

The Classic Movie Blog Association presents

The Fabulous  
Films of the 30s

With contributions from   
Cliff Aliperti, Becky Barnes, Annette Bochenek, Marsha Collock, Kristina Dijan, Amanda Garrett, Lesley Gaspar, Annmarie Gatti, John Greco, Karen Burroughs Hannsberry, Cameron Howard, R.A. Kerr, Diana & Constance Metzinger, Patricia Nolan-Hall, Margaret Perry, Danny Reid, Ivan G. Shreve, Deborah M. Thomas, and Leah Williams

Compiled by Danny Reid
Cover art by Daniel Cooney. Find more of his work at dancooneyart.com. Cover designed by Danny Reid.

The Classic Movie Blog Association Presents "The Fabulous Films of the 30s". Issue 1, Spring 2015. v 2.2.

Any posters or other material possibly under copyright appearing in this publication do so for the sake of criticism and illustration. No infringement on behalf of the copyright holders is intended, and will be removed upon request.

All written content, save for quotations and images from the discussed original work, is copyright their original authors © 2015. All rights reserved.
Table of Contents

Introduction

Men Call It Love (1931)

Freaks (1932)

Love Me Tonight (1932)

Morning Glory (1933)

Sons of the Desert (1933)

Manhattan Melodrama (1934)

The Bride of Frankenstein (1935)

Born to Dance (1936)

Follow the Fleet (1936)

Go West Young Man (1936)

Sabotage (1936)

Maytime (1937)

The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938)

Boys Town (1938)

Bringing Up Baby (1938)

Pygmalion (1938)

Destry Rides Again (1939)

Idiot's Delight (1939)

The Hound of the Baskervilles (1939)

Where to Find this Issue's Contributors
Introduction

By Danny Reid of   
Pre-Code.Com

The 1930s were a transformative decade for Hollywood. The introduction of sound technology in the late 1920s was finally mainstream as the decade opened, though it was still clunky and matched by equally stilted films. These movies often felt stage bound and stiff, though as technology continued to improve over the next few years, filmmakers would slowly but surely gain back the same kind of freedoms that they had had during the silent era.

Outside the pictures themselves, Hollywood was finishing up a massive round of consolidation. A confluence of factors—the stock market crash, the quick acquisition of theater chains by several major studios, and a wavering audience as the talons of the Depression began to sink in—forced studios to become more creative as they became desperate to draw in audiences. As a consequence, the first half of the decade saw studios like Paramount and Warner Brothers enthusiastically push the envelope as to what could be shown on the screen.

By 1934, conservative audiences across the country had had enough. Organizations formed that finally pressured Hollywood into cleaning up its act and forcing all of the major movie studios into agreeing on a set of moral guidelines of self-censorship. Bolstered by the rise of Shirley Temple to superstardom, Hollywood, once seen as salacious, took on a new tone as another prong in newly-elected Franklin Roosevelt's attack on The Great Depression, offering audiences glitzy, start-studded escapism.

This new Hollywood peaked in 1939, often considered the high point of the studio system, which saw releases like Gone With the Wind, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, and The Wizard of Oz all emerge in the same year. However, the same restrictions that redefined Hollywood's image limited the studios' ability to comment on the gathering war clouds in Europe, as German fascism took hold and the continent again plunged into war as the decade ended, soon to draw America in as well.

From the stilted talkies of 1930 to the hallmark year of 1939, Hollywood and its studios evolved through very public trial and error by the end of the decade from the scourge of sin and scandal to the American institution it's remembered for today.

This eBook is a celebration of that period, a collection of essays by 19 members of the Classic Movie Blog Association that celebrates some of their favorite movies that this decade produced. Some are rightfully still-remembered classics, like Sons of the Desert and The Bride of Frankenstein, others are cult favorites like Freaks and Pygmalion, and still others are forgotten gems in the rough like Men Call It Love and Idiot's Delight.

All of the following pieces come from a place of love and enthusiasm, and they give you only a taste of what each of the authors does on a regular basis—take the dusty corners of film history and clean them up, hoping to share their passion with anyone who stumbles by. It's our hope that you'll find one or two—or nineteen, if we're really lucky—new writers to follow from this project, and, hopefully, join us in celebrating not just the wonder of the movies of the 1930s, but the sublime joy of exploring classic cinema. 
Men Call It Love (1931)

By Karen Burroughs Hannsberry of  
Shadows and Satin

Three observations about Men Call It Love:

  1. It's a rather ambiguous title, isn't it? WHAT do they call love? Why do they call it that? What do women call it?

  2. It's not well-known in the world of pre-Code; I'd wager that a poll of classic film lovers – even those with a special affinity for pre-Code – would turn up only a handful who've ever heard of it.

  3. And its cast doesn't boast any high-powered, widely recognized names. The most familiar performer is Adolphe Menjou, and he's not exactly in the same realm as such pre-Code favorites as Warren William, Robert Montgomery, or William Powell.

These considerations notwithstanding, I'm here to say that I'm simply wild about this movie and cannot get enough of it. Here's why...

What's it all about?

Men Call It Love focuses on a blissfully married couple, Jack and Connie Mills, whose happiness is threatened from a number of quarters, for a number of reasons. (Proceed gingerly – spoilers abound – but they won't ruin the movie for you, should you have the opportunity to see it. I promise!) First off, Connie hears a rumor that her husband had an affair with a "Follies" girl. He denies it, emphatically, and she believes him – but in actuality, it's true. Then there's Tony Minot, a womanizing golf pro who has set his sights on Connie – though everyone seems to realize it except her. And finally, into the mix comes the married but miserable Helen Robinson, who, having recently ended a fling with Tony, decides that she'd next like to sample Jack's wares. (If you know what I mean.) Ultimately, of course, all's well with our couple – but not without some serious bumps in the road and a near matrimonial dead end. All things considered, Men Call It Love is a fascinating look at marriage, divorce, fidelity, virtue, morality, and honor – and all that those concepts entail.

The Characters

One of the most captivating aspects of the film, for me, is not the twisty-tangly plot – which certainly grabs and holds your interest – but the characters who inhabit it. They are each multidimensional and intriguing in their own way, and serve to make this film a must-see.

Connie (Leila Hyams)

The most wholesome and righteous female I've seen in many a pre-Code, Connie is fairly brimming with goodness and believes everyone else is, as well. When her friend, Callie (Hedda Hopper) merrily broadcasts at a party that her divorce has just become final, Connie concludes that Callie has too much pride to let her friends see her pain – it's practically impossible for Connie to conceive that a woman would be happy about the end of her marriage. When Connie's told by Helen, in no uncertain terms, that Tony has designs on her, she laughs it off, convinced that he is only interested in helping her to improve her golf game. And when Connie hears the rumor about Jack's affair, she is easily convinced by her oh-so-earnest husband that it is a mere misunderstanding. "I've got to believe you," Connie tells him. "You mustn't blame me for being so silly. It's just because I love you so much, that's all." It's not until Connie literally catches her husband in the act that she's not only forced to see Jack for what he really is, but also to re-examine and reformulate her own beliefs and values.

Jack (Norman Foster)

On the surface, Jack is a loving husband, devoted to his sweetly fetching wife, and absolutely thrilled to be a married man. But underneath, he's not quite such a sterling character. We already know that he has had (and may even still be having) an affair, and later, when Connie leaves the house to attend an overnight party, all it takes is a visit from a beautiful woman and a few cocktails, and he's off to the races again. Despite his dalliances, though, Jack is still a likable character – he clearly does love his wife, and it's not as if he seeks out other women; he just seems to lack the capacity to fend them off. What's more, he seems to be a bit clueless when it comes to the reasons why infidelity is completely unacceptable. He understands that it's something that you're supposed to hide from your wife, but he seems a less clear that it's something that shouldn't happen at all. After Connie walks in on him (we presume in bed) with another woman, we naturally expect him to tell her that he wishes the entire episode had never happened, but instead, he says, "I'd have given anything if I could have lied successfully again." (Seriously.) And in another scene that provides an illuminating glimpse into his character, Jack advises a friend that he should never, ever apologize to his wife – even if it turns out that he's wrong. It's not until much later, after his marriage disintegrates and Connie asks him for a divorce, that Jack's eyes seem to be truly opened. We hope.

Tony Minot (Adolphe Menjou)

Suave and sophisticated, and supremely confident in his effect on the opposite sex, Tony appears to be the "love 'em and leave 'em" type, with little regard to whether the woman is married or not – a friend jokes that he has another job in addition to his golf career: "Jumping out of bedroom windows." But like Jack, who turns out to be quite different from the decent, honorable man that he appears, Tony, too, is not all that he initially seems. For instance, while Tony makes it clear that he has his eye on Jack's wife, he doesn't actively pursue her ("I am interested in Connie, or I would be if I had any encouragement," he tells Jack) – in fact, he even reminds Jack how fortunate he is to have a wife like Connie and sternly admonishes him for "playing around with a Follies girl." And though Tony doesn't object when, on the rebound from Jack, Connie turns to him, he soon realizes that Connie doesn't have what it takes to engage in an affair ("I'm not a very good bad woman," she concludes) and allows her to stay in his apartment while he nobly spends the night at his club. Not only that, but when Tony is finally able to convince Connie to ask Jack for a divorce and marry him, he turns out to be a knight in shining armor, bowing out when he recognizes that Connie and Jack are still – despite their actions – very much in love.

Helen Robinson (Mary Duncan)

Helen is probably the most despicable – but fascinating – character in the film. She divides her time between publicly humiliating her weak-willed husband, Joe (Robert Emmett Keane), and hopping from man to man. In the film's first scene, at a swank party, her husband falls ill from a case of indigestion. When Connie finds Helen and tells her, Helen responds, "I know what I should do with him, but it would be just my luck to get a jury of women." Later, when Joe hints that he knows she's having an affair with Tony, Helen reacts with righteous indignation and – even though he was right on the money – heatedly insists that he apologize for the slight. (And he does!) And in case you hadn't already guessed, the woman who Connie discovered "in flagrante delicto" with Jack? None other than Helen. Oh, she didn't arrive at his house intending to wind up in his bed, but when she (1) discovered Connie was gone and that (2) Jack was serving cocktails, all bets were off. After a couple of drinks, Helen was all over him like a duck on a junebug: "You know something, Jack – you're interesting! I think you're charming," Mary exclaims. "I never thought of you like this before. You were just always Connie's husband."

Those lines . . . oh! Those lines!

In addition to the fabulous characters, Men Call It Love contains the kind of pre-Code dialogue that leaves you with your mouth hanging open in astonished delight. Here's what I mean:

  * At the party that Callie throws to announce her divorce, Helen Robinson is playing a game of bridge, but leaves the table when her husband starts to display signs of a stomach upset. Helen encounters Callie and asks her if she can provide Joe with some bicarbonate of soda. "Either that or a little prussic acid," Helen jokingly suggests as an alternative, and the two women laugh and laugh. (For those of you who don't know what prussic acid is, it's a colorless, extremely poisonous liquid. Hilarious!) Later, when Joe first complains that his heart is beating too rapidly, and then that it's not beating at all, Helen rejoins, "Can I depend on that?"

  * After Callie and her new ex-spouse, Henry (Cosmo Kyrle Bellew), publicly shared the news about their divorce, Callie's gal pals rush to her with cries of congratulations, and Henry's friends bombard him, concerned primarily that the split "doesn't give us any place to go weekends!"

  * Tony gives Jack and Connie a ride home after the party and invites himself in for a drink. Alone with Tony, Jack asks him why he's really there, stating, "You and I don't like each other. You know that." Tony feigns bewilderment, and says he didn't know that. And Jack responds, "Well, you know it now." (Burn!) Jack goes on to tell Tony that he knows Tony has the hots for Connie, adding, "And your interest in Connie doesn't interest me. In other words, how would you like to get the blazes out of here?" (Incidentally, Jack has an ever-so-pleasant smile on his face during this entire conversation – but if looks could kill, Tony would be on his way to the morgue.)

  * In a women's locker room, following a day on the golf course, we see Callie tuning up to share some juicy gossip with a friend. Before she does, she calls out the name of Helen Robinson several times. Helen appears from around the corner, and asks if Callie was looking for her. "No, darling," Callie retorts, "I just wanted to make sure you were here before I started talking about you."

  * In that same locker room, a woman emerges from the dressing area with her sweater stuck over her head. She laughingly says that she's suffocating, and calls out for assistance. "It depends on who it is," responds one locker room patron. "I know 20 women I'd love to see suffocate."

  * Callie invites Connie to her house for another weekend party, and Connie says she'll have to check first with Jack, as he might have other plans. "If he has, bring somebody else's husband!" Callie suggests. Overhearing, Helen asks if she can bring someone else's husband instead of her own, and Callie tells her, "You don't have to, darling. You'll grab somebody else's husband the minute you get there."

  * When Helen shows up unexpectedly at Jack's house, she tells him that she and her husband have had another fight and that he'll be attending the party at Callie's alone. She also shares that her jubilance is not the result of alcohol: "That's just the natural result of knowing I shan't see Joe for three days!"

  * After a few cocktails with Helen, Jack starts talking about the sport of boxing, and sharing that he used to be an amateur fighter. "Let me feel your muscle," Helen coos. "Oooh, it's just like iron!" A few seconds later, she's removing her sweater, commenting, "I'm warm, aren't you?"

  * A little later, still at Jack's, Helen tosses all subtlety to the four winds and goes for broke: "Don't you want to play around with me this evening, Jack? Oh, we'd have a marvelous time!" she proposes. "We can dine where no one will see us – I know just the place. The best things to drink and Hawaiian music. Outdoors, under the moon. Ah, just think, Jack – a summer's night tossed our way! Don't you want to catch it? Please say you do. Please."

  * After Connie spends the night at Tony's apartment, Jack assumes that she wants her freedom and will seek a divorce. "Why?" Connie asks. "To marry some other man so he can do the same things you've done? No, Jack . . . You'll play around as much as you like, and so will I." (Whoa!)

Random Other Stuff

This was my first time seeing a film featuring Mary Duncan, who played Helen Robinson. It turns out that she was only in 16 films; she retired from the big screen in 1933, after she married Stephen Sanford, an international polo star and director of the Bigelow-Sanford Carpet Company, the first carpet mill in America. She devoted much of her time to fundraising activities for a number of charities and became a prominent member of Palm Beach society. Duncan died at the age of 98 in 1993.

Men Call It Love was based on a play, Among the Married, which was produced on Broadway in 1929. It closed after just 44 performances. The cast included Frank Morgan (of The Wizard of   
Oz fame) as Jack.

The cast of the film included Hedda Hopper, several years before she left acting behind and became a well-known gossip columnist, renowned for her fanciful hats.

The film was directed by Edgar Selwyn, who went on to helm The Sin of Madelon Claudet (1931) and Skyscraper Souls (1932). He also wrote the play that was the basis for the film Possessed (1931), which starred Joan Crawford and Clark Gable. In 1916, Selwyn and his brother, Archibald, teamed up with producer Samuel Goldfish to create the Goldwyn Pictures Corp. Goldfish liked the name so much that he adopted it as his own, becoming Samuel Goldwyn. A few years later, Goldwyn left the company to become an independent producer, and Goldwyn Pictures eventually merged with Metro Pictures and Louis B. Mayer Productions to become Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM) – the studio that made Men Call It Love.

The Bottom Line

I wish that Men Call It Love were better known – it's simply overflowing with high-society shenanigans that have to be seen to be believed. Mix together the story, the characters, the performances, and the dialogue, and you've got a recipe for a first-rate entry from the pre-Code era. (And, boy, is it tasty!) The film isn't on DVD, but it does air from time to time on TCM. If you ever get the chance, be sure to check this one out – it's a pip!

You only owe it to yourself.
Freaks (1932)

By Becky Barnes of  
ClassicBecky's Brain Food

The Evolution of Tod Browning's Freaks

Tod Browning's 1932 film Freaks has been analyzed, reviewed, hated, admired, recommended and shunned since its first screening 83 years ago. My interest is in one aspect of this movie's impact upon audiences -- the evolution of its acceptance. In his production, Browning filmed this fictional story of circus freaks using not actors, but real men and women who had been born with deformities and made their living traveling the sideshow circuit. In many ways, the movie was a source of pride for most of its stars. They had lived their lives being stared at and vilified, and made their living in the only way open to them -- as circus attractions. The idea of being wanted for a mainstream Hollywood movie appealed to most of those who appeared in Freaks. Browning himself believed not only in the monetary interests of a shock value movie, but also in spotlighting the fact that these are human beings with the same feelings as anyone else, kindness, love, anger, bitterness and rage. His intentions met with complete failure in 1932. Stories abounded of people fainting and running screaming up the aisles during the first few minutes of the movie. Freaks was considered so disgusting that theatres throughout the country pulled it and refused to show it. It was definitely a box office dud, and only decades later was it met with interest and perceptive observation.

The aspect of Freaks that interests me for the purpose of this article is simple -- we are not as dramatically affected by Freaks now as people were in 1932. We certainly have a better understanding of medical anomalies. Deformities are no longer seen as a curse or an evil as in the past. The development of babies in the womb is an open book because of prenatal imagery, and we have reached a point in medical involvement in which some problems can actually be fixed in utero. Deformities certainly still occur, but for us in a country rich in medical breakthroughs and treatments, the same anomalies as seen in Freaks are very rare, if not completely eradicated. Even the crude terms used for deformities have evolved ... pinheads are microcephalics, Siamese twins are conjoined siblings, midgets and dwarves are little people ... names can indeed hurt, and our modern terminology helps to make that a thing of the past.

We now have television shows that spotlight people who are different. Little People, Big World is very popular, showing a family who is really like any other family, with the exception of certain special needs. However, it is my observation that most families require special needs of many types, even though these may be invisible. The problem of the "dysfunctional family" has become so widespread that functional families seem to be a rarity. There are a great many TV shows about fat people, strange obsessions, odd-looking people who are that way either by birth or choice of tattooing and piercing. There isn't a whole lot that we don't see anymore. The people of under-developed countries particularly suffer from terrible deformities and diseases, and now remarkable doctors, plastic surgeons and nurses give of their time and skill to travel around the world to help them without charge.

We still stare ... there is no denying that ... but most of us try not to and are embarrassed when we do, a far cry from years past. I remember shopping for groceries and turning the corner of an aisle to be confronted by a man with an advanced case of neurofibromatosis, which used to be called Elephant Man's disease. I couldn't help being shocked, but I managed to quell the instinctive gasp we do when surprised in that way. He just gave me a smile, and I smiled back with a little shake of the head at myself. It turned out he was the produce man, and I will never forget his gracious behavior and the courage he must have had to just be living a normal life with a normal job. Would I have screamed and run in 1932? I am glad I live in a world where an unintentional surprise was all that I experienced and all that this gentleman had to endure. There are still people who rudely snap pictures on their cell phones of those who are different, but media attention to these insensitive jerks prove them to be undeserving of any respect, an opinion shared by the majority of Americans.

Sometimes it seems that nothing ever really changes, and we see that opinion manifested every day in the news. Various ethnic groups, religious groups, political groups, all cry out that bigotry is still the same as years past. I do not believe that. Certainly there are people who have not changed, who still live by the code of discrimination, but I see that more people have evolved than not. Such issues are now discussed openly, and people who suffer bigotry have more ways to address and punish the haters than ever before. That is because there are more of us who want to do what is right than ever before. Just this one small example shows that ... at least for the cast of Freaks we know things have evolved -- the very word itself, freaks, is no longer tolerated.
Love Me Tonight (1932)

By Marsha Collock of  
A Person in the Dark

If movies are a dream of what could be, Love Me Tonight (1932) is a delicious one; a flight of fancy wrapped in a sublime and romantic reverie.

Just what is romance? Romance is much more than just sexual attraction. It is a big word with a big definition. Romance is grand, it is seductive, it is glorious, it is adventure, it is imagination, it is possibility, it is joy. In Love Me Tonight's most enduring melody, composer Rodgers and lyricist Hart tell us that all romance can be found in all of these things:

A beautiful day in Paris;

A wedding;

A well-tailored and beautiful suit;

Children;

The domestic bliss of ordinary life;

A taxi ride;

Artistic inspiration;

Being moved by beautiful music;

The camaraderie of soldiers;

The hope in a lonely heart gazing at the moon;

And yes, love, BIG romantic love.

The films of the early 1930s had not yet totally dispensed with the romance of the silent era. At times, even the grittiest story is tinged with stardust (especially at Paramount). Therefore, the tale of a down on his luck tailor and an even more down on his luck royal has a storybook sparkle imagined without a trace of the Depression.

Here is the cast of characters:

  * The city of Paris: beautiful, noisy, bustling with life, humor, humanity and love.

  * A tailor – and not just any tailor, a Parisian tailor so debonair and bon-vivant. He knows how to tailor a tux and a riding habit fit for a Royal.

  * A princess: lonely, widowed, hungry for life and love and a widow of 22. She rides a horse.

  * Her court: a playboy Vicomte who doesn't pay his bills, a count who is a less-than-inspiring-would be-lover, a sex-starved and vixenish countess, and 3 spinster aunts as giggly as a gaggle of tweens. All presided over by a stodgy, stingy and drier than dust Duke.

  * The help: the doctor, the majordomo, the maids and others who keep the wheels turning at the palace.

Directed by Rouben Mamoulian with a skill and style that lies somewhere between Lubitsch and Renee Clair yet somehow surpasses both, Love Me Tonight is a tale of the joy of life and youth with a little class-war fun thrown in.

You see, our tailor, Maurice Courtelin (played by Maurice Chevalier with more youthful charm than he ever displayed before or since on screen), is a struggling tailor in this time of economic struggle. He feels blessed that he has such a prestigious client as the Vicomte Gilbert de Vareze (Charles Ruggles). There's only one thing wrong with the Vicomte: he never pays his bills. Outraged, Maurice, as a representative of all of the other tradesmen stiffed by the Vicomte heads off to the palace of the Duke (C. Aubrey Smith) to claim his due.

Meanwhile, life at the palace is dull, dull, dull. Countess Valentine (Myrna Loy) is bored to tears and can only think of sex. The Vicomte needs money, but the old Duke won't give him an advance on his allowance. And poor Princess Jeanette (Jeanette MacDonald funnier and sexier than she has ever been), married to an old man at 16, widowed at 19 and starved for love at 22, suffers from an unnamed malady (her doctor tells her "you're not wasting away, you're just wasted"). She has a bumbling suitor in the Count de Savignae (Charles Butterworth), but he leaves her cold.

On his way to the palace, Maurice and Jeanette meet. He is smitten and she is haughty (but attracted). When he arrives at the palace, a mortified Vicomte introduces him as the Baron Courtelin and pleads for some time to get Maurice his money. Maurice doesn't like the idea, but once he see Jeanette, he changes his mind. He goes on to charm the entire household (except Jeanette), but his identity is revealed when he simply can't help adjusting Jeanette's badly tailored riding habit. Everyone is outraged, but none more so than the help, who are appalled that they have been waiting on a commoner (The Son of a Gun is Nothing But a Tailor is a musical highlight).

Of course, in the end class does not matter and Jeanette and Maurice are united because, as we know, love conquers all.

Being a pre-code production, sly jabs, innuendo and lingerie abound (15 minutes of the original film was cut after the code for naughtiness). It is a work of genius (the Rodgers and Hart score is incomparable – Paramount used 2 signature songs from this film – Isn't it Romantic? And Lover in many of its subsequent productions), but lighter than air. Isn't it deep? Isn't it scintillating? Isn't it beautiful? Isn't it romantic? Yes to all of the above.
Morning Glory (1933)

By Margaret Perry of  
MargaretPerry.Org

Katharine Hepburn Faces Fear and Fame

"Youth has its hour of glory, but too often it is only a morning glory, the flower that fades before the sun if very high." (from Morning Glory (1933))

"No other star has emerged with greater rapidity or with more ecstatic acclaim. No other star, either, has become so unpopular so quickly for so long a time." (Britton on Katharine Hepburn 13)

Katharine Hepburn made her first three Hollywood films within the space of 15 months after arriving in California from New York. She rose to immediate popularity after her first film, A Bill of Divorcement (1932), which starred John Barrymore and Billie Burke and was directed by Hepburn's long-time friend George Cukor. Hepburn then went on to make a success of Dorothy Arzner's Christopher Strong (1933), in which she plays an Amelia Earhart type aviatrix.

Morning Glory (1933) completes this trinity of films in which Hepburn portrays a woman whose sense of self-assertion is framed within a film text that presents the inevitability of her defeat. The very nature of Hepburn's persona as a film star is developed in these films that require the contradictions of her characters' desires. Not only does Hepburn's Eva Lovelace in Morning Glory encapsulate the problematic nature of the Hepburn persona, but the film text itself operates as a portend both to Hepburn's ultimate position within the legacy of great actresses and to her immediate downfall after the successes of her first few feature films.

The film opens with a waif-like Hepburn, only in her mid-twenties at the time, walking through the foyer of a grand New York theatre. She gazes admiringly up at large portraits of such legendary actresses as Ethel Barrymore, Maude Adams, and Sarah Bernhardt. Hepburn's unconventional appearance and acting style was often mistaken as genius, and many critics of her early films insisted on her being classed in the great tradition of these leading ladies.

Many of Hepburn's films throughout her career carry autobiographical undertones, whether deliberately or by coincidence, and Morning Glory (1933) is no exception. In many ways, the concerns and desires of the Eva Lovelace character directly parallel those of the actress playing her.

The first scene takes place in the waiting room of a theatre director's office. Eva, with all the naïveté and confidence of her youth, enters into a conversation with an elderly actor (C. Aubrey Smith) seated near her. Much of what she says to him can be read as a harbinger of Hepburn's own career path. When Hedges (Smith) describes how "Bernhardt broke your heart – Ellen Terry mended it", Eva responds with:

"I suppose I shall never be very wonderful – not wonderful like them. But I've something very wonderful in me, you'll see... I shouldn't be surprised if I'm a great actress."

Like Katharine Hepburn, Eva is familiar with her texts; she knows and speaks Shakespeare and Shaw as one who has studied and is conversant with their work. Hepburn and Eva also share a similar New England background, though Eva's beginnings in the humble local theatre in her hometown are decidedly more of the petit bourgeois than Hepburn's privileged entrance into the theatre world via the elite Bryn Mawr College and the legitimate Baltimore theatre.

Eva had the same dogged determination to secure herself a role, although she was much less successful than Hepburn was at securing her part as Eva. Morning Glory first came to Hepburn's attention when she noticed the Zoe Akins script on producer Pandro Berman's desk. Without hesitating, she stole the script from his office and went to read it and talk it over with her good friend and confidante Laura Harding. The two decided then and there that the part was perfect for Hepburn and that she must do anything she could to win it.

"Went to Pandro and said I must do it. He said no. It was for Connie Bennett. I said No – ME. I won." (Hepburn 147)

"For me it was like a red flag held up to a bull. I had to win, to get the part and to make them sorry they hadn't wanted me in the first place and have them overjoyed by my brilliance." (Katharine Hepburn to Chandler 76)

"Adolphe Menjou and I [Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.] were with her in the film, and we were asked to help her out as much as we could. She won the Oscar." (Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. to Chandler 74)

Morning Glory was indeed a stellar role for Hepburn. It set her up to be perceived as a young Bernhardt, not only in that its narrative was about a rising actress, but because it also gave her the chance to perform Shakespeare. Not only that, but it allowed her to play two strikingly different Shakespeare characters: the brooding teenage Hamlet and the romantic Juliet. One scene in which Hepburn and Fairbanks filmed the entire balcony scene in costume was cut from the final film. Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks, Sr. had been present at the filming, and many years later Hepburn admitted to a biographer that "it was one of the few times in her life that she had stage fright" (Berg 96).

These performances take place at a party hosted by the stage producer Easton (Adolphe Menjou) after one of his shows. Eva has formed a crush on Easton and feels she must prove to him that he should give her a chance in his next production. The combination of these sentiments, very little food, and a great deal of wine, leads Eva to unexpectedly perform in front of the guests.

The performances highlight the contrast between Hepburn's feminine and masculine qualities. As the unscripted Eva, Hepburn represents "girl", completely dependent on the approval of her male acquaintances. These acquaintances hold dominion over her in a number of ways. Easton is in a position of power as a producer and can either make or break her acting career. Eva is also infatuated with him, so he has emotional sway in addition to professional influence. Eva places Hedges in the position of her mentor. He twice saves her from starvation and is also responsible for shaping her into a marketable performer.

But when Hepburn transforms into an actress when reciting the Shakespeare monologues, she lays claim to masculine dominance. In one sense, she does so literally, by her impersonation of the Prince of Denmark.

"Fired by genius she becomes the androgyne, her 'masculinity enforcing itself in the peremptory, strident force with which she commands the room and it inhabitants, creating objects and persons as objects in her mise-en-scene, and in the appropriation of a male character's speech, delivered in a vocal register and with an intensity strikingly different from the tones of the 'girl'." (Britton 65)

Unfortunately, the film requires Eva's return to the feminine, although this measure also necessitates her demise. In short, the female actress is placed in a distinct no-win situation. If she maintains a façade of femininity, she may be forever relegated to the chorus line, or die of hunger, or be morally corrupted by producers like Easton. On the other hand, if she asserts herself as the androgynous genius described above, she risks being forcibly repressed by the men who manipulate her career.

Take for example the case of Rita, the actress who had the leading role before it was given to Eva. The film audience has witnessed conversations between the male producer and the male writer that Rita is "difficult" and "unreasonable." The only evidence we have for this conclusion is that Rita negotiates her salary. The producers conspire to cheat Rita out of a proper salary in order to get rid of her. On opening night, Rita calls their game and makes demands for a higher salary and better career options.

Despite the fact that we have witnessed the producers screwing her over, the audience is expected to ally with Easton and Sheridan (Fairbanks, Jr.) when they express their disgust at her actions. This scene is representative of the systematic suppression professional women have had to endure for decades. It is so deeply ingrained in the social construct that it still seems valid, even in today's world, to vilify a woman who is trying to hold her own in a business transaction.

At the end of the day, it is considered a triumph that the producers refuse Rita's demands and instead offer the part to Eva. When she makes a smash hit in the part, their advice to her is not to become like Rita, a "morning glory," but to remain sensible. Sensible or pliable, we might ask?

Significantly, Hepburn's star text works against the film text of Morning Glory. As Britton points out, her performance presents femininity as a learned mannerism that is much less natural to her than the androgyny that her strident air of independence and self-assertion implies.

"Since Hepburn is a woman, this has the effect, conversely, of creating another model of femininity in which conventionally masculine properties are incorporated, and in relation to which the 'feminine' as defined becomes grotesque." (Britton 70)

The film concludes with Eva confiding in her dressing lady, an older woman who had once been a great actress but had faded from glory. Eva has just been romantically rejected by Easton, who describes her as "the most valuable piece of theatrical property I ever had." But Eva isn't having any of it, as she vehemently declares:

"Nellie they've all been trying to frighten me. They've been trying to frighten me into being sensible, but they can't do it. Not now. Not yet. They've got to let me be as foolish as I want to be... And they've got to tell me that I'm much more wonderful than anyone else because, Nellie, I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid of being just a morning glory. I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid. Why should I be afraid? I'm not afraid!"

We can believe, because Hepburn is Hepburn, that she can reject their advice and still find success. But the film would have us believe that Eva is doomed because of this self-confident assertion to make her own success. One critic even went so far as to claim:

"The striking and inescapably fascinating Miss Hepburn proves pretty conclusively in her new film that her fame in the cinema is not a mere flash across the screen." (Richard Watts, Jr. New York Herald Tribune)

This almost proved to be untrue because Hepburn's career turned fairly sharply downhill after she made Little Women (1933). She made a string of unsuccessful costume dramas which ultimately got her labelled "box office poison" by the late 1930s. Films that are today considered part of the essential Hepburn canon, like Bringing Up Baby (1938) and Holiday (1938), were not very well-received at the time and did little to return their leading lady to popularity. It wasn't until she went back to the Broadway play and made a hit in Philip Barry's "The Philadelphia Story" was she able to return to Hollywood as the conquering hero to make the film.

Although Morning Glory earned Hepburn her first of four well-deserved Oscars, the film has not stood the test of time. As biographer Homer Dickens points out, "Howard J. Green's adaptation of Zoe Akins' play was superficially theatrical, as was the direction of Lowell Sherman" (Dickens 48). This melodramatic style does not translate well to 21st century audiences who do not have the same theatre-lust of Depression-era audiences. Also, the very notion of Hepburn and Menjou being romantic together, on screen or off, is beyond repulsive. It is a major flaw that keeps this narrative from achieving any sense of credibility. The two actors had strongly opposing political views and by their fourth movie together, they weren't even on speaking terms.

Despite its flaws, Morning Glory was a great coup for Hepburn, and it can still be appreciated for her acting merits alone. She modelled much of her performance on the style of stage actress Ruth Gordon, whom Hepburn had seen in a play called "The Church Mouse." Hepburn would work with Ruth Gordon and her husband Garson Kanin later in her career. Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. remained a close friend, though there is evidence he would have preferred them to be something less platonic. Alas, poor Doug.

Without a doubt Morning Glory gave Hepburn the initial legitimacy she needed to establish her legacy in Hollywood. Its success and the notices her performance received boosted her confidence so that she, like Eva, would never fear fame in the future.

Bibliography

  * Britton, Andrew. Katharine Hepburn: Star as Feminist. New York: Continuum, 1995.

  * Berg, A. Scott. Kate Remembered. New York: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2003.

  * Chandler, Charlotte. I Know Where I'm Going: Katharine Hepburn, a Personal Biography. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2010.

  * Dickens, Homer. The Films of Katharine Hepburn. New York: Citadel Press, 1971.

  * Hepburn, Katharine. Me: Stories of My Life. New York: Knopf, 1991.

  * Morning Glory. Performed by Katharine Hepburn. Radio Pictures, 1933. Film.

Sons of the Desert (1933)

By Ivan G. Shreve of  
Thrilling Days of Yesteryear

By the 1920's, comedy producer Mack Sennett had begun to cede ground to the man he once acknowledged as his only true rival in the field of movie comedy shorts production: Hal Roach. Roach, who established his "Lot of Fun" back in 1915 producing comedies starring his friend Harold Lloyd, had usurped Sennett by creating a new style of movie mirth that, while certainly not skimping on physical comedy, phased out the manic Keystone slapstick in favor of what we might now acknowledge as the antecedent of the modern situation comedy. Roach's roster of funsters included Lloyd, Charley Chase, Our Gang (The Little Rascals)...and two men that begun their acting careers in the 1910s until appearing together briefly in a 1921 comedy entitled Lucky Dog: Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy.

Five years later, the two men would appear in a Roach "Comedy All-Stars" production entitled 45 Minutes from Hollywood—and several short comedies later, Laurel & Hardy would go on to become the biggest stars at Hal Roach's studio. Not only did they make a series of hilarious silent two-reel comedies that still win over the audiences today (Two Tars, Big Business), they successfully transitioned into talkies—with their natural speaking voices causing them no problems the way sound derailed the careers of other stars from the silent era. Even though displaying their names on a theater marquee guaranteed that customers would pay admission just to chortle at their antics, Stan and Ollie's careers faced a formidable threat with the onslaught of the Great Depression.

The figures for movie theater attendance plummeted once owners realized people were forced to cut back their time spent at the "flickers" in favor of luxuries like food, clothing and shelter. To compensate for the loss, studios stepped up their production of "B" pictures in order to be able to offer a "two-for-one" experience at the movies. As such, the traditional theater program of a main feature supplemented by "extras" like cartoons, newsreels and serial chapters began to vanish from some venues...and that also included two-reel comedies, which were Hal Roach's bread-and-butter. Roach was able to keep his studio afloat by phasing Laurel & Hardy into feature films, such as their 1931 starring debut Pardon Us. Hal continued to star The Boys in at least two full-length features a year (while their two-reel subjects continued until 1935), and for those employees who weren't able to duplicate L&H's success, they were forced to find work elsewhere.

Sons of the Desert was the second of the two Laurel & Hardy feature films released in 1933 (the first was the comic operetta The Devil's Brother, also known as Fra Diavolo). The title refers to a fraternal lodge of which Stan and Ollie are loyal members, and during a special meeting the Exalted Ruler (John Elliott)—Stan humorously refers to him as the "Exhausted Ruler"—calls for the membership to swear a solemn oath: that all brothers in good standing will attend the annual "Sons of the Desert" convention in Chicago. On their way home from the meeting, Stan is worried: he shouldn't have taken the oath, because he's not certain his wife Betty (Dorothy Christy) will let him go.

Ollie is incredulous—Mrs. Laurel is going to have to let Stan go, since he swore an oath. (Oliver: "Do you have to ask your wife everything?" Stan: "Well, if I didn't ask her I wouldn't know what she wanted me to do.") Oliver suggests that his pal pattern his life after his own; in the Hardy household, he is "king of his [own] castle." The only problem is, Mrs. Lottie Hardy (Mae Busch) appears to have usurped her husband's scepter; she informs him he is most certainly not going to Chicago—the two of them will vacation in the mountains. When Oliver protests, he winds up on the receiving end of crockery aimed at his cranium...courtesy of the little woman.

So Ollie resorts to a bit of subterfuge: he pretends to be ill from a nervous breakdown, and he's enlisted Stan to find a doctor (Lucien Littlefield) to prescribe the remedy in the form of a sea voyage to Honolulu. (Stan rounds up a veterinarian by mistake; Oliver: "Why did you get a veterinarian?" Stan: "Well, I didn't think his religion would make any difference...") Dr. Littlefield diagnoses Ollie with "Canis Delirious," and tells Mrs. Hardy that Honolulu is the only thing that will cure him. Mrs. H hates the sea, so Oliver suggests that Stan go with him. (This is the point in the narrative where Stan refuses...only because his wife has said "yes" to his attending the convention, and he plans to go.)

The two men wind up in Chicago, marching in a parade, enjoying good fellowship...and sampling a generous helping of champagne and dancing girls. On the day they're due back home in Los Angeles, a local newspaper screams out the headline: "Honolulu Liner Sinking! Floundering in Typhoon!" Well...here's another nice mess they've gotten themselves into.

Film historian Leonard Maltin, one of the first film critics to champion the cinematic cause of Laurel & Hardy, is unabashed in his praise for Sons of the Desert (1933), calling it "the best feature the team ever did." He continues: "It manages to take the kind of material used in the Laurel & Hardy two-reelers and expand it to feature-length without padding or musical subplots. It remains one-hundred per cent pure Laurel & Hardy." L&H fans enjoy all of the team's features, but admit that many of them feature unnecessary musical interludes and romantic subplots in order to expand the material beyond the duo's usual two-reel comedy comfort. Though the script treatment for Desert was written by character actor Frank Craven (a member of Oliver Hardy's golfing foursome, and best known as the pipe-smoking narrator of the movie adaptation of Our Town [1940], which he co-scripted with the play's original author Thornton Wilder), much of the inspiration for the film comes from an earlier silent short The Boys starred in, We Faw Down (1928).

Still, one of the pleasures of Desert is that you don't have to be familiar with the history of Laurel & Hardy to enjoy the film, because their beloved personalities are immediately established after the opening credits roll. Stan and Ollie are kids that have never completely grown up; both of them are also not very bright—it's just that Ollie maintains a sense of superiority that he's the smarter of the two (except he isn't), and Stan is blissfully content to be his partner's one man fan club. Critic Danny Peary mused in an essay on the film that the duo were in some ways an adult version of Hal Roach's Our Gang, and if you've ever seen any of the Little Rascals shorts that feature byplay with George "Spanky" McFarland and Scotty Beckett (and later Carl "Alfalfa" Switzer), you'll notice that much of their dialogue and mannerisms mirror those of Stan and Ollie.

Oliver Hardy gets big laughs in Sons of the Desert asserting that he's boss of his household when he's anything but. In his arguments with his wife, he's always wearing the look of a kid too embarrassed to admit the truth to his mother or he fidgets nervously, drawing circles on the walls and table with his index finger. He calls Lottie "Sugar" and isn't opposed to using baby-talk to soften his wife's anger. Stan is just as childlike: when he refuses to back Oliver's tall tale that the two of them really were in Honolulu the entire time (despite the published newspaper evidence to the contrary), Ollie blackmails his pal by threatening to tell Mrs. Laurel that Stan was smoking a cigarette. "All right, go ahead and tell her," declares his friend. "Would you tell her that?" Stan then asks after a pause, on the verge of tears.

Before her name became a catchphrase for Jackie Gleason's Stanley R. Sogg character ("The ever popular Mae Busch!") the real Mae enjoyed a prolific career in silent movies such as Foolish Wives (1922) and The Unholy Three (1925). Most classic film fans love Mae for her work with Laurel & Hardy, however; she played Ollie's wife in the duo's first talkie, Unaccustomed as We Are (1929), and later in Their First Mistake (1932) and The Bohemian Girl (1936). While Mae may have perfected the battle-axe stereotype working alongside Stan and Ollie, she still displayed enough versatility to play other characters in L&H comedies like Chickens Come Home (1931—she's a woman from Ollie's past who threatens to torpedo his political ambitions) and Oliver the Eighth (1934—as a murderous widow who marries men named "Oliver"...and then dispatches them to the Great Beyond). Dorothy Christie excels equally as non-harridan Mrs. Laurel; Dorothy worked with such legendary comedians in the likes of So This is Paris (1930; with Will Rogers) and Parlor, Bedroom and Bath (1931; with Buster Keaton).

L&H fans have another motivation for their love of Sons of the Desert: Stan and Ollie's fellow employee Charley Chase appears in a hilarious turn as an obnoxious conventioneer. Aside from the occasional feature film like The King of the Wild Horses (1924) or Modern Love (1929), Chase's domain was pretty much the short subject, and when it came time for Hal Roach to phase out two-reel comedies his longtime shorts star bore the brunt of this decision, becoming briefly unemployed until he was hired by Columbia's short subjects department in 1937 (being a major studio, Columbia was able to continue cranking out two-reel comedies because they weren't dependent on them as Hal was for their bottom line). So it's a treat to see the three men interact in this comedy—it wasn't the first time they worked together (Hardy played the heavy in many of Charley's two-reelers before he was teamed with Stan, and the trio appeared in 1927's Now We'll Tell One and the Max Davidson short Call of the Cuckoo), but with the exception of an L&H cameo in one of Roach's last two-reel Chase comedies, On the Wrong Trek (1936), Desert would function as their swan song. Charley is unquestionably in his element as the convention's merry prankster, swatting attendees' behinds with a paddle and executing lame practical jokes like the old "squirting flower" routine.

By the oddest of movie coincidences, Charley happens to be the wayward brother of Lottie Hardy, and there's an amusing sequence where he calls up his sis to catch up on what's doin' and eventually puts Ollie on the phone with her. (The look on Hardy's face when he realizes whom he's speaking with is priceless.) I agree with Danny Peary that Chase's participation in Desert is all-too-brief; rather than having the wives learn that their spouses deceived them by seeing them cavort in Chicago via a movie newsreel (it's kind of an awkward plot point, seeing as how Lottie and Betty are concerned about their husbands dying in a shipwreck—who would go to a movie at that time?), it might have been better for Chase's character to show up in L.A. and spill the beans about seeing Oliver in Chicago.

While I'm quite fond of Sons of the Desert, I've never made any bones about the fact that my favorite Laurel & Hardy feature remains Way Out West (1937)... but the economy of Desert's plot (it's a time-tested one, which later turned up on TV shows like The Honeymooners), brevity with the musical numbers (the featured tune is "Honolulu Baby," one of musician Marvin Hatley's favorite compositions) and its utter lack of pretense make it a firm favorite among the duo's fans. Leslie Halliwell called the movie "quintessential" and L&H biographer John McCabe recorded that Stan Laurel's impression of Desert was that it was the "jolliest" of their collaborations.

Equally jolly was the idea that McCabe presented to Stan Laurel in later years that an organization dedicated to the love of Laurel & Hardy be patterned after the lodge in the film; Stan gave it his blessing, but, as L&H biographer Richard W. Bann explains, "his sole proviso was that the group should, at all times, maintain what he called 'a half-assed dignity,' which objective has been met more than halfway! Stan also suggested a motto, to be shown along with a pair of derby hats, to read, 'Two minds without a single thought.' The "tents" of the Sons of the Desert sweep the United States and worldwide, and are named after the various shorts and feature films starring the duo (for example, the "Berth Marks" tent is located in Augusta, GA). Over eighty years since it made its appearance in movie theaters, Sons of the Desert remains the apotheosis of Laurel and Hardy's feature film career, a marvelous testament to the greatest movie comedy team of all time.
Manhattan Melodrama (1934)

By Cliff Aliperti of  
Immortal Ephemera

Manhattan Melodrama rubbed out one last charming gangster before Production Code enforcement turned most every lawbreaker into a one-dimensional snarling villain. The film is most famed as answer to a couple of trivia questions: 1) What was the first of William Powell and Myrna Loy's fourteen films together, and 2) Which film did real-life outlaw John Dillinger see at Chicago's Biograph Theater just before the F.B.I. closed in on him for the kill? In addition to those two major bits of surrounding lore, Manhattan Melodrama is notable for outstanding camera work by James Wong Howe and an overshadowed performance by Clark Gable, who turns in one of the better acting efforts of his entire career.

Most of Gable's performance consists of his typical star turn as the brimming-with-confidence, though not quite obnoxious, he-man loved by men and women alike. He's a bit more rapid-fire with his delivery than usual, likely the result of W.S. "One Shot Woody" Van Dyke's direction. In her autobiography Myrna Loy remarked about Van Dyke's quest for spontaneity, explaining that "speed ensured it" (89). It works here for Gable, who never came so close to playing a rough in the Cagney-manner. Except, again, Gable is not quite obnoxious. Cagney could be.

Gable is special in Manhattan Melodrama during the little moments that see him drop his boyish facade. One of his best scenes is when his girlfriend, Eleanor (Loy), rejects him and his lifestyle. He's stunned, even hurt, but chooses not to show this to Eleanor, only us. And so, he loses Eleanor. He accepts this in time, telling her she had more on the ball than he ever thought by rejecting him for his much more stable boyhood friend, Jim Wade (Powell). Another such moment comes in Blackie's final scene, when that same pal who won Eleanor's love, Jim Wade, tries to avoid saying goodbye. Gable spends most of the scene putting on the cheer for the sake of everyone else, when—but for a moment—every trace of happiness is wiped from him, replaced by a raw sorrow after he reads the despair on his friend's face. But rather than succumbing to the moment, Blackie bucks up, and Gable lathers up the charm one more time, making a defiant, yet amiable exit from Jim's life and soon his own. Gable is heartbreaking in his final film, The Misfits (1961), but if you thought it took him that long to learn how to act, go no further than his final scene in Manhattan Melodrama, made over a quarter-century earlier.

Before Gable is Gable in Manhattan Melodrama—Mickey Rooney is. The movie opens with a date, June 15, 1904, that contemporary audiences would identify with memory of the many lost lives on board the passenger steamboat General Slocum. Over 1,000 people perished on what was the deadliest day in New York history until September 11, 2001. Manhattan Melodrama puts its two lead characters on board as children, Rooney as Blackie, already hustling, and Jimmy Butler as young Jim Wade, doing his best to keep his buddy Blackie on the straight and narrow path. Together they come to the defense of another boy and both Blackie and Jim's fists are flying when a passenger suddenly cries fire. There's panic on board as the passengers scramble, trampling each other in the quest for life preservers that, in real life at least, largely turned out to be defective. Young Blackie leaps from the boat to the water below and Jim follows, doing his best to keep his friend's head above water. Both boys are saved when friendly Father Joe (Leo Carrillo) follows them into the water and safely swims them ashore.

The next scene is horrifying as the survivors mourn over the bodies of those who didn't make it. Blackie is crying over his mother's corpse when Jim, also newly orphaned, finds him. Nearby the father of the Jewish boy who Blackie and Jim had been fighting for mourns over his son's body. He was a good boy, Blackie reassures the man, who soon suggests the two boys come live with him. "But I'm not a Jew, and neither is Jim," Blackie says. Then George Sidney, an actor often cast in comic parts, but here playing the man the boys soon call Poppa Rosen, is gifted with the greatest line of his career: "Catholic, Protestant, Jew, what does it matter now?" Poppa Rosen is then almost immediately dispatched after a Trotsky rally turns riot and the mounted police rush from their stables and over Poppa Rosen. The kind father figure is left trampled into the dirt with the boys crying over him as they so recently had over their parents during the Slocum disaster.

The calendar then progresses, the dates backed by a split screen montage depicting Blackie's gambling on one side and Jim's study towards a law degree on the other. It's only been a few weeks since the friends last saw each other, but we meet them as men, now played by Gable and Powell, who catch up with one another on September 14, 1923 outside of the Polo Grounds. Inside heavyweight champ Jack Dempsey makes quick work of the Wild Bull of the Pampas, Luis Firpo. Jim asks Blackie about an underworld hoodlum who Blackie turns out to know well. Jim confides to Blackie about the pressure being put on him by some of the crooked players in town and Blackie distinguishes himself by insisting Jim stay honest and keep up the fight. "You're the one guy that's on the level," Blackie says, "and that's what pays off in the end."

Manhattan Melodrama is about the love and brotherhood of these two lifelong friends. The trouble-making kid who grew up to be a professional gambler, one of the top underworld figures in New York, and the studious and moralistic lover of the law, who we watch ride his degree to District Attorney and eventually Governor of the state. Blackie respects no law, but he does respect Jim, so he remains loyal, even to his own detriment. When Blackie's girlfriend, Eleanor (Loy), leaves him for Jim, the anger that Blackie would have simmered to a boiling rage against any other man, quickly dissipates to a warm and sincere smile towards his friend. Jim gets the girl and Blackie moves on, though it's soon revealed that all of his expected anger has been kept in reserve, put to use against a gambler who doesn't pay his debts. Blackie knows he's not good enough to get where he wants by playing by the rules, but he believes entirely in Jim, and so he works within a set of rules that keeps Jim clean, even when Blackie otherwise fights dirty.

While people remember Manhattan Melodrama for being Powell and Loy's first teaming, the movie is really all about Powell and Gable with Loy's character bridging their two different outlooks.

As the film progresses it becomes hard to fathom Loy's Eleanor ever having been in love with Blackie, as she is never really presented as anything approaching the stereotypical gangster's moll. Eleanor is dissatisfied with Blackie's lifestyle from the time of her first scene, when she complains about his having won a yacht at his gaming tables. She begs him, "Blackie, get out of this. Take me out of this." But that will never happen. Blackie's path has been set since boyhood. Their relationship is doomed the moment Blackie sends Eleanor in his place to meet Jim.

"My first scene with Bill [Powell], a night shot on the back lot, happened before we'd even met," Loy wrote. "I opened the car door, jumped in, and landed smack on William Powell's lap" (87-88). Jim has no idea who she is and is ready to toss Eleanor from the car after she jokes that she's only there to cause a scandal, but the mention of Blackie's name calms the waters and they wind up spending the entire night on the town together. By morning they're in love, but Jim pulls away when Eleanor leans in for him to kiss her. A line is drawn—she's Blackie's girl—but she's all Jim's when she bumps into him that New Year's Eve and tells him she hasn't seen Blackie since that night they had met.

Eleanor passes Blackie information that leads to his taking action that puts him on trial for his life. As district attorney, Jim is prosecutor on Blackie's case. Even backed into this kind of corner, Blackie's love of Jim is still evident. He elbows his attorney upon Jim's entrance to the court and beams when he says, "Class. It's written all over him." Blackie's case allows Jim to rail against the underworld, explaining that the era of public sympathy towards bootleggers and murderers has passed with the repeal of Prohibition. Blackie takes his medicine. Jim agonizes over his involvement, finally arranging for a car to take him to Sing Sing at the eleventh hour. Face to face it's the man of law and order who cracks, who elevates their friendship over his principals. But his pal won't let him. "If I can't live the way I want, then at least let me die when I want."

"It was late yesterday when I received undercover information that Dillinger would attend the movie 'Manhattan Melodrama,' at the Biograph Theatre," Mr. Purvis described the events. "I hurriedly made arrangements to surround the theatre with picked men from among my investigators ...

"Dillinger gave one hunted look about him and attempted to run up an alley, where several of my men were waiting. As he ran, he drew an automatic pistol from his pocket ... As his hand came up with the gun in it, several shots were fired by my men before he could fire. He dropped, fatally wounded" (Dillinger).

Manhattan Melodrama was a hit before John Dillinger dropped to the pavement. Photoplay magazine listed Gable and Powell among their best performances of the month, and included the film alongside titles such as Tarzan and His Mate, Little Miss Marker, and Twentieth Century as among the best pictures of that month. Before May was out moviegoers could see Powell and Loy in their second effort together, The Thin Man, also directed by W.S. Van Dyke. Gable, who had already starred in It Happened One Night earlier that year, was well on his way to being deemed "King of Hollywood."

The gangster film was flipped upside-down beginning with Production Code enforcement. As "Pretty Boy" Floyd, "Baby Face" Nelson, "Ma" Barker, and other criminals met their fate, movies such as 'G' Men (1935) now pictured crime from the perspective of the lawman. Angels with Dirty Faces offered two main characters very similar to those of Manhattan Melodrama, but by 1938 the figure of law and order offered no death row compromise. As that later film showed the genre was different, but it had certainly survived.

References

  * "Dillinger Trapped By Lure of Moving Picture Depicting Gunman Career: Slaying Detailed by Federal Chief." New York Times. 23 July 1934, 10.

  * Kotsilibas-Davis, James and Myrna Loy. Being and Becoming. New York: Knopf, 1988.

The Bride of Frankenstein (1935)

By Lesley Gaspar of  
Second Sight Cinema

"That wasn't the end at all... Would you like to hear what happened after that? I feel like telling it... It's a night for mystery and horror. The very air is filled with monsters."

—Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley (Elsa Lanchester),   
setting up the story in the prologue

How often is a sequel as good as the original? Not very. How often is a sequel better than the original? Almost never. But The Bride of Frankenstein (1935) is widely acknowledged as not just superior to its parent, Frankenstein, and not simply one of the best horror movies ever, but transcending its genre to sit securely among the greatest films ever produced in Hollywood. The Bride... is one of those movies that was recognized as exceptional on its original release (at least by most critics; Graham Greene, then a film critic in England, HATED it) but many feel that the years have only burnished its brilliance.

If this sounds like hyperbole, bear with me. You might not be into horror, so perhaps you think the best horror movie couldn't be that good. Maybe you've seen Gods and Monsters, the 1998 biopic about James Whale, BOF's director, in which BOF figures prominently, and you think that pretty well covers it... Then there's Mel Brooks's classic parody, which is mostly based on BOF (rather than on Frankenstein). Perhaps you've seen BOF and enjoyed it as a cherished bit of camp, a quaint, old-timey [shudder] little movie that's reliably entertaining.

As a matter of fact, movies like The Bride..., whose rich iconography was long ago seamlessly woven into popular culture, can be hard to really see—what we already know or think we know about them keeps us from seeing what's actually there. We superimpose the movie in our heads over the one on the screen, and we miss the glories and extraordinary pleasures of the real thing.

So we're going to peel away the layers of familiarity and talk about the Bride of Frankenstein, (hereafter referred to as The Bride... or BOF) not just as we think we know it, but in its full glory.

The film's action is divided into three acts.

Act I

A brief prologue with Mary Shelley, her husband Percy the poet, and their pal Lord Byron serves as the sequel's setup. We see the fire at the mill that ended the first movie and find out that the Monster has somehow survived, though scarred and with a case of PTSD from the trauma of the fire (and everything else). So has Henry Frankenstein, who plans to wed beautiful Elizabeth and decamp, putting all this nonsense behind him (the statute of limitations must be really short in their country). But Henry's old professor, Doctor Pretorius, shows up and talks Henry into visiting his laboratory, where he too has succeeded in creating life (miniature people in glass bottles, a charmingly done special effect). Pretorius is determined to convince Henry that they should collaborate to make a mate for the Monster, perhaps leading to a race of monsters they can control.

Pretorius: Leave the charnel house and follow the lead of Nature - or of God if you like your Bible stories. Male and Female created He them. Be fruitful and multiply. Create a race, a man-made race upon the face of the earth. Why not?

Henry: I daren't. I daren't even think of such a thing.

Pretorius: Our mad dream is only half realized. Alone, you have created a man. Now together, we will create his mate.

Henry [looking dubious]: You mean...?

Pretorius: Yes. That should be really interesting.

Act II

Meanwhile, the Monster has been roaming the countryside, enraged and terrified, killing a few people here and saving a shepherdess from drowning there. He is shot by a hunter, captured by the villagers, bound to a pole in a distinct image of Crucifixion, and chained in a basement. When he gets his bearings he tears the chains loose and roars back into the hostile world. He kills a little girl and an old couple, terrifies a gypsy family and again burns himself trying to grab the chicken they were roasting.

Then he hears a violin playing not far away in the woods. The music draws him; he smiles, and we realize it is for the first time. He follows the sound to the hut and is taken in by the blind hermit who lives there. The hermit is kind to the Monster. He feeds him and puts him to bed, saying he has often prayed for God to send him a friend. They both weep. The hermit teaches the Monster to speak ("Alone bad. Friend good"), to enjoy a cigar and a glass of wine. But the Monster's happiness is short-lived: Two more hunters (one of them played by John Carradine) show up and tip off the hermit and raise a gun to shoot the Monster, who accidentally sets fire to the hut. They lead the hermit away while the Monster screams, terrified, in the fire (another fire!). He stumbles out through the flames muttering "Friend?"

One step ahead of the torch-bearing villagers, the Monster hides in an underground crypt and there meets Pretorius, who has come looking for a promising female skeleton for his and Henry's science project ("I hope her bones are firm!") but has stayed to have a little midnight supper of roast chicken and wine, which always tastes better in a crypt. The Monster approaches: "Friend?" Pretorius convinces the Monster that he is going to provide him with a woman. The monster is in: "Woman. Friend. Wife." When the two call on Frankenstein to force him to help, he refuses until the Monster kidnaps Elizabeth.

Act III

The climactic laboratory sequence, a cinematic tour de force. Things have gone completely bonkers now: When Henry needs a new heart, young and very fresh, Karl (Dwight Frye) lurks on a dark village street until a girl passes by... Henry is beside himself but still pauses, wondering where the heart came from. But...back to work. Things are now so out of control that murders are being casually commissioned. Waxman's underscoring, built upon the pulse of the beating heart, is delirious, as is the editing and the cinematography with its skewed framing and Rembrandt effects (BOF is one of the darkest movies ever in terms of backgrounds). As the storm rises Henry's and Pretorius's excitement rises with it, as does the Monster's anxiety. The laboratory is filled with fantastic fake equipment, made to order by the Universal prop department. There's a crescendo of music, distorted close-ups, flying sparks, flashing lights, smoke, flames...

The whole thing could be Henry's feverish dream—the earlier part of the movie is realistic by comparison to this, in which we seem to be simultaneously inside the disordered minds of Henry, Pretorius, and the Monster. In a fit of pique, the Monster tosses Karl off the roof. Lightning strikes one of the incredible kites, and voila, the Bride is born. "She's alive, alive!" unhinged Henry cries exultantly, and he and his partner unwrap her mummy bandages so they can get her ready for her close-up. Lanchester writes in her memoir that when they shot the close-up of her eyes in the bandages she really was suffering, having to hold her eyes open for minutes at a time till they got the shot.

Now the Bride is unveiled to us, in her bridal gown / surgical gown / shroud, her Nefertiti hair with the two lightning shocks of white, demure Mary Shelley's face electrified, robbed of speech. The Monster comes in, approaches her, saying "Friend?" She screams. He knows it's hopeless, but he tries again, smiling, shyly patting her hand. She gives him a look of pure disgust. It is among the most painful rejections I have ever seen. His face crumples. "She hate me. Like others," he snarls. For some reason the castle has a lever that if pulled will blow the joint up. "Don't touch that lever, you'll blow us all up!" Henry screams. Elizabeth is pounding at the door, pleading for Henry to come with her. The Monster says, "You go, live!" He looks at Pretorius and the Bride. "You stay. We belong dead." He pulls the lever. The castle explodes. Ludicrously, in the .5 second interval, Henry and Elizabeth cover half a mile and see the explosion from a safe distance. "Darling!" Henry says to Elizabeth, as if now they can get back to normal. Sure.

As Glenn Erickson says in his review at DVDTalk: "Whale juggles and balances a tall stack of odd content and self-aware references: operatic excess, melodramatic plotting, black humor, necromantic humor, political comment, anti-clerical jabs, parodies of classical paintings, German Expressionistic sets, Russian montage editing and pure cornball sentiment."

In BOF we have all the elements: an intelligent, witty script that juxtaposes wry humor with the macabre; its own look, beautiful and strange, eclectic in its design and imagery, created by cinematographer John D. Mescall, art director Charles Hall, master makeup designer Jack Pierce; Franz Waxman's score, as lush and varied emotionally as the film itself; and, as the closing credits remind us, "A GREAT CAST IS WORTH REPEATING"—felicitous casting in all the main roles, including Colin Clive, Valerie Hobson, Una O'Connor, and especially Whale's theatrical mentor Ernest Thesiger as the Mephistophelean Doctor Pretorius, the engine that drives the fever-dream plot; Boris Karloff in an extraordinarily expressive performance that covers every state from homicidal rage to tenderness to self-loathing, childlike delight to suffering to unbearable loneliness; and finally Elsa Lanchester in the dual role of the winsome Mary Shelley, author of the source novel, and the unforgettably unsettled and unsettling, beautiful, hissing Bride herself.

All those elements deftly orchestrated by director Whale (Jimmy to his friends), who also gives the movie something all too rare: a Monster who changes and grows as the narrative unfolds, and an iconic female Monster (the only one in classic film) who refuses to accept the role for which she was created.

BOF invites all sorts of readings. There's the film's own professed one, here attributed to Mary Shelley, the cautionary tale about a man who, as the saying goes, "tampered in God's domain." There's the psychoanalytical one, in which the Monster is the return of the repressed, or Henry Frankenstein's own id, the deeply repressed hostilities that lurk beneath the surface (though to be honest, Henry's surface could use a little healthy repression) ... There's the family systems one, in which the Monster is Frankenstein's unwanted child, who reacts to being rejected by lashing out, killing...

And then there's the one I'm currently partial to: The monster, trapped in a world he never made, learns to speak and finds language for his loneliness, his bitterness, and his yearning, learns to appreciate music and food, learns to engage in manly pursuits like smoking and drinking, learns to be a friend, learns to use his destructive powers to compel others to do his will.... And the Bride, who is almost never discussed beyond her appearance, wrenched into being to serve others' agendas: The Monster's loneliness and the mad scientists' perversity and desire for world domination. She refuses to be their instrument, and somehow SHE's the bad guy. Typical.

The Monster learns, finally and tragically, that no one, not even another creature made as he was—on a surgical table, brought to life with electricity—and created expressly to be his lover and perhaps the mother of his children, can ever love a big homely weirdo like him.

The Bride... has been written about extensively, including a chapter in James Whale, the biography by James Curtis, Bill Condon's film Gods and Monsters, a BFI Film Classics Guide by Alberto Manguel and countless references in other books and articles, along with a variety of online reviews and a documentary and commentary on the DVD edition I have.

But the one voice we will never hear is the one I most long for. James Whale died in 1957, more than a decade before Kevin Brownlow and Peter Bogdanovich and other film historians began interviewing the filmmakers from Hollywood's rich past. Whale had retired from the movie business in 1941, financially secure, to turn his creative energies to painting. He was done with the film business; the studio system could no longer provide him with the kind of creative freedom and control he found necessary—he was not temperamentally suited to being a factory employee, even in the most glamorous factories in the world. What might Whale have been able to tell us about his creative process in making BOF, and what stories did he take to his grave about his experiences and recollections of the production? Then again, it's possible he wouldn't have wanted to talk about it—he was an extremely private man.

Whale left us just as television was beginning to create a whole new generation of fans for his Universal horror films. He might be dismayed the way Lanchester was in her later years, that children in the grocery store recognized not her but the Bride, all those years later. The last thing Whale wanted was to be pigeonholed as a horror director—he wanted to make all kinds of movies. The great success of first Frankenstein and then The Old Dark House and The Invisible Man gave him bargaining power with his bosses at Universal, who agreed to let him make one film of his own choosing for every horror film he directed.

James Whale was determined not to make a sequel to his 1931 hit, and with that firmly in mind he concluded the movie by burning up Doctor Frankenstein and the Monster. Silly man—since when has certain death ever prevented a sequel? Whale had been brought to Hollywood because of his experience directing dialogue. He aspired to be an A-list director, to make the big budget, prestige movies. When Frankenstein was a huge success with boffo box office, making veteran character actor Boris Karloff an international star overnight, the writing was on the wall—the executives at Universal were not going to pass on a sure thing. Whale was under contract and on the hook. A script was ordered and discarded, then another and another, dull or ridiculous affairs like the one that had Doctor and Baroness Frankenstein on the lam with a traveling circus, a la Freaks. But finally John L. Balderson and William Hurlbut came on as writers, and Whale was able to cobble together a script he considered workable.

Whale knew Elsa Lanchester from the theatre scene in London, and he decided to cast her in the dual role of the female monster and of pretty, coquettish Mary Shelley, author of the source novel, in a very odd prologue he used to set up the story. Thus Lanchester bookends the movie, appearing in its first and last moments, first as the creator of the story itself and then as the latest creation of the mad scientists. The Bride, cobbled together from a fabricated brain, the heart of a young girl murdered for it, and other miscellaneous body parts that were lying around, is supposed to be evil.

Whale's creative breakthrough seems to have been his decision to cast Lanchester in the dual role. Somehow Elsa bookending the film, opening it as the author and ending it as the unwilling Bride, gave him the scaffolding he needed to build the film, to breathe such remarkable invention and emotion into the whole enterprise.

The success of his previous horror films earned Whale a much bigger budget this time around, as well as full creative control, and he took advantage of both to the hilt. He had the luxury of time to design fantastic sets, to plan the cinematography, to commission a great score from Franz Waxman (a career-making score). He could plan, create nuance in the Monster's makeup, which not only has details like scars from the fire, but actually changes four or five times throughout the course of the film: His hair gets longer as the film progresses.

Creation rising from the waters, Prometheus bringing fire: The movie is filled with drownings and burnings, as were the lives of Frankenstein's creator and her husband in real life. Before Shelley got his divorce and was free to marry Mary, she tried to drown herself; Shelley's wife did successfully drown herself; then Shelley also perished in an accidental drowning... In the 1931 film, the Monster (accidentally) drowns the child Maria, then in BOF he drowns Maria's parents in the first moments of the film, emerging from the underground river where he escaped the fire... then a few scenes later, the Monster saves a shepherdess from drowning... The hermit uses the Monster's antipathy to fire to teach him the concept of good / bad. The hermit's hut catches fire as the Monster struggles with the hunters... The laboratory has lots of jetting flames during the climactic sequence... And of course there's the final explosion, which Henry and Elizabeth conveniently escape, paving the way for the next sequel.

Here in the 21st century we are fixated on realism, the flattening out of imagery. We privilege it, we denigrate the obviously theatrical. We even want our fantasies to look "realistic." Let's get one thing straight: The Bride of Frankenstein is no more interested in realism than Metropolis or The Wizard of Oz or Babe or Oklahoma! or Footlight Parade. Or, for that matter, Bringing up Baby or The More the Merrier or Duck Soup.

Roger Ebert discusses the liberating quality of horror movies: "One advantage... is that they permit extremes and flavors of behavior that would be out of tone in realistic material. From the silent vampire in Nosferatu (1922) to the cheerful excesses of Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing in Hammer horror films of the 1960s, the genre has encouraged actors to crank it up with bizarre mannerisms and elaborate posturings. The characters often use speech patterns so arch that parody is impossible.

"The genre also encourages visual experimentation. From The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1919) onward, horror has been a cue for unexpected camera angles, hallucinatory architecture and frankly artificial sets. As mainstream movies have grown steadily more unimaginative and realistic in their visuals, horror has provided a lifeline back to the greater design freedom of the silent era. To see sensational "real" things is not the same as seeing the bizarre, the grotesque, the distorted and the fanciful. There is more sheer shock in a clawed hand unexpectedly emerging from the shadows than in all the effects of Armageddon, because Armageddon looks realistic and horror taunts us that reality is an illusion."

It's the same in opera. Ebert says that as movies have become duller and more realistic we have lost something crucial. BOF is more poetry and music than anything else. We have this tendency today to insist on realism, and BOF is one of the great horror films because it has no interest at all in realism. Do we treat the imagination as something to be rationalized out of existence, to be tamed, away from its irrational desires and fancies?

Manguel discusses the history of myths about creating life and the tradition of excluding women from the process: "Creating from male 'seed' creatures in his own image (as Pretorius does in his glass jars), with no need for a woman (as Doctor Frankenstein realizes), is the alchemist's method, the patriarchal dream, the mad scientist's goal. From the Jewish golems to the animated sculptures of fable and science—Eve created out of Adam's rib, Pygmalion's ivory woman, Collodi's Pinocchio, the 18th- and 19th-century automata that so enchanted Mary Shelley's circle, Dr. Pretorius's homunculi—men have imagined themselves capable of creating life without women, depriving women of the exclusivity of the power to conceive. No women take part in Henry Frankenstein's creation of the Monster, or later in that of the Bride: It is an affair conducted only among men."

Whale modeled the Bride on the evil robot Maria from Metropolis, played by Brigitte Helm (who Whale considered casting as the Bride). The table where Maria is created bears more than a passing resemblance to the Bride's cradle.

"The Bride is a femme fatale. She has been brought into a realm of power-thirsty patriarchs anxious to people the world with their creations. In their eyes, she does not exist for her own sake: She is merely a female counterpart to the Monster—maybe the future mother of a monstrous litter bred by more traditional methods, but primarily a living doll created for the Monster's pleasure. In this world of men, the Bride is damned if she does and damned if she doesn't. Were she to consent to the coupling, she's be a complacent whore; unwilling to submit to what she is told is her duty, she becomes a reluctant whore, and an instrument of male perdition. Because of her refusal, the jilted Monster brings the drama to its apocalyptic conclusion.

Originality is not an easy burden to carry. David Thomson said of Lanchester, "It is a sad reflection of Elsa Lanchester's originality that this fierce beauty is probably the bext-known work she ever did." And Andrew Sarris wrote of James Whale that "Whale's overall career reflects the stylistic ambitions and dramatic disappointments of an expressionist in the studio-controlled Hollywood of the '30s."

In the end, both the Monster and the Bride are outsiders, created for others' purposes and left to fend for themselves in a world that will never accept them. Sarris quotes Grierson, who noted in the '30s that the torch-wielding mob in BOF reminded him of a lynch mob. Whale was also an outsider, a misfit, too much an individual and artist to accept the corporate dictates of studio work. He was also a gay man and the son of a factory worker. The Bride of Frankenstein is one of those oddities that through the coordinating intelligence of its director became something more than the sum of its parts. It offers no moral injunction. It draws us into sympathy with a serial killer and child murderer, it forces us to identify with his terrible loneliness and fate. And it does so with such wit, such humor, and such audacious beauty that we don't even realize we're bleeding across moral borders.

Perhaps it's compassion that distinguishes The Bride of Frankenstein, that lifts it above even the sum of its fine creative elements to the level of art and accounts for its great power 80 years after its original release. Whale created a Monster whose most astonishing quality is not his brutality but the soul he bares when he hears music for the first time, and smiles.
Born to Dance (1936)

By Annette Bochenek of  
Hometowns to Hollywood

What would the Golden Age of Hollywood be without the musical? When one reflects upon classic cinema, one cannot deny that the movie musical was an especially beloved genre of the time. In their heyday, musicals received profound attention from audiences, who were captivated by a combination of fantastic sets, meticulously choreographed dance numbers, delightful talents of the day, and show-stopping musical numbers. The 1936 musical comedy, Born to Dance, is one such example. Following a lighthearted boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl, girl gets show plot, this film is particularly notable for its casting choices and infectious Cole Porter score.

As with any Golden Age film studio, there were talents who solidified their careers by participating frequently in musical films. The mention of a certain actor or actresses' name is simply synonymous with the movie musical. Think of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, or Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland, for example. Some actors appeared to be meant for the musical genre, and performed in film musicals with ease.

Born to Dance stars one of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer's most dedicated female dancers—Eleanor Powell. A gifted ballerina-turned-tap-dancer, Powell demonstrated immense potential for musicals, due to her impeccable and almost masculine dancing abilities. While her acting ability was limited, she possessed a commanding presence throughout her dance numbers, while consistently smiling through challenging routines. Prior to Born to Dance, Powell had just made her film debut in George White's 1935 Scandals, which prompted her to sign a contract with MGM. As a result, her first MGM film was Broadway Melody of 1936, released in 1935. Echoing 1929's The Broadway Melody, Broadway Melody of 1936 also possessed entertaining musical numbers, steady plot, and charming cast, consisting of Robert Taylor, Jack Benny, Buddy Ebsen, and Ebsen's sister, Vilma. While Broadway Melody of 1936 possessed detailed Screen Deco sets, the film's best numbers involve simple routines performed by Powell.

The next year, Powell worked with her Broadway Melody of 1936 director, Roy del Ruth, once more, in order to work on Born to Dance. At the time, the working title of the film was Great Guns. In Born to Dance, Powell stars as a young dancer, Nora, who moves to New York in order to seek fame and fortune on the stage. While she eventually succeeds, she also encounters a romance with a sailor named Ted, who is played by a youthful James Stewart.

While classic cinema has produced several musical stars, one can recall less successful attempts made by actors looking to cross into the musical genre. There are many moments, typically in the early years of an actor's career, which serve as a type of experimental phase, in order for the film studio to learn how to best market their new talent. James Stewart's film career was still in its infancy, so the studio tried to cast him in the best possible films for his style, delivery, and appeal. Allan Jones was initially intended for the role of Ted, however, the part went to Stewart. Though Stewart received a lead role in Born to Dance, the studio decided that he was not born to dance, resulting in this film being the only sampling of Stewart's abilities to sing and dance. Though Stewart struggled with the dancing portions of the film, as well as with a real-life unrequited love for Powell, he was able to recall his days at the glee club in Princeton, and does sing in the film.

In one instance, Stewart serenades Powell with a rendition of "Easy to Love," which eventually leads Powell into a lyrical dance to the Porter tune. Powell was dubbed by Marjorie Lane for her portion of the song. Porter himself picked Stewart for the male lead, and later said that he sang as well as any professional singer. Though a dubbing track was prepared with baritone Jack Owens, it was decided that Stewart's tenor voice was a perfect fit for the song. With film censorship in full swing, Stewart initially sang the then-controversial lyric of "So sweet to waken with/So nice to sit down to eggs and bacon with." The lyric had to be replaced with, "So worth the yearning for/So swell to keep every home fire burning for." In 1974's That's Entertainment!, Stewart reminisced, "The song had become a huge hit. Even my singing wouldn't hurt it."

As Stewart's character romances Powell's, trouble arrives in the form of the temperamental Broadway star named Lucy James, played by Virginia Bruce. Ted meets Lucy in the midst of her publicity tour atop a battleship. Unfortunately, her Pekingese falls overboard, and Ted saves him. Lucy falls in love with Ted, and Ted's captain orders him to spend time with Lucy, even though he has a date with Nora. After spotting a picture of Ted and Lucy together, Nora distances herself from Ted. Unbeknownst to Nora, Ted has secured her the position of being Lucy's understudy. A moody Lucy threatens to leave the show if one more piece of publicity is published regarding her and Ted, and Nora is eventually able to step in and open the show for her, similar to Sawyer saving the day in 42nd Street.

Though Stewart seemed to be an unlikely choice for a male lead in a musical, he and Powell were joined by a talented set of cast members who were not strangers to the movie musical. Frances Langford, Buddy Ebsen, Una Merkel, and Sid Silvers partake in a lively rendition of "Hey, Babe!", with Langford and Ebsen later reprising "Easy to Love" as a song and dance number. A dreamy Virginia Bruce plays the part of a femme fatale and Powell's rival, cheekily singing Porter's double-entendre-filled "Love Me, Love my Pekingese," and later introducing the song "I've Got You Under My Skin," to an embarrassed Stewart upon an Art Deco rooftop.

The film's finale boasts the influential Screen Deco backdrops of Cedric Gibbons, with scores of dancers parading upon a battleship. Using a nautical motif, the song "Swingin' the Jinx Away" is amplified in this massive finale number, with Powell confidently taking the stage and proving that her character has succeeded as a dancer in New York. Powell briskly descends upon a staircase, and dances across the Art Deco battle ship. She flips into a standing salute, as the ship's guns fire directly into the camera. The finale number was created by Roger Edens, a composer and arranger who would later become a crucial member of the Arthur Freed Unit. Years later, he would refer to this number as an "embarrassment of bad taste."

While Born to Dance possesses a light plot, as is typical of many musicals made near to its time period, its positive moments by far outweigh any negative critiques. Not yet boasting the escapisms of 1940s style film sets, Born to Dance offers the in-vogue numbers from the witty mind of Cole Porter, amidst full Screen Deco splendor. This film is an ideal example of buoyant and upbeat 1930s musicals, and the perfect teamwork of so many individuals involved in the final product.
Follow the Fleet (1936)

By Annmarie Gatti of  
Classic Movie Hub

"You needn't wait up tonight, mother, we're going to Paradise"

I distinctly remember the first time I saw Follow the Fleet. It was many years ago, during one of those 'vacation weeks' between Christmas and New Years. I was staying up really late, thoroughly enjoying 'vacation-mode'... sitting on the floor of my living room, eating marshmallow 'circus peanuts', and doing a tremendous jigsaw puzzle of the Sistine Chapel -- while eagerly waiting to see this late-night Fred and Ginger movie on some obscure local cable channel. (Isn't it amazing how I can remember minutiae like this, and yet can forget what I had for lunch last week?) Anyway, I was really looking forward to seeing this film for the first time, and although I was relatively sure I'd like it, I certainly had no idea that I would love it, or that it would turn out to be one of my all-time favorite Fred and Ginger films... BUT probably not for the reasons most people would think.

So why do I adore Follow the Fleet? Well, of course there's Fred and Ginger who never cease to amaze me. I can watch them dance for hours upon hours and never get bored. And then there's the wonderful music of Irving Berlin, which I can never get out of my head -- but, seriously, who would want to? There's also a marvelous bit part by the lovely Lucille Ball, long before anybody 'loved' her... However -- that all said, the main reason I like this film (and I am going to duck now) is for the Harriet Hilliard / Randolph Scott storyline. Yes, I said it... the main reason I like this Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers film is for the Harriet Hilliard and Randolph Scott plot.

Now, let me provide some background information about the film for those of you unfamiliar with it:

  * The Featured Cast

Fred Astaire: Bake Baker

Ginger Rogers: Sherry Martin

Randolph Scott: Bilge Smith

Harriet Hilliard: Connie Martin

  * The Film's Origins

Follow the Fleet was based on the 1922 play, Shore Leave, by playwright and screenwriter Hubert Osborne. The play opened on Broadway at the Lyceum Theatre on August 8, 1922 and ran for 151 performances, closing in December of 1922. It was produced and staged by David Belasco, and starred James Rennie as Bilge Smith and Frances Starr as Connie Martin -- it did not include any Bake Baker or Sherry Martin roles. But that's not the end of the story...

The 1922 play was adapted into the 1925 silent film, Shore Leave, starring Richard Barthelmess as Bilge and Dorothy Mackaill as Connie. In 1927, the play was once again adapted, this time into a 1927 Broadway musical called Hit the Deck with music by Vincent Youmans, and starring Charles King as Bilge and Louise Groody as Loulou (which is essentially the Connie role). The musical opened on April 25, 1927 at New York's Belasco Theatre and ran for 352 performances, closing on Feb 25, 1928. In 1930, the musical was then adapted into a RKO film of the same name starring Jack Oakie as Bilge and Polly Walker as Looloo (yes, this time spelled Looloo).

In 1936, the film Follow the Fleet was released, this time with the addition of two new main characters: Bake Baker played by Fred Astaire and Sherry Martin (Connie's sister) played by Ginger Rogers -- and with music by the incomparable Irving Berlin. But, to continue -- in 1955, another film version of Hit the Deck was released, this time with a slightly different plot and differently-named characters, starring Jane Powell and Tony Martin.

  * The Film's Plot

Navy pals Bake Baker and Bilge Smith are on Shore Leave in San Francisco. At the Paradise Ballroom, Bake happily runs into his old dancing partner and flame, Sherry Martin, and Bilge first meets and rejects 'old maid' schoolteacher, Connie Martin (Sherry's sister). Connie gets a startling makeover by Sherry's friend (Lucille Ball) and accidentally-on-purpose runs into Bilge again, who is absolutely smitten with her. All goes well until Connie inadvertently talks about marriage, after which Bilge decides instead to pursue divorced socialite Iris Manning (Astrid Allwyn). As the story continues, Bake pursues Sherry again, Connie is heart-broken over Bilge -- and Connie, Sherry and Bake produce a musical show to help pay up the debt Connie amassed while trying to refurbish the ship she inherited from her dad (for Bilge).

  * Musical Numbers

We Saw the Sea (sung by Fred Astaire)

Let Yourself Go (sung by Ginger Rogers backed by a trio including Betty Grable; later danced by Fred and Ginger)

Get Thee Behind Me, Satan (sung by Harriet Hilliard; was originally written for Top Hat but wasn't used because it didn't advance the film's plot)

I'd Rather Lead a Band (sung by Fred Astaire)

But Where are You? (sung by Harriet Hilliard)

I'm Putting All My Eyes in One Basket (played on piano by Fred, then sung and danced by Fred and Ginger)

Let's Face the Music and Dance (sung by Fred Astaire, danced by Fred and Ginger; this dance was filmed in one continuous two-minute-and-50-seconds shot)

And now, for the fun stuff, some quotes and song lyrics:

  * Fred sings "We Saw the Sea" in the opening scene...

We joined the Navy to see the world

And what did we see? We saw the sea

We saw the Pacific and the Atlantic

But the Atlantic isn't romantic

And the Pacific isn't what it's cracked up to be...

  * Bilge sees a picture of dance team "Baker and Martin"...

Bilge: So that's why you joined the navy, you thought a torpedo would be easier to dodge than a shotgun?

Bake: Don't be funny. I asked that little girl to marry me.

Bilge: What???

Bake: Yeah, and she turned me down.

Bilge: Imagine a guy asking a dame to marry him.

  * Bilge first meets Connie at The Paradise...

Bilge (whistles at some pretty girls)

Connie: They're pretty aren't they? Oh but I'll bet you're used to seeing pretty girls all over the world.

Bilge: I never give them a tumble sister. Women don't interest me.

Connie: I'll bet you dance beautifully.

Bilge: No, not a step. Well, I got to be shoving off. So long.

Sailor: Where did you pick up that awful looking crow?

Bilge: She picked me up. I think she's screwy.

Sailor: She must be if she tried to pick you up.

  * Bake spots Sherry singing "Let Yourself Go"...

Come, hit the timber, loosen up and start to limber

Can't you hear that hot marimba? Let yourself go

Let yourself go...relax

And let yourself go...relax

You've got yourself tied up in a knot

The night is cold but the music's hot.

  * Bake and Sherry meet again...

Sherry: Why didn't you write to me?

Bake: I didn't think you cared about hearing from me especially after that last time we saw each other.

Connie: Well, all I said was I didn't want to marry you.

Bake: Yeah, I know. It all seemed very important at that time, but it doesn't make any difference now.

Connie: Doesn't it?

Bake: Nah, as you said, marriage would have ruined your career.

Connie: Well I found out I was wrong.

Bake: No, maybe you're right, if you would have married me you wouldn't be working in a chop suey joint like this.

Connie: Well, I don't see any admiral stripes on you.

  * Connie's transformation...

Kitty (Lucille Ball): Well, you sure look different.

Connie: Don't I? I'm beginning to feel different.... Kitty, there's a sailor I want to meet, how do I go about it?

Kitty: Are you kidding?

Connie: No, I mean, are there any rules?

Kitty: Yes and no... Yes, before you meet him, and no, after.

  * Bilge meets the 'new' Connie...

Bilge: Well, watch my maneuvers -- you can't beat the navy.

Connie: All right, sailor, I surrender.

Bilge: Unconditionally?

Connie: Well, I'm willing to discuss terms.

  * Connie, about to leave The Paradise with Bilge, sings "Get Thee Behind Me, Satan"...

Someone I'm mad about is waiting in the night for me

Someone that I mustn't see, Satan, get thee behind me.

  * In the meantime, Bake 'accidentally' gets Sherry fired...

Bake: Well, I fixed that.

Sherry: You fixed me!

Bake: I did that on purpose, Sherry. I don't want you working in a place like this. Now tomorrow, I'll take you over to see Jim Nolan. I'll get him to put you in one of his shows. He'll do that for me.

Sherry: It might have been better to wait until we were sure!

Bake: Now, I'll take care of everything.

Sherry: That's exactly what's worrying me.

  * Connie shows Bilge a model of the ship she inherited from her dad... but unfortunately for Connie now, things begin to change...

Bilge: A steam schooner, just the kind I'd like to feel under me. Baby, I'd like to be captain of your ship. I wanna sail under my own steam to China and India, and all those spickety ports.

Connie: Oh so do I! I always wanted to sail on her to all those spickety places, with my husband at the helm.

Bilge: Holy cat.

Connie: What's the matter.

Bilge: I got to be going. Gotta be back on board by 12 o'clock.

  * Bilge tells Bake about his late-night date with Iris Manning...

Bake: What about that teacher that was gonna make you captain of her ship or something?

Bilge: She's a swell kid too, but she's kind of serious. She's sappy like you, she wants to get married.

  * Connie and Sherry ask an old friend to help finance the refurbish of their dad's ship...

Captain Hickey (Harry Beresford): If you don't mind my saying so, I think he's a very lucky young man.

Connie: Oh, actually Captain Hickey, I consider this whole thing a business proposition.

  * Fred has a jam session with the crew...

I haven't ambitions for lofty positions

That wind up with the wealth of the land

I'll give you the throne that a king sat on

For just a small baton, providing you included a band

If I could be the wealthy owner of a large industry

I would say, "Not for me"... I'd rather lead a band.

  * Bake and Bilge are back on shore leave. Connie waits for Bilge to show up for a date, eager to tell him about the ship, but Bilge never shows up...

Connie: You see I never did write him. I want to keep the boat as a surprise. So I really can't blame him, it's my fault.

  * At Iris Manning's party...

Bilge: Remember that teacher I told you about? She's here and she was expecting me last night.

Bake: Did you forget?

Bilge: No. I lied to her and told her I had to stay on board.

Bake: Why?

Bilge: Oh, I don't want to wake up some morning and find myself married. Acted as cold as I could. A dame like that always makes me feel like a heel.

Bake: Ah, she brings out your finer instincts.

Iris: Where have you been Bilgy?

  * Connie, heart-broken, sings "But Where are You?"...

Have you forgotten the night that we met?

With so much to remember, how could you forget?

The dreams I dreamed have yet to come true.

My dreams and I are here, but where are you?

I must mention here that Harriet Hilliard performs "But Where Are You?" exquisitely -- with tears welling up in her eyes... absolutely beautiful.

Now, since I don't want to spoil the entire film for you, I won't continue with this 'quote-filled' play-by-play. Instead, I will just say that, as the film progresses -- Sherry gets even with Bake for getting her fired (and for accidentally sabotaging her audition for Jim Nolan), Bake plots to get Bilge out of Iris Manning's hands and back into Connie's arms again, and Connie must find a way to pay back the loan that Captain Hickey guaranteed for her -- and all of this culminates (after a little bit of extra drama between Bilge and Bake for good measure) in a wonderful musical show starring our beloved Fred and Ginger...

And, lastly, some fun facts...

  * In 1932, Harriet Hilliard met Ozzie Nelson, who hired her to sing in his band. They were married three years later, in 1935. In 1944, the Nelsons launched their radio show, The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet, which transitioned to television in 1952.

  * Follow the Fleet was Harriet Hilliard's feature film debut.

  * The role of Connie Martin was originally planned for Irene Dunne, who had previously starred with Fred, Ginger and Randolph in Roberta (1935). Dunne however, was unavailable to play the part, so the role went to Hilliard.

  * Both Harriet Hilliard and Lucille Ball later starred in television sitcoms with their real-life band-leader husbands.

  * Follow the Fleet was the fifth of ten films that Fred and Ginger made together.

To view this article, with screen grabs from the film,   
visit the blog post at www.classicmoviehub.blog.
Go West Young Man (1936)

By Leah Williams of  
Cary Grant Won't Eat You

Mae West's Censorship Satire

It's easy to dismiss Go West Young Man (1936) as an inferior Mae West film. It doesn't contain her best double entendres, and features much less screen time with her than in earlier pictures. The actress didn't even originate the story; she adapted it from Lawrence Riley's hit play, Personal Appearance. How could the film measure up to its hilarious predecessors, which West developed to highlight her own sexuality?

It doesn't, but that's part of the point—and the fun. The panning of Hollywood in the play must have appealed to West. But I think she saw something else in the story too: by converting the play to film, she could mock the Production Code itself. After all, West's raunchy scripts and uninhibited performances from the early 30s have been cited as reasons for the Code's enforcement. She must have laughed to discover the following opportunities to satirize her nemesis:

The Opening

We begin the story at a premiere of actress Mavis Arden's (West's) film, Drifting Lady. The camera darts back and forth between the screen and the crowd in the theater viewing it. All of the men in Drifting Lady are pining for Mavis's character, a nightclub singer with multiple lovers.

Mavis plays the role in a comfortable, bawdy style, and then abruptly regrets her cheating ways and loses her man. An artificial chill settles over Drifting Lady when she does. This would never happen in a pre-Code West film, we viewers remind ourselves. West is supposed to get all of the guys, and celebrate every sexual conquest with a one liner.

Mavis's acting has been natural (or at least, natural for West) up to this point. But when her lover is about to depart, the star holds out her arm in a stagey gesture and sputters sentimental bilge about April and blue skies and fond memories.

The actress adopts the same stagey line and tone when she talks to the crowd after her film. She claims to be an "unaffected girl," not the siren she plays in film. She then proceeds to share peculiar details about her life. Even if we hadn't noticed Mavis's fake tone, her press agent, Morgan (Warren William), rolling his eyes in the background would confirm our suspicions: she's exactly like the character in the film. The studio might try to make her seem pristine, but we know she's far from it. Don't blame me, West's deliberate hamming reminds us. This censorship nonsense isn't my call.

Blaming the Studio

After Mavis leaves the stage, Morgan selects a few token men to greet her, all of them homely. When a spectator challenges the lack of handsome men, we learn that Mavis isn't allowed to marry for five years, with Morgan acting as her watchdog. "Why make the job tough for her?" he adds.

We suddenly understand that strange speech after the film, when Mavis not only felt the need to pronounce her purity, but kept repeating her producer's and studio's names, AK of Superfine Pictures, Incorporated. She wasn't sharing her everyday life with her audience; she was spelling out the terms of her contract. Clearly, this scene ridicules the studios' tight control over stars' personal lives. But it does much more: It satirizes limitations on believable behavior onscreen thanks to the Production Code. West, who had attracted censors from the start of her film career, must have relished each "incorporated" she uttered.

Marriage as a Substitute for Sex

West could no longer pen scenes of women seducing men without repercussions. In Go West Yong Man, she resolves this problem by referencing marriage when she means sex. By following the letter, but not the spirit of the Code, West emphasizes the ludicrous nature of censorship.

The plot of the film is fairly simple. Morgan foils any romance Mavis attempts. (My favorite brush off: "We handle Ms. Arden's admirers alphabetically; I'm just now getting into the Bs.") She's planning to join a former lover, a politician, after her film premiere. Morgan invites the press to her date, causing the lover to panic and giving Mavis the chance to express her true nature.

"Have you any particular platform?" the press asks her.

"The one I ain't done," she quips.

She soon departs, with the two planning to meet again in Harrisburg. En route, her car breaks down, and Mavis is stuck in a rural boardinghouse with her assistant and Morgan until it's repaired. The delay annoys her until she spots a handsome young mechanic (Randolph Scott). Her suggestive look at his body and enthusiasm about his "sinewy muscles" say it all: We're not talking about marriage, folks.

The Supporting Players

William is brilliant as Morgan. A New York Times reviewer described him as "the only player who has ever come close to stealing a picture from Mae West." But he's not alone. The boardinghouse proprietor is played by Alice Brady, and while the actress's comedic chops aren't fully exploited, the talents of those who play her employee Gladys (Isabel Jewell) and Aunt Kate (Elizabeth Patterson) are. The latter is an aging single woman, who makes knowing remarks about Mavis's sexual attraction (i.e., "It"), her public relations, and her shade of hair, a color that did not appear in daylight in Aunt Kate's youth.

Gladys, an aspiring actress, attempts to impress Morgan by mimicking Marlene Dietrich. Morgan's dismayed reactions are hilarious. While her Dietrich attempt flops, Gladys's imitation of Mae West's walk is something to behold. As the innocent in the film, Gladys illustrates the futility of censoring West's words when that body does so much of the talking.

Unfortunately, the one black character in the film is a fool, or appears to be at first. Halfway through the movie, I became convinced he had just been smoking a lot of weed. It may be wishful thinking on my part, but could it be another snide jab at the censors, who would be unlikely to examine such a minor role closely?

Scenes with Mr. Oblivious

The funniest moments in the Go West Young Man are when Mavis tries to seduce the handsome mechanic, who completely misreads her blatant moves on him. Busy displaying his invention, he misses the meaning of such subtle lines as these:

  * "Modesty never gets you anything, I know."

  * "I'd just love to see your model."

  * "I can't tell you the number of men I've helped to realize themselves."

It's amusing to see West's attractions fail, given how many times we've seen the opposite. But what's even funnier is to witness the man's obtuseness. Clearly, he's a surrogate for the censors, who must be fooling themselves (or be quite naïve) to misunderstand the meaning of West's every look, every line.

Go West Young Man undermines the notion that sex can be discouraged by rules. The film may not have been one of West's triumphs in terms of box office or critical acclaim, but it is a riveting look at a writer's reactions to early Hollywood's rule-bound universe.

Of course, the title makes little sense, referring to a famous historical line the film doesn't address. I like to think of it as a reference to the star herself, with just one preposition (and comma) missing: "Go for West, young stud. You won't regret it."
Sabotage (1936)

By John Greco of  
Twenty Four Frames

More than seventy years after its release, Sabotage remains relevant today. In fact, it is arguably more relevant today, considering the world we live in, than in 1936 when it was first released. Based on Joseph Conrad's short novel, The Secret Agent, the plot focuses on Karl Verloc (Oscar Homolka), a foreigner from an unnamed country. Verloc owns a local cinema in London and is a member of a terrorist group set on crippling London. His wife, (Sylvia Sidney) is completely unaware of her husband's underground activities. Living with the couple, in an apartment above the cinema, is Mrs. Verloc's much younger brother, Stevie (Desmond Tester), whose death in the film sparks its most famous, and most infamous, sequence.

Hitchcock sets up the opening moments with a nice sequence of shots. First a dictionary page explaining the definition of the word sabotage as the opening credits appear. This is followed by a series of shots as the city of London loses its electric power. Next we see two investigators identify the cause...sabotage. Finally, a quick cut to a close up of Karl Verloc (Oscar Homolka) our saboteur.

The blackout does not have the desired effect Verloc's group wanted. The newspaper reported Londoner's mostly enjoyed the happenstance and laughed it off. Verloc soon meets with his contact at a local Aquarium where he is told, the next time, people will not laugh. He's instructed to meet with a bomb maker whose front, a pet store, sells birds. The birds are an important plot point in the film as we will see. For Hitchcock, birds would become a recurring motif appearing in many of his films (Psycho, To Catch a Thief and The Birds).

The adaptation of Conrad's short novel was written by Hitchcock regular, Charles Bennett (The 39 Steps, The Man Who Knew Too Much, and Foreign Correspondent) with dialogue assistance from Ian Hay and Helen Simpson. The title change from the source novel was necessary since Hitchcock's previous film was called Secret Agent. That film was based on a Somerset Maugham novel called Ashenden.

In the essential Hitchcock/Truffaut interview book, the French director/critic says he found the movie disappointing. He states, "The thing that's basically wrong with the whole picture is the characterization of the detective." Hitchcock admits, John Loder, who portrays Scotland Yard detective Ted Spencer, was not his first choice. He wanted Robert Donat. Unfortunately, the actor was unavailable. There seems to be two explanations put forth by biographers. One is Alexander Korda, who had Donat under contract, refused to release him. Hitchcock biographer Patrick McGilligan notes that Donat suffered from chronic asthma and "when he came down with acute bronchitis," Hitchcock had to settle for Loder. Whatever the reason, as the Scotland Yard investigator, Loder, who works undercover at a fruit and vegetable store next to the movie theater, is a pale and uninteresting actor. As he investigates the possibility of whether Mrs. Verloc has any knowledge of her husband's subversive activities, he begins to develop a crush on the married lady. The charismatic Robert Donat would have definitely added a smoother Cary Grant kind of charm to the detective than the characterless John Loder could pull off.

Hitchcock himself had another problem he thought was wrong with the film. He felt he made a major mistake in showing young Stevie carrying the bomb around London and eventually being blown up. After endearing the boy to the viewers, and then to have him killed in such a violent way, Hitchcock felt he may have alienated the audience. However, let's consider the horrific idea of a terrorist blowing up a London bus filled with, not just the boy, but many other innocent people. In 1936, this was considered pretty shocking and probably far-fetched. In today's environment we all know this idea is much too close to reality for comfort. We just have to think back to the 2005 series of coordinated public transportation bombings in London, including a double-decker bus. We have also over the last few years read of young kids being used to carry bombs in various terrorist attacks.

In the movie, the fact we have come to like the boy only makes it all that much more uncomfortable and tragic. The film remains much stronger emotionally today and more relevant because of these powerful scenes. This sequence is also a primer for Hitchcock's theory of suspense versus surprise. (1)

A second memorable sequence follows the young boy's death after Mr. Verloc confesses to his wife he is responsible for the boy's death, though he then goes on to blame Scotland Yard. Mrs. Verloc, in shock, wanders into the theater where the audience is enjoying the Disney Silly Symphony cartoon, Who Killed Cock Robin? She soon finds herself giggling and laughing along with the audience. When Cupid kills Cock Robin with his arrow, the cartoon's catchphrase "Who's killed Cock Robin?" begins. This shakes Mrs. Verloc back to reality. Overcome with grief, we find Mrs. Verloc back in the apartment, in an almost robotic state slicing up the evening dinner. A carving knife is most prominent in the shots. Hitchcock cuts back and forth between the knife, Mrs. Verloc and Mr. Verloc. Verloc soon realizes what his wife is contemplating. He gets up, approaches her and attempts to take the knife, but she grabs it first, stabbing him...or does he walk into the knife killing himself? The way the scene is shot, Hitchcock seems to leave us with this bit of ambivalence.

Sylvia Sidney was a popular American actress at the time Sabotage was made. She was working with prominent directors like Fritz Lang whom with she just finished making the anti-lynch mob film, Fury. At first, both Sidney and Hitchcock looked forward to collaborating with each other, but soon after production began, they quickly came to dislike one another. As an actress, the stage trained Sidney was use to long dramatic takes, and did not understand the cinema techniques Hitchcock employed: the close up, the short quick takes of the carving knife, no dialogue, and how it would all make sense once put together in the editing room. It was only after she watched the completed film she understood how all the small pieces of celluloid would come together.

The British critics were somewhat harsh in their reviews, knocking Hitchcock for being "callous" in killing the young boy. In America, where Hitchcock was still regulated to the art house circuit, the film was released under the title, The Woman Alone. Critics in the U.S. were more charitable and considered it a fine follow up to The 39 Steps and The Man Who Knew Too Much. Sabotage remains one of Hitchcock's darkest works right up there in its bleakness with The Wrong Man, Vertigo and Psycho. It's one his finest films from his British period.

Footnote

(1) Hitchcock's theory - "We are now having a very innocent little chat. Let's suppose that there is a bomb underneath this table between us. Nothing happens, and then all of a sudden, "Boom!" There is an explosion. The public is _surprised,_ but prior to this surprise, it has seen an absolutely ordinary scene, of no special consequence. Now, let us take a _suspense_ situation. The bomb is underneath the table and the public _knows_ it, probably because they have seen the anarchist put it there. The public is _aware_ the bomb is going to explode at one o'clock and there is a clock in the decor. The public can see that it is a quarter to one. In these conditions, the same innocuous conversation becomes fascinating because the public is participating in the scene. The audience is longing to warn the characters on the screen: "You shouldn't be talking about such trivial matters. There is a bomb beneath you and it is about to explode!"

In the first case we have given the public fifteen seconds of _surprise_ at the moment of the explosion. In the second we have provided them with fifteen minutes of sus _pense._ The conclusion is that whenever possible, the public must be informed. Except when the surprise is a twist, that is, when the unexpected ending is, in itself, the highlight of the story." From Hitchcock/Truffaut Interview Book. (Page 73)
Maytime (1937)

By Amanda Garrett of  
Old Hollywood Films

Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy were superstars in the 1930s. Their legions of fans flocked to movie houses to see the screen duo warble classics like "Ah! Sweet Mystery of Life" and to sigh over Eddy's wholesome good looks and MacDonald's elaborate costumes.

MacDonald and Eddy made eight highly successful films together between 1935 and 1942. Eddy and MacDonald still have many devoted fans, but they aren't as widely remembered or appreciated today as other thirties musical teams like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. This is partly because the duo's films were operettas, a style of musical theater that you don't hear of much these days (If you're not familiar with operetta: When it's good, it's The Wizard of Oz. When it's bad, it's the songs you endure in Marx Brothers movies while waiting for Groucho to make another wisecrack). Also, although MacDonald and Eddy were both spectacular singers, they were often saddled with schmaltzy storylines that didn't suit either one of their talents. Eddy was only really ever a competent actor and MacDonald was best in light comedies, like the series of films she made with Maurice Chevalier in the early 1930s. Still, their films are entertaining and charming. Who can resist the "Indian Love Call" from Rose Marie (1936) or Eddy belting out "Stout-Hearted Men" in New Moon (1940).

MacDonald and Eddy made one film that deserves to be remembered as a classic. Maytime (1937) was the duo's third film and while there's plenty of schmaltz, the film is also a compelling melodrama that director Robert Z. Leonard handles with elegant understatement. Maytime benefits from a stellar supporting turn by the great John Barrymore, but MacDonald also gives a nuanced performance in a part where she has to age from a teenage girl to an elderly woman.

Maytime tells the life story of soprano Marcia Mornay (MacDonald) in a series of flashbacks. Mornay is a promising young singer at the Paris Opera when she comes under the control of theatrical impresario Nikolai Nazarov (Barrymore), who begins to take over every aspect of the Mornay's life. Soon Mornay is an acclaimed singer and Nazarov proposes marriage, but Mornay balks when she falls in love with a penniless voice student, Paul Allison (Eddy). The film follows their star-crossed love story as Mornay tries to rid herself of Nazarov's almost mesmeric hold over her mind.

MacDonald always said Maytime was her favorite of her own films, and she gave Leonard a great deal of credit for its success. His loose directing style helped both MacDonald and Eddy feel comfortable in their roles, and it show in their performances. "He didn't believe in the iron-handed technique," MacDonald said in an interview quoted on TCM's website. "Mr. Leonard always kept us pliable and spontaneous." MacDonald and Eddy actually do seem like they're having fun together, especially in the scene where the duet to "Carry Me Back to Old Virginny." They actually sing some of this song in normal voices rather than the bombastic belting that was so popular in thirties operettas.

Even with Leonard's deft direction, Maytime probably would have fallen apart without the considerable talents of Barrymore. He gives an understated performance, or at least an understated performance for Barrymore (minimalism wasn't really his thing), and MacDonald responds beautifully. Mornay is both attracted and repelled by Nazarov and so is the audience. I clearly remember the first time I saw Maytime as a child (it used to air regularly on the local PBS station). Barrymore terrified me so badly I couldn't sleep that night. The only other film performance that scared me so much was Margaret Hamilton as the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz.

Maytime is first and foremost a musical and both MacDonald and Eddy get their own showstopping numbers. Eddy's character is introduced while he is singing a humorous pastiche number that takes snatches from The Barber of Seville, Rigoletto, and the William Tell Overture. MacDonald had many spectacular moments while portraying an international opera star. She expertly sings arias from La Traviata, Norma, and Lucia di Lammermoor throughout the film. However, the highlight for many MacDonald and Eddy fans is the beautiful love song, "Will You Remember?" It is probably their best on screen moment, especially when it is repeated in the sentimental climax of the film.

Maytime is based on a 1912 operetta by Sigmund Romberg, although the only things left from the original are the title and "Will You Remember?" MGM Producer Irving Thalberg purchased the rights for Grace Moore, then MGM's leading operetta star, but when Moore decamped to Columbia he transferred the production to MacDonald and Eddy, who already had two smash hits under their belt. Thalberg planned a lavish Technicolor production, and filming actually began in August 1936, but that production was scrapped when Thalberg died in September.

Filming re-started on Oct. 29, but by that time Maytime was a much different movie. The expensive Technicolor cameras were replaced by more cost effective black and white, and much of the supporting cast were unavailable because they had moved to other projects. The original script was scrapped in favor of a new version screenwriter Noel Langley wrote in just three days. This is probably just as well because the stage version of Maytime was about a girl who falls in love with a gardener, which isn't as ripe with dramatic possibilities as an international opera singer who is controlled by her Svengali-like manager. In fact, Langley may have borrowed large chunks of the plot, including the flashback format, from Noel Coward's 1929 operetta, Bitter Sweet, which concerns a brilliant singer who carries a decades long torch for a penniless music teacher. Ironically, MacDonald and Eddy would film Bitter Sweet in 1940, although it wasn't one of their more successful films.

Maytime was another huge hit for MacDonald and Eddy, and they went on to appear in five more films until Eddy left MGM for Universal Pictures in 1942. They continued to perform in concerts together until MacDonald passed away in 1965.

Maytime is available on DVD and video on demand.
The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938)

By Diana & Constance Metzinger of  
Silver Scenes

"I'll never rest until every Saxon in this shire can stand up free men and strike a blow for Richard and England!"

Never has there been a more joyous swashbuckler filmed than The Adventures of Robin Hood, released by Warner Brothers in 1938. The centuries old legend of the bold outlaw who robbed from the rich to give to the poor comes to life in this glorious adaptation which brims over with thrilling swordplay, sweet romance, a thousand resplendent costumes, a stellar cast, and a rousing orchestral score by Erich Wolfgang Korngold. Verily, the film serves up a right merry feast of entertainment.

No archer ever lived that could speed a gray goose shaft with such skill and cunning as Robin, nor has any actor embodied a character as well as Errol Flynn does in his portrayal of this lusty rogue.

The legends of Robin Hood date back to the 14th century when tales of the famous outlaw were spread across the shires through ballads. Innumerable authors have passed the stories down in various tellings throughout the ages but it is undoubtedly Howard Pyle's inspired adaptation of the legends in his 1883 masterpiece "The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood" that set the tone for this film.

Like the book, The Adventures of Robin Hood transports its audience to an England of yor; a time of grand pageantry, when knights roamed errant through virgin countryside in search of adventures and the world was bathed in the glow of medieval romance. It was also a time of oppression for serfs who were under the rule of scoundrelly noblemen, such as Sir Guy of Gisbourne.

Storybook thrills abound in Norman Reilly Raine and Seton Miller's script, which weave elements of romance, comedy and adventure in its simple story of tyranny opposed and virtue triumphed.

Robin Hood and his band of merry men, loyal to King Richard, set things right for England when the King's dastardly brother, the Norman Prince John, usurps the throne and wrenches tax money, yea, and the very blood, from the oppressed Saxons. The King's royal ward, Lady Marian, despises Robin Hood and his thieving ways until she sees the broken, destitute masses which he cares for in the forest. Then her heart goes out towards him and his noble cause and she becomes the outlaw's ally, eventually saving him from the gallows.

James Cagney was originally cast as the archer in green tights when Warner Brothers began development on Robin Hood in 1935. The studio was slowly expanding its output to include adventure films and prestigious historical dramas in an effort to compete with its rival Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer and reach a broader audience.

After the success of Warner's A Midsummer Night's Dream ( 1935 ), costume designer Dwight Franklin suggested that the same formula could be translated well to another period piece, that of the tales of Robin Hood. Executive producer Hal Wallis decided to reunite most of the principle cast for this project, including Anita Louise as Lady Marian, Frank McHugh and Allen Jenkins as some of the merry men, and Hugh Herbert as Friar Tuck. Ho! but during the development stage James Cagney had one of his frequent rows with the studio and walked out on his contract, not returning for nearly two years.

Since much time and money had already been invested in the story, Wallis decided to cast the studio's rising star, Errol Flynn, in the lead. The part of the charismatic Saxon knight was a glove-fit for this devilishly handsome actor who had a roguish air and an athletic knack for leaping over parapets.

Fate dealt a fortuitous hand with Cagney's departure, for Flynn's arrival precipitated a complete rehaul of the project. What resulted was a film which could not be more impeccably cast. Claude Rains cloaked himself in red as the villainous Prince John, a urbane schemer who finds the feather-capped archer's exploits wryly amusing. Basil Rathbone had a long career portraying villains and did a stellar performance as the wicked pirate Levasseur in Captain Blood in 1935. For this film he donned the garb of the egotistical Sir Guy of Gisbourne.

Lady Marian could not be envisioned more lovely than Olivia de Havilland, who had just launched her film career three years prior with her appearance as Hermia in A Midsummer Night's Dream. Once Errol Flynn was cast as Robin Hood there was no doubt that de Havilland would portray his "bold Norman beauty", since the two were such an ideal couple in Captain Blood and The Charge of the Light Brigade. They would go on to make six more films together.

Robin's rakish derring-do would be for naught without the aid he received from his motley band of merry men : Alan Hale had portrayed the bearish Little John in the 1922 Douglas Fairbanks version of Robin Hood, so it was a natural choice that he reprise the role for this film. Hale and Flynn were a right jolly team and they were united for 13 films. Patric Knowles was Robin's lyre-strumming comrade-in-arms Will Scarlett ( a role originally intended for David Niven ) and Eugene Palette, the portly Friar Tuck. Also cast was Herbert Mundin as cheerful Much, who casts a favorable eye on Bess, Marian's twittery lady-in-waiting, portrayed by Una O'Connor; Ian Hunter as King Richard, and Melville Cooper as the oafish Sheriff of Nottingham.

Shafts of sunlight streaming down through the leafy canopy of Sherwood Forest were captured in the splendor of three-strip Technicolor by the perceptive eyes of cinematographers Tony Gaudio and Sol Polito, who were utilizing the newly developed cameras. This was a cumbersome and costly process but it lent the film an unsurpassed richness in color. This beloved Sherwood of Robin's just happened to be Bidwell Park located in Chico, California. Never had England seen so much sunlight in one summer.

Director Michael Curtiz took over the scepter of command from William Keighley midway through production and deserves much credit for the sprightly pace of The Adventures of Robin Hood. He captured the grand-flourishing manner of silent day swashbucklers with their crowd-pleasing heroics and bold swordplay. Some of the sequences were even filmed "undercranked" which sped up the action on screen in silent-era fashion. Errol Flynn was Douglas Fairbanks reincarnated with his broad-gestured displays of machismo. Stuntmen were used in some shots of the film, but many a daring-do was performed by Flynn himself who wanted it known that he did not shy away from physical feats.

Errol Flynn shows us a Robin Hood so supremely alive that to him all of life is a lark. What makes him so wonderful to behold is he lights the fire of life within the audience as well. Our cares disappear and we wonder why we take our petty problems with such seriousness when Robin could face death innumerable times without ever losing a feather in his cap.

The Adventures of Robin Hood was an enormous hit upon its initial release on May 14, 1938, with critics praising its sheer exuberance and audiences of all ages coming to take a pilgrimage to the land of medieval fancy. Robin's arrows soared through the air to land with a resounding ffffrupp! on the bullseye of entertainment. Warner Brothers gathered nearly $4 million into its purse and the film went on to win three of the four Oscars it was nominated for at the Academy Awards ( losing the Best Picture award to You Can't Take it With You ).

The Adventures of Robin Hood remains a favorite amongst cinephiles nearly eighty years since Robin made his heroic entrance into Sherwood Forest. It is still considered one of the best films of its type and possesses all of its initial zest and vitality. Numerous remakes have been undertaken over the years but none have been able to capture the essence of Robin Hood without cynicism or postmodern mockery. This film was made with sublime innocence in an decade when righteousness and evil could be presented to the audience in simple black and white imagery without brushing virtues and sins together into murky grays. The cast and crew of Robin Hood set out to make the picture, not as a technical masterpiece, but purely for the aim of providing entertainment to the masses, and verily, this task was accomplished with thunderous success.
Boys Town (1938)

By R.A. Kerr of  
Silver Screenings

Directing Giants, and Tragedy, in Boys Town

*Spoiler Alert*

There's a sneaky trick director Norman Taurog uses in the MGM drama Boys Town (1938).

Two of MGM's biggest names, Spencer Tracy and Mickey Rooney, star in this film about a socially conscious priest (Tracy) who creates a refuge for troubled and homeless boys. The film, based on a true story, examines the efforts of one Father Flanagan, founder of the Boys Town community that is still in operation today.

In the film, Boys Town grows in size and reputation, prompting a convicted criminal to request his delinquent kid brother (Rooney) be taken to Boys Town in the hopes of reforming him. Tracy hunts the kid down and finds him in the middle of a poker game. The players stand when Tracy enters the room, and politely address him as "Father". Rooney, on the other hand, puts his feet on the table and blows cigarette smoke at the priest.

Here is the start of an on-screen power struggle between these two MGM giants, and we can hardly wait for the big showdown: The calm, determined Tracy vs. the feisty, determined Rooney.

But director Taurog, that sneak, has other plans.

In the middle of all this, we are introduced to an adorable little boy named Pee Wee (Bobs Watson) a short, roundish kid with an infectious smile. He is one of the few children at Boys Town who actually like Rooney; for some reason, he sees something noble in him. That's the kind of kid Pee Wee is.

So. While we're distracted by the Tracy-Rooney rumble, the cutest kid in the film gets hit by a car.

It happens after Rooney's character decides to run away from Boys Town. Pee Wee sees Rooney, suitcase in hand, and chases after him. The child catches up with him and pulls on his sleeve, pleading, "We're going to be pals, ain't we?" Rooney, nearly in tears, pushes the child to the ground and tells him to go back. He then storms across the highway, and Pee Wee, caught in the tail wind, is too upset about his hero to think about oncoming traffic.

In an instant, two of MGM's über celebrities are virtually reduced to supporting players in one of the most shocking scenes in the film.

The accident scene is, frankly, a sucker punch, but it doesn't feel contrived because Taurog lets the story of Boys Town unfold organically. He doesn't tell us what the characters are like, he shows us what the characters are like. In doing so, he quietly pulls us into their world.

He's sly when pricking our conscience about street kids. For example, in the opening scene, a prisoner on death row delivers a lengthy but riveting monologue about his desperate childhood. In another scene, a distraught child accuses Tracy, "I thought you said if we were good, everyone would want to help us."

Whoa. This stuff ain't sugar coated.

The director also plays with the different personalities in Boys Town, and we start to feel like we personally know these kids. Taurog isn't turning the movie into a vehicle for Tracy or Rooney. He's presenting a community, much like Boys Town itself.

Taurog, nominated for best director, did not win the Academy Award that year; he lost to Frank Capra for You Can't Take it With You. However, Boys Town did win two Oscars (Best Actor and Best Original Story). It's a movie we hope you'll add to your Must-Watch List.

Boys Town: starring Spencer Tracy, Mickey Rooney, Henry Hull. Directed by Norman Taurog. Written by John Meehan and Dore Schary. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Corp., 1938, B&W, 93 mins.
Bringing Up Baby (1938)

By Cameron Howard of  
TheBlondeAtTheFilm.com

Bringing Up Baby (1938) has been my answer to the tricky "What is your favorite movie?" question since I was about twelve years old. It's a movie I watch over and over, a film I can count on to make me laugh. It's a wonderfully familiar comfort, a pick-me-up, a treat, and one of those movies that I sometimes can't believe exists. It's such an amazing production with such a perfect cast that sometimes it seems like a fanciful dream. For me, it's the answer to the question, "If you could imagine your ideal movie, what would it be?"

Putting aside my fawning adoration for a minute, Bringing Up Baby is also fascinating because it is a famous "flop." It grossly exceeded its schedule and budget, did only moderate business when released, and made RKO so mad that they fired Howard Hawks from his next picture, and conspired to end their contract with Katharine Hepburn. It's also intriguing because sometimes people I recommend it to today don't "get it." They come back to me with confusion and faint exhaustion in their eyes, and say "It was just so weird." I think most of their reaction is due to the genre of the film. We don't have screwball (in the classical sense) anymore, and Bringing Up Baby is about as screwball as they come. So if you're expecting a typical romantic comedy, this movie will knock you for a loop. (No slang! Remember who and what you are!)

On April 10, 1937, Collier's Weekly published a short story by Hagar Wilde entitled "Bringing Up Baby." (Oddly enough, "Stage to Lordsburg" the story upon which Stagecoach (1939) was based, appeared in the same issue!) Howard Hawks liked Wilde's story about a zany couple searching for their tame panther in the Connecticut woods, and RKO gave him the green light. Hawks, Wilde, and screenwriter Dudley Nichols turned the story into a screenplay, and Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant were cast as the leads. The film began production in September 1937, and continued through January 1938, with its premiere coming just over a month after shooting wrapped.

Bringing Up Baby concerns the loony escapades of Dr. David Huxley (Grant), a strait-laced paleontologist engaged to an even more painfully proper nerd named Miss Swallow (Virginia Walker). They plan to get married the following day, but first, David has to schmooze with the lawyer of a wealthy benefactor. There is a million dollars up for grabs, and David wants it for his museum. But David's plan goes awry when he runs into an eccentric woman named Susan Vance (Hepburn). Somehow, Susan whirls David up into her wacky life like a charming but powerful cyclone. David's life gets turned upside down and sideways, and eventually the pair find themselves hunting for Susan's tame leopard (there weren't any trained panthers available, so the panther became a leopard) named Baby and her aunt's terrier George in the wilds of Connecticut. Along the way, the pair meet other zany characters, spend some time in jail, and lose the brontosaurus bone David needs to complete his fossil (Dog—bone, dog—bone!) All ends well. Except for the brontosaurus, of course.

Variety called Bringing Up Baby "the most frantic and whirligig of recent film funnies;" its "whirligig" nature is due to the fact that the movie contains all the conventions and tropes of screwball comedy bundled into 102 minutes of nonstop nuttiness. The genre conventions that make up screwball include farcical situations, witty, quick repartee, slapstick, mistaken or fluid identities, secrets, mismatches in social class, journeys away from civilization and into the country, and a battle of the sexes romance plot where the madcap woman pursues the man. Let's review.

Farcical situations?  Check. Bringing Up Baby is one crazy, comical scene after another. Nearly every moment qualifies, and the film provides us with such farcical gems of wisdom as "When a man is wrestling a leopard in the middle of the pond, he is in no position to run!" and "If you had an aunt who was going to give you a million dollars if she liked you, and you knew she wouldn't like you if she found a leopard in your apartment, what would you do?!"

Witty, fast dialogue? Another check. The film is so packed with comic incongruity and irrational responses that it seems as though the characters were dropped from the sky just a few minutes ago and boast only a theoretical, literal understanding of English and linguistic patterns: "'Did you speak with Mr. Peabody?' 'Yes, I spoke to him twice, but I didn't talk to him'" and "'Don't lose your head.' 'I've got my head. I've lost my leopard!'"

Bringing Up Baby has a particularly glorious helping of slapstick physical comedy. Grant and Hepburn manage to trip over every branch and fall down every hill in Connecticut. The brunt of the slapstick falls to Grant, which isn't unusual. Screwball comedies often feature a clumsy, bewildered man completely undone by the woman. As philosopher Stanley Cavell wrote in The Hollywood Comedy of Remarriage (which counts Bringing Up Baby and other screwball comedies among its case studies), these films include "the comic convention according to which the awakening of love causes the male to lapse into trances and to lose control of his body, in particular to be everywhere in danger of falling down or of breaking things." Normally dignified Grant finds himself in that danger almost constantly in this film. A particularly grand pratfall comes when Grant slips on an olive and hits the floor, landing spectacularly on his top hat. The olive was dropped by Susan, of course: "First you drop an olive, and then I sit on my hat. It all fits perfectly."

You can cross off the tropes of fluid identities, disguises and secrets, too. David masquerades as Mr. Bone, a big-game hunter, and Susan drops her "society moniker" to become Swinging Door Suzy, a hardened moll. Suzy then christens David with his own criminal alias, "Jerry the Nipper," which is a reference to his previous film The Awful Truth (1937). (Irene Dunne chose that name for Grant when she was pretending to be his sister, and when Susan uses it in Bringing Up Baby, David shouts, "Constable, she's making all this up out of motion pictures she's seen!") Even the leopard becomes the victim of mistaken identity, and David and Susan spend most of the film trying to keep the existence of Baby a secret.

Put a check next to the mismatch in social class; this film pairs a high society heiress with a hardworking paleontologist, though it's not as marked a difference as in some other screwballs.

And cross off the illuminating trip to the country away from civilization. David and Susan leave New York City for "wild" Connecticut, a frequent destination in screwball comedies.

You can put a gold star next to the "comical battle of the sexes courtship plot." As Susan learns early on, "The love impulse in man frequently reveals itself in terms of conflict", and this principle governs the romance. In screwball comedies, a madcap female (often an heiress) dominates her relationship with a man, who is sometimes reluctant to involve himself with the terrifyingly stubborn woman. In this film, Susan turns David's world completely sideways, taking him out of his city, his relationship, and his job. She also changes his name and steals his clothes, which leads us to another characteristic of the courtship plot: the man's masculinity is often challenged. Sometimes this is an explicit emasculation through cross-dressing (the notorious "I just went gay all of the sudden!" scene), and sometimes it's accomplished through the steamrolling power of the woman. David can hardly keep up with Susan's stubborn, ludicrous machinations; as he mutters at one point in the movie: "How can all these things happen to just one person?" It's a wild ride in the pursuit of love and fun, but the zany trajectory usually accomplishes the goal. The strait-laced man loosens up and accepts the fun offered by the woman: "I've never had a better time!" David tells Susan at the end.

Most importantly, though, screwball comedies feature a world that has been flipped upside down. Social conventions get swept away, usually by the wacky woman and her hare-brained schemes. As David says to Susan, "You look at every thing upside down! I've never met anyone quite like you."

You can find many of these tropes and characteristics in classic screwball comedies such as It Happened One Night (1934), Hands Across the Table (1935), My Man Godfrey (1936), The Awful Truth (1937), Easy Living (1937), Nothing Sacred (1937), Topper (1937), Midnight (1939), His Girl Friday (1940), The Lady Eve (1940), The Palm Beach Story (1942), and many others. These films contain some of the conventions of the genre; Bringing Up Baby has them all.

And that's one reason I love it so much. Screwball comedies are one of my favorite genres, so of course I adore the "screwiest of the screwball comedies," as critic Andrew Sarris called Bringing Up Baby. I love falling into this film's screwball world where everyone is an oddball, pratfalls are commonplace but never injurious, and even the most straightforward conversations become overwhelmed in farcical confusion.

While this outrageous absurdity would get annoying fast at the bank, for instance, never mind becoming downright dangerous on the highway, I adore it in the world of this film. That's Bringing Up Baby's genius: the film does a tremendous job of creating its own, peculiar, goofy world. Unlike some other classics of the genre, this movie severs ties to "reality" pretty quickly. Untethered by logic, social conventions, and fundamental normality, Bringing Up Baby careens like a rickety rollercoaster into a fantastical reality all its own. It's almost like Harry Potter in that it starts in the real world, but takes you far from what is familiar and ordinary. Bringing Up Baby transports us into a crazy screwball world that's similar to, but marvelously different, from our own.

The film's kooky world is populated with equally kooky characters who contribute to what Variety called the "general ludicrous hullaballoo." Everyone, from the bizarrely business-like Miss Swallow down to the drunk gardener, is screwy. This makes for a lot of fun, but also an overwhelming amount of crazy.

Hawks would later say that it was too much, that he'd made a mistake by not including more "straight" or "normal" characters. In Howard Hawks: The Grey Fox of Hollywood, Hawks claimed that Bringing Up Baby "had a great fault and I learned an awful lot from that. There were no normal people in it. Everyone you met was a screwball and since that time I learned my lesson and don't intend ever again to make everybody crazy."

Since everyone is "screwball," there is no one for the audience to identify with (unless you're also daffy), which may have been one reason it didn't so well when it was released. Without a normal core, the film spins off of its axis and careens into the wild unknown of screwball extremes. But that is partly why this film is so adored today—it is the quintessential screwball comedy that went further down the zany, twisting path than any other movie.

Although I don't mind the overall nuttiness, I think the film could have been even stronger if the psychiatrist or the constable were a little less batty. The jail scene in particular becomes so stuffed with crazy characters that you lose focus on David and Susan. We've just spent so much time with them and their relationship that the jail scene feels almost like a different movie, or an enjoyable tangent.

There is more to enjoy besides the screwiness of the film. For one thing, the performances are marvelous. If you're used to Cary Grant as Mr. Suave, you'll be amazed at how dorky and awkward he is as David. In other films like Notorious (1946) and To Catch a Thief (1955), Grant emanates graceful, debonair sophistication. He seems both to have been born in a tuxedo and born to wear one. But as Dr. David Huxley, Grant has an unsure, uneven gait, he falls constantly, and in the one scene where he wears a tuxedo, he appears ill at ease and deeply uncomfortable. And that's before he crushes his top hat and rips his coat. David mumbles and stutters, and his voice rises to a whinny when he's really upset. But he loosens up after spending time with Susan, and he seems to gain confidence and come out of his uptight shell. It's a pleasure to watch him change over the course of the film.

Grant was reportedly nervous about this role, but Howard Hawks told him to model his performance on silent film comedian Harold Lloyd (hence the round glasses). And Grant nails it. He's far from the "Cary Grant" character, which makes his performance as the bewildered, nerdy, absent-minded David even more delightful. Plus, his physical skill and timing honed as an acrobat are on full display in this movie. His pratfalls are incredible, and his timing is perfect. Variety's review of the film praised Grant, noting that he "carries his full share of the fantastic abandon in a goofy characterization which required unusual skill."

This was Grant and Hepburn's second film together after 1935's Sylvia Scarlett, and they had a wonderful time. In her autobiography Me: Stories of My Life, Katharine Hepburn recalls in her typical fashion that: "Cary was so funny on this picture. He was fatter, and at this point his boiling energy was at its peak. We would laugh from morning to night." Hepburn and a "fatter" Grant may have had a fantastic time together, but the film did not start out so well for Miss Hepburn. Unlike Grant, she did not have a background in comedy, and up until this point she'd acted mainly in dramas. When they started filming, she "overacted" and tried too hard be funny. Hawks wasn't having much success with her, so he called on Walter Catlett, a comic who had worked in vaudeville, the Ziegfeld Follies, and Broadway for years. Hawks recalls in Hawks on Hawks that he sent Hepburn to talk with Catlett, and "She came back from talking with him and said, 'Howard, hire that guy and keep him around here for several weeks, because I need him.' And from that time on, she knew how to play comedy better, which is just to read lines.'" Hawks cast Catlett as the constable, so you can see Hepburn's comedy mentor in action in the film.

Once Hepburn got some help, she flourished.  She would go on to act in many other comedies, but it all started with this astounding performance. Variety wrote that "Miss Hepburn is more at home in this role, more zestful in its romping performance, than she has been in many of her esteemed vehicles. This type of playfulness becomes her essential spirit and she tackles it without restraint." Her madcap heiress (or "spoiled, conceited little scatterbrain," as David calls her) is legendary, and it's glorious to watch her go after what she wants.

Like Grant's David, Hepburn's Susan is different from many of her other characters. Hepburn played shy and self-conscious so brilliantly that it physically hurts to watch films like Alice Adams (1935) or Summertime (1955), but she could also, and perhaps more famously, embody confident, deeply intelligent, and competent characters as she does in Woman of the Year (1942) and Adam's Rib (1949). Susan is in a different class, but Hepburn jumped right into this character who lacks the embarrassment gene and brims with self-confidence and courage. Perhaps that's why we like Susan so much despite the chaos she creates—she doesn't let silly things like social conventions or accepted logic stop her from living the life she wants.

Bringing Up Baby is an incredibly rich, dense movie, and you can find a lot if you start looking. The title, for example, is not as simple as you might think. "Bringing Up Baby" could refer to raising the leopard as in "raising a child." This interpretation makes the title a joke, since David and Susan are pretty terrible at caring for Baby. Or it could be read as bringing up a topic of conversation, as in "let's talk about the leopard," which generally results in chaos. After all, it was when Susan "brought up" her leopard on the phone with David that things really got going. If only Susan had "brought up Baby" to her aunt! All their trouble (and fun) could have been avoided. Less likely is the idea of "bringing up Baby" to New York, as in sending Baby north from South America where Susan's brother caught him. I like to think it's a combination.

Structurally, the movie features several instances of doubling and repetition. For example, the film is tidily bookended with Grant in the museum in the beginning and the end. And both times he's with his fiancée, though it's not the same woman.

The doubling continues throughout the film: Susan drives away with David riding on the running board twice, she steals two different cars, and the pair end up beneath a bedroom window at two different houses.  There are two nearly identical purses, two confused phone calls with Alice, two missed appointments with Mr. Peabody, and of course two leopards! Much of the repetition contributes to the comedy—two purses and two leopards creates a comedic gold mine of confusion and mistakes, and poor David's refrain of "I'll be with you in a minute, Mr. Peabody!" becomes a running joke.

There's a lot happening just below the surface, too. For example, you can read a great deal into David and Susan's evening in the woods. Once outside of the city, and even freed from the societal confines of the house and the adult world they inhabit with Aunt Elizabeth and Major Applegate, the pair can finally "get back to Nature" and fall in love. They experience an almost prehistoric world (perfect for our paleontologist) of wild animals, the thrill of the hunt, fire, water (if a character gets dunked, you have to mention a cleansing baptism—it's a rule of subtextual analysis), and honest emotion and conversation. Civilization intrudes and controls; real connection and truth are easier to find in the wild. That could be a subtitle of screwball comedy—remove the constraints and let characters be weird and wild, and you'll discover what is important and real.

You can also have fun with the "intercostal clavicle" that David needs for his brontosaurus. This oft-mentioned fossil is not a real bone. It's an invented body part with a nonsensical name that is perfect for this film and genre: intercostal means "between ribs" and clavicle is another word for "collarbone." Obviously you can't have an "intercostal" clavicle; even a brontosaurus doesn't keep his shoulders inside his ribs. The screenwriters could have used the name of an actual dinosaur bone, but instead they opted for a name that is as wacky and illogical as the film.

The intercostal clavicle brings us to the sexual reading. The word "bone" presents multiple and varied instances of innuendo. For instance, poor David gets his bone the day of his wedding, loses it almost immediately, and spends the rest of the film searching for it with Susan's eager assistance. Susan even dubs him "Mr. Bone," which is rather funny considering it's the one thing he doesn't have. To be fair, "Mr. Bone" also works as a reference to the minstrel show stock character "Mr. Bones" who was a goofy joke teller and singer. David also jokes and sings in this film, so the name could just be a reference to his character. But I doubt it.

The name of the leopard is suggestive, too, especially since Miss Swallow told David that their marriage "must entail no domestic entanglements of any kind," and that the brontosaurus "will be our child." In other words, no sex. So, if David chooses Miss Swallow, he gets an old fossil, but if he chooses Susan, he gets a living, breathing "Baby" ( and sex.) Beyond that comparison, it's interesting that David and Susan spend so much of the film searching for the leopard. You could suggest that in "searching for Baby" they are also "searching for baby," or the love, marriage, and sex (not always in that order) that lead to babies.

You can go pretty far with the sexual reading; indeed, Stanley Cavell labels the film a "sexual allegory" all about marriage and sexuality. For example, when discussing the collapse of the fossil at the end of the film, he asks, "Is it meant to register the perimeter of human happiness, [David and Susan are in love, but David can't have both the girl and the dinosaur] or the happenstance of it—like the breaking of the glass at the end of a Jewish wedding? Both surely comment upon the demise of virginity, but in this film it is the woman who directly causes it." I'm not sure I'd go that far and suggest that the broken fossil symbolizes the physical consummation of their relationship; it seems more likely to me that the destruction of the brontosaurus illustrates the end of Miss Swallow and David's relationship (she did call it their child), and proves that David no longer cares more about his work than anything else. Susan is his priority now, as demonstrated by their embrace after the dinosaur has crashed to the ground. You can see why this film presents many different subtexts and readings. Of course, Bringing Up Baby is wonderfully entertaining at face value, too, so watch it however you like.

This film is a famous flop, although its box office failure wasn't actually that extreme. But it was not a hit by any means, and RKO was upset. The studio was so mad at Hawks for going over budget and behind schedule on this film that they removed him from Gunga Din (1939), which was supposed to be his next project. They weren't thrilled with Hepburn, either, and neither were exhibitors. It was after the release of Bringing Up Baby that the Independent Theatre Owners of America included Hepburn on a list of actors they called "box office poison." The list, published in the Independent Film Journal in May 1938, also included such legends as Joan Crawford, Fred Astaire, and Greta Garbo.

Today, the "box office poison" label slapped on Hepburn seems pretty hilarious, but at the time, Hepburn was not a popular star. After a few unsuccessful films in a row, RKO wanted out of their contract which stipulated that Hepburn make two more films with the studio. To get out of that agreement, RKO assigned her to a B-movie called Mother Carey's Chickens. Rather than be forced to make the movie, Hepburn bought out her contract and went to Columbia to make Holiday (1938). When that film also faltered at the box office, she headed to Broadway. She would make a triumphant return to Hollywood with The Philadelphia Story (1940), and the rest is history.

With its lackluster release, this film might have been forgotten had influential critics and scholars not resurrected it. In the 1950s and 60s, Howard Hawks became a favorite auteur of André Bazin and the Cahiers crowd, which prompted a re-examination of his work. Other critics, filmmakers, and scholars discovered that screwball comedy as a genre was quite interesting, and of course two mega-icons like Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant helped bring people back to the film. Today, it is recognized as a classic and a gem of the screwball genre, and ranked 88th on the American Film Institute's "100 Years...100 Movies" list in 2007.

I didn't know any of this when I first saw Bringing Up Baby as a kid. All I knew was that it made me laugh, and I loved watching it. Since then, my love for this movie has only grown. And as the credits roll, I have to agree with Cary Grant: "I've never had a better time!"
Pygmalion (1938)

By Deborah M. Thomas (aka Java Bean Rush) of  
Java Bean Rush

By the turn of the 1930s, motion pictures had emerged from their silent days into the age of the "talkies." However, films still emphasized the visual; speech often seemed an afterthought. Playwright George Bernard Shaw (who had won the Nobel Peace Prize for Literature in 1925), hesitated adapting his famous plays to the screen due to the lack of focus on dialogue in the newer medium. To further deter him, the movie audience's desires often ran towards the romantic – something that Shaw kept to a minimum in his work.

Previous failed experiences with filming his writing soured Shaw on adapting his prize-winning plays to film. It wasn't until the mid-1930s when Hungarian film producer Gabriel Pascal dropped into Shaw's life that the author would find someone who not only respected him but also understood his vision. Pascal would also fight not to allow Shaw's limited film expertise to interfere with the production's integrity.1

On December 13, 1935, Shaw gave Pascal the film rights to Pygmalion, a hit play from 1914 that had been based on an ancient Greek myth. This would be the beginning of years of collaboration between the two men. "[Shaw] entrusted me with the magic flute of his art, which he knew I could play," said Pascal.2

When the award-winning playwright was asked why he consented to have his plays produced for film by an unknown man when so many famous and wealthy people had knocked on his door asking to do the same, Shaw said, "Until [Pascal] descended on me out of the clouds, I found nobody who wanted to do anything with my plays on the screen but mutilate them.... The man is a genius: that is all I have to say about him."3

The production began in early 1938 through Pascal Films, a production company formed by Pascal and Richard Norton, the head of the recently-created Pinewood Studios. Wendy Hiller was cast as the lead female character, Eliza Doolittle. As Hiller had completed only one movie prior to Pygmalion, the actress was not well-known in the film industry. However, Hiller's theater training worked in her favor as the playwright enthusiastically gave his stamp of approval for this casting choice.

The filmmakers also cast Hollywood star Leslie Howard as the male lead, Professor Henry Higgins. Shaw held a great disdain for Hollywood in general and disagreed with this casting in particular. He explained that Higgins is meant to be a "heavy," and that Howard is so likeable that the audience will want Higgins to end up in a romantic relationship with the leading lady, which is against Shaw's wishes for his heroine.4 Nevertheless, the casting was not altered.

Pygmalion (1938) follows Eliza, a flower seller from the slums of London, who asks a professor of phonetics to teach her a different dialect so that she may gain employment in a flower shop for higher wages. Fellow author and speech enthusiast Colonel Pickering (Scott Sunderland) is on hand to raise the stakes. They wager that Higgins' new pupil cannot fool dignitaries at an embassy ball. Not only does Professor Higgins eliminate Eliza's Cockney accent, but he also refines her poise and conversational abilities to the point that she's unrecognizable to almost everyone who had known her before.

This popular rags-to-riches tale would become the first of Shaw's authorized film adaptations which would utilize the camera's roving eye. The camera would not stay fixed and unmovable while the actors moved around, as it did in earlier, static Shavian films that had flopped at the box office. The mobile camera in Pygmalion would move with the players, even out-of-doors, as when Leslie Howard paces the streets of London on location.

In a key scene where Eliza announces that she does not appreciate Higgins' "bullying or your back talk," the camera is held at a low angle over Higgins' shoulder as Eliza advances towards the camera. This camera position allows the character to tower over Higgins and fill the screen, symbolically showing her dominance.

The unique camera placements are also utilized for the scenes in which Higgins gives Eliza lessons. To produce a quick succession of progress, montages are used to show Eliza's change from a "draggletailed guttersnipe," as Higgins calls her, to a "duchess."

These scenes of Higgins teaching Eliza are not in the original play; these were produced especially for the film and would be a favorite in subsequent adaptations. In ACT II of the play, Eliza is last seen in Professor Higgins' living room accepting the challenge ahead of her. The next ACT introduces the newly transformed Eliza in the drawing room of Higgins' mother – Mrs. Higgins. Eliza's behavior in front of Mrs. Higgins' guests is humorously riddled with faux pas, nonetheless, it is obvious that the young lady has had lessons on speech and decorum which have occurred offstage.

The film, however, fleshes out the transformation onscreen. Not only do we see Eliza in her first outing after her transition (as we do in the play), we also see our heroine practicing her vowels and listening to Professor Higgins play the xylophone for speech intonations. We see the poor girl (who insists that she's not dirty because she has washed her face and hands) protest against her first bath and Higgins chuckle at her dismay. These moments of Eliza's growth are like watching a flower unfurl its petals. These moments also help the audience to understand the friendship that burgeons between the two leads.5

Also shown for the first time is the last part of Higgins' experiment. In the play, after we leave Mrs. Higgins' house, the next scene is the beginning of Act IV, where Eliza, Higgins and Pickering return home from their great triumph, having tricked the dignitaries at an ambassador's garden party into believing that Eliza is of the upper classes - the event towards which they have been working the whole time. The party has occurred offstage.

The film, however, decides to show the party, which has been upgraded to an Embassy Ball. The movie serves its audience a sumptuous feast for the eyes at the ball, with gentlemen in tuxedos, a grand staircase and Eliza in the most regal gown we have yet seen her wear. This scene is a visual exclamation mark to Higgins' experiment. Ironically, this scene of the victory of speech over social boundaries runs almost wordlessly for our heroine. At the ball is a former pupil of Higgins, Count Aristid Karpathy (Esme Percy), who relays to Higgins an off-screen conversation with Eliza. However, the audience never hears Eliza utter a word at the ball. Why does a film about speech not allow the audience to hear the leading lady speak during her conquest?

Is it really Eliza's conquest? Though we do not hear her speak at the ball, we do hear her after the ball, in frustration and anger, hurl accusations at Higgins. In despair, she asks, "What am I fit for? What have you left me fit for?" Eliza reminds Higgins that this ball, this project that they all entered into together, is not really her idea, but Higgins' ("I won your bet for you, haven't I?"). Higgins mistakes her question to mean that she wants undue credit for the experiment. ("You won my bet? You presumptuous insect, I won it.")

What, then, is Eliza's achievement? Choice is her triumph. From the beginning, our heroine is proud of her ability to support herself after her "stepmother" turned her out to make her own way in the world. 6 The goal in engaging Higgins' services is continued independence for herself. With dialectic change, Eliza can walk away from impoverishment and live among the middle classes, gain a new standard of living and a range of options. Whether she chooses to marry the ardent suitor Freddy Eynsford-Hill (David Tree), work in a flower shop, become a phonetics assistant to Karpathy, return to Higgins and become one of the "old bachelors" in his house or none of the above, is immaterial. The point is Eliza has choices.

In the play, this point of independence is inherent in the final scene. Higgins dictates a shopping list to Eliza, as is their custom, apparently. However, this time Eliza says, "Buy them yourself," and walks out. This leaves Higgins and the audience to guess whether Eliza will return. The ending is ambiguous.

The film, however, in direct contradiction to the original play, shows Eliza's choice. We see Eliza drive away with Freddy, leaving Higgins to ponder and sulk. As he listens to her recorded voice on the phonograph, Eliza returns. Higgins hides his excitement with a curt, "Eliza! Where the devil are my slippers?" Music swells and that is the end.

The movie ends, claims Pascal's wife, "leaving the public assured that Eliza would be running for those slippers to the end of her days. That was not how George Bernard Shaw ever let his women behave -- but that was how Gabriel Pascal wanted his women to behave."7

Showing Eliza's final choice onscreen (Shaw knew nothing of the new ending until the first public screening of the film8) not only flies in the face of the author, but also truncates audience imagination. Additionally, it limits the central concept of unabashed independence inherent throughout the story and in particular in the original, open ending of the play.

Audiences have often enjoyed the inference of romance between Higgins and Eliza in any adaptation of the tale.9 This is understandable as Shaw sets up the two in a Cinderella-like story. Audiences know the fairytale or folktale structure; usually the leading male and female end up together in a romance. 10 Some audience members might feel cheated if Eliza, our Covent Garden Cinderella,11 does not marry a prince.

What audiences and subsequent adapters of this story often fail to realize is that, if this is a fairy tale, then Shaw has turned a narrative trope on its ear. Higgins does not occupy the romantic prince role. The lead male in Pygmalion is a fairy godmother – a specially-skilled, platonic helper who aids the protagonist.12 Furthermore, with the exception of Freddy and Eliza Doolittle's father (Wilfrid Lawson), everyone seems asexual, including the married housekeeper Mrs. Pearce (Jean Cadell). Further still, as alluded to earlier, marriage or a romantic entanglement is not the prize that our heroine seeks. ("I've had chaps enough wanting me that way.") The prize Eliza seeks from the beginning is continued independence, but in a different socio-economic terrain.

Pygmalion (1938) premiered at the Venice Film Festival in August 1938, then was released in the UK on October 6, 1938. It was a smash hit all over the world, garnering Academy Award nominations for Best Picture, Best Actor and Best Actress in a Leading Role and winning for Best Writing, Screenplay. Leslie Howard won the Volpi Cup for Best Actor during the Venice Film Festival. The movie made Pascal and Hiller – the least known of the major contributors of Pygmalion\- sensations all over the world.

For once, Shaw was proud of a film adaptation of his play, stating that Pygmalion is an, "all-British film, made by British methods without interference by American script writers, no spurious dialogue, but every word by the author, a revolution in the presentation of drama in the film. In short, English _ü_ ber alles."13

The 1930s threw off the stiltedness of the silent era, continued to explore the unique properties of film in story-telling in the 'talkie' world, and developed increasingly sophisticated dialogue. For Shaw in particular, this decade saw the author's renewed interest in bringing his brilliant and unusual plays to the screen for generations to come.

Footnotes

  1. Pascal held a "filial devotion" to Shaw; the childless playwright trusted the producer as he would a son; the orphaned Pascal found a growing loyalty to the octogenarian author. This is according to Valerie Pascal, The Disciple and His Devil: Gabriel Pascal and Bernard Shaw (New York: McGraw Hill, 1970), p. 95.

  2. Pascal, The Disciple and His Devil, p. 79.

  3. Pascal, The Disciple and His Devil, p. 87.

  4. Pascal, The Disciple and His Devil, p. 83.

  5. Showing Eliza's lessons in the film also produces the unfortunate problem of making her big reveal at Mrs. Higgins' house anticlimactic. We have seen Eliza mastering, among other things, that famous line which was made up especially for this film: "The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain." Thus, by the time she arrives at Mrs. Higgin's drawing room, the audience already knows that our "squashed cabbage leaf" from Covent Garden will do well pretending to be of the upper set.

  6. Cruel or indifferent stepmothers are a frequent character in fairytales, according to Donald Hasse, Ed., The Greenwood Encyclopedia of Folktales and Fairy Tales: G-P (Westport: Greenwood Press, 2008), p. 640. Shaw continues these fairytale elements throughout the story.

  7. Pascal, The Disciple and His Devil, p. 85.

  8. Pascal, The Disciple and His Devil, p. 85.

  9. Shaw would forever battle for his original, ambiguous ending. The first Higgins for the 1914 play – Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree- famously inserted bits of sentimental shtick to infer a romance between the two leads and insisted that his interpretation pleased the audience more. This interference drove the playwright crazy, according to Max Beerbohm, Ed., Herbert Beerbohm Tree: Some Memories of Him and of His Art (New York: Hutchinson, 1920 ), p.  246. The musical remake My Fair Lady (1964), both onstage and onscreen, has Eliza return to Higgins. In the film version of the musical, we end with Eliza advancing towards Higgins as her love song, "I Could Have Danced All Night," plays. Audiences loved this. This treatment, mercifully, came after Shaw's death.

  10. Out of the 31 elements of a folktale narrative, the last one is the Hero Weds, also known as Boy Gets Girl. Vladimir Propp,  Morphology of the Folktale. Trans., Laurence Scott. 2nd ed. (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1968), p. 63.

  11. Industrial London's ash permeates Eliza's skin and clothing at the beginning of the story, almost as a symbol of perpetual mourning for this pauper. Like Cinderella – another ash-covered lady whose parents are effectively absent- Eliza is psychologically orphaned. Thus, when our transformed heroine –glamorously dressed for the ball- returns to the hearth in Act IV, Scene 1 of the film to retrieve her ring which Higgins threw there during an argument, her hands become filthy with cinders again. Eliza has returned to a state of mourning. By the next day, Eliza has packed her bags and run away. However, Shaw does not allow her to remain bowed down by grief. The next time Higgins sees her, his pupil is confident in her decisions; she is a phoenix rising from the ashes.

  12. If there is a prince here, it is the ineffectual, lovelorn Freddy, but who is not developed as a character beyond his simple infatuation with Eliza. He would seem unfit for our complex heroine, should she wish to have Freddy in her life. It is well-known that in response to so many people wanting Higgins and Eliza to mate, Shaw attached a Sequel to his published play in 1916 to explain his intentions for these characters and to stave off any productions marrying Eliza to Higgins. In this explanation, Shaw marries his heroine off to Freddy (who is anemic and useless as a breadwinner) and gives her a failing flower shop. He does this, not because it's the right ending, but as if to say that since you want Eliza to have a romantic ending, he will give you one, but it won't be happy and it won't be with Higgins. Bernard Shaw, _Pygmalion, (_ New York: Brentano, 1916).

  13. Pascal, The Disciple and His Devil, p. 85.

Destry Rides Again (1939)

By Patricia Nolan-Hall of  
Caftan Woman

"Jimmy Stewart in a western - who knew?" was the reaction of my youngest sister when I showed her 1950s Winchester '73 in her young adulthood. It was shocking to realize how deeply I had fallen down on her movie knowledge upbringing. Jimmy Stewart in a western is as natural a thing as is breathing. In the 1950s he made some of the best in the genre with director Anthony Mann. However, it all started years earlier for Stewart with the role of Tom Destry. Released in 1939, that crowded year of Hollywood excellence, there were no Academy Awards for Destry Rides Again. Instead of a gilded trophy, the movie won a place in the hearts of generations of audiences and deserves its true classic status as indicated by its placement on the National Film Registry in 1996.

The screen play is by Felix Jackson (Bachelor Mother, Three Smart Girls Grow Up), Gertrude Purcell (Stella Dallas, One Night in the Tropics) and Henry Myers (The Black Room, First Love), based on an original story by Felix Jackson suggested by Max Brand's novel Destry Rides Again. Brand's 1930 novel concerns the redemption of a conceited character named Harrison Destry, who seeks vengeance against men who framed him of a crime and finds his humanity. The popular story was filmed in 1932 starring Tom Mix. The character's name was changed to Tom, as was the custom for most of Mix's pictures. Jackson's story makes the character of Tom Destry the son of a famous lawman who follows in his father's footsteps with one notable difference. The father fought lawbreakers with six guns blazing while Tom, Jr. does not believe in guns.

Destry Rides Again became a slyly comic western under the directing guidance of a man skilled in both genres. Chicago born George Marshall (1891-1975) hit Hollywood at the age of 25 and for the next 50 years worked as a director/writer/actor in that industry town. In the era of learn as you go, George Marshall wrote and directed his first western short for Bison Pictures in 1916. It was called Across the Rio Grande and starred Harry Carey. For the next 15 years Marshall excelled at the short films which provided much of the entertainment of the silent era - westerns, comedies and action thrillers. He worked with western stars Neal Hart and Tom Mix, with legendary golfer Bobby Jones and with serial star Pearl White's rival, spunky Ruth Roland.

It wasn't until the 1930s that George made his first feature films including Life Begins at Forty with Will Rogers and You Can't Cheat an Honest Man starring W.C. Fields. Action and comedy, entertainingly dished out to the public, are the hallmarks of George Marshall's pictures. Audiences of the day, and audiences who grew up in the time when studio movie fare was prevalent on local television, have fond feelings toward such westerns as Valley of the Sun with Lucille Ball and When the Daltons Rode with Randolph Scott. Comedies in George Marshall's resume run from the Laurel and Hardy favourites Pack Up Your Troubles, Towed in a Hole and Their First Mistake to The Ghost Breakers and Fancy Pants with Bob Hope and the zany Murder, He Says starring Fred MacMurray. Other career highlights are the perfect little noir The Blue Dahlia starring Alan Ladd and the low-key comedy-western The Sheepman with Glenn Ford. Marshall's output, from the silent era to TV sitcoms, bears the hallmark of consistent quality, but among his films only one can be considered a true classic, and that one is Destry Rides Again.

The setting of our story is the wide open town of Bottleneck and the tale is cheekily framed. The opening credits run over a tracking shot that starts at the shot up sign of "Welcome to Bottleneck" and travels a main street awash with mayhem. The scene is accompanied by Frank Skinner's rousing score filled with the insistent and melodramatic motifs we would most associate with a Saturday afternoon serial. This opening theme is repeated at the climax of the film, and the closing credits are shown over scenes of tranquility and bliss and a newly minted, much tidier "Welcome to Bottleneck" sign.

The dreamy black and white cinematography of Hal Mohr harkens to his Oscar-winning work on A Midsummer Night's Dream. The smoky nighttime scenes and the beautiful, shimmery greys work to give the film a nostalgic quality that takes the viewer completely into the tall tale mood of the film.

Bottleneck is under the thumb of the crooked Kent played by Brian Donlevy (Beau Geste, The Great McGinty). He swindles, cheats and murders his way to the top of the heap. His mob includes the Watson brothers, a couple of gents of the "deese, dem and doose" school played by Allen Jenkins (Dead End) and Warren Hymer (Meet John Doe). Samuel S. Hinds (It's a Wonderful Life) is the larcenous mayor/judge who uses his brains and titles to coolly keep the masses in line.

The face of the gang, and its headquarters at The Last Chance Saloon, is entertainer "Frenchy" played by the top-billed Marlene Dietrich. Ms. Dietrich revitalized her career with her portrayal of Frenchy. Her box office appeal had waned as it seems audiences had grown tired of the allure of the fascinating foreigner. With her vibrant and touching Frenchy, Miss Dietrich became a relateable and earthy screen presence. Gorgeously gowned by Vera West in glitter and feathers, and performing songs by Frank Loesser and Friedrich Hollander there is no doubt that Frenchy is the star of the show and the star of Bottleneck. The songs, You've Got That Look, Little Joe, the Wrangler and especially See What the Boys in the Back Room Will Have became popular movie tunes indelibly associated with Marlene Dietrich.

Frenchy is as hard-boiled as they come and exceptionally skilled at duping the customers. Her assistance proves invaluable in cheating a rancher out of his property. The rancher, Claggett played by Tom Fadden (Moonrise) brings his troubles to the sheriff. Sheriff Keogh played by Joe King (Charlie Chan at the Wax Museum) is summarily dispatched off screen by Kent. The mayor announces that the sheriff has left town suddenly and appoints Washington Dimsdale as the town's number one lawman. "Wash" is the town drunk played by Charles Winninger (Show Boat). Wash was at one time a respected deputy to the fabled Tom Destry and although he may now be a joke, he determines to live up to his newly bestowed title. Wash throws away the bottle and sends for Destry's son, who is garnering his own reputation after having cleaned up Tombstone, to bring and law order to Bottleneck.

James Stewart, at 30 years of age, was becoming America's favourite image of itself in 1939 with his roles of the idealistic Jefferson Smith in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and Tom Destry in Destry Rides Again. Devoting much of his time at Princeton to the University Players and training in repertory, the actor paid his dues and showed his worth in roles of increasing value over the past five years in Hollywood. He proved adept at light comedy (Vivacious Lady) and moving in drama (Of Human Hearts), now it was time to turn to a western, if an offbeat one.

Tom Destry arrives in Bottleneck subverting every expectation for a lawman. He does not carry guns. He doesn't believe in them. He establishes himself in the minds of the citizens as an easy-going, yarn spinning, wood carving oddball. Wash is shocked and humiliated. Kent and his gang find the situation hilarious and fortunate. Stewart as Destry plays with the hilarity, presenting himself as a fellow with a self-deprecating sense of humor, totally disarming his foes. Watch Stewart's eyes. He smiles shyly, joining in the joke, and while Kent is lapping it up, you can catch the briefest glimpse of disdain and determination flashing in those eyes. It is a look that will become familiar to audiences in Stewart's 1950s output.

The first test of Destry's mettle comes in the form of a fight between two of Bottleneck's leading citizens. One of Frenchy's dupes is a Russian named Boris played by Mischa Auer (My Man Godfrey). His surname is unpronounceable, hence Boris is called Callahan by one and all as he is the second husband of boarding house owner Lily Belle Callahan. Boris, in what he knew in his heart of hearts to be an ill-considered bet, has lost his pants to Frenchy.

Mrs. Callahan played by Una Merkel (42nd Street) storms the Last Chance Saloon to retrieve the trousers and get some satisfaction for the humiliation. What she gets is this barb from Frenchy: "But Mrs. Callahan, you know he would rather be cheated by me than married to you." Such nerve must not go unanswered, and in one of the best remembered scenes from the film, an epic battle between the two women ensues. Ms. Dietrich and Ms. Merkel are hundred per centers and gave their all in the unchoreographed brawl with only the proviso of no closed fists to guide them. Tom Destry eventually puts an end to the main event by dumping a pail of water on the combatants. Lily Belle retreats in embarrassment and Frenchy wrecks the joint in an attempt to do an injury to the deputy.

It takes a heart-to-heart, plus a demonstration that proves Tom hasn't lost his sharpshooting skills, for Tom to get Wash entirely on board with the idea of deputy sans firearms. Most of the town is rather old-fashioned in that idea as well. Their thoughts are voiced by a a loud-mouth cattleman named Jack Tyndall played by Jack Carson (The Strawberry Blonde). He is the rough and tumble, always ready to rumble sort. His sister Janice Tyndall played by Irene Hervey (Three Godfathers) has a dollop of common sense mixed in with her natural spunk. It is clear to all that the pretty miss and the new deputy would make a charming couple.

One of the most affecting scenes in the movie is the one where everything changes for Tom and Frenchy. Tom is questioning Frenchy at her home when he strikes a nerve on the matter of Sheriff Keogh, presumed to have left town of his own accord. Her obvious fear for the truth to be revealed and for Tom's safety brings them close. In a series of close-ups you sense their growing attraction and understanding. When Tom wipes away the heavily made-up Frenchy's lipstick saying "I'll bet you've got kind of a lovely face under all that paint, huh? Why don't you wipe it off someday and have a good look - and figure out how you can live up to it." he seals their fate. As Clara the maid, played by Lillian Yarbo (You Can't Take It With You), remarks, "That man has got personality!".

Concluding that Sheriff Keogh was murdered, Tom sets about investigating that possibility with the help of Wash and their new deputy, Boris. It is now a battle of wills and strategy between the sheriff's office and the crooks as to who will rule Bottleneck. Frenchy turns traitor to Kent in order to protect Tom, leaving Wash open to attack. Tom retaliates a brazen nighttime raid on the jail by strapping on his guns. Frenchy exhorts Lily Belle and the decent women of the town to action. The men may think they are in control when they turn main street into a shooting gallery, but they are helpless in the face of a gang of females armed with everything from two by fours to rolling pins. The Last Chance Saloon ends up the location of a rollicking free-for-all and a tragic sacrifice.

Law and order has come to Bottleneck in the form of a visionary and amiable young man named Tom Destry, who becomes the favourite son of the town; and actor James Stewart, a favourite son of the movies.

The story of Destry Rides Again is riveting and told with humour both wry and slapstick. The action and the sentiment that are essential to the film's emotional core develops naturally. The movie captivates audiences with its genuine heart, memorable characters and indelible performances. Truly, one of the fabulous films of the 1930s. 
Idiot's Delight (1939)

By Danny Reid of   
Pre-Code.Com

"Evidentially, Mr. Van, that you are not fully aware of the present international situation!"

"I'm aware the international situation is always regrettable. What's wrong now?"

A lot of other entries you'll read today are about unequivocally great movies—your Adventures of Robin Hoods and Bringing Up Babys. Idiot's Delight is not one of the great movies of the 1930s. Considering it came out in 1939, it's probably not even among the best of that year.

What it is, though, is unique. It's MGM's first big swipe at the thunderclouds hovering over Europe that would soon engulf America too. But keep in mind that MGM wasn't afraid of fascism, nor were a lot of other Americans. The wealthiest and most autocratic of the studios, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer luxuriated in tales like Marie Antoinette (1937) about a wealthy, glamorous queen who was simply misunderstood by the grubby masses.

Idiot's Delight is instead about the tragedy of not knowing where those clouds came from or why they're there. It's about life in spite of the uncertainty of the world. And, strangely, it has the full power of MGM's biggest assets on its prow.

Besides having two of the biggest stars of the decade, Norma Shearer and Clark Gable, it's an incredibly expansive movie, covering the twenty year gap between the wars. It makes no emphasis on events, eras or ages, but that's part of its charms.

Opening with strains of "Over There", George M. Cohan's tune that became the patriotic theme for the First World War, we soon meet Harry Van (Clark Gable), a World War I veteran and flailing actor. He struggles through chorus lines and even selling snake oil before hitting upon a mind reading act with a very sauced Madame Zuleika (Laura Hope Crews).

Waiting in the wings as the act goes badly in Omaha one night is Irene (Norma Shearer). She's an acrobat and becomes fascinated with their scam. She interrupts one night and offers to become Harry's new partner. He passes, but there's a sudden romantic connection between the two that overcomes Harry's natural huckster sensibilities and Irene's rather playful tendency to exaggerate every detail of her life.

One of the most poetic moments happens as the two part ways in opposite directions to continue their tours. As both are in their buses, parting, Irene's begins to move, and she runs along the length of it, waving goodbye to Harry. It's kind of dopey and sweet, a good summation of their chemistry and the warm, lived-in feeling it's already achieved.

A decade later and Van has brought together a troupe of six women called "Les Blondes" who are taking a budget-priced European tour. They're stopped before they cross the border of Switzerland and placed in a nearby hotel. The unnamed country they're now trapped in is on the brink of war and is watching all of its foreign nationals closely.

The hotel's other unwilling guests include German Dr. Waldersee (Charles Coburn), a scientist on the verge of curing cancer and Quillery (Burgess Meredith), an anti-war activist. Arriving later is arms merchant Achille Weber (Edward Arnold) and on his arm is the voluptuous Irina (Norma Shearer), a familiar looking story teller with a thick accent.

Okay, Irina is really Irene in a blonde wig and Norma Shearer doing her best Greta Garbo impersonation, but it's fun to watch as Harry goes from confusion, to recognition, to bafflement, and finally to admiration at his former fling's new disguise.

The story of life and conflict is written across the characters the two Americans meet as the Europeans fret and plan for the upcoming Armageddon. The hotel is situated next to an airfield and haunted by the drills and sirens that kick off at inopportune moments, setting everyone on edge. As the war grinds closer, tempers flare and reality comes close to breaking into the warm deco hotel.

It's 1939 and the book on the causes and problems of the Second World War was still being written—hell, it was barely out of the prologue when this film was released—so it's unsurprising that the movie takes most of its negative feelings about the conflict from the same place Americans had come from during the First World War. That's why Idiot's Delight may throw off modern viewers, because to it, the war is a scam, a trick played on the masses by the rich and greedy. Second verse, same as the first, and not the black and white 'good versus evil' narrative that would develop as the Allies learned more about the Nazi's motivations.

That fits into the film's overriding themes about disguises and cons. Every patron is phony in some way, save for the honest Quillery (who certainly pays for it), but their lives are all still scarred from the last war with mixed levels of eagerness to move onto the new one at their front door.

Gable gets his only musical number in this film—yes, ever. He sings "Puttin' on the Ritz" with the backup of Les Blondes and even gets out a few dance moves. I mean, he isn't bad, but he's no Astaire or even a Cagney. But he is surprisingly game, especially considering his other big film of the 1939 was vastly different—but you can read about that one elsewhere.

The film alternates between comedy and drama with no subtlety and no regard for the audience. It's yearning for an answer to a world gone mad and finding none, making it tough to unpack. It's an anti-war Grand Hotel set just as a fragile world seemed on the brink of what may have been the last war they'd ever see.

But it's also broadly comic and romantic, playing with the audience's expectations constantly. It can be brutal, but still laconic in its own way, a weirdly disjointed movie that gropes towards meaning without finding it. That's fine. Its ending was still a half decade and millions of lives away.

It's about the warmth of the unexpected and the coldness of the world. Coming from MGM with an impressive pedigree and some of its biggest stars, it's a nice, big-budgeted and distinctly odd coda to a decade that had seen the entire world consumed by hopelessness and anger. Alas, the worst was yet to come. 
The Hound of the Baskervilles (1939)

By Kristina Dijan of   
Speakeasy

On the moors of Dartmoor, Devonshire, we watch a strange scene unfold: a man runs terrified from a terrible sound of howling, he drops dead and has his watch stolen by a scruffy bearded fellow. At the coroner's inquest we learn the victim was Sir Charles Baskerville, and what testimony is given by friends and locals comes with clear trepidation. There is some open secret, some fearful truth that everyone seems to know, but no one dares speak of. Despite the curious footprints and evidence of something far more sinister than a simple heart attack, that's what will be recorded as Sr Charles' cause of death.

This case has not escaped the notice of the man who lives at 221B Baker Street; Sherlock Holmes (Basil Rathbone) is one step ahead, following news of the arrival from Canada of young Sir Henry Baskerville (Richard Greene). Holmes tells his partner Watson (Nigel Bruce) in no uncertain terms that Henry will be murdered. It's a belief shared by Dr. Mortimer (Lionel Atwill), who arrives from Dartmoor with a plea for Holmes' help and the story of the cursed males of the Baskerville clan. Holmes pledges to assist, and sends Watson, Baskerville and Mortimer to Dartmoor straight away; he will follow after finishing some other business. At the house they meet the strange and unpleasant servants the Barrymans, played by John Carradine and Eily Malyon. The creepiness is as thick as the fog, leading Watson to write Holmes that evening of the "dreadful eeriness of this place." It's also a busy place, where characters sneak in and out of the house, where eyes of portraits follow passersby and reveal, better than any DNA test, true heirs and impostors. It's a place where Barryman signals to someone far across the moor, leading Watson and Baskerville to investigate in the first of the film's many ventures into the night and mist, the dangerous mire, to the crags and caves which conceal secret trap doors, graves and ruins.

There will be fancy dinners with the locals, all of whom seem suspect due to some strange quirk, animosity or grudge, like the litigious Frankland (Barlowe Borland) or the mysterious Stapleton siblings (Morton Lowry and Wendy Barrie). There will be romance between Baskerville and Beryl Stapleton, the return of the scruffy watch thief, a new bearded stranger peddling trinkets, perfume and secrets. There's an escaped killer roaming the moors who turns out to be related to one of the characters (only one of the surprise kin in this story), and there's a bold and risky climactic plan by Holmes to use Baskerville as bait to coax out the killer. And yes, after all this activity and all the debate over the truth of family legend and folklore, there is indeed a deadly hound whose howl chills skeptics and believers alike, trained by our villain to maim and kill on command.

The Hound of the Baskervilles was the first of the fourteen Rathbone-Bruce Holmes movies, and one of the two made at Fox (generally thought to be the two best instalments) before the series moved to Universal. It was directed by Sidney Lanfield, and while it's not an exact adaptation of the Arthur Conan Doyle source novel, there's little fault in this impressive version of it. The movie is fast, thrilling and clever with memorable images and style, tension that steadily ratchets higher, touches of horror, well-placed humour that conceals or distracts from big clues, and themes that speak to the audiences of 1939 while remaining true to the original Victorian era (an area where the later Universal Holmes films strayed).

Nigel Bruce's Watson is at his best here, in terms of character and performance. In subsequent Sherlock Holmes films, Watson increasingly became a bumbler and a source of silly comedy (which he was very good at, mind you). Here he could only be called slightly incompetent, and that's when compared to the genius Holmes. He's always well intentioned, and you get to see the professional side of him as the capable doctor, as well as the man of action who charges toward the fire. When he's outsmarted by Holmes, he's amusingly miffed and exasperated but not humiliated, bitter or defeated. For instance there's an amusing bit here where Holmes does a little profiling lesson, quizzing Watson about Mortimer's walking stick, and asking him to reconstruct the man from his accessory. Watson is fairly confident in his readings but predictably gets it wrong, whereas Holmes swiftly deduces the man's occupation from the engraving, his pet from the teeth marks, and even the imminence of his next visit by the stick's presence. Holmes can't conceal his smug satisfaction when all those points are proven correct, which hits Watson like a slap, but instead of mugging, Bruce shows a mix of admiration and humility. Another great moment occurs when Bruce and Greene are in the moors, frozen with fear after hearing howls; upon seeing each other's concern they nervously laugh and reassert how much they don't believe that ridiculous hound nonsense.

Supporting the tension is the great look of the film; mood, fear, history and mystery are all constructed from creative technique and atmosphere. There are many nice shots like the one from above on a staircase at 221B, or from below as Holmes questions a witness. There's a fine transition when Mortimer reads the Baskerville history, as the camera focusses on the handwritten pages which become transparent to reveal the manor and frame the flashback to 1650, when Hugo Baskerville (Ralph Forbes) dies in familiar circumstances, surrounded by gigantic hound footprints. A flickering firelight effect is used more than once, making this look more like a horror picture, and the lights pierce through the mists long before The X-Files made it seem like their invention. The lack of music is especially effective in the moors, where the only sounds are characters trudging through the thick muck, crickets, and the inevitable howls. It may all have been done on a sound stage but the rich atmosphere, the light and shadow, gives the impression of a vast moor area with hidden dangers, ways to get lost, places to stalk victims, and high precipices falling into nothing but more great drama. The hound is frightening despite being little more than a sound effect until the climactic reveal and the ensuing brutal struggle with its prey.

The cast is good and works to bring a variety of characters to life. The popularity of Rathbone and Bruce was a surprise, so in this first picture Richard Greene was first billed. He's good as the cute, charming and initially unsuspecting heir to riches and curses, a gentleman with some edge. I like the flash of annoyance and disdain he shows once he's out of sight of the ladies who have been fawning and clinging to him during his ocean crossing. He just as lightly dismisses all this business about the "wild supernatural hound" story, even after the oddity of having one of his boots stolen, returned and a different one pilfered. He remains blase after he gets a threatening note assembled from London Times type clippings (except for the rare word "moor" which has to be scrawled by hand). When the time comes for him to face the reality of the danger, he does it in dashing style, most notably struggling with the hound in a graphic, extended sequence where he's nearly torn apart.

Barrie's Beryl Stapleton is a refined and elegant lady who gets a nice entrance when she rescues Greene, stopping him just before he walks into the mire her brother has just described as consuming an entire horse. John Stapleton is friendly but rubs Watson the wrong way; he sense something aloof and off kilter in this relic hunter who takes a morbid pleasure in telling horror stories about the mire, yet is a skeptic about the hound. It's almost comical how he constantly writes off those howls as the wind, or the calls of a bittern. Where the Stapletons are proper and refined, the Barrymans at Baskerville Manor seem plainly bad. Carradine and Malyon have gaunt faces and piercing stares (and some masterful side-eye) befitting an old dark house film, and add plenty of shivers and apparent nastiness, but beneath those intimidating exteriors are charitable hearts whose actions lead to a big fat red herring.

As Mortimer, Atwill is a weird possible suspect and the opposite number to the rational Holmes. Mortimer has a gleeful fascination with the occult (wide-eyed, even, when seen through those thick glasses), a childlike excitement when his wife Beryl Mercer agrees to a seance, and an unbeatable sense of drama when reading aloud the tale of the unlucky Baskervilles. That creepy seance episode, lit from low angle like a campfire story session, has a nice touch of humour when Mercer calls out for the late Sir Charles and is answered by distant howls and Lowry's restatement of his "just the wind" theory.

Rathbone is excellent, whether he's teasing or deceiving Bruce, always with warmth and playfulness, whether he's concentrating on a puzzle and revealing to us his light bulb moments, explaining his conclusions to others or expressing doubts about his own plans. He's amused and drawn in by an intelligent opponent; when Holmes and Watson follow Baskerville during his first day in London and foil a shooting from a hansom cab, Holmes is impressed to learn the mystery passenger told his driver he was Sherlock Holmes. That's a villain toying with his opponent and also a foreshadowing of the frequent assumption of identities and disguises we'll see in the rest of the film.

Holmes may be a superior intellect but he's not an irritatingly egotistical one. Unimpressed by legend or the occult, Holmes measures on a scale of potential challenge and intellectual engagement. In his view, there is enough room in the realm of reality and rational efforts to be creative; he says people "stick to the facts even though they prove nothing" and imagination is best applied to "asking questions," then arranging and understanding the concrete and provable. And for all his mental acuity, Holmes is also a man of action. For much of the film, he carries out a vigorous and difficult investigation, and when trapped by the villain in the hound's underground lair, he has little time to carve through the rotted door, but leaves us little doubt that he will.

The portrayal of Holmes as a master detective and an immortal character is a central message of this film: Mortimer approaches him as we know many others do: "you're the one man who can help." Holmes is also presented as a welcome and much desired hero for a nation under attack in 1939, and Atwill makes a statement at the end that must also have spoken to the fears and desires of those original movie audiences: "knowing there is such a hero in England as Sherlock Holmes gives us strength and security." Fittingly, in this story Holmes fights evil on a somewhat larger scale. He doesn't just reveal a murderer's identity but brings down a seemingly unstoppable monster whose ability to terrorize depends on superstition, hype and propaganda, but who is ultimately small and defeatable, given the right focus, knowledge and effort.

There is no originality in stating that 1939 was a stellar, perhaps unmatched, year for great films but there's always pleasure in revisiting those pictures and reminding everyone why they were great and meaningful. The Hound of the Baskervilles is a fine movie that ranks high among the classics of that year. It kicked off a long and well regarded series, further built a cultural icon, featured definitive portrayals and it's still just a good tale of "murder, Watson, refined, cold blooded murder."
Where to Find This Issue's Contributors

All of the contributors to this book are members of the Classic Movie Blog Association (CMBA). You can learn more about CMBA at clamba.blogspot.com.

Here is a listing of each piece's author and their website:

  * Manhattan Melodrama by Cliff Aliperti of Immortal Ephemera

  * Freaks by Becky Barnes of ClassicBecky's Brain Food

  * Born to Dance by Annette Bochenek of Hometowns to Hollywood

  * Love Me Tonight by Marsha Collock of A Person in the Dark

  * The Hound of the Baskervilles by Kristina Dijan of Speakeasy

  * Maytime by Amanda Garrett of Old Hollywood Films

  * The Bride of Frankenstein by Lesley Gaspar of Second Sight Cinema

  * Follow the Fleet by Annmarie Gatti of Classic Movie Hub

  * Sabotage by John Greco of Twenty Four Frames

  * Men Call It Love by Karen Burroughs Hannsberry of Shadows and Satin

  * Bringing Up Baby by Cameron Howard of The Blonde At The Film.com

  * Boys Town by R.A. Kerr of Silver Screenings

  * The Adventures of Robin Hood by Diana & Constance Metzinger of Silver Scenes

  * Destry Rides Again by Patricia Nolan-Hall of Caftan Woman

  * Morning Glory by Margaret Perry of MargaretPerry.Org

  * Idiot's Delight by Danny Reid of Pre-Code.Com

  * Sons of the Desert by Ivan G. Shreve - Thrilling Days of Yesteryear

  * Pygmalion by Deborah M. Thomas of Java Bean Rush

  * Go West Young Man by Leah Williams of Cary Grant Won't Eat You

