2010-05-30T16:33:00.000-07:00

The internet is awash with obituaries for the late, great Dennis Hopper. So rather than add to the pile, I will leave you with this, by way of tribute.

You Won't Understand a Single Thing He Says...

2010-05-26T20:27:00.001-07:00

...but you will somehow be persuaded that the Ultimate Warrior is speaking the truth.

Also fun: the next time you watch a silent movie, imagine all the intertitles being read in this voice. Buster Keaton will suddenly be a lot more terrifying.

Edward Steichen at the Nelson-Atkins

2010-05-23T11:15:00.000-07:00

So the Nelson-Atkins Museum is running an exhibition of Edward Steichen's photography? You bet your ass I'm going. Picture related: it's a shot of Joan Crawford by Steichen.

[Image Sauce]

Lulu In Hollywood

2010-05-18T17:16:00.000-07:00

Why is it that the most fascinating denizens of Hollywood are the ones who realize just how absurd the whole Hollywood system could be? This is particularly true of Louise Brooks, who scoffed at motion picture stardom in spite of the fact that she easily had the talent to achieve that talent for herself. Louise chose the Weimar Republic over Los Angeles County, and although her career suffered for it, the choice would ultimately set her legacy in stone. This is one of the many lessons one can learn from Lulu in Hollywood, Louise's account of her experiences in tinsel town.

Rather than an autobiography proper, Lulu in Hollywood is more a collection of essays that highlight episodes in Louise's life in (and out of) the limelight. Among these episodes are her stint in New York as a showgirl in the Scandals and the Follies, her friendship with Marion Davies' unfortunate niece Pepi, her work under the aegis of Georg Wilhelm Pabst and her childhood in small town Kansas. Louise also treats the reader to her commentary on such figures as W. C. Fields and Lillian Gish, among others.

That such accounts are given from a firsthand perspective is appealing enough -- my inner scholastic still values a good primary source, it seems -- but that fact that it is such a wit as Louise Brooks narrating the events makes the book doubly enjoyable to read. Brooksie, it seems, was one of those rare specimens of human who possess both beauty and brains (this is not lost on her -- at one point, she claims that the fact that she read books made her an oddity among the screen starlets).

While not quite iconoclastic, Louise's take on Hollywood -- and indeed on the social circles of which she was a part -- is anything but starry-eyed. Here is one who definitely did not drink the Kool-Aid. Although her candor ultimately proved fatal to her acting career, Louise's singular personalty allowed her to become an enduring figure -- far more so, it seems, than many of the major stars who were her contemporaries.

Although it is a brief affair, Lulu in Hollywood is nevertheless an engaging read, so much so that even readers who are not particularly well-versed in classic Hollywood lore will be able to enjoy Louise's remarks.

En Profil

2010-05-15T13:24:00.000-07:00

Was there ever in history a profile as perfectly lovely as Norma Shearer's? Not likely.

The Bicycle Thief (1948)

2010-05-10T18:04:00.000-07:00

For American audiences, cinema in the wake of World War II was a pleasant and occasionally colorful affair, characterized by sentimental favorites like It's a Wonderful Life and Singing in the Rain. Cinema in Italy was another sort of affair entirely -- in sharp contrast to the optimism of contemporaneous American movies (as well as the telefono biancho pictures that dominated the cinema of Mussolini's Italy a decade earlier), the tone of Italian movies in the latter half of the 1940s was often times downright depressing. The most iconic film of the Neorealist era (as the style became known) is perhaps Vittorio De Sica's The Bicycle Thief (Ladri di Biciclette).

The film follows an episode in the life of Antonio Ricci. Antonio manages to secure a much-coveted job, but will need a bicycle if he wishes to work. He and his wife Maria pawn off their bed sheets in order to buy a bicycle. Antonio's job, as it turns out, is hang posters around town (as though to highlight the difference between the United States and Italy, the posters he hangs are promotional portraits of a glamorous Rita Hayworth). It is while hanging one such poster that Antonio's bike is stolen. With the help of a few friends and his faithful son Bruno, Antonio spends the rest of the film trying to find his stolen bicycle. I won't give away too many details, but I will tell you that all does not end well.

The search for the bicycle is hardly the only point of interest, however: the film also presents an absorbing portrait of an extremely sympathetic father and son duo. Antonio and his son Bruno play off one another quite well, and that they are able to stick together through their hardship is one of the few uplifting aspects of the story.

No less interesting is the struggle between Antonio's sense of decency and his growing desperation. He is not out to beg, borrow or -- as it were -- steal; he wants only to earn an honest living for his family. Yet as time and money begin to run dry Antonio becomes increasingly exasperated, a condition which leads him in the final scenes of the film to transgress his moral standards with almost disastrous consequences. Although he manages to avoid complete tragedy, the end of the film finds Antonio and Bruno utterly dispirited, their future anything but certain.

The ending is more than a little anticlimactic, and rather depressing to boot. Even so, the film is positively engrossing. It does a remarkable job of drawing the viewer into its world, and the everyman quality of its protagonists make them very easy to identify with. Indeed, this everyman quality is magnified by the fact that the cast is composed almost entirely of non-professional actors (Lamberto Maggiorani, who plays Antonio, was actually a factory worker prior to appearing in this film). Yet in spite of that fact, we see some very naturalistic performances; even young Enzo Staiola does a hell of a job as Bruno. TCM counts The Bicycle Thief as among the fifteen most influential films of all time, a difficult claim to dispute. This is strongly recommended viewing for film buffs, especially those interested in foreign films.

New Year's Dissolutions, Revisited

2010-05-09T15:17:00.000-07:00

Way back in January, I made a post outlining my aspirations for this year. To briefly recapitulate, my primary new year's resolutions were:

Start a collection of classic movie swag
Get a new job
Get something published somehow

The year is not quite half over, but I've managed to accomplish two of these. Paying off my credit card has left me with a bit of financial wiggle room -- no bailouts from the IMF for me, I can assure you! -- which has allowed to collect a few DVDs and books of interest. In the former category, I am now the proud owner of the Busby Berkeley Collection and the Myrna Loy and William Powell Collection. Where books are concerned, I secured copies of Lulu in Hollywood (which I am currently reading and rather enjoying) and Being and Becoming (Myrna Loy's autobiography). The latter is a first edition hardcover, a particular point of pride for me.

More importantly, perhaps, I start a new job at a local law firm two weeks from tomorrow. I have no idea how this happened -- it's almost as though I just stumbled into it. My daily commute has been slashed to all of fifteen minutes, since the office is essentially right down the street. The work promises to be much more demanding than that which my current job entails, but I expect it to be a welcome change of pace from soul-deadening boredom.

The third resolution, on the other hand, remains unfulfilled. Nevertheless, I'm working on it -- you've hopefully noticed that the posts here have been increasing in length and quality (if not quantity). I used to want to be a fiction writer -- and to a certain degree I still do -- but it seems that nonfiction is much more my forte. In addition to providing an avenue by which I can pursue my geeky obsessions, writing these posts has also allowed to my keep my writing skills up to snuff. Even if I don't managed to get something published this year, writing reviews and such here is really a pleasure in and of itself. It's also a treat, by the way, to have a readership at all. Minuscule as my audience might be, it's nice to know that someone out there is listening. Thanks for coming along for the ride.

Oh, and I've switched to a new template (as you might have noticed). The old one was getting a little stale.

I know I'm Late to the Party...

2010-05-07T17:14:00.000-07:00

...But this album is actually really damned good.

Souls for Sale (1923)

2010-05-03T16:28:00.000-07:00

I recently watched Souls for Sale for the second time. Many of you might have seen it as well; it was featured quite recently on TCM's Silent Sunday Nights, as it has been before. By and large, it's an enjoyable picture about the unlikely ascent to motion picture stardom of Remember Steddon (played by Eleanor Boardman). Mem -- as she is known to intimates and confidantes -- is married to the ever-so-sketchy Owen Scudder (Lew Cody), but something about her new husband does not sit well with her, so she escapes from him by hopping off a train and disappearing into the desert of Southern California. As it turns out, Mem's suspicions well-founded -- we learn early on that Scudder (isn' that a great name for a villain?) has a history of marrying women and later murdering them for insurance money (I'm not sure how that's supposed to work out legally, but such details are apparently beside the point).

Whilst wandering in the desert, Mem happens across a film crew doing location shots for an Arab Nomad film (such films being very much en vogue in the wake of Rudy Valentino's The Sheik) in which she is given a bit part. The obligatory love triangle ensues when Mem catches the attention of both director Frank Claymore (Richard Dix) and the matinee idol leading man Tom Holby (Frank Mayo). Although initially hesitant to pursue a life in pictures -- in an earlier scene, we see Mem's father, a preacher, denounce Hollywood as a new Babylon -- Mem eventually finds her way to tinsel town, where she is reunited with the film crew after unsuccessfully attempting to find work on her own.

Scudder, meanwhile, having been given the slip by Mem, embarks on his own series of misadventures. Scudder evades the police, swindles the mousy and lovelorn Abigail Tweedy out her savings and winds up in Egypt, where he is bamboozled by a pair of British con artists. Scudder learns of Mem's success in pictures when he sees her in film in an Egyptian cinema, and heads back to the United States to pay his wife a visit. Once in Hollywood, Scudder blackmails Mem by threatening to reveal that she is his wife -- a scandal that would bring her career crashing down around her ears. Mortified, Mem agrees to pay him the hush money after a brief scuffle.

It is during this confrontation between the estranged spouses, however, that the picture's biggest problem arises -- at one point Mem threatens to commit suicide, and Scudder begs her not to, claiming that he "cannot bear to watch her die," in spite of the fact that he has already killed several women in the past, and despite the fact that he was ostensibly planning to off her himself at the outset of the movie. All of a sudden, and without any real explanation, Scudder is genuinely in love with his wife (which now means that our love triangle has evolved into a love tetrahedron, I suppose).

In the picture's climactic final scene, a severe storm brings the shooting of Frank Claymore's extravagant circus film to a grinding halt when the big top is set ablaze by a bolt of lightning. In the ensuing chaos Scudder attempts to kill Claymore -- whom he has learned is planning to marry Mem -- by piloting a wind machine into him, but Mem herself suddenly stumbles into the path and Scudder winds up pushing her out of the way at the expense of his own life. The cataclysmic final scene is actually quite well done, but Scudder's sudden change of character is a major issue. Until the last twenty minutes or so of the picture Scudder is shown to be an utter scoundrel, which makes his tranformation seem almost incomprehensible. This transformation actually would have worked quite well if it were developed over the course of the picture, but as it is it's far too abrupt. Furthermore, it isn't explained very well -- are we to assume that by shaving off his mustache, Owen Scudder frees himself from the dark side of the force? While shaving the soup strainer certainly helps, it surely can't account for everything. This abrupt change really causes problems for what is otherwise a well-acted and directed picture.

Narrative troubles aside, though, Souls for Sale is still interesting from a historical standpoint -- not only does it feature big names in early roles, but it also must be counted among the earliest movies about the business of making movies. Cameos also abound -- Erich von Stroheim and Charlie Chaplin can be seen directing actual scenes from forthcoming films, among a small host of other Hollywood notables. Still other familiar faces may be spotted among the supporting cast, including Mae Busch, Barbara La Marr and, in one of his earliest roles, Will Haines.

Although I've harped a bit on the picture's one major foible, Souls for Sale is nevertheless still a worthwhile picture. I'd recommend it to anyone interested in the history of Hollywood and early cinema, as well as to silent film fans in general.

...Also, who names their kid "Remember?"

Obligatory Dorothy Sebastian Birthday Post

2010-04-26T19:50:00.000-07:00

If Dorothy Sebastian were to clutch my head lovingly to her bosom, I'd probably be making that face, too.

High and Dizzy

2010-04-20T17:07:00.000-07:00

Dude... I'm gonna, like, hang from a clock and shit. It's gonna be great.

I was gonna post about today being Harold Lloyd's birthday... but I got high. Harold looks pretty high in that picture, come to think of it.

That Daniels Woman

2010-04-17T09:16:00.000-07:00

Considering the duration and breadth of her career, it's both somewhat surprising and a rotten shame that Bebe Daniels is not a better known figure. Beginning with a part as Dorothy Gale in one of the earliest screen adaptations of The Wizard of Oz at the age of nine, Bebe Daniels worked for nearly half a century in silent and talking pictures, radio, stage and television (according to IMDB, she appeared in over 200 films). More impressive still is the fact that she managed to have two children and maintain a long and by all accounts happy marriage (which, in show business, is quite an achievement in and of itself!).

Bebe's career began in earnest in the 1910s, when she appeared opposite Harold Lloyd in his highly popular series of Lonesome Luke comedies (for a time the two were simply known as "the boy" and "the girl," and there is much to suggest that they were also romantically involved off-screen). Soon afterward she went to work for Cecil B. Demille, appearing in support of such luminaries as Gloria Swanson and Wallace Reid. She spent much of the 1920s as one of Paramount Pictures' biggest names. Her output in this period was impressive: she appeared in five or six pictures per year (1924 was particularly busy for her -- she appeared in no fewer than nine pictures that year).

In the maelstrom caused by the transition from silent pictures to talkies, Bebe was cut from the Paramount roster. The joke, as it turned out, was on Paramount -- Bebe quickly signed with RKO Pictures and make her talking (and singing!) debut in the film adaptation of Florenz Ziegfeld's Rio Rita, which was one of the biggest box office hits of 1929. Her talents were again showcased in 1930's Dixiana, another adaptation of a Ziegfeld musical (you can read my reviews of these moves, if you're interested). After this brief but profitable stint at RKO, Bebe signed with Warner Brothers, where she appeared in a number of memorable roles, among them Ruth Wonderly in the original screen adaptation of The Maltese Falcon and Broadway prima donna Dorothy Brock in 42nd Street.

Although Bebe largely retired from the screen in 1935, her career as an entertainer did not end there. In that same year, she moved to London with her husband Ben Lyon, whom she had married in 1930. The pair starred in the popular radio show Hi Gang!, which they continued to broadcast during the Battle of Britain and the London Blitz. They continued in radio after the war with Life With the Lyons, a popular comedy show that ran from 1951 to 1961, and enjoyed a leap to television in 1955.

Her life off the screen was no less colorful. In 1921, she spent ten days in jail for speeding. Shortly after her release, she made light of the incident by appearing in a picture called The Speed Girl. She was also awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom by Harry Truman for her services during World War II.

Unfortunately, an agonizingly small portion of Bebe's films seem to have survived to this day; her silent pictures, in particular, have a very poor rate of survival (sadly, this seems to be true of much of Paramount's library of silent pictures, perhaps because of the copyright limbo in which those numerous films are adrift. Most, it is likely, are lost). What films of hers do survive reveal an actress of considerable talent and range, and no small degree of charm. In that respect, I suppose that posterity ought to count itself lucky that any of Bebe's curriculum vitae has survived the ravages of time at all.

When a Man Loves (1927)

2010-04-13T17:07:00.000-07:00

That he is able to take what is on the surface a standard-issue costume drama and make it truly engaging to the viewer speaks volumes about John Barrymore's screen presence and acting ability. This is amply demonstrated in When a Man Loves (1927), when would have been only a middle-of-the-road period picture without him. Certainly, the picture's production values are top-notch, from the Vitaphone orchestral soundtrack to the lavish costumes, but it's the unique energy that John Barrymore brings to the production that really makes it worth watching.

Originally based on the 1731 novel Manon Lescaut, the screenplay was substantially rewritten to make John Barrymore's Fabien des Grieux the primary focus of the story rather than Mlle. Lescaut herself, played by Dolores Costello in this screen adaptation. Perhaps as a result of this rewrite, Dolores is left without much to do in this picture beyond standing around in gaudy 18th century costumes looking crestfallen (although she admittedly does a pretty good job of this).

The picture begins with both Fabien and Manon on their way to join the life ecclesiastic -- Fabien is on the verge of joining the priesthood, while Manon is slated to be cloistered in a convent. These plans, as you might have imagined, quickly go awry. Fabien falls in love with Manon at first sight, symbolically dropping a pendant given to him to protect him from the temptations of the flesh. Manon, meanwhile, learns that her brother is plotting to sell her into prostitution (the evil brother is here played by Warner Oland, who always seems to play these sort of characters, Charlie Chan notwithstanding). Adventure ensues as Fabien and Manon escape to Paris together, and are separated and reunited time and again through a series of unfortunate twists of fate.

Throughout the picture, one cannot help but notice a recurring theme regarding Manon's virginity and the safeguarding thereof. That she is a virgin is established at the outset of the picture by the fact that she is en route to the nunnery. Shortly after that revelation, a kitten is shown hiding under Manon's skirts (throughout the early parts of the picture, Manon keeps this kitten tucked safely in a basket). Eventually, this kitten winds up in the care of Fabien, with instructions to "take very good care of Fifi!". It's extremely tempting to read this cat as a metaphor for ...well, a pussy of a very different sort. Furthermore, Fabien spends much of the film trying to keep a variety of unsavory characters from having their way with Manon (everyone from a Parisian guttersnipe to the captain of a prison ship to King Louis XV of France himself tries to get into Manon's petticoats).

That's taking care of Fifi for you. But let's get our minds out of the gutter.

Throughout all of this, it's John Barrymore who truly carries the picture. He gives the character of Fabien des Grieux an air of gravitas that few of his contemporaries could match, and plays the action scenes with a mania that makes the character significantly more likable than he might otherwise be (I imagine that des Grieux might seem a bit too noble if played by a matinee idol like Ramon Novarro). Whether fencing with French noblemen or leading an uprising on a prison ship bound for Louisiana, Barrymore's Fabien is zealous without being over the top. The rest of the acting is solid, even by the largely ornamental Dolores Costello, but When a Man Loves is undeniably John Barrymore's show.

It's a show worth watching if you get a chance.

O Rly?

2010-04-10T08:26:00.000-07:00

Ya, rly.

Have You Got Any Castles? (1938)

2010-04-08T16:46:00.001-07:00

Here's another one of those cartoons that I must have watched countless times when I was a kid. I'm willing to bet that you saw it a few times, too. As is to be expected from a cartoon of this era, celebrity caricatures abound in Have you Got Any Castles? -- no doubt you'll be able to spot Clark Gable, William Powell and Cab Calloway, among others. The highlight of the cartoon, though, might be its extremely memorable, swing-laden soundtrack. Do give this one a watch.

Brain Droppings: Bored at Work Edition

2010-03-31T19:47:00.000-07:00

Another installment of everyone's favorite series! There's a gimmick this time around, though: these particular fragments are taken from notes I have scribbled down while bored at work (I keep a notebook in my cubicle specifically for this purpose. As you might have imagined, it sees some fairly heavy use). Here's a few choice cuts:

I've read that writing must be a job rather than a hobby if one is to truly succeed at it. It's nice work -- if you can get it. But even if you try, can you get it at all?

Related: why is it that I find it easier to write with a pen than with a word processor? Something about a pen and paper just seems more personal, more honest. The permanence of it also makes it more difficult (and therefore much less tempting) to second-guess myself. Yet, at the same time, it also seems less official, less concrete, less likely to ever be read by anyone.

Still no good ideas as to what my next subject ought to be. It would be best, I think, if it didn't involve me -- I spend entirely too much time talking about myself. Unfortunately, myself is really the only thing I can discuss with any expertise. Far too many of my posts revolve around why I like this album (excellent guitar work!) or why I like that actress (she has a hot ass!).

Bohemianism is a perfectly reasonable and respectable manner of living, just so long as one remembers to bathe regularly. The pursuit of material wealth is not the purpose of human existence -- despite what some would have you believe -- nor is it the most admirable manner of living (far from it, in fact).

One of my life goals is to someday be the kind of disaffected old curmudgeon that disaffected young curmudgeons aspire to someday be like. Similar, I will admit to George Carlin, but ideally with a touch of Gore Vidal mixed in (if only to balance out the venom and griping with a bit of profundity).

Congratulations, you've made it to the end.

Relevant to My Interests, Ep. 22

2010-03-21T19:22:00.000-07:00

Although she began her Hollywood career as a dance instructor and extra at MGM, Ann Dvorak -- born Anna McKim in New York City -- is perhaps best remembered today for her roles at Warner Bros. between 1932 and 1935, including such pre-code pictures as Scarface (1932) and Three on a Match (1932). Despite a series of successful films, squabbles with the studio execs and an almost year-long hiatus dampened Ann's career prospects, and the quality and number of her roles tapered off.

In every role I've seen her play, Ann demonstrates a great talent for making her characters believable -- from the cocaine addled mother in Three on a Match to the restless younger sister in Heat Lightning (1934) to the titular role in Housewife (1934), Ann's character is always sympathetic and and always feels genuine (she makes a particularly great onscreen drunk, as well!). She's a greatly under-appreciated member of the Warner Bros. roster.

A nifty tribute site to Ann exists, and is worth a visit for old movie aficionados.

Detritus, Michigan

2010-03-15T18:25:00.000-07:00

I find Detroit somehow alluring. It's a strange thing to say about a city in such hopeless disrepair, a city that is the butt of so many jokes about urban decay, a city that has become symbolic of dysfunction and disrepair. Yet in spite of all the harsh realities of Detroit, I cannot help but be drawn to it. So much of what wrong with Detroit -- its broken down buildings, its urban prairie -- seems strangely familiar to me. I cannot help but see in that careworn city a reflection of myself.

In the first half the last century, Detroit must have seemed symbolic of all that was right with America -- between 1900 and 1930, Detroit proliferated from a city of a quarter-million people to a metropolis of one and a half million, thanks in no small part to its remarkable industrial boom. It was once known as the "Paris of the West" for its magnificent architecture, and during World War II Detroit's industrial might garnered it the honorific moniker of the Arsenal of Democracy. By mid-century, Detroit stood as the nation's fourth largest city, and certainly one of its most important.

Yet Detroit was never perfect -- even in its glory days the city was beset by organized crime and racial tensions. The latter, in particular, was a recurring problem that would prove a crucial factor in the city's downfall. Race riots -- the most notorious of which must be the Twelfth Street Riot -- were just as destructive to the fiber of Detroit as were the decline of the auto industry and the proliferation of drugs in the 1970s. Between 1950 and 2000, worsening social and economic conditions caused the city's population to plummet from more than 1.8 million to just over 900,000. If the first half of the century saw Detroit's meteoric rise, the second half of the century was witness to its calamitous decline.

The woeful dilapidation in which the city now languishes is well documented -- its myriad abandoned and decaying structures have been the subjects of numerous photographic surveys, and its continuous struggles are frequently fodder for journalistic investigation (Time magazine, in fact, has devoted a blog to chronicle a year in the life of Detroit). Even Detroit's sports teams seem to be afflicted by the malady -- despite the Tigers' surprising run to the World Series in 2006, only two years later the Lions secured their ignoble spot in the record books by losing every game they played that season. Detroit's future, it seems, is none too bright.

The obituary, however, has not yet been written. In spite of pandemic unemployment, in spite of bargain-basement property values and in spite of the fact that most of the rest of the country seems perfectly willing to leave its eleventh largest city for dead, Detroit still lives. It may be a life of blood, tears, toil and sweat for its citizens, but nevertheless the city still lives, and it strives to rise from its ashes. In this gritty and grinding perseverance, Detroit still represents, in a peculiar yet strangely profound way, what is right with America.

I cannot help but admire the spirit of Detroit, and to hope and cheer for its renaissance. After all, if an entire city can revivify itself, there is reason to believe that I, having fallen from my own glory days, can achieve a similar recovery. How insignificant my troubles must seem when juxtaposed with the troubles of 900,000 citizens! Nevertheless, they are my troubles. Yet if I could face whatever troubles I have with the same grim determination as the city of Detroit, perhaps I might be able to hope that there are better days ahead for me, as well.

Of course, let's have no delusions -- for Detroit, the road to recovery will be a long and arduous one, indeed. In many ways, the city will need not only to simply revitalize itself, but to reinvent itself. Yet if Detroit has made it this far without collapsing, there is ample reason to believe that it can make it the rest of the way. I'll certainly be rooting for it -- after all, a reborn Detroit would be an heroic achievement, and a beacon of hope to all those of us who have fallen upon our own hard times.

[Image Sauce]

Throne of Blood (1957)

2010-03-13T17:20:00.000-08:00

No doubt Throne of Blood has been praised and analyzed so much that it is hardly necessary -- or possible, for that matter -- for me to add anything to the conversation that hasn't already been said (and said more eloquently, most likely). Instead of putting forth any of my redundant and inexpert opinions, I'll simply say that every good thing you've ever heard about Akira Kurosawa (and Toshiro Mifune, for that matter) is absolutely true. Do yourself a favor and watch this film if you get a chance. You won't be disappointed.

Elmer Gantry

2010-03-07T15:40:00.000-08:00

Aside from Dante Alighieri, Sinclair Lewis might well be my favorite author. Born and raised in the American Midwest -- specifically, Minnesota -- Lewis is quite familiar with the society and culture of Middle America, and is thus well-poised to take note of various neuroses that seem to be hereditary within it. Among these neuroses may be counted jingoism, anti-intellectualism and -- in the case of his 1927 novel Elmer Gantry -- religious and moral hypocrisy.

As Lewis envisions him, Elmer is a out-and-out cad -- pick any vice or iniquity at random, and the odds are that Elmer engages in it at some point in the novel -- and yet he finds no fault in any of his actions (unless, that is, they come back to haunt him in some way). The far-from-subtle irony in this is that Elmer is minister who harps mercilessly on the immorality of contemporary society. This might seem like old hat in an age where the pastor-cum-pedophile is a frequent hobbyhorse for many a hackneyed satirist, but the novel caused quite the stir at the time of its original publication. Elmer's hypocrisy -- combined with his unwavering cocksureness -- makes for one of those unusual circumstances wherein the primary character of the novel is one whom the reader more than likely detests, and whose comeuppance the reader impatiently anticipates.

Equally as detestable as Elmer himself -- if not more so -- is the wide-ranging influence he is able to wield over his parishioners and fellow clergymen, thanks in no small part to his limitless charisma and imposing stature. At one point in the novel, Elmer organizes a Committee on Public Morals, and leads several raids on various dens of iniquity (while having an extramarital affair with an old lover). Towards the end of the novel, Elmer plots to organize organize various religious and moral groups to lobby en masse in Washington, an effort which is nearly derailed by his being caught in a scandalous affair with his married secretary (nearly, but apparently not quite).

Elmer Gantry is a sobering reminder of the sort of influence that Christian Fundamentalism has had on American society and government, and one that -- in the epoch of such titans of televangelism as Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson -- continues to be quite relevant to modern times.

As a personal note, it is quite interesting that Sinclair Lewis performed much of his research for Elmer Gantry here in Kansas City. Why is it, I have to wonder, that Missouri is so often a case study for America's innumerable cultural neuroses?

It's Hard Out Here For a Paul Muni

2010-03-06T09:27:00.000-08:00

Okay...

2010-02-22T16:38:00.000-08:00

This is just fucking cool.

Wish I was Here

2010-02-20T14:42:00.000-08:00

Kyiv in winter. So Awesome.

[Thanks to Flickr user Stuck in Customs]

Our Dancing Daughters Revisited

2010-02-15T19:10:00.000-08:00

Long-time readers--if there are any--will note that I have fawned over 1928's Our Dancing Daughters (and to a lesser extent, its two pseudo-sequels) more than a few times in the past. Thus far, however, I've not really offered any detailed comment on the picture, at least not beyond the usual obtuse references. Now that I have seen the picture for a second time, I think it's time I gave it a proper review.

Our Dancing Daughters revolves around the romantic foibles of three well-to-do young ladies -- Diana (Joan Crawford), Beatrice (Dorothy Sebastian) and Ann (Anita Page). Diana and Ann have both set their sights on Ben Blaine (Johnny Mack Brown), but Ann manages to snatch him up first, much to Diana's chagrin. Melodrama ensues.

Diana is very much a character of the era -- the seemingly wild flapper who is actually quite virtuous. Ann, meanwhile, is a dipsomaniac and a gold-digger, interested in Ben for his money as much as his good looks. Of the three girls, however, it is Beatrice who is the most interesting. She is a faithful friend to Diana and very much in love with a dashing young fellow named Norman (Nils Asther), but at the same time she is haunted by certain misdeeds in her past (it isn't revealed precisely what these misdeeds are, but we may infer with some confidence). Beatrice does marry Norman, although her troubled past causes some difficulty for the married couple. While it's true that the primary focus of the picture is the Diana-Ben-Ann love triangle, the Beatrice sub-plot is intriguing in its own right (it's unfortunate that it was not fleshed out a little more, I think). In any event, Diana and Ben do eventually wind up together, after Ann is removed from the picture by means of a drunken tumble down a flight of stairs.

With all of that said, the question remains -- is it a good picture? In all honesty, it probably depends on your criteria. As you might imagine from the synopsis offered above, Our Dancing Daughters is a bit thin in terms of character development and plot. On the other hand, it's certainly a well-photographed picture, and the art direction is top-notch -- everything from the set design to the costumes is absolutely lovely, oozing with 1920s awesomeness. Indeed, the very fact that it is such a product and such a relic of its time is what makes Our Dancing Daughters so interesting to watch (notwithstanding the fact that it features three of my favorite actresses). Perhaps it isn't a classic masterpiece of American cinema, but I enjoyed watching it, and I imagine most others interested in the era would enjoy it as well. If nothing else, Our Dancing Daughters must rank highly on my list of guilty pleasures.

Rain (1932)

2010-02-04T18:36:00.000-08:00

Released in 1932 by United Artists and directed by Lewis Milestone, Rain stars Joan Crawford as Sadie Thompson, a woman with a decidedly checkered past. Opposite her is Walter Huston in the role of Reverend Alfred Davidson, a stalwart Christian fundamentalist who is hellbent on saving Sadie's soul (whether she likes it or not).

There's rather a lot to like about this picture. Although it dates from a period in film history when talking pictures were really only just beginning to hit their stride, Rain is largely able to avoid many of the problems that seem to plague many movies of the era -- the acting is hardly stiff, the sound quality is quite good (for 1932, at any rate), and the camera work is anything but static. Indeed, Lewis Milestone's camera work is one aspect of the film that really stands out -- in addition to some shots that suggest the art house more than the studio-owned movie theater, Milestone incorporates some unusually long tracking shots (at least for the time) even one instance where the camera completely circumnavigates the action (an almost cliched cinematographic trope these days, but perhaps fairly innovate for 1932). I imagine that being free of studio constraints afforded Milestone a bit of creative latitude -- it has to be said that United Artists was the closest thing there was to an indie-film distributor in the era of the studio system. None of this might be particularly groundbreaking, but I have rarely seen such techniques in pictures from the time, which allows Rain to truly stand out from the crowd.

Beyond all that, Rain is also an exceptionally well-written picture. The screenplay is based on a 1923 stage play of the same name, which was in turn based on the 1921 short story "Miss Thompson" by W. Somerset Maugham, which was later retitled "Rain" (remember that bit of trivia for your next A/V Club meeting). Not only does the picture deal with such themes as moral ambiguity and religious hypocrisy -- two of my favorites, as you might have guessed -- but it does with a pair of genuinely interesting and well-developed characters. The only drawback is that many of the more sordid elements of the plot are only hinted at or alluded to (but such, unfortunately, is the nature of 1930s Hollywood).

More than anyone else, Joan Crawford is perhaps the biggest beneficiary of the strong screenplay. Sadie Thompson is much more profound character than the majority of characters that Joan played during her career -- this role certainly has Janie Barlow and Crystal Allen beat by miles, to say nothing of that one movie with the ice-skating -- and she actually does a hell of a job, particularly during Sadie's fits of rage at Reverend Davidson. In all honesty, I think Joan's Sadie Thompson gives her Mildred Pierce a run for its money.

Of course, fanboyism should not keep me from giving Walter Huston his due. Walter is great as the sanctimonious Reverend Alfred Davidson, looking and sounding every bit the seemingly self-possessed bible-beater. Towards the end of the movie, when the Reverend gives in sinful temptation, Walter metamorphoses from pious preacher to creepy lecher extremely well, and all with a shift in facial expression. Once again, a hell of a performance.

Yet in spite of all this, Rain was a critical and commercial failure at the time of its release. Joan took this reaction to heart, sticking to safer and more accessible roles for the remainder of the decade. Truly unfortunate, since Rain does demonstrate that she could be quite an actress if given decent material. Fortunately for posterity, however, the picture has attained much greater renown today, and is generally counted among Joan's best pictures.

For classic movie junkies, it's definitely worth checking out. Movie lovers in general might also want to give it a go, if only to see how it stacks up against other movies of the era. And if you don't have TCM or don't want to fork over the cash for a DVD, you can even watch Rain in its entirety on the Internet Archive. It turns out that the internet is good for something other than porn, after all!

A Short Message.

2010-02-01T19:16:00.000-08:00

I'm willing to bet most of you have seen this, but just in case you haven't:

The Blues Preachers - Dry Long So (2009)

2010-01-23T08:53:00.000-08:00

The Blues Preachers is a duo playing traditional American blues and folk music. This wouldn't be all that unusual, but for the fact that Brother John and Captain Bluetongue (as the players call themselves) hail from Sydney, Australia, of all places. But Australian-ness notwithstanding, the duo's take on American music sounds every bit as good the genuine article.

Released just last year, Dry Long So is The Blues Preachers' second album, featuring eighteen tracks that demonstrate a variety of sounds and styles. Songs like "Creole Belle" and "The Angel of Death" are folksy ballads, "Oh Death" and "John the Revelator" have the distinct feel of gospel dirges, "Big Road Blues" and "Hard Time Killing Floor" are excellent examples of the pure Blues sound and "Goodnight Irene" has an impeccable air of Ragtime about it (as an aside, "Oh Death" and "Hard Time Killing Floor" should sound familiar to anyone who has seen O Brother, Where art Thou?).

I like some of the songs better than others, but to tell the truth there really isn't a bad track on this album. It's a superb collection that not only gives the listener a feel for the times, but also pays tribute to styles of music that, in spite of their monumental influence, are now either only remembered primarily in small circles of particularly dedicated musicians (in the case of Blues music) or are virtually forgotten (in the case of American Folk music).

For those interested in American culture between the World Wars or just interested in music history, The Blues Preachers are definitely worth looking into. I do recommend that you give them a listen.

Relevant to my Interests, Ep. 21

2010-01-20T20:57:00.000-08:00

Owing to the mysterious circumstances under which she died at the relatively young age of thirty, Thelma Todd is perhaps more famous today as a victim of the supposed depravity of Hollywood. This interpretation, however, truly misses the point. The former Ms. Massachusetts was in fact a rather lively comedienne who appeared in an impressively high number of pictures in her short career -- IMDb puts the number at 119 -- most of these under the aegis of Hal Roach. She appeared opposite big name comedians such as the Marx brothers and Laurel and Hardy, more often than playing some variation of a vampy sexpot (and doing that quite well, I might add).

Sadly, Thelma was found dead in her car in the garage of another actress, leading to all manner of speculation regarding the circumstances of her untimely demise (for all the juicy details, see wikipedia).

As an aside, I've actually seen a few photos from after Thelma's autopsy. How was it? Mortifying, to say the least. She looked much better alive, as most people tend to do. Why bring this up? Well, it does remind one of the fragility and mutability of youth and beauty, and indeed of life itself. Let us not mourn that such a beauty died; rather, let us thank the stars that such a beauty lived.

How to Spend a Foggy Day

2010-01-18T19:53:00.000-08:00

The fog that inspired the last post was back with a vengeance this morning. I had to go work, but what I really wanted to do was this:

In retrospect, I find it hard to believe that it's taken me so long to post this little treasure.

There's a Time and a Place for Music

2010-01-15T19:19:00.000-08:00

I drove to work this morning in the fog. It was a kind of fog that is rare for this part of the country, a kind of fog I haven't seen since I left Washington -- an impenetrable blanket of gunmetal gray. For the first time in many months, I suddenly wanted to listen to some Black Metal.

Black Metal shouldn't make me nostalgic, but it does. As paradoxical as it may seem for me to have a pleasant emotional reaction to a form of music that is outwardly so hostile, Black Metal nevertheless reminds me of the time in my life when I was most happy. In my collegiate days I was given to bouts of brooding that I found strangely comforting (melancholy, for whatever reason, has always seemed to be my natural state). Things have not gone so well since those days were borne away by the march of time, and as the series of unfortunate events churned onward, my affinity for Black Metal became more than a little diluted (to put it another way, depressive music isn't nearly so much fun when one actually has things about which to be depressed).

As the days and months after my college graduation wore on, my joblessness became an increasingly difficult cross to bear. For consolation and comfort, I took refuge in happier forms of music, most notably Power Metal and 1930s show tunes. Perhaps not the most intellectually profound forms of music one might think of, but they nevertheless helped me muddle my way through the hard times, giving my spirits a much-needed lift and helping me believe that in one way or another, everything would work itself out in the end. Whether it has or hasn't is still up open for debate, but in any case I've taken up an interest in nihilistic, Black Sabbath-influenced Stoner Doom Metal in recent months.

It must be said, however, that my ever-evolving musical tastes are not purely based on my personal zeitgeist. Place, it seems, has had just as much of an influence. When my mania for Black Metal was at its apex, I was living in a place that was so befitting of the music that it seemed almost tailor-made for it. Black Metal is music for towering mountains and evergreen trees, for cloudy skies and impenetrable fog. These are all things that the Pacific Northwest has in spades -- it's the closest facsimile to Norway that one is likely to find outside of the genuine article.

The geography of the American Midwest, meanwhile, is hardly so captivating. The wide open plains, in all their emptiness and desolation, suggest nothing so much as a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Though not without it's occasional spurts of beauty, the Midwest is virtually devoid of any real majesty. Black Metal seems utterly misplaced here. Nor is the climate in the least bit fitting -- the Midwestern summer, with the relentless heat of the sun and the scoffing indifference of the landscape, is more suggestive of the plodding riffs of Sunn O))) or Earth than of the crisp tones of Gorgoroth or Immortal, and although the winters are bitterly cold and icy as any one might experience in Trondheim, they want for snow-capped peaks, and seem more becoming of a Mozartian funeral dirge than anything else.

The fog, though, changes everything when it rolls in. The fog obscures the dreadful openness of wide expanses and bestows a feeling of mystery and wonderment otherwise absent in this typically mundane steppe. It makes the world seem unknowable, and fills it with a sense of shadowy pulchritude. In such a penumbra I can once again feel that strangely comforting melancholy that was a keystone of the best years of my life, and that drew me to Black Metal in the first place.

Forever Young

2010-01-06T20:02:00.000-08:00

A fashionably late happy birthday to Loretta Young, the greatest thing to come out of Utah. Ever.

[Via Dr. Macro]

New Year's Dissolutions

2010-01-03T10:54:00.000-08:00

I can't say I'm sad to see 2009 go -- it was a year when not many things worked out the way I wanted them to, the marquee disaster being the ignominy of having to move back in with my parents after a unsuccessful year-long job search in Washington. Although I did manage to eventually find a job, it's strictly a just-here-for-the-paycheck affair (to be perfectly frank, the work bores me to tears). Yet in times such as these we hardy survivors can do naught but but look for the silver lining, and there is one I managed to move into my own apartment once more, and in one of the few interesting part of Kansas City, no less. It is now 2010, and in keeping in that spirit of positive thinking I'm planning to make 2010 a better year than it's predecessor.

The first thing I'd like to do is find a new job. Even it's just another office job, it's difficult to believe that it could be any more menial and unfulfilling than the one I have now. Besides, the prospect of merely having a different boss is rather appealing, as is the prospect of not having to drive all the way to Lenexa every morning (Lenexa being a commuter town that is so thoroughly white-bread and boring that it makes Overland Park seem interesting by comparison). In any case, I've been thinking about getting into the health care industry. I've even kicked around the idea of trying to become a paramedic.

Next on the list is to build a collection of classic movie swag (and if possible, swag from the twenties and thirties in general). I've gotten off to a pretty good start over the holidays -- as is apparent in the last post -- but I don't think a nerdy obsession can carry much street cred until you have at least a dozen or so books on one's chosen subject matter (by my last count, I have ten such volumes. Looks like I'll need to step it up a bit). If nothing else, this will let me say that I have a genuinely interesting hobby (besides playing Castlevania until four in the morning, that is).

But finally, and perhaps most importantly, I want to write something and get it published. In a strictly technical sense, I am a published author -- you'll find my name in the byline of a few thoroughly uninteresting articles in my High School Yearbook, but in all honesty, who gives a toss about High School Yearbooks? I don't even have mine anymore, and I'll bet that at least half of you out there don't, either. I've mentioned in previous posts my hopes being a proper writer, but I have yet to make good on that aspiration. To get anything published at all -- even a brief article in an obscure online journal -- would be huge step forward, and a significant personal victory (of which I have had precious few over the years).

I haven't much of a conclusion for this bit, so I'll leave it at that. Whatever your plans are for this new year, here's hoping they come to fruition.

P.S. I might have added "make some new friends" to my list of resolutions, but I really suck at that sort of thing. And besides, there's no substitute for the crew I ran with way back when.

The Christmas Haul

2009-12-29T13:36:00.000-08:00

It's been a rather unproductive December around these parts, I know. First and foremost, I hope your end-of-the-year holiday was happy (or merry, or joyous, or whatever modifier you prefer). Secondly, I'm off from work this week (as I was most of last week). Sitting around with little to do is kind of like reliving where I was last year, only with money. Speaking of which, I got a DVD player for Christmas, and proceeded to spend said money establishing the beginnings of a classic film DVD collection (after spending three days snowed-in at my parents' house, that is).

The first artifact to catch my eye at the local Barnes & Noble franchise was TCM's Buster Keaton Collection. It won't come as much of a surprise to anyone who knows me that I grabbed this set as much for Keaton's leading ladies as for the Great Stone Face himself -- the collection features Spite Marriage (1929), co-starring Dorothy Sebastian, and Free and Easy (1930), co-starring Anita Page. Well worth the price of admission, I'd say. Also included is The Cameraman (1928), Buster's first picture under contract at MGM.

Next up was the three-disc deluxe edition of The Jazz Singer (1927), the first major talking picture in the history of cinema. This is one hell of a package -- all manner of neat little Vitaphone shorts are included, as well as a few surviving excerpts from the lost Gold Diggers of Broadway (1929). On top of that, the set comes with all sorts of other little goodies -- photos, reproduction programs, etc. This is definitely a must-have for classic movie nerds.

Finally, I could pass up the chance to nab a copy of TCM's Forbidden Hollywood Collection, Vol. 2. This set contains five pictures: The Divorcee (1930) and A Free Soul (1931), both starring Norma Shearer, Three on a Match (1932) with Joan Blondell, Ann Dvorak, Bette Davis and (briefly!) Humphrey Bogart, Female (1933) with Ruth Chatterton and George Brent, and Night Nurse (1931), featuring Barbara Stanwyck in a nurse's outfit (and yes, that is as sexy as it sounds).

Next on the wish list: The Busby Berkeley Collection.

Musical Interlude: A Bit of the Old Ludwig Van

2009-12-22T09:03:00.000-08:00

Perhaps thirty minutes might be pushing the boundaries of what constitutes an interlude, but here is one of those happy instances where quantity and quality go hand in hand. Although not as renowned as his fifth or ninth symphonies, Ludwig Van Beethoven's seventh symphony is no less of a masterpiece. Add to this potent formula the fact that the piece is here performed by the great Herbert von Karajan and the Berlin Philharmonic, and you might just have what one commenter called the best video on youtube. If you have half an hour to kill, give this great piece of music a listen (or put in on in the background while you read a book or fold laundry or whatever it is you do).

Free Associations, Ep. 11: Song and Dance Edition

2009-12-10T20:50:00.000-08:00

Hokey love songs? Check! Unsubtle sexual double entendres ? Check! Oddly effeminate male backup dancers? Check! Silly hats? You betcha!

Jersey Girls

2009-12-07T19:23:00.000-08:00

Joan Bennett - Palisades Park, New Jersey

Alice White - Paterson, New Jersey

Sally O'Neil - Bayonne, New Jersey

Ruth Harriet Louise - New Brunswick, New Jersey

Relevant to My Interests, Ep. 20

2009-11-29T19:29:00.000-08:00

Born Ethel Hilda Keeler in Nova Scotia, the former Mrs. Al Jolson is best known today for appearing in several Busby Berkeley musicals, beginning with 1933's 42nd Street, which made her an overnight success. Like many starlets, Ruby Keeler got her start under the aegis of Florenz Ziegfeld before migrating to Hollywood.

I'll be honest with you--it took me a little bit to warm up to Ruby Keeler. She didn't seem like much of an actress at first, but she's so face-meltingly cute that I couldn't help but like her more and more each time I saw hew in a picture (it's easy to see why Al Jolson was so smitten with her). Her aura of charming naivete makes her a perfect fit for the role of the ingenue.

The above photo comes from Shadow Waltz, a nifty little tribute site dedicated to Ruby.

Face Palm.

2009-11-26T20:33:00.000-08:00

Hollywood Party (1934)

2009-11-25T19:09:00.000-08:00

By 1934, the moving picture musical had come back to life in grand fashion after a near-death experience in the early part of the decade. Part of this second wave was MGM's 1934 production Hollywood Party. The picture stars Jimmy Durante and Lupe Velez as themselves, supported by a battalion of lesser stars and MGM contract players (this is definitely one of those "Hey, it's that guy!" kind of pictures).

Hollywood Party is fairly thin in the plot department: Jimmy Durante is looking to secure a real lion for his next Schnarzan picture--an obvious jab at the Tarzan pictures--and decides to throw a huge party for Baron Munchausen in hopes of borrowing a lion from him. Naturally, all the stars of Hollywood are invited--all except Lupe Velez, Durante's Schnarzan co-star. Understandably miffed, Lupe crashes the party. Not that the plot matters all that much--the whole picture is really just an excuse to show of a melange of miscellaneous musical numbers and comic gags. The miscellany is accentuated by the fact that Mickey Mouse shows up about halfway through the picture and shows the partygoers a cartoon about chocolate soldiers going to war against gingerbread men. This in the same movie where Lupe Velez breaks an egg in Oliver Hardy's pants and Polly Moran gets felt-up by a fellow pretending to be a Greek nobleman.

This hodgepodge may seem like a recipe for disaster but it somehow manages to work. The musical numbers are--for the most part--pretty damned catchy (particularly the title song as performed by Frances Williams), and most of the gags are actually pretty funny. In addition, the picture is also rather short--at just barely an hour and a quarter in length, the movie ends before it can begin to drag. Furthermore, there's an awful lot of energy packed into that hour and fifteen minutes; there's never really a dull moment, perhaps largely because the pictures doesn't really have time to be dull.

Although Hollywood Party is essentially a vehicle for Jimmy Durante, and although the schnozzola is as good as one would expect him to be, it's Lupe Velez who really steals the show. In her limited screen time, Lupe is delightfully shrewish, in one scene going so far as to shoulder-throw Charles Butterworth into a nearby patch of rose bushes (Butterworth's deadpan style is pretty entertaining in its own right, for what it's worth).

But what, sir, of the plot? Does Jimmy Durante ever manage to get that lion from Baron Munchausen? Does Lupe Velez ever get that drink she wanted? And where did she find that dress? The world, sadly, will never know the answer to these questions. As it turns out, the whole party was just a dream--whilst waiting for his wife to get ready for a real party at Lupe's house, Jimmy fell asleep while thumbing through the pages of an old Tarzan novel.

Although it certainly isn't in the same class as the Busby Berkeley or Astaire and Rogers musicals, Hollywood Party is pretty good for what it is. It's a very, very silly movie, to be sure, and with a real "B-list" feel to it, but it is nonetheless entertaining. It was certainly a hell of a lot better than The Hollywood Revue of 1929. Let's save that trainwreck for another post.

Bonus Turkey Day content: The aforementioned title song, performed by the aforementioned Frances Williams. I am thankful for 1930s set design, among other things.

Ten Years On

2009-11-21T17:03:00.000-08:00

There's a fairly interesting article in the New York Times about the rapidly-approaching end of the decade and how this decade will be remembered. One perspective that isn't represented in the article, however, is that of one who came of age in the 2000s. These last ten years were an interesting time to be alive, fraught with political intrigue, full of social upheaval. I expect that years from now the 2000s will be remembered in much the same way that the 1960s are remembered--if there's a television show about life in the 2000s, it's going to be a lot more like The Wonder Years than That 70s Show.

While the 1990s were a time of optimism and prosperity, the 2000s were a time of strife and unease. The decade began with the scandalous presidential election of 2000 which delivered George W. Bush into the White House (for better or worse). Maybe there was a bit of flotsam and jetsam in the corridors of power, but that much, I figured, was to be expected. After all, anyone raised in a post-Watergate America was brought up in the common knowledge that all politicians are liars and cheaters. Perhaps it didn't matter who was pulling the strings--one politician was the same as any other (or so I thought, anyway).

Then, not even a year later, that day came. On that day, the decade began in earnest. Everyone will remember where they were and what they were doing when the world changed on the morning of September 11, 2001. The nation went to war that day, fueled by outrage and a berserk lust for revenge. Two years later, the United States invaded Iraq. Why? Nobody really seems to know why, even all these years later. Maybe we got tired of Afghanistan and decided to try something different. Whatever the reason we decided to start the war, it certainly doesn't seem to have made things any better for us. As we waged wars overseas, our economy began to fall into a shambles, until the whole thing very nearly collapsed in 2008.

This was the world in which I came of age. In the last ten years, I have seen that the omnipotence, invulnerability and moral infallibility of my country--convictions which, when the decade began, I held very dear--were simply illusions. That is how I will remember the 2000s: a decade of disillusionment.

My Own Personal Purgatory

2009-11-16T19:39:00.000-08:00

Ever since I first read the Divine Comedy, I have sought to adopt Dante Alighieri as something of a mentor (although I wouldn't presume that I have one tenth the talent he had). I strove to model my life after his in as many ways as I could, drawing parallels wherever I might find them. Three such parallels are of paramount importance: the life-changing unrequited love, the exile from the home city and the loss of the proper path. My circumstances may not have been as drastic as Dante's, but these parallel incidents had no less of an impact on my life than they did on Dante's life.

As Dante had his Beatrice, I had my own lost love. More accurately, I had a series of lost loves, totaling a half-dozen over the course of the past seven years. Dante's loss was perhaps more catastrophic than mine--he lost Beatrice through her own premature death, whereas my losses came about through my own bungling, my own inaction or the simple impossibility of my beloved loving me in return. But however the specifics of our respective heartbreaks might differ, the effect of heartbreak upon Dante and me was much the same. In our spiritual and emotional anguish, Dante and I took solace in introspection. Ultimately we both concluded--Dante, naturally, in an exponentially more masterful fashion than I--that love, even if it be unrequited, was the true path to salvation.

For Dante, salvation had a primarily religious meaning; that is, through his love for Beatrice he was able to overcome error and sin and once again walk the path to God. For me, on the other hand, salvation was more introspective and philosophical than it was literal. It was not from hellfire and damnation that I needed to be saved, but rather from the wicked, base and ultimately self-destructive elements of my own character. Even if my beloved did not reciprocate my affections, the sensation of simply being in love compelled me to better myself, both physically and spiritually. Because I was in love, I could shun the perverse, slothful and avaricious temptations of the world around me and instead focus on the noble and beautiful aspects of life.

The wounds of lost love were deep, to be sure, and they certainly left their scars; nevertheless, they did heal. The old wounds would be compounded by new ones, however, as both Dante and I found ourselves cast out from the cities we called our homes. The specifics again differ--Dante was exiled from Florence for political reasons, and I was compelled to leave Seattle by my financial difficulties. Nonetheless I too was forced to abandon the things I loved, and I too would come to know the bitter taste of others' bread, and how difficult the the path is for one who must ascend and descend others' stairs.

Dorothy Gale was right--there is no place like home. But Kansas City is not my home, no more than Ravenna was Dante's home or Tomis was Ovid's home. For me, Kansas--to say nothing of Missouri--is a vast wasteland, a sprawling prison cell from which I cannot seem to break free. Even more disheartening is the fact that my exile is also a return to a past from which I wanted to badly to escape. In my exile I find that I have lost my way, and am wandering directionless through the dark wood of error.

Owing to scale, depth and sheer audacity of the work, I consider Dante's Divine Comedy the single greatest work in all of western literature (although I am certain that legions of scholars and other literati will disagree with me quite vehemently). Less controversial (but perhaps more important) is the fact that the Divine Comedy has influenced me so profoundly that I at times consciously attempt to model my own life's journey after Dante's pilgrimage. After all, if one considers the pervasive theme of the Divine Comedy--namely, that love is the true means of salvation and redemption--one must conclude that it is a better guide to life than any religious text could pretend to be. That aspect of Dante's philosophy I have incorporated into my own.

An Interview With Anita Page

2009-11-11T21:20:00.000-08:00

From the distant past of 1993, here is an interview in three parts with Anita Page conducted by interviewer Skip E. Lowe (who seems like a native son of Fabulon, if you know what I mean). For a woman of eighty-three years, Anita still seems as sharp as the proverbial tack here. Particularly entertaining is the bit about starring alongside Joan Crawford. Also, I was especially overjoyed that she name-drops Dorothy Sebastian (I almost jumped through the ceiling out of sheer delight!).

Part 1:

Part 2:

Part 3:

It really is hard to believe that it was only last year that Anita Page finally gave up the ghost. A special thanks to YouTube user Aaron1912 for posting this interview.

There is Only One Acceptable Way to Spend a Friday Night....

2009-10-30T21:16:00.001-07:00

... And this is it.

Mystery of the Wax Museum (1933)

2009-10-26T18:47:00.000-07:00

Although conventional wisdom holds that Universal Studios had cornered the market on monster/horror movies in the 1930s, Mystery of the Wax Museum -- a 1933 foray into the genre by Warner Bros. and Vitaphone Pictures -- surely deserves to be mentioned when the topic of classic horror pictures comes up. Lionel Atwill -- who seems to have made a career of playing a wide variety of villains -- plays the oh-so-inventively-named Ivan Igor, whose sculpture collection in London is destroyed in a fire set by a business associate out for a bit of insurance money. Igor's prized work, a sculpture of Marie Antoinette, is also destroyed. Twelve years later, Igor has -- big surprise -- gone a little mad and relocated to New York, where he has begun to rebuild his collection.

Enter feisty newspaper reporter Florence Dempsey (Glenda Farrell), who is snooping about for a big story. As luck would have it, the body of young woman is stolen from the city morgue by a shadowy figure, and the trail leads to Ivan Igor's new wax museum. Meanwhile, Charlotte Duncan (played by Fay Wray, and who just happens to be Florence's flatmate) pays a visit to her boyfriend, an aspiring sculptor working under Igor's tutelage. Igor catches a glimpse of Charlotte, and realizes that she is the spitting image of his long lost Marie Antoinette sculpture. He requests the she pose for one of his sculptures and she, unsuspecting of his nefarious intentions, agrees. Thrills, chills and even the occasional spill ensue.

Although Lionel Atwill and Fay Wray get top billing, it's Glenda Farrell who steals the whole picture. She is eminently likable as the fast-talking, tough-as-nails Florence, and seems perfectly cast for the part. As a matter of fact, the character of Florence Dempsey seems like the spiritual predecessor of Torchy Blane, another gritty reporter type whom Farrell portrayed in no fewer than seven pictures. Lionel Atwill is also good in the role of Ivan Igor, staying far away from ham territory (I still can't get over that goofy name, though. It sounds the name of a lesser Bond villain). Fay Wray, meanwhile, hasn't much to do in this picture besides look pretty, horrified, or both (fortunately, she does a commendable job in both cases).

What might be most interesting about this picture, however might be just how surprisingly good it looks. Not only are there some unexpectedly artsy shots--including a particularly memorable one of a crucifix-clasping Joan of Arc sculpture (appropriately enough) going up in flames -- but the entire picture is filmed in two-strip technicolor, which makes everything look even better than usual, especially Fay Wray. Heck, even Glenda Farrell looks good in two-strip technicolor!

For those who like horror movies, I can't recommend Mystery of the Wax Museum strongly enough. It's good, campy fun from what -- for my money, at least -- was one of old-school Hollywood's best years (that's 1933, for those keeping track at home). Vincent Price would remake the picture as House of Wax in 1953. A remake of the remake appeared in 2005, but nobody cares about that version, except maybe Paris Hilton. Mystery of the Wax Museum was included in its entirety on the DVD release of House of Wax, which makes the package well worth picking up.

[Poster Image Sauce]

Five More Good Songs

2009-10-20T17:38:00.000-07:00

I've been listening to rather a lot of music as of late, and rather diverse variety of music, to boot. The sole advantage of a morning commute that borders on thirty minutes in duration is that it gives me plenty of time to delve into my music collection (that's me, always looking on the bright side). Let's take a look at five songs that I've had on heavy rotation recently.

***

"The Elk King's Daughter"
Nest
Fabled Lore

The music of Nest is a stirring blend of folk music and ambient soundscapes. Aslak Tolonen is the creative force behind Nest, and he draws his inspiration from the natural beauty of the Finnish landscape. Appearing on Nest's 2000 demo tape Fabled Lore,"The Elk King's Daughter" is an especially atmospheric track that brings to mind a feeling of isolation. Yet rather than being melancholic, the mood is actually quite peaceful, as though it were the score of a fairytale. For me, this song is quite evocative of the foggy winter nights I spent in Washington. For those interested, the track is available for a listen at this site.

"It's Only A Paper Moon"
The Paul Whiteman Orchestra

As with many of the classic Jazz standards, there are numerous extant recordings of "It's Only A Paper Moon". The version I had in mind, however, is the 1933 version recorded by the Paul Whiteman orchestra with vocal accompaniment by Peggy Healy. This recording of the song was featured on the soundtrack to the Peter Bogdanovich film Paper Moon (1973) (the film takes its name from the song). It's one of those catchy old numbers that sticks in your head and stays there for quite a while. And yes, I did like the movie. Rather a lot, in fact.

"Cremation Ghat II"
Om
God Is Good

Om was formed from the ashes of the legendary Stoner Doom band Sleep. Om's meditative, quasi-ritualistic brand of music has always carried an oriental twist, but God is Good, the band's latest offering really allows those influences to shine through. "Cremation Ghat II" is perhaps the most memorable cut from the album; although it is not quite five minutes long, the track is quite epic within the confines of that short direction. The use of sitars give the song a decidedly Indian flavor, and the whole composition evokes a feeling of crossing the desert (or perhaps ascending to Shangri-La). Do give the song a listen over at Om's MySpace.

"Discipline"
Nine Inch Nails
The Slip

I used to listen to Nine Inch Nails quite a lot way back when (and by quite a lot I mean all the damned time). I've returned to listening to the band after an absence of a few years, and it seems that somewhere along the line I forgot just how good Nine Inch Nails really is. In May of 2008, Trent Reznor and company decided to give away a complete album to the fans, with no strings attached. That album was The Slip, and it's just as good as NIN fans could have expected it to be. My personal favorite track from The Slip would have to be "Discipline", with its driving tempo that is faintly reminiscent of 80s New Wave. The album is definitely worth getting for those unfamiliar with NIN's music (if there is anyone left who isn't by now), since it is not only quite accessible but also quite free.

Смуглянка ("Smuglianka")
Red Army Choir

You just knew these guys were bound to show up on this, didn't you? Although it bears the musical hallmarks of traditional Russian folk music, "Smuglianka" is actually a fairly recent composition (insofar as one may call the early 1970s recent). The song seems to have first appeared in a film about Soviet pilots entitled В бой идут одни «старики» (Only the Veterans Will Go to Fight). As for the song, it starts off softly but builds up to a frenetic crescendo during the chorus. It's also extremely catchy -- just have a listen, and I'll guarantee you that you'll have it stuck in your head for weeks).

Musical Interlude: The Cossack Ride Over the Don

2009-10-16T22:47:00.000-07:00

This is a fantastic song. Just give it a listen, and you'll wish you were a Cossack.

A Classic Cinema Survey

2009-10-09T18:38:00.000-07:00

I found a nifty little survey on classic cinema over at the blog A Noodle in a Haystack, and thought I'd give it a stab.

1. What is your all-time favorite Clark Gable movie?

Probably Wife vs. Secretary (1936). Yes, It Happened One Night (1934) was good, but everybody likes that one, so I have to go with a more unorthodox option. Idiot's Delight (1939) also deserves a nod.

2. Do you like Joan Crawford best as a comedienne or a drama-queen?

Yes.

...But to be less coy about it, I have to say that I like Joan a bit more as a comedienne than as a drama queen. Especially early on in her career, she seems much more natural in a comedic mode than in a dramatic one.

3. In your opinion, should Ginger Rogers have made more musicals post-Fred Astaire?

I don't think so. The musicals Ginger made with Fred would have been too tough an act to follow. And any leading man would almost inevitably have been unfavorably compared to the fleet-footed Mr. Astaire, anyway.

4. I promise not to cause you bodily (or any other serious) harm if you don't agree with me on this one. So please be honest: do you like Elizabeth Taylor? Hm?

I haven't seen enough of her pictures to formulate a reasoned opinion, to be honest.

5. Who is your favorite off-screen Hollywood couple?

Marion Davies and William Randolph Hearst. Sure, the whole arrangement was a little creepy, but their relationship outlasted the average Hollywood marriage by decades. An honorable mention goes to Norma Shearer and Irving Thalberg.

6. How about onscreen Hollywood couple?

Cary Grant and Irene Dunne. It's a downright shame that they made only three movies together. A close second would be Dick Powell and Ruby Keeler, with William Haines and Joan Crawford taking third place.

7. Favorite Jean Arthur movie?

Any of the movies she made under the direction of Frank Capra, although You Can't Take it With You (1938) would probably my favorite of that lot. Also deserving of mention are Too Many Husbands (1940) and The Talk of the Town (1942).

8. What was the first Gregory Peck movie you saw?

The Guns of Navarone (1961).

9. What film made you fall in love with Alfred Hitchcock? (And for those of you that say, "I don't like Hitchcock" -- what is wrong with you?!)

Probably Rear Window (1954). By the by, I think "love" might be putting it a bit strongly, but whatever.

10. What is your favorite book-to-movie adaption?

Pick any of the movies Stanley Kubrick made between 1971 and 1987. The three Hannibal Lecter pictures were also quite good (Anthony Hopkins wasn't in that fourth one, so it doesn't count). In truth, most great movies begin as great books, so it's virtually impossible for me to narrow it down to just one.

11. Do you prefer Shirley Temple as a little girl or as a teenager?

No.

12. Favorite character actor?

Probably Eddie Cantor--the nervous, little Jewish song-and-dance man.

13. Favorite Barbara Stanwyck role?

This one's a toss-up between Florence Fallon from The Miracle Woman (1931) and Phyllis Dietrichson from Double Indemnity (1944). Lily Powers from Baby Face (1933) isn't far behind.

14. Who is your favorite of Cary Grant's leading ladies?

Aside from Irene Dunne? Probably Katherine Hepburn for The Philadelphia Story (1940). Myrna Loy would be a close second for Mister Blandings Builds His Dream House (1948).

15. Bette Davis or Joan Crawford?

Do you really even need to ask?

16. What actors and/or actresses do you think are underrated?

I don't think Fay Wray really gets her due. When she wasn't being manhandled by a giant monkey or otherwise being compelled to shriek at the top of her lungs, she was actually a decent actress.

17. What actors and/or actresses do you think are overrated?

Although her style works well in silent pictures, I find Greta Garbo's swooning somewhat grating in talking pictures. Personally, I think Garbo owes her success more to onscreen presence than to acting ability.

Also, fuck John Wayne.

18. Do you watch movies made pre-1980 exclusively, or do you spice up your viewing-fare with newer films?

This one's a little difficult to answer. Generally speaking, I like classic films and modern films based on decidedly different criteria. I'm also more critical of modern films. Take from that what you will, I suppose.

19. Is there an actor/actress who you have seen in a film and immediately loved? If so, who?

Leslie Howard for his indomitable Britsh flippancy and wit, and Jeanette MacDonald for that voice.

20. Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire?

Fred, without a doubt.

21. Favorite Ginger Rogers drama?

Truth be told, I've never seen her in any dramas, so I really can't say.

22. If you wrote a screenplay, who would be in your dream cast and what roles would they play? (Mixing actors and actresses from different generations is allowed: any person from any point in their career.)

A biopic of Lyudmilla Pavlichenko, starring Dorothy Sebastian. Other significant players include Joan Crawford as a field medic, Evelyn Brent as a Commissar and Lionel Barrymore as Josef Stalin.

...Fuck off, this is the best movie ever.

23. Favorite actress?

It's a dead heat between Joan Crawford and Dorothy Sebastian.

25. Favorite actor?

Fredric March, without a doubt.

26. And now, the last question. What is your favorite movie from each of these genres:

Drama: That's a fairly broad category, but Amadeus (1984) comes to mind.

Romance: Until somebody makes a good film version of La Vita Nuova (which will probably never happen), this one's going to stay blank.

Musical: 42nd Street (1933).

Comedy: Like drama, this a broad category and extremely hard to pick. Duck Soup (1933) might be the one, though.

Western: The Guns of Fort Petticoat (1957), if only because it's so damned hokey.

Hitchcock (he has a genre all to himself): The Birds (1963). I always root for the birds in this movie.