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Monday, November 11, 2019

Another Full Meal That Is Precode

The Crash and Crime and Dance, Fools, Dance (1931)

Another of precodes to splendidly capture the era, Dance, Fools, Dance is rich in ways they ought to teach, not just as film history, but history all-round. Pre-crash, post-crash, and all round the town (Chicago), this one put me conversant with the news game (more so even than The Finger Points), rugs yanked from under the rich (familiar Depression theme), and gangs loose and lethal on streets (being Chicago, after all). Add to these Joan Crawford at hot dance, willing surrender of virtue in a first reel, bug-eye dramatics to surpass even herself, and groped by gorilla Gable who’s in to make deep early impression, and does. I don’t glance away from shows this good even to check a clock, because frankly, I don't want a Dance, Fools, Dance to end. Much is woven from aftermath of a certain garage massacre on 2/14/29, a best of early 30’s those that exploited shock off headlines. Did law abiders get vicariously off on close quarters to crime that shows like this supplied? What strikes me is how near they put us to carnage, even where only talked about (vividly) rather than shown.

JC and Lester Vail Agree To Try Out Love "On Approval"

Normal folks sucked into vice is again an emphasis, slumming to speakeasies a danger route for a privileged class gangland knows how to victimize. Joan Crawford and brother William Bakewell, born to wealth, lose it all when Dad drops dead on the exchange floor, an event we see coming from an opener yacht party where latter observes a tottering market and warns fellow card-players that their flush can’t last, all this while Joan puts out to playboy-ish, but ultimately straight arrow, Lester Vail. We’re made to know Joan and sibling Bill are lost lambs once money is gone, but are reassured that screen Joan, even where poor, won't let it stall her long. Bill, less so, is lured into bootlegging, kills benign scribe Cliff Edwards on gang head Clark Gable orders, then is wheel man for the St. Valentine killers. Buying bathtub liquor was like 60’s reefer use for leading always to hard stuff of felonies, maybe death, as movies plus other authority figures told us. I like least the going blind part of drinking bathtub hootch, but look how many took such risk in the 20/early 30’s. Would we drink more today if someone told us all of a sudden that we couldn’t?

The yacht party open sees Joan and guests stripping to skivvies and diving off, this relief to boredom of dance and drinks. The gag works as sop to precode, stills and footage a commonplace in books and highlight reels since. ABC used it for a wide-viewed, in 1972 and since, celebration of MGM past called Hollywood: The Dream Factory, which was first exposure for many to abandon that was 30’s before a crackdown. What with lights out though (at Lester Vail command), why leave any clothes on, and if the issue was not enough bathing suits, according to Joan, what then do they change into once out of saltwater, and dripping wet. Trips home would be sticky at the least (did early 30’s boats have showers?). Yet more reason to not examine such stuff closely, much less to emulate it. We could wonder if real-life revelers tried, and hope that if they did, there were fresh underthings handy. To further and worse example, there is JC at final rich girl breakfast lighting up before servants serve. Dad objects, but she explains, straight-faced, that smoking is a necessary way to keep thin. I’ve heard this before, been told that indeed cigarettes retard appetite, and that’s why so many women used. The scene gives shudders re those who watched in 1931 and were guided by movie star oracle that was Crawford. Most of them, virtually all, aren’t around now to catalog regret, as even a 1931 start at smoking would see lucky survivors aged 100 now, but how many with the habit made it to two thirds that?

A Bootlegger Invited In Among Polite Company, a Commonplace During Prohibition Years 

Joan as moral arbiter tells the boyfriend that she believes in “trying love out,” to which he replies, “On approval?” that the go-ahead and checkmate to their entering a happy marriage and saving Crawford grief, penury, and her brother’s ultimate death. Precode titillated, but often carried a harsh stick for moral misstep. To this, add admission of a criminal element onto home and hearth, as brother Bakewell welcomes a bootlegger so that he can order cases on the cuff. This is all to show how easy it was for criminals to consort with decent folk indifferent to illegality of strong beverage. A montage of youth on frenzied spree tips to a stock market hitting bottom, a warn we saw not for a first time here, variants on the excess=doom dating to Noah’s Ark (modern section), and more. Caution lights were lit if only an audience would heed them, but how to get past distraction of glamour figures doing wrong things and by all evidence enjoying it?

Behind-Scenes Action of Crawford as a Chicago Cub Reporter

Dance, Fools, Dance personalizes the Crash via family retainer telling Joan-Bill they are “wiped out completely,” then to tactless capper, “You’re quite penniless.” I’ll assume this was for benefit of those also penniless, but with a dime at least to get in and see Dance, Fools, Dance. Financial ruin was payback plutocrats had coming, them and their yacht party. Viewers enjoyed screen ostentation plus deflation of the rich. Real life meanwhile did its own leveling, leaps out Wall Street windows reminding us that money was no bet for contentment. What kept rooting interest for “Bonnie Jordan” (Crawford’s character) was JC past-playing rich and poor, her never-say-quit a guarantor of crowd support. A short four years at stardom gave Crawford not one, but several, templates she and writers could mix-match in service to Metro output. Showmen was alert to things she’d do in Dance, Fools, Dance that had worked before. Ad art evoked Our Dancing Daughters, not forgotten even though it was out of circulation for being silent. To that add Paid, a departure when new in 1930, but since absorbed by the Crawford persona, it understood that she’d play all-out melodrama where needed and excel at it. Dance, Fools, Dance thus saw her rich in a first reel, diminished in a second, gone to work at entry level news reporting, then put to root-out of bootlegging killers, all fresh to Crawford following yet comfortably familiar. This was brilliant marketing of a personality built from scratch who had risen to heights in a remarkably short time.

There’s notion, mistaken I think, that we are better educated than folks who saw Dance, Fools, Dance, plus others like it, first run. Seems to me there is corrective for that in every old movie I see. A couple of for instances, not at all emphasized, but there, and noteworthy: Bonnie/Joan turns aside a marriage proposal from “Bob Townsend” (Lester Vail) she attributes to his feeling sorry for her lost fortune. “Noble Barkis,” she says, by way of turning down what she considers a charity offer. I recognized Barkis as the character from David Copperfield, him of the familiar line, “Barkis is willing,” Bob/Lester’s gesture evoking latter because Barkis too was “willing” to marry the novel's “Clara Peggotty,” who otherwise had few prospects. This line of Bonnie’s comes and is gone with no explanation of its literary antecedent, then-audiences figured to know who Barkis was, and how appropriate mention of him at this moment will be. If the line had been adjudged too obscure, would someone at script, shoot, or edit stages have taken it out? No … I suspect most of them had read, or least knew, their Dickens, and figured we would, or should, as well. How many today could figure as much?

"Jake Luva" (Gable) Provides Scoring to His and Gang's Review of St. Valentine Garage Rub-Outs

Where It's Gable Making The Play, No Seldom Means No 

JC Declares Independence: "I'm Hitting The Pace Now, and I Like It"
Real-life crime wasn’t long for entering folklore, and becoming basis for films, The Finger Points inspired by a Chicago reporter’s murder, then there was sneak photography of Ruth Snyder getting death house juice for killing her husband in concert with lover Judd Gray, this a springboard for Cagney comedy at Warners in 1933 (the Snyder/Gray event is referred to as late as 1951 by Douglas Spencer’s newshound character in The Thing). Most crime-centered precodes had basis in truth, lurid news an always source for screen stories. Feral gang chief Clark Gable engineers the St. Valentine killings in Dance, Fools, Dance, but who’d figure his “Jake Luva” for playing soft melody on a crime lair piano while reviewing the hit with henchmen? It’s a remind of how cultivated folks were for being raised in households where music, to be heard, had to be made. I’m always pleased, then abashed, when Classic Era characters sit casually at keyboards and begin to play (this came up before in discussion of Hold Your Man). It’s a sign for me that, whatever depredations otherwise, they were way ahead of later generations for whom home essential was a TV set, or later, video games and palm pilots. Wherever I imagine we’ve “progressed” past bygone folk, it takes but dialogue and situations from rich resource of a Dance, Fools, Dance or related others to get quick corrective, that readily had at a next TCM run or on DVD from Warner Archive.

Thursday, November 07, 2019

James Bond Had Forerunners ...

Before 007, There Was Margaret Lockwood in Highly Dangerous (1950)

Margaret Lockwood studies insects for her living, but is induced by the Home Office to spy on a mythical principality's misuse of the critters for war purpose. Action gets at times Bondian, Lockwood and assist Dane Clark sneaking into enemy labs not unlike what 007 later detonated to dispose of "heroin-flavored bananas." Everything that 60's-clicked in Britain had fascinating origin that sometimes went way back. Maturing Lockwood, no longer the girl-in-distress of The Lady Vanishes, is a determined secret agent. She's even captured by the opposing side (Communists? It's not explicit, but certainly implied) and given sodium pentothal in a surprisingly explicit, and harrowing, highlight. Dane Clark is the American reporter who tags along --- as if she needs help --- and indeed, he's mostly ineffective. That secret plant they penetrate, by the way, nicely anticipates similar facilities Professor Quatermass would search for awful truths. Highly Dangerous had a US release via Lippert Films, and played for most part as support to that company's Lost Continent, a sci-fi with frankly greater B.O. promise. There's been no DVD release, but for Region Two, which includes Highly Dangerous in a Margaret Lockwood box set. TCM shows the film occasionally.

Monday, November 04, 2019

Beware Another "Think Piece"

Film As Art Is Still So Much Popcorn

Movies don’t get respect. They haven’t even after a hundred years. Will it ever come? First some possible whys … the very word “movies” suggests a diminutive ("flicks" worse). But what more appropriate? There is “film,” a word to issue largely from schoolmasters, “cinema” the same, and as pretentious. “Picture” I like, have used, much as old-timers did. I’d propose popcorn as a highest barrier to prestige. Ever see someone carry a buttered bag into the ballet or opera? Popcorn is by definition frivolous. We do not make a meal of art by having meals with art. Especially something so silly as popcorn. With real culture, there is no place even for caviar. Herewith are the most popular snacks with movies: Milk Duds, Raisinets, “Sour Patch Kids,” Goobers, Nachos, Whoppers, popcorn being, of course, Number One. Some theatres will sell you a hot dog. We used to get hamburgers at the Liberty, likelier soybean-burgers. They came with slaw that I used to scrape onto the floor. Such was my regard for our Temple Of Enrichment. How to experience moving picture art on one hand with a box of Goobers in the other? I read that in the silent era, they didn’t let food into theatres. Peanut vendors off the street were allowed to push carts up-down aisles at a few places. Popcorn came later to scuttle film’s parity among the arts. Now awash with Goobers, our debasement is complete.

Note the "Formal Premiere"

Moviegoing was from the start a most democratic cultural pursuit. Too democratic, said High Art gatekeepers. Darkness conferred privacy, so it mattered less how you looked, whereas at live theatre, an arriving, or seated in boxes, viewership, bore as much scrutiny as actors on the stage. Roadshows upped the ante for deportment. Those of a politer generation imposed orderliness. We were dressed for My Fair Lady during a Washington family trip in 1965, my suggestion that we instead see Tomb Of Ligeia at an outskirts drive-in brusquely put down. I wore a starchy white shirt for the Pinocchio reissue of 1962, a feeling of red ants crawling up my back what I recall best of that day. Patrons came appropriate to outstanding event that was Cinerama, as did “Formal Premiere” attendees on Broadway during the early 30’s. To be assigned a seat conferred status, being escorted there jam on the bread. By such means might movies approach legit performance. Problem was attractions that did not justify hard ticket terms, or stayed past point of filling seats. A 1968 foray to Gone With The Wind at Winston-Salem’s Carolina Theatre saw me led by an usher with his flashlight to my reserved spot at a virtually empty matinee. I was seated to the far right, not a favored perch, but my ticket was specific. What penalty might come of a unilateral move? It was halfway through the Barbecue at Twelve Oaks before I dared a center view.

Assuming film is culture, is there any longer a film culture? The sort, I mean, that stood collegiates back blocks for a latest Antonioni or Bergman. Film festivals continue to thrive, so youth, and memory of art film in flower, is served. Apart from queue for comic book adapts, is there eager turnout for first Fridays of grown-up entertainment? I was there for Once Upon a Time ... in Hollywood, but do not expect that experience to be duplicated. There was once active film following on campuses. Is there vestige of it left? If most anything can be streamed on a hand device, why walk even to the student union for a screening? I saw where Martin Scorsese knocked super heroes and got knocked back even by a Disney chairman with interests distinctly vested. Then there is Francis Coppola who they say can’t/won’t/never will be, hired to make features again. These would seem last hope among veterans for Film As Art, at least as the elderly define Film As Art (but see Scorsese's newest, The Irishman, said to equal his best). I bet there is more worthy product made today than anyone could begin to keep up with, short of ticker tape to tell what is streaming or cloud concealed. Would finest stories shot on camera phones equal low-budget greats of yore? Ways people troll for movies have changed utterly. No longer must one wade in water to pan for gold. You’ll sift much dross, sure, but that was chance viewers and critics always took. Some so venturesome keep web pages to pass along finds, things we’d not know existed but for these bloggers' initiative.

How many will identify themselves as a “film historian?” To be an art historian might imply you have a job with a museum, or that you travel around and lecture, for pay. Best off is he/she who, when asked what they do, says “thoracic surgeon,” or “I design and build robotic body parts to restore normal function.” Most people, more’s a pity, regard film history as trivial pursuit, an absurd accumulation of useless information. I shrink a little if anyone calls me a film historian, but annoyed by the “movie buff” tag, words best spoke to kazoo accompany, a whoopee cushion beneath all who’d celebrate the moving image. What awes me is respect comic folks get. They are gods now and film executives toady to them. Look at San Diego each year, and how stars, directors, sit along a dais to curry favor with those they once called geeks. Super hero enthusiasm no longer asks for respect --- it is demanded. Those who ignore the constituency do so to peril of their product, and their jobs. Imagine a studio establishment and opinion makers afraid not to know who Harry Langdon was, or Jack Pierce, or when and why we lost precode movies. It’s the stuff of dreams, so never mind, but imagine if someone had gone to a boy basement filled with Spiderman and Fantastic Fours, telling him that someday his kind of idol would rule media. Could such an outcome have been believed?

Thursday, October 31, 2019

Of Ones I Keep Coming Back To

Another Bite at The Wolf Man (1941)

Larry Talbot is likeable from our first seeing him sharing front seat with his chauffeur, a Yank with the common touch come home to awkward reunion with father Claude Rains, who looks anything but. Should Claude have had serious talk with the gardener or stable boy some years before? There was apparently an older son, also Lon-like based on a portrait, and you have to wonder what mother produced these two in concert with Rains. Such concern is what comes of seeing The Wolf Man perhaps too many times, but once you've done so, what is there to observe but petty details? Well, for one, a Blu-Ray so rich and detailed as to approach live performance --- nothing petty in that remarkable plus --- and each view is further confirmation that this may be a fastest-paced of Universal horrors. I don't wonder that fans welcomed the lycanthrope back for a quartet of follow-ups, him the only fresh monster Universal yielded in the 40's (and I'm not forgetting Rondo Hatton and Paula The Ape Woman, but do either of these compete?). Questions arise: Would Larry use Sir John's telescope to again peek in at Gwen, perhaps at bedtime? When Sir John tied Larry to the chair and left the house, did he not consider that his son may need a privy break? Ralph Bellamy looked back on this and Ghost Of Frankenstein mainly in terms of on-set laughs; did anyone ever satisfy him as to how meaningful these pictures were to us? Law enforcement is surprisingly lax as to gypsy Bela dying "in the confusion" of a wolf attack, and later on, with Larry fairly aching to confess to other murders, no one listens. Talbot village would seem an ideal retreat from consequence of crime. I'd like knowing what crew person took home Larry's wolf head cane, "make a nice putter" indeed. Did someone eventually use it for just that? Chaney looks fit and almost handsome here, The Wolf Man a sole romantic lead for him that was credible. The character was "my baby," he used to say. By 1941, Lon was lucky to pull that one out of Universal's cooled-off oven.

Monday, October 28, 2019

30's Cost of Fake News

The Finger Points (1931) at Reporters Turned Corrupt

Chicagoans Find Fun in Viewing Head-Shot Jake Lingle
Jake Lingle was a reporter for the Chicago Tribune. He started off clean, but ended up dirty. Gangland saw to that. Jake covered crime till criminals bribed him to cover it up, then when something (but what?) went wrong, they rubbed him out. That was June 9, 1930. Parts of Chicago, it seems, kept roaring well after the 20’s. A tall, blond guy came up behind Jake in a crowded railroad underpass, sprayed his brains amidst a moving crowd, then blended among them. Talk about brass. Why not wait for a next football game and do your killing there? $1400 was found in pockets of the victim who earned $65 per week, this after Jake got plaudits as dauntless champ for law-order. Chumps were those who believed in him. Al Capone was figured to be back of the deed. Seven months search found a suspect that few agreed on, but he served eight years anyway and kept mum doing it. So was Jake Lingle a bad apple, or par for the barrel? Crooked cops were a dime a hatful, so why not journalists too? Imagine temptation of $60K a year that Lingle was alleged to have got. Scribing did not confer sacred trust as did a badge, said rationalizing damned. A lot of them gloried in the rackets and slept peaceful in gravy bowls. What a topic for Hollywood in muckrake mode, and what a custom glove for Richard Barthelmess as decency corrupted by insidious forces intent on swallowing us all. If Dick could be bought, was anyone safe?

Forceful aspect of the gangster cycle was how easily decent folk got sucked in, bootleg liquor bought with more honest dollars than not. Had we but obeyed Volstead, crime might starve in its cradle, but no, drinking was harmless and the law an unfair one, so bottoms up, said millions of Jake Lingles among us. The numbers racket would thrive by as subtle means later on. Civilians hardly realized they were doing wrong. Higher profile gang movies saw crime on insular terms, an isolated culture apart from clean communities. We could look at Little Caesar, Public Enemy, and Scarface without fear of sink to their level. Filmmakers implicating a wider public got wrists slapped, The Wet Parade a dirty mirror the upright didn’t want to look into ($112K lost). Movies then, even precode ones, prevailed upon their audience to respect the law. Reporters could be cheeky, bend rules, even pal with mobsters, but only to expose them later and uphold a status quo. To sell out for private gain was a killing offence. Many celebrate precode for its free-and-easy, even amoral, stance, but it was never really that. Crime did sometimes pay, but not often. It needed papal dispensation to let wrongdoers off the hook, rules less unyielding than when strict enforcement got hold, but a bitsy eyehook all the same. We’d like Barthelmess to be spared in The Finger Points because he kills no one, took only from crooks, is true-blue to friends, and is, after all, Richard Barthelmess … but snatch goes rug from beneath him when machine guns speak their peace. Maybe it was suggested-by-facts that imposed the windup, Jake Lingle a likely-as-not right guy to co-working chums. He wasn’t picking their pockets, but died sudden all the same.

Dick starts at $35 a week for his fictitious paper. Average income in 1930 was $1,368, so him in the middle would have drawn $26 plus. “Breckinridge Lee” seems educated, can type, and compose stories. Many on actual sheets never wrote a word, were “street reporters” in that they got yarns, phoned them in, left others to do text. Bet there were plenty on payrolls who neither read nor wrote, but had nose for news like bloodhounds. Jake Lingle was a street reporter. Most in the trade, not thought of then as a profession, had to learn on the fly, spelling they picked up “one lousy letter at a time,” as Clark Gable declared in Teacher’s Pet twenty-seven years later. In wild enough towns, like certainly Chicago, the papers were expected to crack crime same as thought-inept police. Crooks often surrendered to editors rather than cops. That got sticky where aroused populace, and certainly law enforcement, said media was glorifying, if not protecting, gangsters. Breckinridge Lee gets beat up for too vigorous reporting in The Finger Points, his editor refusal to cover doctor costs the impetus to join with mob-linked Clark Gable.

Two from The Finger Points cast stood for a past and future of talkie stardom, Fragile Barthelmess and Growling Gable, one roaring in, the other easing out. Barthelmess enjoyed momentum of considerable hit that was The Dawn Patrol of a year before, but limit for him as a sound attraction was piling up. Slight of stature, his height five foot nine if sources are to be believed (he doesn't seem it), saw male co-players in The Finger Points dwarf him. We fear for Dick because of how vulnerable he seems. How long can this man get by hustling the Mob? Barthelmess spoke ideally to silent viewership, as one exhibitor bluntly pointed out: “When pictures were silent, a Bathelmess picture was an event. Whenever I could get one, the wife knew there was a new dress coming to her for business always was good … any picture that had Dick in it was a good picture to me, but … the talkies made a difference. As I watched The Finger Points, I sighed for the old Dick, the old ingratiating boy with the tender smile, the expressive eyes, and the complete mastery of the art of silent acting. In this picture, he is just an actor telling us in words what he used to tell us a thousand times more intriguingly in looks and action” (The Hollywood Spectator, 6-20-31). Here was sum-up that unfortunately could be applied to many a silent-era player facing high hill that was talking screens.

Silent-Era Barthelmess As Many Preferred Him. Note Artist's Signature for Attractive Border Design

Careful, Dick --- Those Are Real Shots They Are Firing

In contrast was lately-arrived Clark Gable to spoken parts, his voice pitched low as to make every line a threat. That plus height advantage cruelly expose an uneven match between he and Barthelmess. Latter having gone corrupt means Breckinridge Lee must die, frightfully so in a hail of tommy gun bullets. We flinch for the actor’s sake, these shots being real, and aimed all round Barthelmess, who relied for his life upon aim of a WWI vet Warners hired to make the scene look real. James Cagney went similar dangerous route for Public Enemy, and still recalled cold fear of the moment in his 70’s memoir. So much for big stars spared hazard of filming, the Barthelmess death scene still uneasy from 88 year distance. What price authenticity, especially where telling stories ripped from headlines? Showmen ran with the relevance, Harry Martin of the Brown Theatre in Louisville, Ky., printing up a bogus newspaper “extra” describing “the murder of a well-known reporter,” newsboys sent throughout town to distribute the sheet. Martin’s bally “had all the earmarks of a genuine newspaper and created a lot of excitement,” the evening’s shower of fake gazettes culminating in a midnight premiere of The Finger Points that got the “biggest opening gross the Brown Theatre has known.”

Lobby-Constructed News Office An Attention-Getter in Jersey City

Multiple Fingers Point at Merchants Participating in the Palace Theatre's Co-Op Ad

Persuasive Ad Cheered By a 1931 Trade
Other campaigns were as bold. Enterprising management for the Stanley Theatre in Jersey City N.J. built a reduced scale press room for lobby display which seated three “reporters” (culled from house staff). The display stayed up a week, was constantly manned, and drew excited comment from patrons plus anticipation for The Finger Points, “A Gripping Tale of an Ace Reporter Who Killed Stories For Hush Money.” Co-op ads were a natural because … well, it was about a finger pointing, as one would to participating merchants, the Palace Theatre of Lorain, Ohio in bed with a pharmacy, jeweler, florist, the round robin of local businesses seeking to get word out on goods they offered. Mutual back-scratch was seldom better utilized. The Motion Picture Herald (8-1-31) spotted an ad by management of the Macomb Theatre in Mount Clemens, Michigan, “an excellent example of how one mat can be brought up to a degree where it hits the reader square in the eye.” Particulars included “the use of varied type … the use of the reverse negative in order to change the tone (of the display ad).” Newspaper promotion reached a new level of sophistication as printing/reproduction techniques improved, and exhibitors took advantage of them. The Finger Points saw success for such efforts, a profit-getter, if modest, in a year when many of Warner releases lost money. It can be had on DVD from Warner Archive.
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