Showmen Sell It Hot #5

 

Showmen: Hondo and What Happened to 3-D TV's?, Plus The Sting

Glasses Given Out So Viewers Can Watch Once-Only 1991 TV Run of Hondo in 3D

Producing Partners John Wayne and Robert Fellows

HONDO (1954) --- Why did they take away 3D televisions? Were we being punished for something? There’s eerie effect to corporations that make a policy decision, all hands down with it. Guess I'm out of luck when my present 3D-enabled TV wears out. There are old sets at eBay and places, but I’m skittish where it comes to second-hand, especially where they travel through mail and you can’t be sure about proper packing of leviathan flat screens. I spoke with a prominent retailer and they said there were complaints about condition/quality and it was not worth the effort of fielding them. “Lack of content and waning consumer interest” are also said to have been factors for dropping the 3-D option. Projection TV with goggles give too dark an image like theatres when attempt was made to revive depth during the seventies and eighties. So why do I carp over 3D in a column about Hondo, when we can’t access Hondo on 3D anywhere? I’d like knowing why that is but must assume “consumer interest” is gone. Remember aberrant occasion when Hondo ran on 1991 television in 3D, some sort of tie-in with 7-11 stores? I didn’t watch for never much liking red-green specs. Hondo and Dial M for Murder are probably the best 3D features not taken up with monsters and spacemen. There was myth for years that because Hondo was released late in 1953, it played mostly flat for the fad having passed. Robert Furmanek and team debunked that, plus theatre-front evidence here suggests brisk business for Hondo at least at its Palm Theatre engagement. It was profitable for Warners and producing Wayne-Fellows. All-night shows at the Palms permitted closure from 6 am till 10:45 am. That’s punishing hours for anybody. Figure they had three shifts at minimum. Hondo like a number of westerns compared itself with great ones past, in this case The Covered Wagon, Red River, and Shane. The Covered Wagon by then would have been stuff of long-ago legend, but then again, it was only thirty years past, and that seems but blink of an eye today. The “New” 3D, seen through “Wonderful New Glasses” seems to acknowledge problems had with the old ones, and indeed they were not infrequently a problem. We may assume Slaves of Babylon was pretty punk after thrill of Hondo, Slaves flat and formulaic, but there was option to walk out, as many undoubtedly did after getting money’s worth that was Hondo.

The Sting Selling Hot with Poster Art by Richard Amsel

THE STING (1973) --- For a picture so celebrated in its day, I wonder how many under-sixties know from The Sting, let alone ever saw it or would be inclined to. Robert Redford recalled how he rented the video to amuse a grandchild staying over the weekend. To the elder’s embarrassment if not surprise, The Sting just lay there. Would it for other sharer’s offspring as well? The Sting needs concentration, over two hours of it, and I wonder if that’s beyond a viewership for whom any feature seems much for moderns to get through. Here was a Best Picture winner dubbed the perfect smart amusement, humor but with high stakes, a puzzle to flatter our attention and intelligence. Civilians say movies should just “entertain,” this to me implying that no film can satisfy beyond a humblest goal. The best films give joy measurable not just from a first time seen, but forward via memories and repeat looks where affection only grows. Do classics have a simpler definition? The Sting belongs to 1973 as does American Graffiti and Jaws to their respective years. I don’t know anyone who enjoyed these but have renounced them since, each pleasing to a level few features achieve then or now. I say this today but what of ten years hence with the seventies gone farther out with tide? We measure affection for 60’s features by how close a current generation embraces them at You Tube. YT deepest-dishers go back no further than The Godfather it seems, save for James Bond and scattered genre titles. 

Deliberate Retro Look for Art Inserts Throughout Credits and Body of The Sting

Give us another decade and chances are the eighties and nineties will predominate, that being but natural, says analysts. First responders to any popular culture take away most fervent love, but still I’d ask: Can anyone way back, since, or now, revere King Kong, Meet Me in St.Louis, or She Wore a Yellow Ribbon as certain ones among us do? For viewership in 1973, The Sting staged fiction set less than forty years prior, the mid-thirties within clear memory of many who saw the movie, a condition akin to us and something depicting the late eighties. Would that seem so profoundly distant as the era The Sting recreated? Time and change can convulse or barely register. We might say things are not so different as they were forty years ago yet argue life in a first couple months of 2020 was as it never would be again, for reasons obscure already to many that are younger. Everyone has their own idea of landmarks, assignment of same a matter of personal choice and circumstance. Universal’s Blu-Ray of The Sting has an hour-long documentary that was done in 2005. Almost all of principals, save director George Roy Hill, were still around and eager to talk. Now they’re pretty much gone, writer David S. Ward among survivors. I see he taught three courses at Chapman University in Orange, Ca. Does he still, at eighty, instruct hopefuls how to pen a script good as the one he did for The Sting? Is The Sting in 2026 a highest mark to aim at, or would students need to be acquainted with, then convinced of it as ideal distillation of story and characters? We speculate on present-day chance The Sting or something like it might have with studios, but look what’s become of studios, indeed Hollywood, both seeming now to sleep with fishes.

Foreign Art is Variation on Domestic Nostalgia Emphasis, but Note Flared, Low-Hanging Cuffs

David S. Ward is best recalled for The Sting, but gravy may have flowed more from Major League plus two sequels he penned. A surprising lot of writers (or should it surprise?) ended up teaching, presumed feathers in academia caps that hire them. It makes sense that writers would eventually teach others to write. How many great scripts does even a great talent have in him/her? Consider luck it needs for any newcomer to sell one, never mind more. Same with producers. Tony Bill from The Sting is still with us, him once male ingenue acting support, switched to producing where real success in Hollywood lay. Bill taught too, returned to acting, was known to help writing newcomers. He is eighty-five this year, reminder again of how long ago The Sting was. Astounding comeback the 1973 film enabled was for Scott Joplin, who unknowingly and seventy-five years earlier supplied music for The Sting. Success of the score was not quaint, retro, camp, or ironic, Joplin accompany a latter-day hit that needed no apology or explanation, being fresh as was heard and enjoyed during the nineteenth century. I wondered if Joplin was tabbed for films since The Sting and found but shorts, minor use here/there, but no showcasing like with the 1973 hit. Has opportunity been missed? Might illuminate to know how much Joplin generates in Spotify listens, other stream sources for music old and new. Are his themes used by those who score for silent features? I’d say they’re missing a bet if they don’t.

Count Your Blessings #6

 

CYB: Pearl Diving at You Tube

So much technology rides current wind. I’m beginning to take miracles for granted. For instance what’s being done with Public Domain content aboard You Tube. Features, shorts, cartoons, all put to freshener that is, what, AI? CGI? I’m dumb to details of how but dazzled by results. All of a sudden comes high-def spun off standard transfers, clouds parted to bluest of skies. We’re talking talkies of earliest vintage looking near-as-good as if put through process previously expensive that also took more time to achieve. Advanced techs will call it “fake” and maybe much of it is, but so long as I’m guided by eyes/ears alone, these things will more than do. Flaws sure, occasional blips, work improving all the time, reminiscent of sound where first unveiled in the late twenties. That had kinks too which had to be, and were, ironed out. Such modern equivalent exhilarates plenty. All jobs aren't performed equal. You may sift a dozen transfers of Applause before landing on sweet spot that is “BlimeyTV.” Blimey is right. Don’t know who he/she/they are, but each/all is parting curtain between us and quality long awaited from titles too long on dimmer setting. Titles through 1930 are so far grazed upon with each New Years freeing up more. We’re kids in a sweet store where oldies seem not so old. Behold what crossed my way over a past week: The Doorway to Hell, Three Faces East, The Bishop Murder Case, and Old English. More, much more, is accessible, additions each day, hour in fact, the lot for free unless you buy You Tube Premium which sidesteps ads that make syndication of yore look like public television before that amounted to nightly begging for financial support. Work happening now smack of labors for love, in a sense all of what YT creators do, save ones clawing way toward “influencer” standing.

I stumbled across BlimeyTV like all of favorites now on an ever-growing tickle list. They along with others teach that movies online need no longer be “authorized.” Imagine how Disney felt when a flock of Mickeys entered the Public Domain (or do they really care?). Same with features … good features, not just wretched antiques. When Animal Crackers can be had, used, enjoyed freely by all, well, that’s change. Same for good ones with Gary Cooper, Joan Crawford, all who straddled silent and talk eras. The four features I watched were more/less random picked. A hundred others could qualify. It’s my choice now rather than what corps permit me to see. The Doorway to Hell is long a TCM member, had from Warner Archive in standard DVD. BlimeyTV somehow punched it up, don’t ask how. Cue Robert Mitchum as Dan Milner: “I’m not knockin’ it man, I’m just trying to understand it.” Through 1930 Doorway comes Lew Ayres as head hood “Louie Ricarno.” Believe in him or not, this was neat off-casting for Ayres and I bet audiences were captivated, maybe shocked, by it, after he’d done All Quiet so recent before. This and Okay, America plus Iron Man shows how Ayres bent expectation and wouldn’t fall into a male ingenue trap. He conveys essential goodness in Ricarno, near to an end being hope, the wrap sobering because it’s Ayres rather than a heavy we root to be caught or otherwise quelled. Thing about gangsters operating then was even baddest ones merited crowd support, Depression’s public wrapping arms round the lot. Aspects of life having changed little means many still want Cagney, Robinson, Muni and kin to prevail. Go-getters appeal no matter how they go about getting it. The Doorway to Hell has as bonus a starter-out Jim Cagney making presence felt throughout. Of course he could have played Louie. I don’t see how Warners, Wellman, anyone, could think of anyone other than JC for Tom Powers in Public Enemy.

The Doorway to Hell pleases on ground level crime films later got above. Rough exterior here does not conceal polish beneath as would case for later 30’s crime. Whole of Hell is rough. No music backgrounds save several “Brunswick” records played on “Brunswick” machinery. Warner never shied from whoring its wares, one more thing I admire them for. Rowland Brown wrote the underlying story. He was surely the one who came up with “Mileaway” for Cagney’s character name. Brown was all-pavement as a scripter. Had his temper been cooler, he could have defined a whole genre instead of just highlighting it all too seldom. Did I mention The Doorway to Hell never looked so good before? At least for me. Next was The Bishop Murder Case. Just looked and lo/behold, I gave it a short paragraph in August 2012. Pleasure sustains since, primitive as Bishop is. Why keep coming back? Rathbone for one. Let him just talk and I am appeased. Mysteries are the more mysterious the earlier they got made. This and the Wm. Powell Vance series are deepest of narrative wells. Swim them at peril you’ll sink for dialogue sometimes tough to divine plus snail-pace and clues missed for nodding off here/there. Still there is deep regard I feel for these. Must at this juncture mention Applause, the Mamoulian kick-starter for sound as creative expression with cameras no more nailed down, at least by him. Applause is progressive as all that, but fifteen minutes was all I could last thanks to downer recap of beat-down Helen Morgan, herself beat-down no matter what parts she played (hard offscreen life) so I go in with pity for her as eternal doormat epically mistreated by a louse who we know will be around for most (too much) of Applause. I wanted Helen, or somebody, to clunk him with a heavy ash tray, or anything, and release us all from bondage, heels really heels in those days. Applause fits best under “Academic Interest,” but again, it never looked so good, certainly not what I saw first time around 1970 on educational TV out of Linville, Tennessee, a UHF channel (first one I was exposed to). Linville was and remains known for caverns not unlike ones Tom and Becky ran from Injun Joe in.

To follow was Old English, as in George Arliss, which makes Old English, like all his, irresistible. Again, seen it before but not like this. He plays “old,” mightily old, which most figured George started out as. Rascally per always, he outwits chiselers and would-be usurpers, verbal weaponry unique to Arliss, for who else since approached him along such line? Old English was lifted bodily off the stage, Arliss having done it there to greatest so-far legit success. He didn’t bother “opening up” where transferred to screens. So long as he was there to carry bags, who cared if we stayed indoors or out? Here’s the stunner re Old English, and don’t read what follows till you watch the show: George eats and drinks himself to death for a third act, deliberate so as to defeat threats to his beneficiaries, selfness, noble as we expect, but how this consummate actor stages run-up to demise --- humor first in the food and (much) drink, then a pretty much planned-for stroke, very realistic as Arliss would of course insist on, collapse and death in his favored armchair, work upon this world finished. Imagine anyone else’s star vehicle finishing thus, and Old English was a comedy to this point. Such was good and plentiful reason why Arliss stayed a star of substantial heft. Final of four was Three Faces East, seventy-one minute matter of Constance Bennett outfoxing Erich von Stroheim. It’s about spying circa the Great War and I give up trying to separate agents from double agents and are they for or against us. Stroheim works best, as always, for himself, love making him finally mis-step, Connie the object of fatal temptation. Von poses as butler for the English manor where intrigues take place. Watch him unpack Bennett clothing (emphasis on underthings) and know what great acting was about. Beauty of Three Faces East was Von not just in background, but prominent throughout. We get him front, center, and ongoing. I’m a pig in mud where it’s Stroheim. No such thing as enough of him, let alone too much.

Cooper v. Chinese Warlords

The General Died at Dawn (1936) An Action Oddity

Gary Cooper continually exposes himself to mortal danger for no reason other that his love of democracy, so he says, and often, in The General Died at Dawn, a lethal dose of Clifford Odets as screenwriter and recent Communist Party member. Didn't he realize that soldiers of fortune were supposed to be after fortunes first, maybe a woman next, then revenge, something or other, politics/principles at end of a long motivating list? Audiences were cynical enough, certainly by the mid-30's, to know that self-interest guides us all, let alone ones that hire out to Chinese peasants wanting to rid themselves of warlords. Cooper seems a chump for all time with his speechifying on behalf of downtrodden we hardly see, let alone get to know or care about. Still, being Cooper, there's at least dangle of Madeleine Carroll to keep him in an otherwise sucker's game, something to thank her for more than Odets. Would the author himself have gone to China and risked all for faceless hordes? To hear him tell it, via Cooper as mouthpiece, sure.

General's script was one that a Howard Hawks would have tossed out and started over. Certainly there would have been humor, which The General Died at Dawn has little of, other than oddity of Cooper carrying a monkey inside his suit coat. This may have been Coop's embellishment, as he was known to bring mini-apes home from safari here and there. Lewis Milestone directs, his signature lateral-moving camera an opener tip-off to who is in charge. Milestone gives General visual distinction second only to what Jo Sternberg might have envisioned. How much of Paramount's 30's look was thanks to Sternberg? His style must have had huge influence, like Murnau at Fox, Welles later on at RKO. Lewis Milestone latterly claimed that it was his idea to pit an American "representing democracy" against a Chinese general "representing authoritarianism," and that this would work, "provided we got a writer who understands the political setup." That would be Odets.

Milestone and Odets' political setup was really no more political than Sternberg's had been for Shanghai Express, as neither take on Chinese government policy, idea being that China really had no government, just killing and chaos. Populace as victims of marauding bands would segue neatly to treatments of same as prey for invading Japanese. Had The General Died at Dawn been made two or so years later, there might have been dose of that, for newsreels by then were laden with account of atrocities that presaged our own war with Japan. You could call Cooper's much-contested money belt, fought over by both sides, a McGuffin of a sort Hitchcock would have had more fun with than Milestone and Odets here. Attitude is the make or break of movie adventuring. Play straight and heaviness results, downerism an outcome no paying onlooker wanted. 1936 was early, too early, for us to emotionally invest in far-off oppression, other than to be entertained by exoticism inherent in the setting. To that end, The General Died at Dawn succeeds, if less completely than Shanghai Express.

Trade Talk #6

 

What Trades Told: 1929 from 1970 Viewpoint

Films in Review was among few ways film folk kept in touch, (more/less) monthly means for kindred souls to share plus be reassured that others, if few, were like them. Write in and chances were they’d print your letter. Industry notables contributed, FIR house organ for the National Board of Review, which had been around long as movies themselves. Average press run per issue was 7980, this circa September 1970. There were over 4000 paid subscribers. I was on-off among them. Considering numbers printed, it’s no wonder eBay bulges with back issues. 3100 are lately listed. They go fairly cheap, two dollars and up, even less where bunched up. My submission of two multi-part articles, one about theatrical trailers, the other on reissues, got printed around 1989, 1990. Robin Little was editor at the time. Films in Review ranks high for picture history, easy to lose myself in whatever pile falls off the shelf. Certain writers were ubiquitous. William K. Everson showed up lots. Herman Weinberg had a regular column. One feature circa seventies was “Films on 8 and 16,” by Samuel A. Peeples. Clearly this was for collectors, but Peeples addressed more than just that. He had begun as a writer for westerns, mentored by Frank Gruber of prolific past penning them. Peeples made further contacts as he gained experience. Lancer was his TV series. There also was Star Trek which he helped Gene Roddenberry develop, and for which he wrote the second pilot which sold the series to NBC. Peeples did not discuss these things in his column. Latter was for helping fans find prints to home view, legal and above board of course. Sam died in 1997 and left his collection to the American Heritage Center at the University of Wyoming. There are 225 boxes open to scholars with no restrictions. Much of that is 8 and 16mm movies. I can’t picture researchers asking to watch Sam’s black-and-white flat print of Holiday for Lovers (1959), while silent titles are long superseded by digital versions superior in visual quality. Digital has its cruel way with analog antiquity.

One extraordinary thing I came across in the inventory was a King Kong model constructed by Willis O’Brien and used in the 1933 film. That needs to be in a vault, at least under glass where visitors to the library can easier worship it. As things stand, I suspect Sam’s accumulation of a lifetime sits largely ignored, as who recalls him apart from past readers of Films in Review? Such reality weighs heavy upon all collectors who’d ask what fate awaits treasure they have gathered and nurtered. One thing I realize for looking over Sam’s backlog: No two collectors were ever alike … choices in spite of overlap were nonetheless specific to him and could not be confused with anyone else. Collecting speaks to individual identity. None need compose a memoir so long as their collection survives to speak for them. Samuel Peeple’s accumulation tells posterity who he was. There also of course is the writing. Peeples’ column reads like an ongoing story of his life, at least life spent with classic film. He’d been a child of the twenties, born 1917, saw silents give way to talkies, recalling it all for the August-September 1970 issue of Films in Review. Sam’s mother was in the amusement business and so canvassed towns surrounding home base. Berg where they lived was small, theatres not yet wired. Some closed for lacking funds to convert, same as my hometown and lamented “Rose Theatre” that shuttered soon as ’29 curtain rang down. Sam watched silent versions of shows city dwellers got to see and hear, The Broadway Melody, Alias Jimmy Valentine, The Canary Murder Case. His being road worthy thanks to Mom gave Sam access to mute plus talkie treatments, each before or after the other, comparisons constant, him evaluating both at leisure.

Was this luck or what, Sam born in a right place at an ideal time. Late as 1970 he still remembered in detail. Alias Jimmy Valentine was “a good little melodrama” minus talk, running 7142 feet, while sound Jimmy expanded to 7803 feet, difference being seven minutes of “stand-still dialogue that was unnecessary in the silent version and would have made it drag.” What entertained before was “cinematically and dramatically useless, but necessary, in order to permit actors to speak dialogue.” Imagine being eleven (Alias Jimmy Valentine released in late 1928) and getting to compare technologies, one rushing in, the other being eased out. Stark was seeing one Broadway Melody more/less beside the other. How far apart was the talking/singing Melody from what live accompany supplied in still "silent" houses? Sam saw The Broadway Melody with sound in the city at 105 minutes, then silent back home for 66 minutes. “Of course the musical numbers are much briefer in the silent version,” he recalled. Peeples attributed slowness of conversion not just to expense, but which system to adopt, theatres knowing but one could survive. To choose was to gamble, not unlike pick between Beta or VHS. We know sound on film won, but how could showmen long ago have anticipated that? For a meantime, they'd play safe with both silence and sound, at least till viewer preference could sort it all out. Sam, being a boy, liked his action fare, sound chosen “especially” for the “airplane ones.” Live accompany still suited best for “spooky background music” by pianos or organists addressing mysteries and “mood pictures.” For Sam, The Unholy Night was “a bore” with talk, him “loving every minute” of the same show where sound was absent save (again) that spooky music. This didn’t go so much for also mysterious The Canary Murder Case, which needed talk for explanation, especially of a “sound gimmick” around which the resolution revolved (again note length difference as estimated by Peeples: Canary with sound at 7171 feet, silent 5843 feet).

Sam saw seemingly everything off 1929’s menu. “It really was a marvelous year,” he wrote, to which we could say, Yes, it really was … and wouldn’t it be marvelous to have experienced it first hand like Samuel Peeples. Consider sobering truth of no one left to tell us what that year was like at theatres. Reading Peeples’ essay is for me like watching an early thirties film where tens of thousands of people watch a football game. You know they are virtually all gone, yet here they all were in the sunshine and having the time of their finite lives. Easy to wish I’d been around in 1929 to see The Canary Murder Case new, but then where does that leave me in 2026? Certainly not here with the rest of you. Sam chose a favorite for that pivotal year, nominees The Virginian, The Cocoanuts, Noah’s Ark, The Iron Mask, The Wolf of Wall Street (where oh where is that one now?), his pick perhaps unexpected … Paul Leni’s The Last Warning, another where he saw both silent and sound editions. Sam said Leni was such a skilled director that one couldn’t distinguish between the two, that Leni “retained the full fluidity of his mobile camera where other directors confined their cameras to sound-proof booths and boxes.” What survives of The Last Warning is the silent print, lately restored by Universal and released on Blu-Ray by Flicker Alley. That’s OK by me. From what program notes report of the sound version, we are much the better with silence, that is apart from music and effects supplied by Flicker Alley, us lucky to have The Last Warning at all. Much as I would have enjoyed canvassing theatres with Peeples and seeing silent plus sound versions of 1929 releases, chances are my vote would have tipped heavily toward the silents. Remember Murnau’s City Girl? Historians say we’re blessed it survives silent as the director intended, the talking pastiche doubtless lost for good. And what was that about Fox bringing another guy in to graft dialogue onto The Black Watch after John Ford finished it? Much of 1929 product was crazy quilt in extremis. Truth is most of it could not be digested by latter-day general viewership, but let’s be thankful Samuel Peeples stayed long enough to look back from forty years’ distance to tell us what being there was all about.

Scope Samples #4

 

Wide Worlds: China vs. Us, Raindrops Fall on Westerns, and Eastwood Deals in Dynamite

THE SAND PEBBLES (1966) --- Was there roadshow fatigue by the mid-sixties? At least for Fox, there seemed more losing than winning, The Sound of Music a historic exception, though for every one of that, there were two like The Bible or The Agony and the Ecstasy, plus barely-eecking-profit Cleopatra which needed a network sale to get even. Hits when they had them saw less spent or content the public could better enjoy, The Blue Max completed for $6.2 million, with Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machine fun-for-whole-families event to which they willingly bought hard tickets for a row-full. The Sand Pebbles was released at the end of 1966 to run mostly through 1967. Negative cost was $12.1 million and because of that, even worldwide rentals of $17. 3 million would not offset nearly two million ultimately lost. 70mm prints of The Sand Pebbles were blown-up from 35mm. We could wonder if our Blu-Rays look sharper than what 1966-67 experienced. None of 70mm presentations happened in North Carolina. Closest we got was evidently Greenville, SC for 9/28/67 which was non-roadshow, but in 70mm, albeit enlarged. Values otherwise are judged by digital access which I assume preserve integrity of sound (six-channel stereo) and picture, if not improving upon them. China conflict during the late twenties is addressed. We must care much about the characters to last these three hours, sailor Steve McQueen to my mind supplying what there is of that, opposition to him Communist hordes that win in the end and call to question our being in Orient water at all. Slap at US Vietnam policy was or wasn’t noted by reviews, point perhaps better put had the picture finished shorter. The Sand Pebbles is best watched to catch vibes of roadshow-going and what the sixties saw for biggest picture-making. Question is how many three-hour blocks would we set aside for a show we know for flawed, degree of that a matter of private opinion. Seems certain you’d not seat company down for The Sand Pebbles lest they tag you for boredom they may experience.

BUTCH CASSIDY AND THE SUNDANCE KID (1969) --- Something about Paul Newman on his bicycle to accompany of "Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head" turned me distinctly off Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Seeing and being transformed by The Wild Bunch but months distant also entered the equation, westerns having touched a level I’d not care to sit below again. There were other doubters re the song, Newman from what I understand, plus writer William Goldman (fearing “terminal cutes”). He had set a record for revenue earned off a “spec script,” Butch Cassidy the stuff of fierce bidding by studios who each saw potential in it. My own attitude came of movie fatigue overall, at least ones new and in theatres, malaise the outcome of a year reviewing for a local paper and recognition that too little was worth effort of attending. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid had also whiff of the trendy, that song plus humor to warn of another Support Your Local Sherriff. Some fifteen year olds, it seems, can not be pleased. Lenoir-Rhyne’s Program Department invited me to book campus shows my senior year after three annums I competed with them. Asked to work with a “committee,” I called a first meeting, chucked further ones, and picked my own preferences, all from the Classic Era minus sops to cool complaint that I ignored “new” product. American Graffiti ($400 rental … I could have got five or six pre-49 Warners for that), Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex (surprisingly low from UA/16, which was why I chose it), and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid from Films, Inc., them sending a cropped to flat-from-scope print that perhaps no one noticed and I barely did from not having seen the picture before and not yet enough of a purist to make an issue of it. Butch was passable, still my idea of “too recent” which took in much of what even was made in the fifties. Collegians were lucky I didn’t lay Judith of Bethulia on them.

Watch Out ... Here Comes Bill Field's Server Nemesis from Never Give a Sucker ...

Now thanks to widescreen Blu-Ray comes Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid at perhaps a point where I can finally enjoy pleasure it offers. No need wondering what made it so popular at the time, or since. Writing, performances, direction, all crackerjack. Butch Cassidy plays modern like Bonnie and Clyde and Bullitt (at least for me). Was this the first “buddy” western? We could argue Vera Cruz sort of was, and maybe comedy-westerns like The Rounders that predated Butch. Neither aspired to hep like Butch and Sundance however. Robert Redford said later that this was the picture that really put him across. You can tell this 1870’s character will own the 1970’s. Most good parts began with a long list of casting possibilities. Newman was set from the start to be Butch, but Marlon Brando, Steve McQueen, or Warren Beatty for Sundance? McQueen I could envision, except how could he conceal one-up he'd have come at Newman with? (remember the beating Yul Brynner took) Brando was too old, too fussy, seeming washed up besides by 1969. Beatty I think would have been too self-conscious and intent on taking control. There was always something odd about his screen countenance, and frankly about Beatty himself. I keep seeing him swallowed up by that fur coat in Altman's half-arse western. Redford told of being passed over for another show because he wasn’t a big enough name, this right after he finished playing Sundance, but before it was released. Imagine egg on some producer’s face. Question I’d have asked Newman, Redford, others, had I ever got the chance: Did any speak to or notice Jody Gilbert, who had a blink-and-you’ll miss-her moment during one of the train robberies? Jody had long before joined immortals when she was the waitress who parried with W.C. Fields in Never Give a Sucker an Even Break. There had been mostly bits since, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid her first (and as it turned out, last) screen part since Houdini in 1953. HUAC trouble saw her out. Good thing I never crewed for movies, at least movies from the sixties or seventies, for it would have been never-stopping birddog after veterans in support, even extra, ranks.

TWO MULES FOR SISTER SARA (1970) --- Don Siegel devotes a chapter in his book to this. Seems to me Sister Sara suffered for its title, some of Eastwood’s army deserting because it did not sound like what they’d enjoy from him. The story and an initial script was by Budd Boetticher, who was not invited to direct. He hadn’t held such post for some time, had his Mexico travails to overcome, and maybe Universal was afraid to take a chance with him. Siegel said he was embarrassed to take the job for knowing how Boetticher should have led, but latter assured it was OK, even though in final analysis Universal passed up his screenplay in favor of one by Albert Maltz. Plot was ideal for Eastwood, his best American western so far and perhaps a best homeground for this star in that genre. Toward Sigma placement comes “Hogan” as single-minded seeker after pay for arranging strikes against French fighters opposing Juaristas, him indifferent of fate for either side, just wanting cash he’s been promised to deliver dynamite plus lethal expertise. A reason Sigmas function well for films is fact they are goal oriented and will let nothing interfere in movement toward fulfilling the mission. Movies are like that too, few of us wanting distractions, comedic or romantic, to slow pace toward opposing sides having it out. That Hogan is slowed by “Sister Sara” (Shirley MacLaine) is leavened by Siegel flair with action and use he makes with outdoors. MacLaine must be subdued to affect her subterfuge and that’s doing the audience a favor. She and Eastwood got along “despite him being a Republican,” she said. Of American westerns with Eastwood, this came closest to his Man With No Name portfolio from the Leone films, and being Siegel, there always will be cult interest. Scope plus a score by Ennio Morricone links Sara closer to Euro spirit of Good, Bad, Dollars etc. I don’t hear a lot said about Two Mules for Sister Sara, and wonder why, as in why not?

The Art of Selling Movies #5

 

Greetings from Homer ... But What Is He Doing Here?

Art of ... When Music Masters Mastered Movies

That man Homer they credit with The Iliad and The Odyssey turns out to maybe not have existed. He, whoever he (or she?) actually was, got nowhere near Greek texts, these emerging instead from oral tradition, meaning stories told, retold, translated, gone through tens of thousands of iterations till what we read today has less to do with actual ancients than 104 minutes that is Jason and the Argonauts. More I read of music movements, the more they play like Homer, best and purest when new, watered down since like whiskey spoilt by ginger ale. Ragtime morphed to jazz, so did jazz derive from ragtime? Imagine “raw” beginnings played “from Below” as historian Ian Whitcomb describes “music lost in the folk fog of pre-history.” What revolutionized the twentieth century began in the nineteenth, so says Whitcomb, revivalist camp meetings in the 1840’s, “rave-ups” from 1823, none recorded because we didn’t have recorders yet. Pre-history was made, said Whitcomb, at “saloons, brothels, clip joints, gambling halls, honky tonks, and jook joints.” What people heard without being conscious of hearing was modern music aborning. I’ve read too that things otherworldly went on among artists who had no idea they were artists and probably would not have liked being called that. Deepest diggers claim what these people did has not been surpassed, understood even, by those said to be inspired by them. I like spooky aspects of popular music at birth and before it fell under commercial/corporate control. Performers were tamed from the time they stepped before microphones, in part for being self-conscious in an unaccustomed environment, and being instructed as to how to perform for a medium unfamiliar to them, not unlike actors doing talkies for a first time. To sell popular music was always to water it down, everything made slick for mass listening.

Pola as Silent Incidental to "Syncopation" Crowds Came Out to Hear

Academics and history hounds scoured back roads during the thirties to find “real” music as native-generated, the research supported by Depression-era government funding. Genuine folk art was thus rescued from soulless jazz soon to be swing, latter even more soulless some said. Quest for the unsullied went on against backdrop of commercial music increasingly debased. One record collector given to obscurest searching compiled his “Anthology of American Folk Music” in 1952, Harry Smith a born eccentric (had to be to pursue this). Choices for inclusion were fruit of Smith’s preference, records got from old warehouses and researched by him. Harry didn’t worry about copyrights because owners barely realized such trifles were theirs. What he did was transfer 78 RPM shellac to long-play 33, his handsome box to host ghosts recorded during infancy of music made far afield of maps. We wonder if songs were sung from beyond, so uncanny do they sound. Did players till soil off river Styx shore? Such primitivism smacked of pagan “other” to make jazz seem square. Genius guitarist Robert Johnson was told he couldn’t play worth beans, disappeared for a year or so, reemerged as best man on a guitar anyone ever heard. They naturally figured Johnson sold his eternal soul to devils at a country crossroad of lost location, his reward ability to play the instrument beyond anyone living, or undead. Lots believed this, many still do. I’d rather buy the story than not.

Violin Vet Joe Venuti Puts Bow to Fiddle for Universal's Two-Color King of Jazz

More backward the jazz, said adherents, the better. Spoiler was the more popular it got, the sooner co-oppers smoothed the style to please-everybody for vaudeville and emerging talkies like Broadway and King of Jazz these to whip safe batter from outlaw jazzing. Silent movie palaces were anything but silent what with “syncopation” now attacking eardrums. The Majestic Theatre (ad above), wherever that was, staged its “Revelous” Mélange of Mirth, Melody, and Jazz, mere one of many along jazz line identified as equal to, maybe better, than what was presented as the screen “attraction.” Googled Revelous figuring I’d bust the Majestic for using a non-existent word (me being one to talk). Turns out they just misspelled perfectly respectable “Revelrous,” which means “marked by or full of boisterous, noisy merrymaking,” great descriptive word I’ll surely crowbar in again where appropriate, maybe even where it's not. Who says literacy died with online and smart phones? The Majestic tenders seeming afterthought that is Pola Negri in Flower of Night. In event Paramount wanted Pola put in place, just park her here. Note musical notes wrapped round the actress. To be Mistress of Moods, Lady of Love, or Radiant Regent of Romance would have little currency for a Majestic mob wanting less of Negri and more of Harry Waiman and His Debutantes. Harry’s was an All-Girl band, him the only “him” but also the conductor. We can look at an extensive array of Harry Waiman photos, donated by the “Brown family” from Kentucky, to the Newberry Library in Chicago, content “open for research” in their Special Collections Reading Room. Why do I ponder such detail? Guess it’s just for wondering when was the last time anyone asked to look at this stuff … then maybe ponder what will become of my own “Collection” someday. 

Also investigated Ed and Tom Hickey, found nothing apart from obits years-too-late to have been them plus another Hickey held at present by Kentucky law enforcement (Kentucky again!). Time I put this Majestic ad aside, except to draw parallel with what happened at New York’s Paramount when Benny Goodman’s band accompanied Zaza in 1939. Remember that column? (5/31/2021) Same disaster thing happened to Zaza as was likely put upon Pola. Further evidence is here if needed that live music, preferably swing by 1939, was King, over movies at least, herewith Constance Bennett humbled at the RKO Palace where Lady of the Tropics lies beneath the Andrews Sisters plus Joe Venuti and Orch (by way of personal tribute, I am now listening to Joe, and frequent performing partner Eddie Lang, on You Tube). Then let’s step back to hear Clara Bow first-time talk in The Wild Party, an Easter 1929 open at the Palace, “Home of Paramount Pictures,” trouble being Bow spoke too soon and before kinks got ironed out. “She Talks --- and How” (inadequately, some said). Saving grace may have been live cacophony to headline All-Music over All-Talking, “Old Kentucky in Jazz” courtesy Jimmy Ellard and his Stage Band. I Google searched for Jimmy. Nothing but a song sheet for “Drink Your Beer,” credited to Ellard. Try sourcing enough of these long-ago people and you begin to wonder if they ever even existed, Jimmy at the least to be admired for staging the Kentucky Derby on stage with live horses (presumably multiple live horses). I am a fan of Clara Bow, but those steeds would surely have shaded her. Were movies more the handmaidens for music that accompanied them? Most ads I have from urban sites put priority on live acts. It may be presentation houses that made music safest for mass consumption. If it could play these without serious incident, a ruling class had nothing to worry about. So this was a Golden Age ... but a Golden Age of what? Not of movies necessarily. I'm thinking it was more music making the world go round, being bigger noise than film in populous areas at least. Were movies most magical in small bergs where there was less on the program to compete with them?