The Blossoming of Judy Jones: FOUR FRIGHTENED PEOPLE (1934)

A cherished lump of stocking coal for Cecil B. DeMille devotees, FOUR FRIGHTENED PEOPLE (1934) is remarkably lapse on realism for being such jungle-set escapade: no one seems to actually move through the jungle, or deal with any real danger, i.e. dehydration, tigers, or malaria. The frightened four's trusty guide whips up a camp with ladders and tree houses latched from vines and trees every night and the next day the men are free to mope after the 'blossoming' Claudette Colbert. A chimp (in Malaysia!) steals Claudette Collbert's clothes while she showers in a waterfall--the big DeMille money shot of 'did we or didn't we see something' prurience--and her emergence in a costume made of leaves, like an amazon queen, is greeted with slackjawed approval by the now lusty journalist and irritated Englishman. It's fine, but it's not TARZAN, or RED DUST, or even art. So what is it? A portrait of a beat-down librarian who finds her groove in the jungles of Malaysia? You betcha.

 

In the days of the silent age, the 20s particularly, one went to the cinema to see silent films, like D.W. Griffith's THE LOVE FLOWER and THE IDOL DANCER (both 1920) starring Griffith's then love, Carol Dempster, as an innocent virgin unaware of what constitutes sin and so frequently near nude. The legitimate stage was dank with productions like Rain and West of Zanzibar.  Four Frightened People was originally a novel, but was then adapted by Bartlett Cormack (writer of plays like The Painted Veil and The Racket) and Lenore J. Coffee as something far more like a play, which suited DeMille's silent film-bred ambitions to lens elaborate tableaux as opposed to kinetic action.  It's not important to move from scene to scene for Griffith so much as to move the audience via exotic still images. So we move from a scene of the lovers surrounded on all sides by shadowy black figures, tied together and left to be romantic and enraptured as they face certain death, to being back with our island matron who's enlisted the entire female population of some remote Malay village in a proto-Planned Parenthood.

So while not officially an adaptation of a play, FOUR FRIGHTENED PEOPLE makes sense when you imagine it that way. We must read the palm of this film like a reverse fortune teller: one went to the theater in the 1920s to see what silent sinema couldn't give them, a story wherein people actually speak, and hot live girls the menfolk could lust after via opera glasses. Jungle films allowed, nay enforced, a strict dissolution of the then extreme moral code. One simply couldn't sleep in separate bedrooms when on the jungle floor with snakes and tiger and lusty skulking natives all around. And good luck trying to keep your full-body swimsuit intact should you stumble on a swimming pool or waterfall.

Now you get the picture, and it's one that's been clouded in modern society by the opening up of strict sexual taboos. Who cares about waterfalls these days? Now you can be gay and interracial in public; now you can sleep with a girl in a hotel room and not need a marriage certificate or have to worry about the hotel detective barging in; you don't have shotgun-toting fathers dragging you to the all-night justice of the peace. You don't need to be lost in the jungle or stranded in a remote corner of the tropics to be 'free' to let your hair down, take your glasses off, or fall in love with... gasp... a poesy-spouting simp like Herbert Marshall.

There's a great gag where the rich old matron is taken hostage for a sack of rice equivalent to her weight (which is why the chose her instead of Colbert's Judy Jones, with her skinny but shapely arms) to be delivered in a month (or they eat her) - and the matron might give you the impression she's a pushover, but she's a saint! I've never agreed with a crazy old society committee type, but I'm all for planned parenthood, and it's a nice bit of inverted morality (going against the code by implying the need to use protection if you're going to be tumbling in the jungle). She also gives Judy her makeup bag before she departs (with her little dog too) and as the remaining three move closer and closer to Edenic savagery, Judy Jones stumbles on permanents, facials, and the freedom of needing to use glasses. Out of nowhere come wooden cups and things that might take one some little time to make if they didn't have a massive crew of technicians just out of frame.

So while the BLUE LAGOON / CASTAWAY fantasia has been recently forgotten not just due to loosened it  at least survives as our fantasy of life without cell phones  Now that we've so overrun the globe that 'getting away from it all' isn't an option even in fantasy, the only way to imagine getting out from under the suffocating flag of debt and demand is to bring the whole edifice down in an apocalyptic crash. Weather the storm through to the end and be free to roam, hunt, and take whatever junk you can find without worrying if you can afford it, living debt-free, and most of all, shooting back and shooting often, fishing without a license, and drinking and driving, all without guilt or anxiety.

But thank god we still have these relics, these outstretched palms ready to predict the past with, this breadcrumb trail down through the years to an era when escape was as simple as de-boating a plague-stricken ocean liner in the dead of night. The funky aroma of the jazz age lingers all over FOUR FRIGHTENED PEOPLE, and if it seems static, just imagine you're watching it on Broadway, and the close-ups are seen through your trusty opera glasses. Now maybe you understand the appeal that silly waterfall scene might have onstage. Now that's a blossoming, am I right, bud?

Casey Anthony and the Hollywood Stoners

In THEY WONT FORGET (1937) a frenzied mob takes the law into their own hands after the hottest girl in town is murdered and the ambitious local D.A. (Claude Rains) has spurred on the hysteria with the help of an unscrupulous journalist. And when the woman killed is a 16 year-old Lana Turner in her film debut, the queasy sick effect triples. The camera catches her every bounce in a tight sweater as she struts through the blindly celebratory Memorial day crowd before her death. Audiences remembered the sweater, not so much the grisly murder forgotten in the stampede for lynching and right there one must shudder at America's cold, lusty, lethal gaze. How implicated are we in the audience via the fact Lana's sweater bounce won her fame and fortune via the ultimate in sacrificial volcano virgin unwilling martyrdom?


FURY (1936), THE OX-BOW INCIDENT (1943), and THEY WON'T FORGET (1937) were recently shown back-to-back on TCM, a lynch mob triple feature. It may be some wise old programmer's subliminal nod to the crazy mobs outside Casey Anthony's trial; a wry answer to the hoopla and hysteria as the rubes got red in the face when the word came back that Casey was 'not guilty' and 'justice' wouldn't be done yet gain. The news machine ably suckered in the attention of slack-jawed yokels, church-crazy old women bitter from lifelong sexual frustration; victims of past crimes that went unpunished, where criminals were let off on technicalities or never caught by a snoozing justice system; anyone who grew up with a shitty, self-absorbed mom, focused by the attention-hungry media onto one woman's trial: Casey Anthony = increased circulation, and boosted careers. Just as in the stacked deck of rube eggin' in OX-BOW, with Fonda in his pious 12 ANGRY MEN lecture mode:  "Hangin's any man's business that's around."

In Casey's case trials for killing daughters are everyone's business regardless of being around. Old Henry delivers his OX-BOW recitations well, but I actually preferred old Ma Joad's to the most blubbering of the three lynch victims: "Keep yer chin up. You only die once, son."  Yeah, don't we wish?

These three films - did people outside of the liberal media elite (Oscar voters) ever want to see them? What's the hook in lynch mob message pictures? Even the media elite shouldn't want to actually pay money to sit down in a theater and learn how skeezy and easily led the throngs around them in the audience are? These films are exhibit A in how if there was a fire you would surely get trampled on your way to the exit. But at the same time, they are riveting, compelling viewing, and that's the answer. Nothing gets us feeling personally involved-- gives us the feeling something is at stake--than an abused, missing, or murdered child. Hollywood films aren't crammed with revenge against sleazy pedophiles and ruthless kidnappers for nothing. When films like THEY WON'T FORGET come around, they're like Hollywood's chance to preach against what the studios themselves practice, or would shortly, starting around the 1970s with DIRTY HARRY AND DEATH WISH --the anti-liberal backlash mob action they both cause with their rabid headlines and tut tut with their sober message movies. 

Lynch mobs seem less abundant in an age where we don't need a marriage license to check into a hotel room --but the repressed, frustrated ugly main street populace still don't have party, and they still get mad at those who do. Now, instead of Claude Rains' fame-hungry D.A. we have Nancy Grace, tireless in her hounding the accused mom, Casey Anthony. When a child's involved it's the business of any accusatory hysteric that's around, and when it's a dead blonde girl child and the mom looks good even in the harsh overhead lighting of the courtroom; and--something even more shocking for the strictly sober Christian wives out there--you can show pictures of her orgymongering, that's where careers like Grace's are made. 

The three anti-vigilante violence films TCM screened all get a royal four stars from the obedient Leonard Maltin, which is not surprising. They're all well done enough to be solidly entertaining despite the sermons. But the liberals of the Hollywood media aren't necessarily right just because they can make a movie about people being wrong. The liberal media has never hid its contempt for the red state working man. Just show an American flag, some jeans, a cowboy hat, an endangered toddler, a lite beer, and as far as New York's advertising elite are concerned, the suckers are hooked, but meanwhile, who's keeping them stupid? The game is just as fixed in FURY as it is on Fox News; as fixed in Stanley Kramer's films as it is at a carnival pitch game.

Still, my rage at these cretins FURY director Fritz Lang depicts is so blazing it threatens to engulf me, even though I know it's a fixed game, that Lang hates them more than I ever could, and if my rage is so easily inflamed, how much better am I than the mob? Just because I am more 'educated' and and 'debauched' I may feel I am free to join Fritz Lang in his cosmopolitan revulsion towards the provincial reactionaries of these films, little better than the Nazis he left behind in Vienna, all sheepdogs for whom the law is like a leash, roping them by the neck to a master they hate and fear. With the leash comes off they only answer to the general consensus of the rumor mill which is by nature predisposed towards exaggeration and a common enemy, and no sense of future responsibility.

And nothing blinds oneself to one's own faults quite like rage, just as self-awareness obstructs fascism's growth, or awareness of one's own inner struggle is the only way to survive it. On hindsight, how many of our evil transgressions were done to impress someone, even if they only spoke to us through radio or TV? Next time, let us think of Claude Rains in THEY WONT FORGET, a man smart enough to know that mobs don't want truth, they want blood. Let us try, in the heat of the moment, to never cast even the second stone... without first stoning... ourselves... let us not condemn drugs until we have tried them. Get a straight cat high day! It's coming...

Pre-Code Capsules VII: LOVE IS A RACKET, HEAT LIGHTNING, THE BIG SHAKEDOWN, THE KEYHOLE, TARZAN THE FEARLESS

LOVE IS A RACKET
1932 - ***
Douglas Fairbanks Jr. fairs well with Clark Gable hair and his sweet-natured soul as Jimmy the gossip hound here in a typical WB film of the era. As a columnist who tangles over Francis Dee with generic gangster Lyle Talbot, Fairbanks races around and seeks counsel from fellow reporters Lee Tracy and Ann Dvorak who are hep enough to know their boy's getting taken to the cleaners by slumming Dee, but keeps her yap shut like a true pal.

There's nothing quite like this film's ambitiously cynical ending, the sort of loose-ended defiance of the crime-must-pay adage only possible in pre-code conditions.  Dialogue is pitched at such a dark cynical height that censors ears obviously didn't hear it: "Looks like you been up at Sing Sing looking at a burning!" Sex is everywhere, as when Tracy and Dvorak are out at a nightclub eating dinner and she says "if you loved me half as much as you love that steak I'd break down out of self-pity" (meaning throw him a sympathy fuck, yo!) Fairbanks describes Dee--to her face!--as having "a beautiful can." and that she's "as pretty as a little red wagon." Lots of phone calls are made and received. The TCM print looks real nice. Can't go wrong with rooftop in the rain spying on murders that you thought about committing yourself, and now don't have to... that's pre-gode cold!

HEAT LIGHTNING
1934 - ***1/2
Saucy pre-code Warner Brothers at its best. All that's missing is Barbara Stanwyck but here's punchy Aline McMahon filling in as a semi-butch mechanic at a lonesome desert gas station / auto camp, haunted by the usual Mad Dog gangsters, here Lyle Talbot as a shaky safecracker - and Preston Foster as McMahon's ex boyfriend, from when she was an adventuress out in Tulsa. Ann Dvorak as Aline's naive sister gets the most pre-code juice when she returns from a dance with the town's most notorious womanizer, her face puffy, her lipstick long ago kissed and licked off; limping in her tattered dress. God knows what happened, but after 1934 and the advent of the code it sure wouldn't happen again! And if that's not enough, Bang! Bang! And the heat lightning is no mere metaphor. Meanwhile Frank McHugh adds beery acumen as an easygoing chauffeur for the two bespangled divorcees (Glenda Farrell, Ruth Donnelly) who become stranded on their way back from Reno. When one guy dies his last words are "oh who cares?" We do, maybe for the first time ever.

THE BIG SHAKEDOWN
1934 - **
This an informal little Vitaphone crackler, still existant thanks to one of Bette Davis pre-star roles, stealing scenes as a perky counter girl for straight edge pharmacist Charlie Farrell. He gets roped into counterfeit drug manufacture by Ricardo Cortez, a mobster thrown out of work by the repeal of prohibition and looking for a new product to make and shake down unwilling druggist throats. Glenda Farrell (no relation?) also lends some extra oomph as a cat-fightin' moll, but neither her nor Davis gets enough screen time to liven things up. The only glimmers of termite originality occur in the generally ambicable inter-gang relations: Cortez joking with his underlings played by WB stalwarts like Allen Jenkins, who's scared of the drug business, 'cuz his brother's in jail for 20 years "and he only had two decks of coke on 'im." See, before they took the cocaine out of coke they didn't have that problem, coke should be in coke, anything less is false advertising. What a fucked up system. In point of fact, the worst culprit for stepping on medication is the big corporations themselves! And if they never made beer illegal in the first place, mugs like Cortez would never have gotten their first taste of big business. That's not part of the implied moral here, but it should be, as there's little else to go on. Niven Busch was a screenwriter.

THE KEYHOLE
1931 - **1/2
Monroe Owsley specialized in sleazy gigolo bad guy roles, and here he even wears an odious greasepaint mustache. Kay Francis suffers as his first wife, a victim of his blackmail schemes. She's remarried to an older man who's terribly rich and jealous, to the point he hires gigolo detective George Brent to catch her in the act and/or seduce her himself.  Allen Jenkins, who you may remember from films like THE BIG SHAKEDOWN, one capsule up, and Ruth Donnelly (HEAT LIGHTNING, THE BIG SHAKEDOWN) as a schemer who thinks Jenkins is a rich man (he's Brent's sidekick and is foolishly given control of the expense account) are the support. The problem is, Brent is so annoyingly full of himself that halfway through the film you start to appreciate Owsley. In fact you can't really scrape a single human character worth saving out of this mess, but Francis does look amazing in those feathered hats and capes (courtesy Orry-Kelly) and pre-Castro Havana is worth a look, even if it's all rear-projected and drenched in overlapping nightclub montage.

TARZAN THE FEARLESS 
1933 - **1/2
A twelve chapter serial was shot, according to star Buster Crabbe, in a week, on the back lot. Flash was so good in sci fi they put his hot little pony keg into a loin cloth, gave him a yell that sounds more like a man getting blanked than Weissmuller's archetypal yodel. Julie Bishop, aka Jacqueline Wells (THE BLACK CAT) is the sweet young thing at the heart of it all. Her dad discovers a lost tribe of ancient Egyptians led by Mischa Auer (who holds a candle eternally at his chin in the cavern darkness so his eyes look extra buggy) and one of Wells' evil white guides steals one of their god's statue's gems; pith-helmeted people run back and forth across the screen; shots are aimed; shots are fired; vines swung from; more running, animal footage fought; the two bad hunters are continually allowed to tag along even though everyone knows they're the bad guys, one presumes 'cuz white folk need to stick together in Africa, even if they're mortal enemies, and that's racist. The film version condenses all twelve chapters down to a short film and the action goes so fast and runs over so much ground with such a diverse surplus of stock footage and mismatched stunt doubles. that the best way to take it is as some post-modern found art collage. TCM showed it as part of their Arabs in Cinema series, because some Arabs show up with a hot Arab woman as their leader. Halfway through the film they just disappear, but whatever. Tarzan... dives... again!

God bless the Orgiast / who's brought his own

Cecil B. DeMille's SIGN OF THE CROSS (1932) mixes pre-code decadence with stilted odes to the Lord, have mercy, and makes a great exhibit A of the dualistic prurience of 1930s small town America. Like much of Hollywood it quietly snickers at the rubes for watching it, mimicking its own audience in a lengthy final coliseum scene, where a playbill announces a vast array of spectacles, and then we're treated to lurid shots of every last one, right down to the amazons vs. pygmies

While ostensibly being something that could be shown in Sunday school, THE SIGN OF THE CROSS harbors a pre-code phallic yen for lurid godless orgies, and the willingness to sit through Sunday school to get to one. The lurid tableaux that get the Romans howling and leering are the very reason after all, that we're watching this, not the dialogue. De Mille is our own delighted Nero (here played by a false-nosed Laughton, on low) and his audience as the slavering Roman crowd, turning away in horror from the spectacle while peeking through their fingers, leering and judging and gasping all in one emotional outburst of repressed desire. 

Maybe that's because the film sparks to life only in the decadence, for decadence is cinematic, and Christianity is not. Jesus didn't understand the subtle joys of a circus. But that kind of showmanship, the Todd Browning-style carny horror, is where De Mille's heart is really at. His story may preach meekness but aside from their suicidal tendencies, these simpering Christians are strictly like from dullsville. De Mille never shows any spark of life in them, they just pose like old paintings and drone on and on, until Roman intervention is all but begged for by an impatient theatergoer. Ann Harding even seems to be rolling her eyes at their secret meeting.

And besides! These Christians may preach a good game, but in a short milennium or so they'd be torturing and burning astrology-minding pagans just as viciously as they're being tortured by them now. Where's your messiah now, m'yeah!

But as long as we're not stuck alone in a room with Ann Harding, things are pretty lively. A great moment is when Frederic March is streaming to the rescue in his chariot and goes plowing into Claudette Colbert's carriage on the main drag. It's awesome the way De Mille cuts from the calm and seductive Colbert to March, racing to the rescue and clutching the reigns like a boy told to take out the trash right at the climax of some Cinemax action movie, if you know what I mean:

Besides, who wants a Christian with a water pitcher when you can have savvy Claudette Colbert in a milk bath? Only a fool! Only a man young enough that he still does an unconscious John Barrymore impression (He'd actually played him, more or less, in 1930's THE ROYAL FAMILY OF BROADWAY) since he had little guidance from the director. Barrymore and Garbo under a good 'close-up' director like Edmund Goulding could deliver that kind of self-sacrificial heights-scaling in GRAND HOTEL, but Frederic March and Ann Harding under a good 'crowd scene' director like DeMille can't deliver that kind of self-sacrificial heights-scaling without even the most bitterly pious of small town prurients choking on their smuggled-in thermos of Ovaltine. At least I hope they'd choke, and not completely miss the point of all life. For as Oscar W. notes in An Ideal Husband (which I caught yesterday on TCM): 

"Do you really think it is weakness that yields to temptation? I tell you that there are terrible temptations that it requires strength, strength and courage, to yield to. To stake all one's life on a single moment, to risk everything on one throw, whether the stake be power or pleasure, I care not -- there is no weakness in that."

I found the Cecil B. DeMille set online for $17, which is pretty good, that was my own risky throw of the dice, and and it was worth it just for CLEOPATRA and this weird old film, which is restored with lots of long unavailable scenes of sex and violence. Special thanks to Glorious Trash's Joe Kenney for recommending it! My natural inclination to avoid anything with Christians in it would have prevented me from every even considering it, and here it is hardly a biblical epic at all, in the sense I expected, but a horror film, similar to one of my top five essentials, Todd Browning's DRACULA (1931) in the way the stilted, undead quality of early sound film adds an extra frisson, as if the air itself is being photographed and recorded and is, in its own way, even thicker and more nurturing than the bottom of a dark ocean. It even ends with lovers marching out of a deep cellar's steep stone steps into the wrathful sunlight.

In DRACULA it's the still-human survivors going into light, in CROSS it's the doomed Roman-Christian vampires going to their death. For though Christians are 'reverse vampires' drawing crosses in the sand, making them out of sticks, like sad sack children hiding in the back while the rest of the kids play tag and pin the tail on the donkey, they're still outsiders, the lost, the elderly and fearful, the desperate for salvation, and they can be tricked by any good cult leader into dying and killing and blood-drinking with alarming ease. The thing is, can actors be tricked so easily? Can they look up from their private life Gomorrahae long enough to feel the burn of that cross upon their forehead, and suffer through another deadening sermon from that old Catholic Legion of Decency?

Hell no. In two years with the advent of the production code that would have to change, but for now, in year 64 AD and 1932, let sweet freedom of carnal expression, drunkenness reign (the most heartbreaking scene for me was when March orders out his big Fellini-esque dinner party--including the always delightful Ferdinand Gottshalk, who gets off all the wittiest and Wide-iest cracks-- and you see these huge slaves carrying huge kegs and ice buckets leading the way down his marble steps) and the lions take the Wilde-jailing buzzkills everywhere. Two hundred pieces reward for every Christian turned in!

Great 70s Dads: Claude Rains in CAESAR AND CLEOPATRA (1945)

"Caesar doesn't eat women. but he does eat girls... and cats."

His manner like a doting father who brooks no weakness; iron with courage as the rock under his feet, a glorious advisor/sponsor/teacher for Cleopatra as played by Vivien Leigh like a panther cub on her first kill.  Such is Caesar as embodied by Claude Rains and emboldened by the lashing pen of George Bernard Shaw. Directed by Gabriel Pascal, Caesar and Cleopatra is an underrated technicolor masterpiece and the most expensive film made up to that time in Britain, and right after WW2! I swooned upon first seeing it on TCM recently, recognizing from the gorgeous deep purples, even coming in halfway through and missing the credits, that legendary cinematographer Jack Cardiff was involved. Color has never seemed so wild and sexy, it all becomes like a beautiful dream.

Like any great 70s dad in this series, Caesar rules wisely but without sanctimony. Unlike the less civilized historical version, this Caesar doesn't try and get Cleo into bed. He understands that true love is free of all prurience (if he does sleep with Cleo, he doesn't let Shaw find out, nor us --Caesar is nothing of not discreet). Others' perversions are not condemned by this Caesar unless they violate the golden rule of do unto others, for he is no moralist. He has lived enough of life to know better; he's killed enough to know death well and to respect it and value life without needing to be sanctimonious or fearful. He has drunk enough wine to know the value of sobriety, but his is a sobriety that retains love and respect for drink and drunkards. He hath turned towards kindness and sober, shrewd, tactical benevolence as inevitably as night follows day, but kept his wit and carnal momentum intact. So often in ordinary men of power doth wisdom turns to piety, leadership to tyranny, goodness to ranting on and on about how goodly thou art. A true Caesar avoids such pitfalls, and so earns the loyalty even of his enemies.

When he's insulted by the throngs of Alexandria, for example, Caesar doesn't grow overly indignant, but merely reveals his waiting armed reinforcements with a theatrical flourish. Outwitting his rivals at every turn, Caesar never loses his love for them, even as he may kill or be killed by them. In true 70s dad style he has given up the most enticing vice of all, hatred. And in true 70s dad style he can present himself as an ogre and the prince that dispels the ogre simultaneously. Such a man is impervious to barbs and a great teacher of amoral, wicked young ingenues. Like all the 70s dads of Bernard Shaw's rogues gallery, he preaches sin but practices morality, thus confusing the shit out of people, albeit in a good way, exposing in the process the core of what most people in authority are, the sad reverse.   

We see this love in his fatherly advice to Cleopatra before she realizes who he is. She doesn't yet know he is anything but an ordinary wanderer in the night, and so shares her anxiety over meeting this legendary emperor, and Caesar is amused and delighted to continue the charade, advising her as a life coach with all the beautifully silken intonation Rains is beloved for: "Cast out all fear, and you will conquer Caesar. But if you tremble..."

While prurient interests might wonder where the love affair that was hinted at in previous versions has flown, Shaw cares not for such nonsense, and so mighty Caesar is instead pleased to dangle the idea of Marc Antony, a warrior Cleo crushed on when he blew through town years before, as a kickback for her deal with Rome. Caesar can accept her attraction for a younger man as effortlessly as he accepts her wide-eyed adoration, both just sides on a coin he gave away long ago. In Shaw's philosophy, Viagra would surely be labeled yet another albatross along the route of spiritual advancement. What progress on the torturous ascent up Buddha's mountain path can there be when hotties like Vivien Leigh are speeding down past you on blue sleds and bidding you to drop your weary pouch and jump on. One more short trip to the bottom after a long hard climb, but what else is skiing? I've made that jump more than once myself, and I can only marvel at the grace with which Rains' Caesar accepts Cleo's shock at his baldness after taking off his laurels: "Cleopatra, do you like to be reminded that you are very young? Neither do I like to be reminded I am old." Like England itself, this Caesar accepts insults with grace, and gives back only shrewd kindness and canny observations.

It's no accident after all that this film was made (in 1945) by a nation that had just been bombed halfway to shit and was now victorious and in control of its enemies' people and territories and in a position to not be vindictive and petty, but to learn from the past and institute the benevolent Marshall plan. Rains' Caesar seems to have been halfway imagined as a wisdom-enriched manual for the military police controlling the borders of major cities like Vienna and Berlin, where politics were a daily matter as Russian, British and American police swapped prisoners, disputed borders, and enforced curfews on a beaten, broke, hungry populace. In his role as conqueror, rogue, and rascal, Rains' Caesar is the model for how to celebrate your victory without crushing the spirit of your vanquished subjects. Everyone wins.

But no man can be a good leader of conquered people if he has not first conquered his own soul. Such a man is free to hate no one, and so fears nothing, and naturally shows mercy to his conquered subjects, even to the extent of freeing his demons back across the dividing line of consciousness, letting the trogs and gollums sink back into his hidden inner marshes with the promise that they will come to work for him the next morning, in suits and ties, and take their place along the assembly line as loyal charges of the empire. Shaw's play might not correspond too well with actual historical events, and sometimes seems a bit too delighted by itself, but Shaw's dialogue is the equivalent of a Howard Hawks' film- inspiring and profound even as it has you laughing like a drunken Ernest Thesiger. And if nothing else, it suggest that Rains' merry police captain was the true heart and soul of Casablanca. Why no dorm room posters of Claude Rains? Why no posters... of mighty 70s dad Caesar?

Sum Caem Ran-eeng

SOME CAME RUNNING (1958) judges its hypocritical small town types harshly: there's henpecked husband (Arthur Kennedy) and his shrewish country club wife (Leora Dana), a schoolmarm inhibitionist (Martha Hyer), an errant millionaire's daughter (Betty Lou Keim) even more harshly than they in turn judge the sexually active, hard-drinking rififi of their small Indiana town. In the end, does finger pointing at finger pointing make a right? As it is there's little reason we should care about this boozehound "writer" played by Sinatra; he needs a Dogville's worth of hypocrites just to look knightly by comparison. His brother may be a henpecked phony, but isn't even that better than just sulking?

Godard fans will note that Dean Martin never takes off his hat, even indoors or in the presence of a lady, inspiring Michel Piccoli to do the same five years later in CONTEMPT. It's worth comparing the two films, as Piccoli's writer is more like Sinatra's bitter brooder than Dino's breezy gambler. All of them coast along on a river of women whom they disdain: Michel never 'gets' why Bardot suddenly feels contempt for him, but he's felt it for her right along; Frankie never 'gets' why he must snap at anyone who suggests he's a good writer (shouldn't writers have some grasp of their own insecurities?), while at the same time anointing his hotel room with artfully uncracked copies of Steinbeck; and like it or not, MacLaine is his girlfriend, not the teacher, no matter how he'd like it to be the other way around. 

The best scenes in SCR are the earliest: drinking in the wee hours of the morning, commanding Vegas stature with the bellboy while checking into the town's Main street hotel. Minnelli's brilliance shines through in these scenes: Frank alone, drunk and happy in his solitude. It's only when he's around the phony country club types his veneer gets sour, or when he's sober.

Dean Martin, by contrast, is a breezy nonchalant rogue with no need for validation or labels like 'writer' (though I abhor his term 'pig' for his consorts). As such he may be an inspiration for both Sinatra's and Piccoli's onscreen characters but they don't swallow the pill all the way. Sinatra just expects Martin to give up drinking since it's 'doctor's orders' - in real life I don't think either James Jones, Sinatra, or Godard for that matter, would expect Martin to do anything but be true to his bad self, to the end, even if that end is mere weeks away. And Michel's writer in CONTEMPT never seems to realize he can just say no to Palance's egomaniacal American, regardless of the check amount.

Still we stick around, because Martin and Sinatra have laid-back chemistry in their macho backroom poker sessions. Is anything more uniquely poetic and American than Sinatra with his tie loosened, nursing a tumbler of blended whiskey and a cigarette? Or Dean with his morning cup of bourbon to which he gingerly adds a dash coffee? The score by Elmer Bernstein is boozily thunderous and makes ugly Americana into something that still has depth and tear-stained class. Walking away from this movie you may feel, as I do, frustrated and annoyed, but you have to admit, it's a lot like home.

TCM Diary: LURED, THE MALE ANIMAL, THIS COULD BE THE NIGHT, NOTHING SACRED

For some of us, the name Lucille Ball produces shudders.  Her constant meddling and Ricky's constant slow burns were the go-to for 'safe' comedy when nothing else was on. Yet LURED (1947) shows Ball as a tough, sassy distinct individual far more resonant than the pop culture staple, the proto-Cathy "waaaa" housewife married to Cuban's greatest export; the script seems tailored for her and there's none of her broad comedy, only a wizened unrepentant Joan Bennett-type single lassie-ness. If Hitchcock made it, and he could have, it would be a classic oft writ about. But hey, Sirk is none to shabby and the film is full of A-list bits: George Sanders semi-miscast as a cavalier playboy; Boris Karloff as a deranged fashion designer (perfect!), Alan Mowbray and Joseph Calea as sinister employers of maids / white slavers; Charles Coburn (Piggy!) as the head of Scotland Yard, employing taxi dancer Ball when it's discerned the killer digs dancers. George Zucco is the crossword-puzzling detective who shadows Ball on her assignments. His getting his crossword clues from random things Ball says is the dumbest thing about the film, but it's great to see Zucco playing an easy-going cop under a watchful eye like Sirk's, instead of his usual Z-list mad scientists under a sleepy eye like William "One Shot" Beaudine's.

As fast moving and fun as similar period Hithcock, there's great bits like  Karloff spying the camera in the mirror and breaking the fourth wall to tell us in the audience "I'll be with you in a moment!" in that full creepy/wink voice of his. (The Kino Video cover to the DVD makes it seem like the film's a Victorian thriller with Karloff as the main villain, but neither is true).  Ball rattles off a ton of quips and even slugs back tea with her feet up. She's as English as baseball, but it's fun the way she pretends to be suckered by Mowbray's offer of a trip to South America, or the way she straddles the difference between us trying to fathom if she's playing dumb or just super smart (she isn't dumb, that's for sure). .

 Things get suspenseful, and then they get looser in that vein similar to Hitchcock where suspense doesn't slacken even as the wit and winks fly. Sanders' presence even makes it connected to REBECCA in its tale of an ordinary girl destined for bigger things due to her surplus of character. She can be charming as needed, well who can't? But she can also relax like a real woman right there onscreen, smoking and knocking back cakes with her big feet up. It's such a rare thing that when it's done right,  like a whole new version of striptease, where fake personae come off as easily as nightgowns. Yeah, but anyone can take off their clothes, who can take off their mask all the way, to the hairy human animal beneath-- with a whole film crew and blazing hot lights breathing down your neck? Lucy, Babs, Bette, and Clara Bow, that's all. Boop Boop de Boop!

Extra credit: Charles Napier as Detective Gordon, as if this was his first job before moving to Gotham. The pop cult world, bro, it's all connected.

THE MALE ANIMAL
dir. Elliot Nugent 1942 - ***1/2
With deep shadows from a roaring bonfire, the camera low his shadow large and Wellesian sinister, Eugene Pallette shouts "Fight! Fight!" while Henry Fonda and his acolyte look on aghast through round Leninish spectacles at the horror of mob mentality in action. No, it's not TRIUMPH OF THE WILL, it's homecoming week at Beardsley College! Or wherever. The always durable and ready Jack Carson is the All-American football hero who dated English professor Fonda's wife before Fonda, and if you as a cinema blog-reading smartypants ever sneered at the sporting events of your college, city, or state, you'll enjoy THE MALE ANIMAL. It has a kind of Capra-ish ending with Fonda reading a letter from anarchist Vinzetti against massive public outcry, but it's hard to take such clear-cut fascism seriously when it comes from Eugene Palette, the wondrous bullfrog who played Fonda's dad in THE LADY EVE. He even get's the film's last and best line as they march in a parade in honor of Fonda and Palette notices a troublemaking lefty student isn't cheering, "What's the matter with you?" he barks. "You a fascist or something?" 

THIS COULD BE THE NIGHT
1957 - **1/2
Jean Simmons is a virgin secretary-teacher who helps kids cheat at geometry and sexy bespectacled dancer (Neile Adams) cheat at baking contests. So she must be okay. Wait, what? Well, the club environment is cozy and cute, with everyone more or less nice to each other, and occasionally the club floor is lit in an almost Sternbergianly chthonic nest of curvy shadows, but there's really just two reasons to see this: Tony Franciosa at his sweaty, grinning best as a taut nightclub manager struggling to stay free in the face of marriage's inescapable vortex (to Simmons). The second reason is Nellie Adams, who is like a sexier smarter black-haired Shirly McLaine, with cute glasses, a short black haired bob, and shortly thereafter, the power to lure Steve McQueen into marriage. Hubba Hubba! Alas, she didn't do much other than some TV shows after this, having two kids. Steve McQueen! You stole a gal who could have won the heart of a heartless, cynical world.

NOTHING SACRED
1937
Dir. William Wellman ****
If you're a screwball fan, or Ben Hecht fan, or both, you probably saw NOTHING SACRED first as a crummy public domain dupe, with its primitive three-strip color washed near to mud. It's still hard to see a good copy today, for this and other reasons. On TCM it looks okay, but the colors still make everything seem kind of muddy and storybook-ish, like an old Danish film version of the Pad Piper playing at three in the morning for early rising kids back in the 1970s. Plus, I don't think Frederic March is ideal for Ben Hecht's dialogue, he just tosses it off when it could use some John Barrymore-style ballyhoo. All that said, this film only improves on repeat viewings, with great tossaway bits like Max Rosenbloom as a slugger from circulation ("It's me, Moe! Yer brudda!"), Sig Rumann as Dr. Emil Egglehoffer; John Qualen as a Swedish fire chief ("Yumpin' Yimminy..."); the music of Raymond Scott's bouncy quintet; Owlin Howlin (baggage), Margaret Hamilton (matron), and Troy Brown Sr. as a rotund phony maharaja.

Credit William Wellman with his keen eye for earthy detail and Hecht for his flash frozen cynicism, which stains even the most seemingly mundane of dialogue a frosty black - as Hazel Flagg is paraded around the city like a Joan of Arc on slow-glam burn and Frederic March falls in love with the sound of his own sorrow on the front page as the Morning Star's top journalist and the apple of Flagg's false eye. See, she didn't really have radium poisoning and now she swoons in guilt.

As a kid who often faked illnesses to avoid sports and school, I can relate with the horrible guilt she experiences, writhing in her first class suite as maids (Hattie McDaniel, uncredited) fret and so forth. Good old Hecht, you came away basking in the warmth of the evening sun, the spectre of death--momentary or eventual--still hanging over everything, the lure of fascism, sentimentality, phony morals, sensationalism, and tawdry exploitation dangling like a anglerfish's lantern; luring, luring Steve McQueen into marriage, and us all into our cold Stygian seats.