Primitive Potions of Song Plus Film

 

Here Came Fifties Trouble --- Part One

Why more joy of late from Hot Rod Gang than The Wild One, Dragstrip Riot over Rebel Without a Cause? Or High School Hellcats preferred to Blackboard Jungle? Answer may be that old devil didacticism, which trio of A’s reek of, each to teach us eager-or-not pupils. Give me straight exploitation or give me nothing. The Wild One, Rebel Without a Cause, and Blackboard Jungle were, and remain, “problem” pictures, each to convey concern over social issues and do so “responsibly.” They in fact remind me of lots being made today. I suffer through The Wild One, in fact, pushed accelerator through a final act, understand again why recall for most begins and ends with stills of Marlon Brando perched on a motorcycle with leather like what New York clubs later celebrated, his gang as threats distinctly non-threatening. Where wingmen include Alvy Moore and Jerry Paris, why not Joe Besser to bring up the rear? Brando’s was a delicate star mechanism. Most post-Streetcar saw him distinctly miscast. When was he 50’s bullseye apart from On the Waterfront? Brando, well his double, fist-fights Lee Marvin and Marvin improbably loses. There’s your verisimilitude. Nothing cries process like motorcycles in front of process. Worse though is Stanley Kramer to instruct, fun or potential for it bled out in service to civic betterment. Titles tell us such an incident happened (small town overrun by cycle hoods) but must never be permitted to happen again. Jim and Sam missed the lecture or chose to do opposite, because look at biker cycle they threw up upon sixties patronage, talk about never permitting such to happen again. After seeing Born Losers and The Glory Stompers, I would gladly have signed petition to achieve that.

Too much of mainstream presented youth from a parent’s point of view, as though hall monitors were producing entertainment for truant officers. Rebel Without a Cause might at least have recognized rock and roll as recent phenomenon, or forthcoming one, but did hidebound Hollywood know or care to acknowledge something still below ground? Rebel was heavily scored, effectively by Leonard Rosenman, this accompany to move Mom or Dad, classy crutch to dramatics heavy if not ponderously so (again, great music ... get the soundtrack CD with East of Eden). Of Blackboard Jungle, never mind. Anyone seeking reunion with bullies from school could get fill-up here, and lots evidently did, according to lush rentals. What was wanted, consciously so or not, was trash served same as Goobers from the snack counter or frankfurters at the drive-in, whips with which to antagonize parents who wondered what kids were coming to who'd enjoy these. Youth as worsening problem was fed too by discordant music they liked, rock and rolling a blight seeming to have landed all of a sudden. That wasn’t the case however if one paid attention, since wartime in fact, to styles merging toward a new but not really radical sound. Kids had been swing mad, dance mad, long before this, better behaved movies aimed toward them and their tribal habits. Universal in the early to mid-forties mass-produced teen musicals a world removed from what would come later from AIP and lowdown elsewhere. Gloria Jean, Donald O’ Connor, and Susanna Foster, let alone mass known as the Jivin’ Jacks and Jills, would seem alien had they dropped upon 1957 viewership, which by '57 they did as oldies on television. I looked at, much enjoyed Mister Big (1943), and wondered how any culture could embrace this, then so change within a decade to choose something called Shake, Rattle, and Roll. Dance as art and spectacle had departed scenes, no more backflipping, lindy-hopping, jitterbugging … pleasure to share as grown-ups in fair enough shape could and often did manage such athletics too.

A lot of boys still boys came back from the war, aged in wood that was combat. They’d express a rebel spirit by dressing more casual than Dad, keeping on flight jackets or leather of whatever military issue to tinker with racer cars and two-wheel hogs. They also brooded and dealt with trauma left over from service, elders less quick to judge for what such seasoned men had been through. Good sampling via film was Guy Madison in Till the End of Time. Both he and Harold Russell in The Best Years of Our Lives return to boyhood bedrooms where pennants still hang and football trophies adorn dresser tables. Neither boy-suddenly-man will be the same again, even though being barely twenty in many instances, few to call them delinquent, not where debt of America’s freedom was payable so clearly to them. More complicated of vets went noirish route, in movies at least, while real life was more at Guy Madison speed, and for many who adjusted OK, at least on surface, speed was essence and expressed on dirt tracks and in garages where aggression could find at least superficially safe outlet. John Ireland has wheels to convey a restless spirit in The Fast and the Furious. Mickey Rooney drove fast, won trophies, and was sucked into a bank job by a wrongest dame in Drive a Crooked Road, a car culture beaut that didn’t need rock or roll or protest mechanisms to show change already here by 1954 when that film was released. Grown men gone wrong over ten or so years after peace could be attributed to what war had wrought, so in many instances at least, sympathy might attach. Offspring entering adolescence however was seen more as spoiled lot untested by service to country, hard times before their time, life lessons to guard against what now seemed bad behavior minus explanation or excuse.

Rebel Without a Cause was titled to a T, seen by some as license to whine, teens a threat to hard-won prosperity their parents would gladly share if only snarly brats would shut up and enjoy postwar bounty. Delinquents where age accurate were the more disturbing, Sal Mineo as Rebel’s crybaby a mystery no parent could divine, while overage bad “boy” Lee Marvin in The Wild One was comedic more than menacing, Marvin himself having been shot up on atolls approaching Japan and better put to grown-up criminal activity in The Big Heat. Sometimes it seemed Hollywood didn’t fully understand what a teenager was, other than stair-step down from Mom and Dad as family entering a cinema as families, way of life and living about to dead end. Here was reality junk merchants understood and exploited. It wasn’t for Mom, Dad, Brood to enjoy movies or music together. Lose these in terms of group attendance, said vet biz observers, and trouble if not downfall of culture would ensue. “Mainstream” as desired state would be challenged on multi-fronts, this a threat to parents who couldn’t understand what had happened over seeming overnight, more so warning to an amusement industry termite infested, a broad and deep underground poised to scratch itchy kids with sound and furies no supplier with conscience would attach corporate name to, until it became a matter of doing just that to survive. What seemed nature’s noise by way of music came slow and innocently as music styles converged to make what would be called rock and roll, or by cruder name, “rockabilly,” which was what rock and roll eventually separated itself from in order to be mass consumed. That mass would be tapped only through offices of mainstream manufacture, distributors that could get songs played and records distributed, not just in single cities or states even, but everywhere and all at once. Rockabilly would never cross such moat because large concerns would not permit it, all of like conviction that music must be controlled from the top down to be received by broadest of a US marketplace.

Rockabilly was just too scattered and strange to be acceptable. Most of what issued was from independent labels not likely to exist by same time a following year. They’d have less longevity than pterodactyls, but fresh wind blew through their sails, no corporate dictates to slow them or societal constructs to obey. Record producing was also font of opportunity, for near anyone could swing at it. A Lion’s Club member in your hometown that ran a furniture store might also be a music mogul … well at least a marginal mogul. Risk lay in recording and pressing platters, 500 to a thousand depending on plank you chose to walk and hope you’d not fall off. Faith in product came of instinct, yours and nobody else’s. Small businessmen produced from way back, jazz tunes captured in the twenties thanks to individuals who saw the coming trend and so rolled dice. A kid could walk off a street and get himself recorded and on local radio within a matter of weeks, days if he/she was lucky. Elvis got a break like this, others by hundreds following suit. Music makers could pursue their dream and independent impulse to at least regional success, the country still sectioned so that what did nothing in Detroit might rock solid in Milwaukee, difference often D. J’s pushing the platter or teens in one berg bopping contrary to counterparts in another. Rockabilly as synthesis of many styles meant no adhere to formula, however you’d define that in such wide-open time and circumstance. So much was so original that you knew it couldn’t last, not after big sharks sniffed gold in what they called kid stuff, but hold, kids now had money to fold. Rockabilly got its big lick through a second half of fifties busy with music vogues of every sort, adherents of each calling this or those years their “Golden Age.” Most have it easier just calling time they grew up a worthiest of all times (don't we all?), never mind what’s older and nix the new. Greenbriar gravitating to old could wish to have been there for initial burst of rockabilly and scratchy discs, scratchier voices, coming over radios, transistor or otherwise.

Heralds for rock and teen movie shows in Parts One and Two were creative product of West Jefferson, NC exhibitor extraordinaire Dale Baldwin and assorted showman manpower in my state. Imagine being on hand for such marathons as these.

Thanks ever so much to Scott MacGillivray for making it possible for me to see Mister Big.

Parkland Picks with Popcorn #5

 

PPP: Houdini, Mirage, Frankenstein's Daughter, and The Greene Murder Case

HOUDINI (1953) --- Paramount does a Tony/Janet, borrowed from U-I and Metro, respectively, if not respectfully, as Curtis was known mostly as bubble-gum merchant for kids still buying fan magazines in otherwise decline, Hollywood being still Hollywood (as in old Hollywood). Who then figured TC for fine and earnest performance he gave for producing George Pal, who had but little to make Houdini appear big? Negative cost was $1.3 million, and two million was collected in domestic rentals. I’ll assume that was mostly youngsters showing up, plus olders who'd remember the real Houdini, himself having made movies in silent times. Houdini was a favorite when NBC took custody for 1965 broadcasts, as in much begging to stay up late and watch, at least on my part. Houdini tells a complicated life and suggests supernatural gift the title character had for sleight-of-hand and body. Curtis was a convert, him doing tricks for remain of a lifetime thanks to what he learned here. Houdini longed to commune with the dead, made conscientious effort to do so, but wound up mostly exposing fakes, a highlight of Pal and Para’s brisk ride through times not so long past in 1953. Curtis nicely conveys near-suicidal impulse that took real-life Houdini eventually down. Do magic experts respect this show? For viewership that is me and hopeful others, it’s always been a click, producer Pal ideal to indicate a man truly uncanny, but not enough so to scare off or otherwise alienate Tony’s then-mob. Was the Houdini wife alive enough in 1953 to vet or try blocking this? Pal assures fantasy overlay most welcome, us invited to conclude Houdini made escapes by means beyond mere magic. Has anyone since mastered his techniques, figured out how he did his so-called tricks? I begin to wonder if some of secrets were never meant for man to know, at least would like to think Houdini had an in with spiritual voids, and may yet show up to school us re next world mysteries.

MIRAGE (1965) --- What hath Charade wrought, at least so far as Universal during the mid-sixties when imitators seized stars, mostly veterans, who needed glam vehicles both fresh and time-honored like Charade which was Hitchcock-ish with humor increased and sprightly scores oft-work of Mancini, though in Mirage case Quincy Jones. Latter helped the pictures lure, plus sold albums, which led to Hitchcock losing Bernard Herrmann, Uni wanting something other than Marnie’s funerial accompany and Torn Curtain threatening to do the same. Proof of Uni intent as serious came with Herrmann playback of so-far score to an indignant Hitchcock. Would this composer not simply do as ordered? ---answer No plain to anyone who knew Bernard Herrmann. Mirage was first of two for Gregory Peck off Charade model, except Mirage was serious where Arabesque was more frolicky. Mirage was shot largely on Manhattan streets that in high-contrast B/W look post-apoco-tripping, a '65 Gotham I would have been uneasy visiting, reason alone to watch and like Mirage, for nothing of the era gets over quite a same, never mind story struggle. In fact, I prefer Mirage to Charade, if not to Hitchcock himself at low gear, and aver it should be counted better, especially now that we have Blu-Ray widescreen to point up visual value, standard DVD’s and earlier TV never equal to the task. Power mongers take over a peace movement and it is for amnesiac Peck to unfurl truth with help of Diane Baker. I like watching Peck utterly confused by events uncannier as narrative rolls toward “unexpected” finish, his help (Walter Matthau) not so helpful and could-be furtherance of threat, while George Kennedy engages fist play with Peck that works for both being big guys who make fights credible (GP takes tumbles well). Action was default direction for Peck by the sixties, notwithstanding Mockingbird, him struggling like the rest for worthwhile properties, which Mirage was/is despite underserved obscurity.

FRANKENSTEIN’S DAUGHTER (1958) --- To define “risible” is to define Frankenstein’s Daughter: “such as to provoke laughter,” but then again, maybe not, for here was a thing to invite more derision than mirth we expect from sci-fi off basement floors. I never laughed at cheap genre expression anyhow, that too much the thing of camp following which is no fair way to sum Frankenstein’s Daughter or its kind. A feature shot in six days for $60K or less commands respect, at least mine, for as many might ridicule, others touched by empathy will ask, Yes, but could you do it? A man named Richard E. Cunha built Frankenstein’s Daughter from dust up, a monster maker all his own and mirror to drama he so badly portrays. Astor enabled Frankenstein’s Daughter, a deal believably made on bar stools, Cunha in this for nothing other than hoped-for profit. He would finish up running a video store, amiable to master scribe Tom Weaver who ran him to ground. One could generate a Frankenstein movie, as many as one pleased, because the name and everything but Universal-controlled face design (for their monster) was PD and thus free range. Same with Dracula by 1958. It is for this reason a market was saturated with makes and remakes and finally shamble that was Frankenstein’s Daughter. How much audience blundered to this when good word-of-mouth was instead for The Curse of Frankenstein, or to Blood of Dracula when Horror of Dracula was the one to see? Frankenstein’s Daughter opens with a girl (not the title girl) dashing about streets in a nightgown and fright face. Monster of title’s promise was mistakenly cast with a pug ugly male to which they applied lipstick, us reminded of same cosmetic put on pigs, or however that expression goes. Being now the fifties, it is a grandson of Dr. Frankenstein who fashions fiends, so who was Dad, Wolf or Ludwig? Fun would have been a “ghost” cameo by Rathbone or Cedric Hardwicke, both which could have been had for a price, but not so low as Cunha could pay. There is instead Sandra Knight and John Ashley as familiars, her a pin-up also for Thunder Road and later The Terror, so for sure I’m interested, plus Ashley an already overaged teen who’d go far places doing penny Pilipino scare shows in the 60/70’s. We best know genre product by company they keep, familiar faces a balm against heavy weather that is cheapness or boredom, which Frankenstein’s Daughter has less of thanks to recent and first-rate Blu-Ray treatment from Film Masters, and look you, there are extras here to beat any majors’ band.

THE GREENE MURDER CASE (1930) --- You may need smelling salt with popcorn, soda, what not, to keep slumber at bay while watching The Greene Murder Case, one of three Paramount Philo Vance mysteries released of late, and on Blu-Ray, by Kino. Greene like Canary is of 1929 vintage, so bar door against stately pace and dialogue dealt deliberate, but oh how we’ve wanted these, and for myself, over much of so-far lifetime. Best seen in solitary confine, the Vances are very definition of “For Dedicated Only,” that is, to ancient talking. You could wonder if Egypt or Babylonia of old spoke as here, so remote does much of it seem. And yet there are spasms of the unexpected, a lively pay-off and unmasking of the killer, an inherited madness theme that for me spiked interest. I’m guessing 1929 audiences stayed still as tombs so as not to miss William Powell’s unravel of mayhem and who’s committing it. Lots of us fans dote on mystery, sameness and formula a relaxant little else in life supplies. Think of Charlie Chan, Sherlock Holmes, others of detecting fraternity. One of streaming’s most popular categories is who done or is doing it. Britain has made cottage, no empire, industry of such, Miss Marple hanging shingle all about the Isles. How many Marples have we had just in our present generation? I dare say Vance no matter how old will sell as if new to mystery’s fan base so dedicated. I got a tingle watching Greene, that is except for ten or so minutes when sleep stole me away. Vance is more studied and serious than sleuths Powell otherwise played, so venture not with expectation he’ll be like Nick Charles. Fact is, Powell wearied of being Vance and said no to further ones after The Kennel Murder Case from Warners in 1934, arguably best of the lot. It’s sure enough a lucky corner wherever one can sit for 1929 shows on High-Def, and here I was still pinching myself for luck getting Oland Fu Manchus last year. Is there no end to boutique Blu-Ray miracles? Please Kino --- enter into another contract with Universal so you can release more rarities from them and pre-49 Paramounts they own (like for instance Clara Bow talkies).

Film Noir #29

 

Noir: Chicago Deadline, Conflict, and Convicted

CHICAGO DEADLINE (1949) --- A person might watch Chicago Deadline bi-yearly and enjoy it as if new, having forgot much of mystery and all of its solution. As was common of noir, there is setting and atmosphere, also attitude to compensate for coherence deficiency. I like Ladd for whatever he’s up to, especially when modern-set and allowing for trench coat, gun, whatever accoutrements we’d aspire to minus of course his aplomb. There is girl casualty Donna Reed to propel thicket that is stuff of plot, Ladd closing in on killers, or does he? You see, already I forget, mere weeks after watching. Kino let this out among packet of noirs, Chicago Deadline long wanted because where else could we see it over a last four decades? Sometimes noirs need not be especially good so long as they are rare. Lewis Allen directs; results might have been better had John Farrow done so. I’ve wondered why Ladd went years before performing for the Hal Wallis unit (Red Mountain in 1951). Perhaps his tag was too high, for despite fact Wallis was on the Para lot and using their facilities, it was otherwise an arms-length deal and his independent unit would be expected to pay for contract talent same as anyone, Wallis and loaner banks financing much of what he made for studio release. Mysteries even muddled are hard to resist when there’s a cast of noir regulars as here, each reliable and arresting to watch even where leading us down rabbit holes a chore to climb out of. Donna Reed is an OK co-lead, but there’s no co-Ladd to that, since the two never meet, not even in flashbacks that drive much of narrative. There are noir classics like Out of the Past, and then there are the Chicago Deadline (s), more of latter than former, though the more familiar famous ones get, the more welcome are bent toys like Deadline, newfound treat in every visit one ventures to take. Nice then to have Chicago Deadline around, nicer still to close in upon Paramount noirs missing till lately, and we can hope (depend?) on the rest surfacing eventually.

CONFLICT (1946) --- Humphrey Bogart in a role he intensely did not want to play, a wife killer brought to book by a scheme the seeming entire cast works out to pull him down, Bogie as unwitting dupe manipulated back to the scene of his crime where cops and cuffs await. Rick the proprietor at Casablanca brought down to this? It plays like punishment, means of letting Bogart know he’ll pull a familiar plow however big a star he appears otherwise to be. There was a recorded conversation between HB and JL Warner where Bogie is bullied and Jack has clearly the upper hand. Ingrate Bogart will do Conflict or else … and sure enough he submitted. We don’t like this sort of Bogart lore, and yet Conflict emerged a good picture, written by Robert Siodmak, directed by Curtis Bernhardt, a first dip of HB toe into neurotic parts he’d embrace more firmly later. His killing is furtive, an escape from suffocating marriage (the wife nags incessantly and Bogie has to take it and like it), his object to wed a sister-in-law (Alexis Smith) who does not love him and never will. Bogart’s age is for the first time an issue. Sydney Greenstreet refers to himself and HB as “old fogies,” and notion that Smith could want him is dismissed out of hand, her better suited to age-appropriate Charles Drake. All this plays stark against To Have and Have Not and Bacall, a teenager when she and Bogart were co-starred, their vehicle released two years ahead of Conflict, latter which was completed (1943) ahead of To Have and Have Not going into production. Yes, Conflict was “wrong” for Bogart, but right for him now that we have perspective of the whole career, a noir drench that has more honest elements of the style than more flamboyant and comedic The Big Sleep, and here's the kicker, Conflict was a healthy earner and not at all the rat poison Bogart would have anticipated.

Conflict seems almost anti-Bogart from the start, so far at least for feeding his image, him hen-pecked, complaining to no avail of mutton being served at dinner (“You know I hate mutton” to Rose Hobart’s hateful response). Hobart had worked with Bogie when he was still a juvenile on Broadway, so was not awed by the star aborning, her saying as much in years-later interviews. Too many had Bogart’s number, including the shrew wife at home, who when she didn’t throw bottles was sticking knives in him. The tough guy persona must have been a welcome retreat, even as it had nothing to do with who Bogart really was. Nice to see him back with Greenstreet however, only this time latter is the cat and former the mouse, so we don’t get to enjoy Bogie getting the better of the Fat Man. Why then do I like Conflict so? Maybe for the indoor exteriors, toy cars sped up hillsides that are like landscapes built for tabletop electric train sets, city street bustle on the Warner backlot, crowds aplenty to show us this is an A project. Plot device has Bogie driving ninety miles back-forth to a lake lodge over winding dirt roads. I’m spoiled enough to be terrified of a hundred feet over anything but solid asphalt, but back in the 40’s they abided, in fact appreciated any road that would get a car from one place to another, whatever its surface. This all reeks of noir, plus Bogie wears his trench coat to do the killing. Any clip of Conflict might make you think it was one of his best. For me it almost is, but then of course, I like any Bogart. 16mm renters back in the day could get Conflict cheap, $35 in UA’s 1975 catalogue, a tip as to low esteem it held. Warner Archive offers a DVD, and TCM plays Conflict in HD.

CONVICTED (1950) --- Convicted and others of Columbia crime family are like tunes that linger in one’s head. It always seems I’ve heard their scores before, cues repeated to signal each bump of modest mellers. Convicted was fruit of a play Columbia bought long before and filmed as The Criminal Code in 1930, latter “by” Howard Hawks and shown still because among other interests, there was a colorful part for rising Boris Karloff, the role done by Millard Mitchell for Convicted. I wonder if H. Hawks was even aware of Columbia re-doing The Criminal Code, or if he’d care. Glenn Ford is imprisoned for an accident-killing, him less dangerous or hothead than Everyman a by-then Ford signature, if Everyman was of sort to skirt law or soldier-of-fortune toward sudden wealth or exotic romantic opportunity as was this actor's often bent. Ford was a major and popular leading man that Columbia used for stock … he’d get no Academy Awards toiling for them. Broderick Crawford would know like circumstance after freak win for All the King’s Men, after-words to that more action than thought, hard case sorts we expected and preferred from him. Were there actors born only to play convicts? If so, they are all here. It is for that reason I adore faces put to toil in prison laundries and look it. Were such sorts feared by other shoppers when visiting the market for sundries? I envision men like Harry Cording or John Doucette sending the wife or kids rather than go themselves and be viewed with apprehension. Convicted is the more precious for being predictable. How many 1950 viewers do you suppose got part way in and then exclaimed, Wait, I’ve seen this exact same thing before!, not as register of complaint, but mere recognition that cards movies shuffle can’t help duplicating, limit after all in tales told or absorbed over a lifetime of filmgoing. Convicted for all of old clothing took $753K in domestic rentals, less than Glenn Ford generally yielded, but OK withal for what Columbia likely spent. It shows up streaming, lately at Amazon Prime.

Count Your Blessings #1

 

CYB: Cats, Castles, Bats, Canaries, and Westward the Women

Herewith another series I’ll call Count Your Blessings, object to single out discs or streaming a rebirth for features figured never to look so pristine again. Being around long enough to have seen some when new (Castle of Blood),  where poor prints prevailed (The Cat and the Canary), or when DVD was still in primitive state (The Bat Whispers), here is dawn on day the three look near to when new, but could we know what that amounted to, not having seen most fresh-minted? The chiller trio watched more/less in succession, Castle of Blood came first, streaming via Vudu/Fandango and in High-Def. It is Italian horror, being of wager the hero will collect if he survives the night in a haunted house. Barbara Steele resides there, Castle’s current vein of interest, it occurring to me that here came Victorian spook telling as if sprung from century-old pages to latter-day life. Castle is said to derive in part from Edgar Allan Poe, atmosphere primarily the sell with a sock end, plus Poe among taverners arranging the bet. Castle of Blood was a Woolner Bros. release, dualed with Hercules in the Haunted World, so I wonder how much circulation it actually got in ’64. Does elite order go to those who were there? I've not found a fan yet who caught Castle theatrically. Was it like spotting Yetis or the Loch Ness? Footage is lately added that was kept out then, mild nudity, gore, and such. Sentiment speaks for itself here. Who else would seek out Castle of Blood? Sales should reveal at least how many will. The Cat and the Canary was good on standard DVD, a Photoplay/Brownlow project, me enthused over that in 2017, but here comes 2024 and Blu-Ray from Masters of Cinema surpasses it. Silent horror I suspect was never so persuasive, Cat a likely leap over London After Midnight in event we ever locate the latter … just my guess so long as we don’t have opportunity to compare, here again disappointment at no one left from 1927 who could evaluate the pair from memory, same being so of 1930’s The Bat Whispers, at long-last Blu rendition of the wide original (“Magnifilm”), an experience unlike any you’d get from vintage horror, unless others were shot on 65mm, which none were. For me this was like Main Stem sitting at early to mid-twenties peak of chiller-dillers done on stage, ones-of-kind experience memory many took to eternity with them, too few writing of what they saw and heard. For this alone I treasure The Bat Whispers, being dense with humor to leaven chills as was habit then, and who minds so long as Roland West works his restless camera and depicts darkness darker than I ever thought 1930 or since was capable.

Drat Photostat Machines of Fifty Years Ago, but How Else to Spread Campus Word?

Appreciating all this comes easy for years ago watching and, heaven spare my audiences, running bad prints to crowds that should have hung me high for so imposing upon them. Remember the 1973 Phantom of the Opera run memorialized here and elsewhere at Greenbriar? Co-showman at infamous occasion Dan Mercer has wove the tale several times. Suffice to say the print was on 8mm from Blackhawk, aimed across width of a basketball court, what-was-I-thinking occasion never to be lived down. 2024 does revival and rebirth notably better, as at this year’s TCM Festival where, among others, Westward the Women played to satisfaction not had since 1951 when the MGM western was new. Consider years with transfers weak, adequate for TV but no larger format, then sudden comes digital to remind us how all studio features acquitted where fresh off trucks. I’ll venture in fact that Westward the Women looks superior now to what first-run attendees saw, modern means by which images achieve clarity not obtainable generations back. I wanted to know how the TCM run was received and so consulted Laura’s Miscellaneous Musings, site proprietor Laura Grieve having been at the Festival and an eyewitness to crowd reaction when Westward the Women unspooled. She generously passes along as follows how the never-better-than-now show was greeted:

Hi John!
What a nice surprise to hear from you - and as WESTWARD THE WOMEN is one of my favorite films, I'm thrilled to hear you'll be writing about it.

The screening was really wonderful - absolutely packed, though it was a bit disappointing when a large cohort of people there to see Jeanine Basinger honored with the Robert Osborne Award got up and left from prime VIP seats in the center of the theater when that part of the proceedings ended! I wish they had stood at the back or something, as I believe some people were shut out of attending the screening. Basinger said one of the reasons she chose the film for her ceremony was that when she was a young movie theater page, it made an impression as a film where the audience stayed at the end and applauded, which wasn't the norm in 1951!  And she spoke about loving how the women were very strong but also maintained their femininity, highlighted in the last sequence of the movie.

I was wondering what the audience reaction would be, as the film is somewhat groundbreaking for its depictions of strong women in the '50s, especially in Westerns -- of course, we also got lots of strong women in pre-codes etc. -- but there are also some statements made early on by Robert Taylor's character the audience might view as misogynistic, plus a whole lotta slapping LOL.  It really seems as though virtually everyone loved the film; I think it was one of the most talked-about screenings of the festival, along with NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES, the restoration of THE SEARCHERS, and the Vitaphone shorts with original record soundtracks, to name a few that had a lot of "buzz."

There were several reactions shared on Twitter which I Re-Tweeted, and as it was easy for me to locate them again I thought I'd send you the links for "as it happened" audience reactions shortly after the April 20th screening - clicking through these might give you a more direct idea of the same kinds of reactions I was hearing as I spoke with people after the movie, as well as the next day.

https://twitter.com/Kimbo3200/status/1781914534304989358

https://twitter.com/sleepyserenade/status/1782121816934514792

https://twitter.com/chrisreederATX/status/1782125209723801767

https://twitter.com/chrisreederATX/status/1781901100251259031

https://twitter.com/HillPlaceBlog/status/1784405415675023506

https://twitter.com/dannymmiller/status/1781905598931767722

https://twitter.com/daveypretension/status/1781899209349931390

I saw at least one negative Tweet saying she didn't like the film, decrying the slapping and women marrying strangers, etc., but that was in the minority.  People seemed surprised by the film's gritty tone and loved the characters.  There was a nice round of applause at the end before everyone dashed off to their next movie line.

Finally, in case you've not happened across my column on this in the past, you might be interested to know that the movie's "town" sets are still standing!  (Barely, they are in a state of decay.)  I discovered this when I visited Kanab, Utah, in 2021, and I shared photos in my Western Roundup column for the Classic Movie Hub site.  I thought you might enjoy a look in conjunction with this topic:

https://www.classicmoviehub.com/blog/western-roundup-kanab-utah/

Thank you so much for your very kind words, which mean a great deal to me given how many years I have enjoyed your own site.  You gave my day a lift! 

Best wishes,
Laura

… and copious thanks back to Laura, whose site of years standing is a regular stop for me and I’m sure most who read Greenbriar. How could Westward the Women on home alone basis approach benefits watching at the TCM Fest? Most we at home can do is hope visitors enjoy vintage picks, but how to serve tastes of all in the room? Reaction to Westward the Women at Twitter reveals much. No Fest-goer came away without an opinion, question when will Westward the Women again play to near-capacity and eager sitters? Reminds me of classical compositions that get maybe one recital, but none more for being unfamiliar since they don’t get performed, round and round from there to obscurity. Easy to forget that movies were once customized for wide exposure. Filmmakers, certainly film distributors and showmen down the line, understood that to please a few was to please nobody. Where do I come off writing authoritatively of a movie’s merit when I never once sat among an audience, let alone a paying one, to watch these relics released for the most part prior to my birth? There are plenty to recall superheroes or lords of rings amidst crowds, but who to bear witness of Westward the Women when it went 1951 rounds, apart from Fest guest Jeanine Basinger? (and how fortunate attendees were to hear her pre-screening reminiscence) Any other such witness would be welcome in comments below, but how likely are such to surface? (eighty years and older Internet dwellers please apply) Gratitude to Laura then for audience moment she captured and preserves for us who see Westward the Women mostly on lone terms, or among whatever like minds can be inveigled to share an outstanding, and to my mind, reborn show.

For 1944 instance of an appreciative viewer who “was there” when a classic was new, there is future writer and historian Don Miller covering NY's open of Murder, My Sweet.

Trade Talk #1

 

What Trades Told: Friendly Leo, Hutton Hustles, Get to Work, Showman!, and Hot Rod Lobbies

Trade magazines are the great repository of film as merchandise, hang the aesthetics for what matter those except for positive word-of-mouth among customers going out? It was ones passing by or noting ads in papers that needed prod, trades’ sole mission to increase traffic through boxoffice turnstiles. I skipped a day of high school to clean out a venue in Taylorsville, hundreds of mags the owner threw in with posters he valued more, the reverse true for me thanks to joy trades brought. Sit down sometime with a pile and see how immersed you get, quickest route to that HERE. What Greenbriar shares today and hopefully forward is meditation by folks in the field re how-sold and how-to-sell, this whole of what mattered to trade readership. I gave up ever wanting to be an exhibitor for realizing what enormous work the job entailed.

LEO LOOMS LARGE FOR 1950 --- MGM sought to be “the friendly company” to its exhibiting customers. For most part, they kept that reputation. As Metro owned less theatres than rivals, it behooved them to keep small and independent accounts happy, venues that signed yearly with the Lion and used virtually all the company’s output. To block-book heavily among houses urban and rural was as good as owning same, field men hyper-attentive to relationships with showmen. Our Liberty kept close ties with MGM, owner Ivan Anderson back/forth to the Charlotte exchange and their staff supplying him with best accessories to promote highest profile releases. 20X60 door panels in deluxe sets of six came to us for The Bandwagon, Mogambo, Knight of the Round Table, many others, all falling eventually to me when the theatre changed hands. Mr. Anderson and acting manager Col. Forehand rang out 1950 with King Solomon’s Mines, the Liberty an early getter of this most desired attraction. MGM had forty releases for ’50 compared with thirty-five the year before. “Reprints” were part of statistics, Johnny Eager and The Wizard of Oz in 1949, Blossoms in the Dust for 1950. The Liberty played them all, plus whatever short subjects Leo offered. Col. Forehand once told me that he never watched a feature but did peek in for Pete Smith Specialties. Exhibitor Magazine conducted a poll to determine (1) Which company was most profitable to theatres, and (2) Which had fairest terms. MGM won on both counts, and I’ve no reason to believe the contest was rigged (Metro had in fact come in second the year before). “Fairest” often meant giving your man a break when he had a dud and wanted to be shed of it, MGM's rep agreeing to shorten the date, or cancel a booking altogether where management had reason to believe the show would not sell. Any problem could be talked over and solved to satisfaction of distributor and exhibitor, easier arrangement where the salesman had ongoing contact with his buyer and in most instances, regarded himself a friend. Many a holiday gift was exchanged between them, meals always an option when a Metro man stopped in to do business. It helped too that product was good. Check MGM’s 1950 yield and note an overall high standard.

SING FOR YOUR SUPPER, BETTY --- Stars all knew they were performing seals, some tossed larger fish than others, but withal balancing balls upon noses where/when told. Here is instance, Betty Hutton obliged to sing, dance, do whatever, to amuse Paramount brass in town to be recognized for string pullers of talent they were, not unlike visiting exhibitors or armed service folk to whom gates were routinely opened and carpets laid. Who’s for betting Betty was given no time to prepare, was told minutes before to show up and be funny. Lyle Bettger and Jan Sterling were similarly pressed, though less pressure was upon them than what was expected 24/7 of Hurricane Hutton. Expectation is a cruel master. Most figured Betty for a monkey on a Paramount string. Part of her job, an essential part, was to be there for banquets, welcome parties for Mr. Balaban or Mr. Zukor, them and others like kings calling for jesters that were Para stars in name only as check-signers saw it. Seeing an image like this helps me realize what working for this industry really amounted to. We can understand how Betty Hutton and others burnt out and called it eventual quits. Suppose there ever was a big do at MGM where Judy Garland wasn’t asked (told) to sing? Talent got lots of money and public adulation, but often traded pride plus privacy to have them, mental health too in long runs, Hutton and Garland obvious examples. To be Lyle Bettger and cast a lesser glow was at least balm for him at occasions like this. Some handshakes and conversation re what’s it like to be such a bad man on screens would be all required, then home and hearth for Lyle, or libation to wash away stink of studio servitude.

ROLL UP YOUR SLEEVES, MR. SHOWMAN --- Under heading of idle hours being wasted hours, National Screen credo for 1950 back covers of BOXOFFICE was Let’s All Get Down To Work! NSS had vested interest here, for to Get a Horn and Make a Bigger, Louder Noise meant ordering more --- and still more --- of trailers, posters, whatever accessory NSS offered, cost of which drove up overhead to narrow profit margins, especially at smaller venues, where another few dollars spent promoting could wipe off modest gain a film might otherwise generate. Herewith excerpt from an ad pregnant with meaning: “Let’s Quit Knockin’ the Bad in Pictures and Start Selling the Good.” Trouble was less “good” you had to sell than shows that were fine failing to meet expense for any number of local reasons, like high-school football, a county fair, church bazaar ... pick your distraction. Movies were nowhere an only game in town. A small enough berg could have a horseshoe match around the block and queer attendance for your first evening show. And what’s this about the “Bad” in pictures? Who of management would recognize remotest chance of “Bad” in any picture, Great and Glorious Entertainment being all we dispense in our Great and Wonderful Business. I’ve heard however of theatre men who’d stay off public streets a solid week after foul enough selections, the buck stopped always with whoever collected admissions and escorted us through the door. I didn’t blame Colonel Forehand personally for Face of the Screaming Werewolf, as he would have answered that I should have had better sense than to show up for something so obviously lame.

GONE TO GEARHEAD HEAVEN --- Mickey Rooney foolishly parted from MGM and admitted as much later. Tricky agents preyed upon him from there on. One promised moon and stars and stuck Mickey with obligation to do two for producer Harry Popkin plus other odd investors, including Jack Dempsey, everyone to scoop gravy but Mick. The Big Wheel was first of these, Rooney hog-tied for flat fee that was $25K, surely no fair trade for contract money he’d got from Leo. Enough Andy Hardy was intact for the rusted star to be still car-crazy and not ready to behave adult, which may/may not have been how a public preferred him, or had they enough of Mick in any capacity? The Big Wheel is him racing midget cars, ideal casting for the mighty mite, and there was capable free lance support (Thomas Mitchell, Spring Byington, others as veteran). Car culturists could be depended upon to rally, as here with hot rod boys bringing speed machines to display at local theatre entrances. Look close at these flowers of youth previewing fifties attitude to come. “Greasers” came by the name in part for being always under hoods or having oil drip on clothes and faces while flat beneath what once were “jalopies,” now serious racing units forever after purses won at weekend meets hosted far and wide. Danger was the drug in addition to prospect of wins. Teen-driven vehicles piled up as much on community tracks as on highways, life for many a never-ending chickee run. The Big Wheel engages for background of real small time racing, Mickey matched with genuine articles driving hazard routes. A show like this lent itself to local promotion, as car loving, and hot driving, was if anything hottest after the war with boys (girls too?) eager to spread wings behind wheels. The Big Wheel took $1.1 million in domestic rentals, better than most United Artists releases that year. I’m guessing Harry Popkin kept the negative in a garden shed until Wade Williams came calling. Amazon Prime is a source for watching, and there are plentiful DVD’s.