Lay Those Pistols Down ...

 

No Guns for Our Home, Sweet Home, Counsels Mrs. Cody

Movies Taming Toxic Males --- Part One

Wasn’t enough teaching us to be civilized, movies had to constantly remind us to stay civilized, responsible moviemaking when such thing prevailed long ago. Violence was abhorred except as a last resort, as in provoked, defending life, so on. Now that we had our empire called America, it was incumbent to keep hearts and prairies pure. Dodge City only half-kidded when Alan Hale, formerly of wild inclination, joins the town’s “Pure Prairie League” to tame his fighting instinct. Gunplay we’d get in films came always with a lecture deploring such conduct. Gary Cooper as The Plainsman kills on behalf of advancing civilization, to make the frontier “safe” as President Lincoln directs in an opening segment. Hollywood agreed that the only way to tame the west was with guns, but never was this to be openly endorsed. Always there had to be spinach with the sweets. Cooper as Wild Bill Hickock, real-life personage of untamed times, is shunned and feared by polite society taking over his former free range, Hickock a bad influence and told so. Lifelong pal Buffalo Bill Cody marries, and a first command from wife Helen Burgess is for him to lose Wild Bill for a friend. Hickock’s counterargument is persuasive but ignored: I never was a murderer. I never did fight unless put upon, to which Mrs. Cody simple-replies, Though shall not kill, putting us all on defense for having enjoyed Cooper/Hickock on kill setting and hopeful he’ll stay there. After all, isn’t this why we pay ways in to see The Plainsman? Put away your guns, Mr. Hickock, she insists, what right have you to judge who is to live or die? Here was cold bath we got for heroes conquering the west. That being done and finished well before 1936 when The Plainsman was made, no more should we view these as figures to emulate. To admire them in hindsight was sentiment to be moderated, The Plainsman careful to collect tolls for each ounce of lead Coop pours into villainy. Today we want and largely get modern “heroes” that massacre willy-nilly (look at John Wick), and ache at old films that preach over each fallen varmint.

Wild Bill Writes His 30's Epitaph with Every Skunk He Shoots

Hickock totes up a body count but knows for each one he’s closer to oblivion that will be his own. The west is gettin’ to be a new kind of place. What room is there goin’ to be for a two-gun plainsman?, admission he makes moments before being shot from behind by town-dressed cowardice that would never take him face-on. The film industry, in fact every sort of industry, had more than vested interest in keeping the west, in fact all points, safe for folk to gather in close quarters and be entertained by right thinkers who’d keep a lid on whatever violent or anti-social impulse might awaken the animal within us. That’s why there needed to be a Helen Burgess/Mrs. Cody to amend applications for manifest destiny, scold and party pooper she’ll invariably be, but along always to remind us that gentle ways are best ways. If killing had to be done in bulk, let it be Indians stood in the way of expanding empire, and so it was that Hickock and Cody spend cartridges countless upon pre-approved targets figured for block to progress. Cecil B. DeMille directed The Plainsman. He believed in big brooms to sweep off frontiers we aimed to cross. Mrs. Cody probably annoyed him much as she does us, but laws of the 1936 west unlike ones of mere sixty years before when real-life Hickock/Cody stories took place had to give voice to those who’d now abhor random gunplay. This I suspect was as much a Production Code provision as anyone’s nod to good citizenship. Orderly systems must prevail in a final analysis, rough roads ultimately paved. To revel in violent means of carving a country was to endorse them, and this was dangerous in a country, any country, where conflicts threatened always to bubble to a surface and find expression in possibly hostile action.

Incorruptible Sheriff Errol Spurns Temptation By Bruce Cabot and Gang

Here was what an Establishment feared most, and why Law and Order as an overriding theme defined most if not all westerns. Dodge City was 1939 recognition of the west as wilderness tamed, a wilderness submitting to man’s control and man’s impulse to harness and control other men. Posters promised what the film could not hope to deliver: West of Chicago There Was No Law! West of Dodge City There Was No God! Neither legend was borne out by content of Dodge City, agents for order constrained from action outside rigid realm of due process, lest vigilantism prevail and “we” become no better than “them.” In this case, we are Errol Flynn and comic cohorts (Alan Hale, Guinn Williams), them being Bruce Cabot and outnumbering horde abiding by his instruction. There is plentiful law west of Chicago, too much in fact if we are to get value for leisure time and money. Villainy is rampant yet protectors in the person of Flynn plus unhelpful help are impotent to stop it, even after “Wade Hatton” is driven by a series of unpunished murders to don a badge and presumably put right to multiple wrongs. First John Litel, then Bobs Watson, then Frank McHugh --- how many must die before Errol straps on sixes? Response goes slow and we are frustrated by grinding wheels of justice amidst wide-open town that is Dodge. Action means suddenness and that is not what due process is about. To sate customer appetite comes a saloon donnybrook that relates in no way to narrative otherwise plodding, even as it would linger as Dodge City’s most memorable highlight. The fight among seeming hundreds begins over nothing, continues over less, and fails to resolve any aspect of conflicts at hand. It is instead fan service as defined for Errol Flynn admirer base as constituted in 1939, a harmless if empty nod to those coming to Dodge City for their fill-up of action.

Friends First to the Hoosegow, While Baddies Still Run Loose

The brawl is a nervous substitute for facing up to threat Bruce Cabot and his gang represent. They are by this point responsible for much carnage and unimpeded from starting more. We begin to wonder what outrage must ensue till finally they are subdued. Flynn’s is a relaxed authority, forbidding firearms on streets and arresting his friends first for violating it. We could wonder if Sheriff Wade is on the take, an offer Cabot’s “Jeff Surrett” extends but Hatton rejects, at least initially. Did small-part Ann Sheridan initially play a larger role and tempt the sheriff to turn corrupt? Something seems to slow him down. A fiery finish, too long delayed, sees nature more/less dispose of threats, good folk escaping fire that will engulf evildoers. At no time does Flynn go head-to-head with criminals as Walter Huston startlingly did in Beast of the City made seven years earlier but a seeming century before in terms of resolution it proposes to crime problems. 1932 was far more disordered than 1939, at least on a domestic front, Beast of the City and similar ones proposing swift and wholesale disposal of civic disorder. That would not do for stabler environment that was 1939, Dodge City upholding the new creed by never shooting first, but asking questions, endless questions, toward tie-up both tepid and frustrating. For gloss and Techicolorful entertainment, Dodge City succeeds brilliantly. Audiences loved it and would remember it. Warners staged a rail junket to the actual Dodge City, packed with stars for a world premiere. The trip was itself a model of precision and orderly demonstration, nothing whatever left to chance or possibility of objection … casts, guests, hosting dignitaries all models of good citizenship and beacons for American yesterdays and even better tomorrows.

It's easy to forget that the production Code was as much for curbing violent expression as it was for containing sex content. What loosed hounds for a couple years, primarily 1943, was urgency of war and necessity of our winning it. 1942 was for finding the formula, 1944-45 easing off in slight because by then overseers figured we’d prevail. 1943 however gave way to rage, this for a home front and public far removed from combat. The why was pressing need to sell bonds, see that civilians buy them, simplify same going in and out of theatres that would offer bonds through days and nights. China was designed to stoke domestic fires. We needed to know barbarism our enemies were capable of. The Japanese especially, them more so “other” than Germans. They could be made to look dangerous and jabber like monkeys. Americans wouldn’t realize until years after how they were understood by the Japanese. US soldiers were madmen, murderers gathered out of prisons and asylums loosed upon a civilized people who saw their country under siege now that Yanks was retaking islands and advancing toward the homeland. Japan’s conception of us was every bit as horrific as ours of them. Propaganda saw to that, as aggressively expressed as what US movies propagated. China was a Paramount A picture starring Loretta Young and Alan Ladd. Ladd is a trucker prior to the war selling oil to whichever side will pay, China to him an ongoing cash register. Like Casablanca’s Rick Blaine, he must be brought into the fight by events that will enrage and motivate him. Worst of these is rape of a young Chinese woman by “rapacious Japs,” a term I looked up when first I saw an ad for China in a book published years ago. “Rapacious” means “aggressively greedy or grasping,” which I’d guess would define most in times of war, but hanged if I’ve accused anyone in civilian life of being rapacious. Should I float the word next time I get annoyed? 

Hands Up, Guns Down, but They Forget It's No Longer a Code-Compliant War Ladd is Fighting

Such graphic was sugar water beside what else merchandisers resorted to in selling China. Sample ads are here to tell the tale. Ever seen any raw as these? One proposes China as “The Picture to Make You Fighting Mad.” So how well might that have worked? Civilians could do little more than buy bonds, save scrap, tires, bacon grease. Getting mad enough might lead to a bad day at Black Rock, for real rather than fictionalized like by 1954 when such possibility could be openly addressed. A shirtless Ladd “Turns the Heat on Hirohito” while sporting a body that looks borrowed from Gordon Scott, him vowing that for “every girl trapped, a thousand Japs die,” this then-expected of breathless promotion. China came close to promise of such ads with what ranks among steeliest of get-even moments in movies made during the war. Here was where Code counsel against excess violence was suspended, due process of Dodge City and restraint for Wild Bill Hickock shelved for emergency conditions. Ladd, a civilian as noted, stands Japanese soldiers against a wall and shoots all three in cold blood for committing the brutal and offscreen rape. This was shocking in 1943, the more so now as we assume such extreme never got into films far back as China. Well, they did, and follow-up discussion by Ladd with Loretta Young is every bit as serrated. “Just shot three Japs. Blew them to bits against a wall and I’ve got no more feelings about them that if they were flies on a manure heap. As a matter of fact, I kind of enjoyed it.” Now keep in mind, Laddie was the hero, not a heavy. Not even an “anti-hero.” His action and talk to follows makes Henry Hull’s Objective Burma speech sound like an address to Rotarians.

Scope Samples #1

 

Wide Worlds: The Spirit of St. Louis and 55 Days at Peking

“Wide Worlds” for Greenbriar purpose will recognize scope titles available to us for home view. Whether streamed, on physical media, or broadcast at TCM, they all are accessible and for me at least worth seeing upon a flat screen TV or projected at a wall to engulf like in days when these attractions were new. “Count Your Blessings” surely applies here as with titles under that Greenbriar heading elsewhere.

THE SPIRIT OF ST. LOUIS (1957) --- Going anyplace alone during childhood meant my mother again telling what happened to the Lindbergh baby in 1932. A couple of kidnaps did take place in my town during the early sixties, “Lineberry” the accused, a name I forevermore connect with child snatching. Charles Lindbergh was secondarily the man who flew a plane non-stop from New York to Paris in 1927. Who could convey excitement this event generated? All who might have gone. My father was twenty, my mother ten, when it happened. Both recalled where they were, what they were doing, when Lindy touched down. Youth en masse went daffy for flying. There was a man I worked with selling dry goods in the early eighties who built a plane that flew after Lindbergh example. A picture of teenage him and dog companion in the cockpit, goggles and all, was proof provided. Bruno Richard Hauptmann’s widow spent decades trying to clear her husband of infamy for which he was electrocuted in 1936. Used to see her on TV testifying before one committee or other. Lindbergh was vivid for me in ways he apparently was not for 1957 viewership that shunned The Spirit of St. Louis, Billy Wilder’s telling of the Lone Eagle saga that went down like a Titanic of fact-based failures, no fault of the excellent picture it was, but what did public indifference say of ingratitude for historic achievement and those who made it? Possible explanation, if not excuse … what’s the big deal of flying the Atlantic when jets with passengers were doing so every day, and what about rockets poised for outer space?

Blame in part was fixed on James Stewart being miscast, but how many knew, or cared, of accurate age for Lindbergh when he flew? Stewart wanted the part badly for being a fan of the flyer from teen-age. Analysis suggested a younger man could soften onus of far-back setting, '27 to '57 a chasm in terms of change to popular culture. I previous wrote that Warners would have done better to cast Tab Hunter as Lindbergh and trust Billy Wilder’s strong direction plus topmost dialogue, to see the age-appropriate star through. Surely youth, which was most of a 1957 cinemagoing audience, could then take The Spirit of St. Louis past break-even, though maybe not where an astronomical seven million was spent on the negative. And what of Tab Hunter in Lafayette Escadrille, also period set, piloting, Warner money lost again in 1958. Was telling Lindbergh’s story on screen a bad idea on its face? I watch and enjoy The Spirit of St. Louis and wonder the while why it came such a cropper. They evidently spent a million dollars just building a replica of the airplane. We visited Washington in 1965 and went to the Smithsonian where the Spirit hung on wires from the ceiling. Is it still suspended that way? I had not seen the movie at that time. None among NC stations used it till much later when SFM(?) did a broadcast hosted by James Stewart. The Spirit of St. Louis seems in hindsight to have been an ultra-Establishment endeavor for which only the very best was good enough, money no object where the twentieth-century’s greatest folk hero was being celebrated. Fiscal sense seems therefore to have been suspended for this occasion. It would, in fact, have been unpatriotic to trim any of corners for such august occasion as this.

Charles Lindbergh himself sort of did and did not cooperate. He let them adapt his memoir but would not allow depictions beyond content from the book. Wilder had frisky ideas which would have made The Spirit of St. Louis a terrific Wilder movie, the sort we’d want and expect from him, but this time it was cuffs on and Billy, like everyone else, wore them. Lindbergh also would not do appearances to support the film. Everybody in and out of the industry attended the premiere but him. Wilder wove dramatic thread of the pilot being sleep-deprived over days up to, and spent in, flight. Duly impressed viewers who later met Lindbergh brought up the ordeal and his overcoming it, to which the Lone Eagle said he slept fine pre-flight, half-smiling to suckers who’d fallen for the movie’s device. What a cool deck this man dealt from. Wilder recalled him as quite the enigma. I doubt Lindbergh cared a hoot about The Spirit of St. Louis apart from the money, his likely a flat fee at front end as opposed to a percentage of profit that would have ended up worth nothing. Anybody know different? Query too: Did the wife ever catch on to those Euro families Charles sired over years after his triumph? Greater triumph sure was keeping the truth from her and his legit kids. Lawyer friend once told me there were two kinds of married men, the caught and the uncaught. Was Charlie among the uncaught?  By the time the thing became public, most of Lindbergh worshippers were too old to be much disillusioned or gathered to reward. Meanwhile what we have is The Spirit of St. Louis shows up at TCM, wide and HD at least, plus streaming at customary outlets. A fresh transfer and 4K release would be welcome, for here is one worthy and I think undeservedly obscure.

55 DAYS AT PEKING (1963) --- Not so far as I know released in the US on Blu-Ray, situation common to the Samuel Bronston epics. Ownership is said to lie with the Weinstein Company. Still true? The Bronstons are imperfect enough to need whatever visual sweep they can get. With that, they mightily impress. 55 Days at Peking was among other things the last mainstream feature Nicholas Ray directed. Ten years after, he was teaching at a small New England college, showed kids how to make movies, him pretty near a wreck by that time. The story of how 55 Days at Peking was dragged to completion was told by many. To read multiple accounts is to fully commit. I chose Andrew Marton’s lookback. He oversaw second units, wound up responsible for sixty-four to sixty-five percent of the finished project, or so he estimated years later. Marton didn’t seek or claim sole credit for reasons he explains in a McFarland oral history that is very good and long out of print. Nicholas Ray had done alright with King of Kings a couple years earlier and it was figured he could handle another large-scale feature, but habits mostly bad and a general crack-up said adios to his Hollywood career. Ray made many efforts to restart and had help among industry influencers, but nobody would take a chance on him. 55 Days at Peking for such difficult birthing plays fine where seen Blu and wide, a Region Two from Europe worth seeking out. Being 70mm Super-Technirama meant roadshows and if not as long a sit as it might have been (two hours, 34 minutes), still seems long. History is recounted, the Boxer Rebellion and how it impacted world powers in 1900. Charlton Heston, Ava Gardner, and David Niven are there to settle matters, whole of 55 Days shot at Spain acreage Bronston decorated to evoke the East. Like many a swollen saga, 55 Days at Peking lights up in sections, flags in others, but overall awes in ways unique to big-format filmmaking unique to the late fifties and much of the sixties. When these things clicked, there weren’t banks enough to hold all the profit, but where they didn’t … well, consider how Samuel Bronston finished up.

The Art of Selling Movies #2

 

Art of ... Carefree, Organ Hours, and Giveaway Perfume

Ads again instruct. This one for Carefree seems aimed more at the trade. “Watch ATTENDANCE RECORDS FALL!” Every showman’s prayer, but what did their public really care? In fact, Carefree lost money, a first of the Astaire-Rogers to do so. All cycles eventually felt ground shift. Astaire got percentage pay from these. I wonder if he ever sold that interest to RKO or successors. Anyone know? He’d form dance academies bearing his name in 1947, then twirl to hopefully greater profit with Easter Parade and The Barkleys of Broadway. Suppose Fred wished he had opened the schools sooner? Perhaps, but the Depression and war would have made that a higher hill to climb. Here’s for a stun … the Astaire dance studios still flourish. I can drive no farther than Winston-Salem to begin my lessons. Is it too late to learn? Note the ad pushing Carefree’s dance called “the Yam.” I could wonder when the Yam was last executed by two partners. Did it indeed “sweep the nation” as indicated by the Great Lakes Theatre? As performed by Fred and Ginger, stylings are forever fresh. You Tube, Facebook, Tik-Tok, are rife with the pair, us for a lift over minutes spent watching them. Thing is, now as before, there are eighty-three minutes of Carefree and most is not Astaire/Rogers dancing, this the rub when would-be fans sample the team online and then seek out features in whole. Well and good to that, but it requires old-movie adjustment fewer are willing to make, contrived story, comedy not necessarily comedic. Carefree signaled tiring among even those devoted, plot and situations bearing only so much repetition. Astaire had sense to know the parade was passing by, and Rogers wanted more to do drama, or at least humor where she was dominant humorist. Both get a solo number in Carefree and slide rules are visible to give each equal emphasis. Did both feel the series was holding them back? 

Benefit of the break came immediately to Rogers for winning Best Actress as Kitty Foyle within a year after she and Fred’s last for RKO, The Story of Vernon and Irene Castle. Do you suppose she suggested they call it The Story of Irene and Vernon Castle? For the record, that one failed too. Top Hat momentum could only last so long, then it was so long to further Astaire-Rogers. I had not seen Carefree until this recent view. My understanding was they went odd direction to sweeten the formula, casting Fred not as a hoofer but a clinical psychiatrist, not so far-out when we realize intelligence he conveyed to every character he had played or would play. Mission is for him to reach Ginger’s subconscious as means to make her marry Ralph Bellamy, a move so far delayed for her indecision. Without dancing, you can imagine how such set-up would plod. We’re told Fred's character hoofed in college days to make his doing so credible here, but why bother? He was Fred Astaire, so of course he danced. Insert at least one number per reel as etched firm like commandments on tablet, seams showing the more because by 1938 the audience was restless. Not that dances fell off, far from it, as Astaire constantly looked for novelty, was loathe to repeat himself, so gave fullest value for money that his studio, and the audiences, paid. The Yam may not necessarily score as a song but look at Fred going full circle of tables and chairs, lifting Ginger over his straight and extended leg resting on them, all done in a single shot to still amaze. This is what Tik-Tokkers levitate with. You’d think from watching clips that Astaire-Rogers movies are the greatest things going, and for dedicated fans remain so. Preservation elements are tricky, which may explain why none of the RKO’s have landed on Blu-Ray yet, though whole of the group play TCM in HD and are available that way to stream.

WITH AN AD SO RICH, WHERE DO YOU BEGIN? --- Oh to have been there for Billy Muth’s daily organ club (11:00 am to 12) Did everyone get to sing as well as listen? And free prizes! Theatergoing was a heaven we will never know unless Heaven itself includes trips to the Greater Paramount Palace circa 1929. So I saw Hammer and James Bond when they were new. Big deal. Ads like this humble me. These people had it so infinitely better. My problem would have been staying away from the Palace, the Melba too. Buy why stop there … Dallas like all urbans had streets paved with show gold. Imagine the marquees alone. Like one museum after another with exquisite hangings. I looked up Billy Muth. He was, among Dallas locals, regarded a legend, had worked with Jolson, Ben Bernie, others. Mourners played his recordings after Billy crossed the bar in 1947, him but forty-six. There was a sorority delegation of high schoolers at the funeral. Fans are possibly still around for Billy Muth, but I couldn’t find anything confirming it at You Tube. He surely left recordings though. Paging old record collectors. Not that Billy was whole of a show this gala day. Jimmy Ellard and his “Bag of Tricks” had been lately installed as the theatre’s stage band. What a responsibility ... each day at your best or at least you better be. I floated Ellard as well at Google, but no soap. Wild Orchids was the Palace feature, The Canary Murder Case having just left. “A Glowing Romance of the Tropics --- Alluring Greta Fighting Herself in Maintaining Honor” Fighting herself? That sounds promising. I must get out the Warner Archive DVD and watch again. Wild Orchids had a disc score, and I don’t doubt the Palace used it, or maybe not. Surely viewers preferred their live orchestra, but bear in mind folks were drunk on newness of recorded sound. The Melba nearby had an outright talker, The Redeeming Sin, with Dolores Costello. Were she and Conrad Nagel really a “love team,” and do any of their teamings survive? Laurel and Hardy alert, they are in again with Liberty, which the ad proclaims has “sound effects,” these happily still hearable and YT viewable.

PERFUMED UPON ENTERING --- North by Northwest had borne fruit that was Charade, and so Charade spawned more that included Arabesque plus others on slope downward that was romance plus suspense plus humor figured to please all/sundry. The sixties approaching final hurrah for lady shopper matinees made giveaway of “Taji Perfume Oil” seem a sensible idea, and to a first thousand, promised Chicago Theatre management. So what did they do --- hand women a bottle going in or just spray them as they entered? What if odor seemed noxious to some … and imagine an auditorium permeated by the stuff. Was this to be the “scent of Arabesque”? Some in the audience, if not critics, might say it was the picture that smelled. Perfume was not a first gauntlet run for this engagement, as there were out-front Sophia Loren lookalikes splayed upon a “Living Billboard,” a stunt happily confined to that day’s first showing. Human beings so displayed went back at least to The Hollywood Revue of 1929. Us enlightened could call it cruelly exploitative, depending of course on individual circumstance. Imagine old folk in Chicago who might recall once being part of the human billboard for Arabesque, or perhaps one chooses to forget such experiences. Arabesque tries being “mod” in zoom shots and screwy edit way, and I to this day am confused as to what the mystery was or why we should want to solve it. Also there was Gregory Peck who seemed wrong, but for a thing like this, who could seem right? I suspect viewers were carried upon gossamer wing that was Henry Mancini’s score, Arabesque an instance where music seals gap between something watchable or not. Did the New York Daily News really give this four stars and call it a wild, wonderful winner? Maybe that writer got a big bottle of Taji Perfume Oil for his/her pains.

UPDATE: Scott MacGillivray investigates the Arabesque perfume affair, and brings illustrations with the info:

Hi, John — The Arabesque tie-in with Taji perfume oil was strictly a local promotion arranged by the exhibitor. (Taji is not mentioned among the accessories in the pressbook for the national campaign, clipping attached).

Taji was introduced in the autumn of 1965 by Shulton (ad from September 1965 attached) so when Arabesque came out, Taji was either trendy or it was slow to move off the shelves, hence the free samples!

Best wishes — Scott

Watch List for 3/3/2025

 

Overlook Veronica if You Will, But Know She is Great in This

Watched: So Proudly We Hail, Mystery Street, Reckless, and Gideon's Day

SO PROUDLY WE HAIL (1943) --- Most striking character of this is gone after a first half. Veronica Lake has been called an expressionless player, and worse. She was said to be difficult. There is evidence she was mentally ill. Her finish was grisly. Lake got revived when glamour portraits of old stars became a thing, as in gallery-hung and collectible. Lush and hung down hair was her ticket early on, but where she swept back, as was case later, people wondered what had made her special to begin with. What for me makes Lake unique is intense work she gives So Proudly We Hail, so intense in fact that I suspect she channeled what was troubled self to be doomed character “Lt. Olivia D’Arcy.” Beside her, Claudette Colbert, Paulette Goddard, the rest, seem artificial and actorly as in this studio-set depiction with no war happening beyond walls. From Lake it emerges true to fusion between herself and tortured Olivia, and I for one was sorry when she cashed in for sake of nurse colleagues (and what an exit). Seems I read Lake was a pill during Proudly and that may have just been her as early and unaware applicator of technique later celebrated as Method. Actors did pay a price for living parts too deeply, considering not a few were unstable to begin with. Colbert as den mother is more typecast, as is Goddard on glam duty, and I understand these two clashed if mildly as to how and where cameras were pointed. Was Paulette really born in 1910? I sort of suspect it was earlier and maybe she hid that. So Proudly We Hail is where we get Sonny Tufts first as a star, much by way of mannerisms that he’d adjust later as noir dweller and make scarily effective. George Reeves looked like a next very big thing and director Mark Sandrich promised him a bright postwar future, but then Sandrich died with George mustered out to do small parts, even bits, then serials, then Superman. Was this very capable actor robbed? So Proudly We Hail has some of most terrifying siege stuff put to film during wartime. We feel vividly horrors awaiting troops and nurses left on islands taken by the enemy. I was wrung out after these two hours and can only imagine what it did to crowds in 1943.

Future Wrath-ful Khan Gets Tips from Tarzan

MYSTERY STREET (1950) --- Somewhere it was forum-claimed that a thing called “DVD rot” is wrecking our discs, so I got out alleged victim Mystery Street from WB to see if fears have basis. Mine played OK, at least the feature did, but extras got pixilated and wouldn’t access, so should we worry over past purchases? Checking each start to finish would take longer than I’ll live and who’d really want to watch some of these titles again? Mystery Street however is a jewel among smaller noirs, a nervous A for $729K Metro spent, but splendidly made as expected from the Lion. As police procedural it is keen and even novel, for here was forensic explore of evidence fairly new to movies and not before dealt with in such detail. We’re since sick of saturation, as in how many years has CSI lasted?, but Mystery Street serving fresh and relative first had not just novelty in its kit, but fascination for forensics circa 1950 where investigations were hands-on and ultra analog. Pleasing is Bruce Bennett as a Harvard lab rat digging among bleached bones and figuring murder behind them, Ricardo Montalban the detective in charge. We know the killer early, but how will they unmask him? Mystery Street’s 93 minutes captivated me as much for on-screen suspense as that arising from whether the disc would finish OK. John Sturges directed, an early and expected good job, atmosphere stoked further by John Alton behind cameras. Frustrating was tepid money Mystery Street earned, $429K in domestic rentals, $353K foreign (loss: $277K), proof again that making a good picture was not enough what with theatres closing, families doing elsewhere things, and television siphoning off attendance. Racket Squad began the same year on tubes, so why go out and spend to watch Mystery Street when so far as most were concerned, it was a same experience?

RECKLESS (1935) --- Nothing odder or more unexpected than a Classic Era star vehicle that simply does not work, Reckless as instance of gilt-edge casting and lavisher-than-lavish appointments that no one (at least of my acquaintance) seems to enjoy. What might have gone wrong was humor in back seat to melodrama, a too distant back, but how’s that possible with William Powell, Harlow, Ted Healy, more among mirth-makers less than funny here. Story was evidently Selznick’s, augmented by numerous others, Reckless factory-made with no pretense otherwise. Too many cooks can and will spoil broth. Trouble is disagreeable device of dipso Franchot Tone buying Harlow’s starring play and then her, Powell lovelorn and left behind, anything but desirable positioning for him. The trio is cast to disadvantage, each seem aware of same, yet stay adrift as narrative lurches toward suicide solution , no satisfactory resolve there, and sour ending to make one regret time entrusted to what seemed foolproof. Selznick was on record as wanting this to match his Dancing Lady of several seasons before, Reckless failing to capture spirit and fun of that backstage frolic. The studio system was a delicate instrument, noways to be taken for granted. Where a picture was made badly, they’d simply remake it, but where the concept is fundamentally wrong, where is ground upon which to repair? Reckless lost money, a shock considering cast alone, so let’s assume word got out-and-loud as to what a cluck it was, or worse, how unpleasant was the get-through. Thrust of narrative is the Libby Holman/Smith Reynolds tragedy, bitter tea for an audience there to be amused by Powell-Harlow who had done so reliably before. TCM runs Reckless in HD, but I’ll be surprised if they offer it on Blu-Ray.

My Man Ford with Anna Massey and Jack Hawkins

GIDEON’S DAY (1959) --- Jack Sprat might have directed this rather than John Ford and we’d get approximate same sort of Brit police procedural starring Jack Hawkins, but note how efficient Ford did this “job of work” against theme and background untypical of the great director, being proof if any were needed that he could rise to occasion of any studio assignment and make magic of material less promising on a surface perhaps, but plenty so where he is at helm. Gideon’s Day pleases the more on repeat mode, as so much goes on that I tend to forget between always pleasurable screenings. A day in busy life that is Gideon's, he deals with thefts, murder, humor back at the Yard (never time enough to eat or pick up groceries for an evening meal he’ll miss), this is Ford at quick tempo I’d expect more from early, even starting days, so don’t mistake this for old man effort at twilight juncture. Serve Gideon’s Day to civilian diners and hear them exalt Ford for level of energy not expected perhaps, colonies the poorer for Columbia distributing black-and-white prints in 1959 (retitled Gideon of Scotland Yard), this a show particularly striking in color which was intended and carefully designed for. Was Ford aware how compromised Gideon’s Day was on domestic screens? Maybe he wasn’t told, or cared less if he was. Filmmakers grew alligator hide for vandalism inflicted on output, being John Ford with mantle-full of awards no assurance you’ll not be next to the chipper. Stock folk are here if in lesser number, Anna Lee the wife to Hawkins, sense made for her being Brit and a veteran of UK features before she became acquainted with Ford. It’s said Ford staged a lifelong Irish rebellion vs. the Isles, yet there’s no taking to task of English habits or lifestyle here. Gideon’s Day is genre pure/simple and thrives at it … makes me wish Ford had done a series of Gideon thrillers. Indicator has a lovely Blu-Ray (region free) as part of a Ford box, and there are nice extras.

'Twas Stanislavski Started Trouble

 

Where Straight and Forward Go the Acting

Are contemporary actors but tics and tricks? And how long has this gone on? Looked at The Big Chill of which I’d been curious, but not curious enough to watch, since 1983. It has a cast which all register the same for me. Thirtysomething drama emerged by eighties as a thing. There was (a first?) entirety of cast dancing/singing to old for them/older now for us pop music. It happens “spontaneous” if numbingly repeated for nostalgia service since. I got sense these actors all went to a same acting school, later, as in forty years, becoming a senior class. Some still work doing old folks drama and comedy to stream for the similarly old who won't attend theatres again. Seeing The Big Chill made me seek rinse that is straightforward playing, that is actors taught someway or other than what’s been taught for generations now. I wanted extra strength relief and so chose Richard Carlson, Julia Adams, and Richard Denning in The Creature from the Black Lagoon, 3-D to supply close inspect of craft as practiced by artists there to straightforwardly read lines, swim well, and spear accurately. I rate emotional memory exercise well behind handling harpoons as harbinger of fine acting. Carlson is earnest and Amazon-bound for benefit of science (I mean the South American river, not retail giant), Adams for swimsuit and awesome scream, then Denning for Carl Denham minus warmth and dangerous if challenged for his harpoon. Maybe we should call Creature’s style harpoon acting, as in straight to fine point and never mind nuance. Of water-bearers in the green suit(s) less may be said, but they were straightforward too, whoever occupied scaly skin in or out of water. Method embrace by Creature cast? Not likely. These were there for specific task of getting it done in as simple and coherent fashion as could satisfy needs of a 79-minute running time.

Chances are however that Carlson, Adams, and Denning read Stanislavski, possibly studied him. Most twentieth-century players knew of acting’s Russian revolution and respected what was done there, but what was the Stanislavski technique other than application of common sense? Many would say “Sure, I’ve been doing that for years” when told what Stanislavski taught. To act, he said, was to draw upon imagination and to call up past experience and real-life parallels depending on what emotion was bring summoned. Stating the obvious was in fact what Stanislavski did, and even he acknowledged as much. His theories were after all based upon observation of working actors of his era. Nothing exotic or revelatory here, even if others later tried to make it appear so. Wolves in counselor clothing benefit best where advice is most complicated, actors known as insecure and lured easily to camps that promise confidence. Look at diction schools sprung forth from quicksand that was early sound. Turning brass to gold seemed never so easy. Empty your purse and we’ll equip you for talkies. Stars working fourteen hour days showed up evenings to learn elocution from experts no more that than gas jockeys filling star limousines. Bad enough for players not to have a stage from which to address a visible crowd and receive applause then and there, worse still was working in fragments, performance measured by seconds, reactions delivered in close-up, but reacting to what? Hitchcock told Montgomery Clift to look skyward. But why? asked Monty. Because I’ll need the shot later, said Hitch. But what am I looking at … what do I feel? … impasse and breakdown of star/director communication to follow.

Actors took dim view of a picture’s worth for little joy they had making it, so why bother seeing a finished work? Appreciation seldom came of appearing before a camera with only technicians to look on. Working in theatre meant being paid for time spent onstage, while films went on earning long after you got fully and finally compensated. Late 50’s columns were filled with actors noting bitterly the broadcasts of past films for which they’d receive nothing. Big enough stars got percentage deals, were bought out later for cheap, ripped off along ways of so-called “ownership,” their family with an empty sack rather than legacy Dad hoped would last. Note what happened to Burt Lancaster’s share of many features he did for United Artists and elsewhere, his children discovering after the star’s death that his share of revenue was now someone else’s. William Holden said in an interview toward the end of his life that he’d been in only three or so films that were worthwhile. Too few actors realized how precious they were to a public for simple reason they never heard claps from those entertained, let alone at theatres far-flung they could not enter unless disguised and anonymous. Gene Raymond told a story to collector/historian Barbara Ryan of how lousy Flying Down to Rio was to work on, botched scenes, poor direction, blah writing. The star visiting New York some months later was stunned to find Flying Down to Rio mopping up at Radio City Music Hall. Why crowd to so poor a thing as this? he asked. To get his answer, Raymond donned overcoat, slouch hat, and thick glasses to stand on line and watch Rio amidst fan crush. What he saw was every bit the sorry show he expected. Who could figure so fickle a public, said this actor who like others saw neither sense or logic to a picture business seemingly divorced from art.

Where film bested the stage was at places it could capture however distant, too real to simulate behind footlights. None of nineteenth-century artifice, no matter how skillfully applied like by Belasco, could capture true snowfall as location-shot movies could. Histories speak of turning points in the art of acting. We know, or are told, that Stanislavski disciples blew Broadway backward with 1905’s The Chosen People, Alla Nazimova being Russia’s emissary of “New Acting” as it was understood, if barely, by provincials used to melodrama or broad comedy. Wasn’t new acting, however, going on already in films? Emotion there had to be conveyed without benefit of words, which required till then untried technique. Stage pantomimes lighted ways perhaps, Chaplin an early one to find film ideally right for his style of expression. I’m wondering if outdoor staging, at long last free of stages, laid place for truer revolution in acting than could ever be case where confined by curtains, or soundstage walls. If under-sky performing lent freshest-ever reality, then who were those that ran, rode, and climbed but masters in the art of realism? William S. Hart had been successful on stage, could have stayed there, but sensed opportunity unique but barely explored so far by film, getting out among hills and weather to breathe truer life into drama till then stuff of recitation and restricted movement. That Hart rose to levels not ventured toward by actors before is obvious from looking at westerns he’d make … and write … and supervise himself. Why not anoint Bill highest priest of “New Acting”?

If one performs effectively against all-outdoors, shouldn’t we define him/her/they/them as actors outstanding if not more so than those who declaim on flat boards before a stock-still audience? By such measure, let’s propose Randolph Scott or Joel McCrea for Great Actors. If measure is nerve alone, why not Ken Maynard? I’ll go further by nominating Yakima Canutt; as to his alleged falter with dialogue (a finger also pointed at Maynard), how about we credit them instead with naturalistic delivery more like real people (at least real westerners), many of those awkward with proper speech. Of players who were accorded credit for “acting” in accepted sense, what of a Burt Lancaster, who could impress on walled-in soundstages, but watch him work in The Train, physical near to point of human flight, and show us one of any thousand who could approach that level. Lancaster was not Academy nominated for The Train but was on “Laurel Award” short list for “Best Action Performance,” his rivals Sean Connery in Goldfinger, Richard Boone in Rio Conchos, John Wayne in Circus World, and Lee Marvin in The Killers (Connery won). None of these were considered by the Academy, their choices Rex Harrison (the winner), Peter O’Toole, Richard Burton, Anthony Quinn, and Peter Sellers, for most part “talking” parts. We won’t properly appreciate truly physical acting until movies gain parity with the stage, which economically they long since did, but that won’t translate as easily to respect they have not gotten and maybe never truly will.

1905’s New Acting became Old New Acting by the early fifties when Stanislavski’s style, adapted often by others, became, among other Americanized labels, The Method. Anything “New” was good for business, the more so where industry might tender fresh fleet of players unlike stars we had maybe wearied of since the war. This second revolution was less spontaneous than contrived. Why hadn’t Group Theatre members who came to Hollywood during the thirties upended habit? John Garfield of these got close it seemed, till he was ground to convention’s powder. Montgomery Clift was the real deal but looked and was sold initially as a leading man and more of dreamboat same, per publicity for The Search. Besides, Clift never embraced the Method as proposed by others of the emerging cult. It was Marlon Brando who blew rebellion’s trumpet and got sold in knowing fashion as first for Hollywood star-making reborn. Had there really been no true acting in films before him? The Method implied sensitivity and understanding beyond reach of conventional actors, Hollywood ranks called stale bread now that Brando and hoped-for followers pointed toward new directions. Talent appearing on live television was grazed as had been Broadway when talkies arrived. Closed community that was Hollywood felt, at least should have felt, threatened. If Brando demonstrated great acting for a truly first time in A Streetcar Named Desire, what was James Cagney doing in White Heat a couple seasons before? Newcomers were taken serious as was less a case with establishment stars. Watch Cagney spoof White Heat dialogue and delivery in Starlift (1951), then imagine Brando doing same with Desire contortions.

Old films were by economic necessity carny-sold, and artists involved oft got razzed for it, audiences after the war perceived as more sophisticated which meant past ways-must-pass for keeps. Lobby cards barking shamelessly out front became objects of ridicule, if not derision: “Warners’ Magnificent Achievement” said 11X14’s for A Stolen Life, “Warners’ Biggest!!!” was Saratoga Trunk, and Possessed (1947) was a “Tremendous Warners’ Achievement.” Something old, something borrowed, plenty pew. Many called the Method phony, practitioners neurotic as characters they’d play. Veterans, even ones in the business less than a decade, saw flim in Method flam. Robert Mitchum thought learning to be an actor (read: being taught) was like “learning to be tall.” James Garner had most of the fifties and his twenties to realize acting classes were places to stay away from. Each Method performance promised to expose “the unconscious life of the actor,” this akin to seeing nervous breakdowns in progress. James Dean had angst to burn, catnip for youth and immatures to identify with. Old-timers meanwhile plodded along proven ways. When Edward G. Robinson was cast in cheap but fine Vice Squad, he was told “Be yourself, Eddie,” which meant “Be the Edward G. Robinson of old,” known quantity and proven product. Overlooked too was likes of Anne Baxter who called up memories of a family tragedy to enhance her performance in The Razor’s Edge, so why didn’t industry and press make greater fuss over that? (they did to extent of Best Supporting AA in 1947)

Fun for all was up-and-comer Methods opposite older-timers, question being who’d register more “real.” John Wayne got his “New York actor” dose of Geraldine Page in Hondo, result satisfactory. Bogart wasn’t cowed by Rod Steiger during The Harder They Fall, nor Robert Taylor by John Cassavetes in Saddle the Wind. James Dean had ideal foils in Raymond Massey, Albert Dekker, Burl Ives (East of Eden), was more ideally served by Rock Hudson in Giant. Paul Newman did emotional battle with Walter Pidgeon in The Rack and hopefully learned from the elder actor (Newman admitted large learning curve the lot of his early film work). Opposites could and did attract it seemed. New acting was novelty enough to take serious especially where practitioners were willing to speak on the record of their “craft,” something Bogart, Cooper, Gable, their fraternal order, would not have done except to garner a laugh. Persona stars in any case had secret weapons played close to chins, us happier with idols who were least forthcoming. Not sure I’d have wanted revealing memoirs from Robert Mitchum or William Holden. Nothing preserves fascination like not knowing things we think we’d like to know. Return to The Big Chill for a close: Among mostly younger players was Don Galloway of Universal 60’s labor, him coached on traditional terms, direct, to relevant point, straightforward harpoon handling. And here’s not surprising outcome: I liked Galloway best of the lot.