It's been my experience that European and South American women are all the time how American women are only on Halloween and New Year's Eve, and if that makes no sense to you then you never noticed how in Guys and Dolls Jean Simmons is dumb enough to initially cut handsome Brando loose since he's not exactly the square dude she's fantasized about. By which I mean South American and European women date who they like not who they told themselves they would or should like (as in they're not dominated by their animus). If Brando doesn't meet your expectation then that's your problem, not MGM's. So why dull-as-dishwater Christian-mingling "white woman" of the USA is so highly prized amongst "the Orientals" --when it's so clear that white American straight Christian women are shallow, self-entitled and sanctimonious--is something only prude censors can understand. It's like every day is Halloween or New Years so they fall for the one girl who is Lent. It's a whole new front of masochism for any foreigner of any race to fall for one of these women, since Hollywood demands they die for the sin of even trying to bust a move.
By which I mean TCM recently showed the always alluring Mask of Fu Manchu (1932) and also West of Shanghai, (1937) a film I'd never seen thanks to mediocre Lenny ratings and its post-code date, but actually it's much better at linear momentum and minutiae than the more glossily ornate but dumber Manchu.
If, like old Bitter Tea of General Yen (1933), West turns out rather like Houdini drowning in a vat of water while trying to wrestle loose from the handcuffs of racist censorship (post-code), while still painting the usual lurid miscegenation fantasy, it's got a few tricks marking it different, such as a slightly gay twist courtesy the resolutely unappealing and boxy dyke vibe of the missionary seductee (Beverly Roberts), firing-squad based tests of homoerotic male bonding, and lots of posturing all around. Between the evil general Yang (Karloff) and the dashing wildcatter (Gordon Oliver) there exists a unique affection, and there are big business intricacies and a zig-zagging first half that denotes some actual good screenwriting.
It starts like it's going to be Shanghai Express with the Chinese Civil War backdrop, and disparate first class passengers saying their station farewells, boarding the train and settling into compartments. We might think at first that it's going to be about the duplicitously jolly interrelation between foreclosing banker Douglas Wood, his daughter (Sheila Bromley) and Ricardo Cortez's big oil man as they meet on the train, all heading out to Oliver's discovery field in the titular direction, getting accidentally caught between Boris Karloff's existentially grounded warlord and the well-intended but stretched-thin Chinese army. But Cortez isn't just heading west to get Oliver's oil but also visit his flat little box-shaped missionary wife (Roberts), who's in love with Oliver--and Cortez doesn't want her but damned if he's going to give her up. The foreclosing banker's slightly less leaden daughter (Sheila Bromley) likes Oliver, too, and is the better bet, in my opinion, but go figure, each according to his own closeted lesbian tastes. It's still pretty interesting that, once Karloff's warlord begins a slow boil seduction strategy, we're invited to feel Roberts' mix of excitement, dread, and curiosity, while sensory bewitchment ala the "Oriental" decor and tact ensures all you have to do is stand still and you'll be in bed with an Asian by the end of the night, given A-number one mistress status on account of your white skin, and probably dumped off at the brothel when your bloom fades. Gorgeous Asian women are a dime a dozen it seems. Be they ever so boxy and repressed, white women are apparently more precious than entire empires... though that may be perhaps just a grass-is-greener thing, for I always wonder how long they'd stay so valuable if they weren't so damned racist.
Forgive my ever peering liberal arts PC radar. Like I said, intricate business for an allegedly lurid and exciting slice of adventure hokum with Karloff playing his general like a weird mix of Charlie Chan and Willie Fung with just the right amount of General Died at Dawn's Akim Tamiroff-style poker faced existential brinksmanship. Shanghai Express-stopping generals in these 30s films all run a similar track: for them the measure of a man is how well he stands up to the intensity of a firing squad, or torture. If his hand isn't shaking when he lights the last cigarette instead of taking the blindfold, if he pontificates in typically post-WWI sardonic hipster élan about death instead of pleading like a weak-livered carpetbagger, then he's (or she's) earned A-number one white man (or woman) status in the epicanthic eye. For a world still recovering from the wholesale slaughter of trench warfare, already dreading the next world-wide one, casual ambivalence about facing a firing squad is such a righteous mark of cool it's worth betraying your country just to get the chance. It's like boarding a first class train to that shore no traveller from returneth, and no evil general may stoppeth, do it with enough self-sufficient detachment you don't think twice about leaving your bags on the platform, and you may get to stay on as conductor.
Another reason I find I veddy much like West of Shanghai: the Asian characters are actually far more complex than the whites, and played by actual Asians for a change. Chester Gan as Karloff's #1 henchman is a former Chicago gangster with a streetwise slang; Richard Loo is the portly officer who christens the feisty Roberts 'Little Dragon' after she takes umbrage with the way he bats her around; as a nationalist general, Japanese actor Tetsu Komai talks in the steadied and eloquent but succinct, polite and honest style of English as a second language spoken by an educated and intelligent person. Happy to be in the company of so many white people he doesn't know (they're more trustworthy than his scheming soldiers), his polite dignity sets a high bar no other character in the film ever matches.
The white set of passengers--white missionaries and capitalists--are as a whole painted rather harshly in that respect. In their haughty colonialist arrogance they view the strife going on around them as just another excuse for slow towel service. This is particularly well-drawn in the scene between Miss Roberts and Karloff after Oliver is hauled off to the gulag for punching a guard. The silken pidgin English-spouting warlord brings her into a special room he's commandeered for the occasion, to ply her with drink and promises of grand adventure and the best food. Always there's the clear indication she's bereft of alternatives, other than suicide or murder (via the pistol he's left on the table). "If I want," Karloff says, "I take you. It veddy easy." The scene is rather chilling, and we feel the protean echo of the violent savaging of women in mainland China at this approximate time (1937) at the hands of the Japanese.
But of course this being after the 1934 Joseph Breen-enforced code, before any real deflowering gets underway, our Androcles Oliver escapes his captors and rushes to the rescue where he's recognized for a thorn-out-the-paw favor he did the lion Karloff decades earlier. Still, we're glad to be spared any further dismay over why such a slick operator would be attracted to this boxy blank broad, and grateful we can spend the rest of the film enjoying the the weird head games Karloff employs as he runs along a silken edge betwixt menace, playful Solomon-style problem solving, and macho existential last cigarette firing squad-style cool. It's enough to earn him a ladder rung between Dietrich's smiling exit at the end of 1932's Dishonored (see: Decadence Lost) and Walken's "one shot" at the end of 1978's The Deer Hunter.
(1933) Dir. Edgar Selwyn
"A man and a wife should never live in the same house," Warren William says to his expensive absentee spouse Hedda Hopper (she comes to town only to snap $100K checks from his fingers like AA tokens). A tycoon of towering ambition and ruthlessness, he's infatuated only with his monument to his own ego, his skyscraper that dwarfs the Empire State. But a white woman gonna lay him as low, this time though it's understandable, as she's played by Maureen O'Sullivan at the height of her sparkling loveliness. As with the similar William vehicles Employee's Entrance or The Mouthpiece, there's a weird dynamic between his wolfish and worldly titan of industry and some acutely moralistic little waif typist or secretary. Veree Teasdale, as Williams' mistress and personal assistant, is both jealous and protective of the young innocent. As with those other William films, what makes Skyscraper Souls so great, so pure pre-code, is an uninterrupted stretch of time at Williams' side, where we see him negotiating and problem solving through a steady stream of assistants, lovers, and the wife, all while still in his robe upstairs in his apartment: finagling investors can be done in the lower level steam bath; appeasing the foreclosing bankers (after he 'borrowed' thirty million from the kitty) in his office, stalling trustees and throwing a party in his penthouse, stocked with booze and hired girls to please endomorphic industry titan Norton (George Barbier) so he'll go in as a partner. This whole section of the film is a seamless pre-code delight, allowing us to savor the practiced ease with which the great William lies and connives his way out of appointments with two different mistresses (and picks yet another one up on the balcony) in order to seduce O'Sullivan, first telling her to stay late downstairs at the office and type a second copy of some report he doesn't need, then plying with champagne, only to have her hang onto the less intimidating jolly old prospective client Norton! One can't just cockblock the investor outright, but that doesn't stop a big bad wolf like William. Just means he has to be extra conniving, which comes second nature.
Feeling as if it's unfolding in total real time from the moment we see the peak-of-pixiedom Maureen (that sexy frock at left rivaling her deerskin Tarzan and his Mate) in the workday afternoon all the way through to him walking her out of the building in the early dawn, this game seduction, this catch and release, is so pure pre-code, so truly sophisticated, so impeccable at fusing business and pleasure it rivals only a similar WB film The Mouthpiece.
But, this being MGM, these reels of seamless business during pleasure fusion are followed and preceded by working class romance in the lobby coffee shop and elevator, the usual MGM bow to the tiresome parameters of provincial moralism and the kind of hick sentiment that scrappy Warner Brothers or champagne and opium Paramount had expunged from their psyches when they moved into the sound age. Here at least, the working class yobbo is cast in such a disdainful light that you feel the filmmakers dislike the way a friend might point out the guy trying to buy weed from you is a narc without tipping said narc off.
In this case the narc is pushy little adenoidal mouth breather Norman Foster as one of the most annoying 'romantic' Madison Avenue-style love interests ever, an antecedent to Elliot Reid in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, a type that's thankfully disappeared long ago from the national register of romantic male archetypes: the smug, overbearing ad man, pipe in mouth, granting himself the innate right to annoy cute girls at their place of work. This would only be tolerable if he would up arrested or barred from the building, but his overbearing come-ons actually work on Maureen, which seems to condone boorish stalker behavior in a very unhealthy way (1). He actually stopped me from watching all the way to the end on two occasions. Thank God I finally just realized I could FF past his scenes without missing a goddamn thing (it's pretty rewarding when he loses his life's savings in a stock market boondoggle). The rest of the Grand Hotel-aping cast includes Jean Hersholt as a Jewish (vot else?) fashion designer smitten by one of his 'party girl' models (Anita Page). At least he's smart enough to not lose every cent of his money in the same boondoggle that wipes out Foster.
Guess who makes a killing on that same boondoggle? Damn right.
(1939) Dir. Alfred Hitchcock
1. see CinemArchetype 2: The Skeevy Boyfriend.
2. My father always said he originally wanted to name me Chadwick, but my mom stopped him.