Seldom seen since its 1933 limited release, ALICE IN WONDERLAND, Paramount's champagne and hashish centerpiece, can stand on its head proudly, for it turns out to be awash in the same surrealist insanity that so scintillatingly varnishes the studio's peak pre-code '32-34 comedy output, i.e. MILLION DOLLAR LEGS, SNOW WHITE, DUCK SOUP and INTERNATIONAL HOUSE (1933 Paramount was, sez I, the best). For a long time we had to take it on faith that this movie was as boring as those few who saw it said it was, and those few were wrong (maybe because of terrible dupes- the only way to see it for decades). All I know is that I would have flipped to catch this on a five AM Saturday morning UHF station as an early-rising kid in the 70s, or an up-all-night acidhead in the 80s. Kids' TV was a big tent back then: a five AM late night PLAN NINE FROM OUTER SPACE or VELVET VAMPIRE showing would segue into weird Z-grade European 'kiddie matinee' nightmares like RED RIDING HOOD AND THE MONSTERS before finally morphing into LAND OF THE LOST, and all as easy as falling down a K-hole or giggling all night at a ouija board slumber party while our parents wife-swapped and played bridge and drank gin below.
I was never more enraptured by movies then at those times, the lingering images of dreams from mere minutes ago in bed segueing into surreal late night monster movies segueing into early kid puppet show imagery. And finally seeing ALICE on TCM the other night, I know that if this came on either decade I wouldn't have known if I was seeing an early Sid and Marty Kroft-style life size puppet kid's show or a late-late-late show horror movie, and to me there is no higher compliment. Director Norman Z. McLeod (MONKEY BUSINESS, HORSEFEATHERS), screenwriter Joseph Mankiewicz and set designer Menzies (CHANDU) have somehow alchemically combined all those influences, decades before they happened, and that has made the difference.
Even if you don't have that context, maybe you can remember when you were a kid on some haunted or pirate ride at Disney World or some other amusement Park and imagined what it would be like to sneak out of your little car/log flume and into the elaborate animatronic tableaux on either side of the canal or tracks, to hide there, amidst the moving figures? To go off grid, as it were? Well, if there was a Paramountland, or a Fleischerland, and a ride through Betty Boop's early great classics rendered in black and white automated papier mache figures, and you were kind of stuck there, and, like Lisa Simpson at Duffworld, drank the acid-spiked water, and were hanging out with a spookily calm and fearless ten year-old blonde who dragged you around to all the little vignettes and did all the talking, then that's this. And if that sounds like a good time, and if you love cheap rattletrap haunted houses, and creative miniature golf courses, and psychedelic mushrooms, then with the help of Mankiewicz's trippy wit, Carroll's trippy source material, McLeod's zippy unpretentious pace, and Menzies' cartoonish backdrops, this Boopland paradise for acid-addled pre-code Paramount devotees who've had Windsor McKay-style dreams after too much rarebit or cold medicine.
I remember waking up to one of those early Saturday mornings and old, cheap, strange black and white movies fizzling in and out via a round UHF antenna (unable to read yet so not knowing what the movies were). Flash forward 15 years or so, to my late 80s-early 90s Deadhead/Floyd period --there was no better time of the night for a kid like me than when the show was over, and I and my crew were safely home with the whiskey and VCR and every last parent and wally long tucked away. Still tripping our faces off but all the anguished paranoia of driving home without getting arrested finally over, safe and able to finally take our shoes off, with hours and highballs to go before the color bands flashing behind our eyelids would be muted enough for sleep, we needed to watch something that wouldn't bum us out, and I mean we 'needed' it, desperately, for our good trip could become a bad one with a single mean scene.
And at those times, when they were needed most, Paramount pre-code (before anyone knew what that meant) Betty Boop, W.C. Fields, Marx Bros, and Cary Grant--were like glowing toasty fires in the cold darkness. One look into their crazy eyes and we'd know they could see us and felt our pain, they "got it." If MGM was the studio of amphetamines and apple pie, Warners of beer and coffee, and Universal of laudanum and gin, then Paramount was the studio of psychedelics and champagne and ALICE IN WONDERLAND their ideal 'literary adaptation.'
Fully obscuring Cary Grant's head in the mock turtle costume isn't the only misstep of course, but which Alice adaptation is--to the kids' and critics' alike--perfect? None. Disney's 1951 cartoon version is too literal and pedantic; Burton's is beautiful and thrilling but lacks surrealist savvy; Jan Svankmajer's is hallucinatory and uncanny childhood nightmare-level disturbing but lacks class and diction; and all the BBC versions are too much the same other way around. But Paramount's pre-code Alice is sooo wrong on the other hand, it's better than right, it dissolves like a sugar cube under a steady stream of absinthe, maybe a headache later but for as long as now lasts, magical.
Anyway, I had trouble getting past the first few minutes that last time it was on TCM, but this time I came in after the first quarter, half-paying attention and soon there was this crazy mock turtle with a strange yet familiar voice, and I wasn't at all sure it even was Cary Grant inside the shell (since I didn't remember which part he played), until he sings "Turtle Soup" with that British music hall trill and you realize the foundational bedrock upon which 'the' Cary Grant was formed-- all the vaudeville pratfalls and "love to be beside the seaside" style hoofery, that fell below the surface, deep into ocean canyons (surfacing occasionally in diegesis as in Sylvia Scarlet) until he was, simply put, perfect scenery, high and never dry. So it's rather gratifying to see (or rather hear) this sudden resonant force. It's a bit like when he breaks down in front of the child services judge in Penny Serenade and you're like whoa, Cary, we never see this side of you, you're usually so cool! It makes us weak in the knees all over again to realize the vast wealth of brilliance and jubilance folded and edited and streamlined until he was, as Stanley Cavell put it, "fit to stand the gaze of millions."
Here, though, that gaze is rendered moot, so there's no image of cool to live up to. The turtle shell armors and anonymizes so he cuts loose and large. One wonders what kind of miracles Grant could put into, say, a Pixar film. Here it's pretty damn close to that, because some stars just do their persona when doing a voiceover. You won't find, say, Tom Hanks or Will Smith going out on a far limb into madness in their roles, not ever, not like Grant does here. Grant is committed to the madness, like he's reading/acting out a story book for agog infant children while hopped up on mescaline backstage at a 1920's Vaudeville theater, i.e, sublimely.
|I've had childhood 'too much chocolate' nightmares that look just like this|
|any similarities to a human ass are maybe coincidental|
|This is your dinner on drugs --but play it cool, bro|
|Gary Cooper, "seated"|
But the real selling points for this as the bad acid rarebit fiend K-hole nightmare miniature golf course-cum-carnival-ride childhood fever dream are the grotesque images that linger in the mind, etched on the soul like dark scars in the thick unconscious muck where nothing ever dries or heals, just festers until it erupts into sudden hallucinations and terrifying vertigo with the right 'trigger'. When I see this big lumbering dude in a mouse costume flopping around in a shallow concrete pool (of Big Alice's tears) as if some plushy Overlook refugee paddling forward in the Freaks climax rain, I feel as if my nightmare childhood well (which I though long since paved over) was flooding up all over the basement couch and staining my socks. By the time we get to the scene with the crazy fat mom throwing the baby around while the cook hurls insults and pots, narrowly missing the child/little person and the frog (Sterling Holloway) sits outside, the water's up to my knees. Then Alice holds the baby, who oscillates from an actual baby to Billy Barty (in a baby costume) and back, and then to a plastic doll, and then a real piglet-- the water's up to my neck.
It's over my head and leaking into the above floor for the croquet scene. Are the flamingo croquet mallets drugged flamingos who stiffen when they try to play dead, or just limpid puppets, or dead flamingos in the process of rigor mortis? Like gramps in TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE (1974), their in-betweenness is what makes them so creepy. Then there's the way the white queen says "better" over and over like a mantra until the word slowly turns into a sheep 'baaa'-ter and she dissolves into a sheep selling a giant egg which Alice stares at until it turns into W.C. Fields as a giant Humpty, demanding she stop staring at him like he was an egg, and state her name and her business. At that point the water goes up my chimney and hits the bell. A winna!
At dinner there's a talking roast (it's bad manners, we learn, to slice off a piece of someone we've been introduced to) defining to a T what it's like trying to keep cool while eating dinner with your parents while on an unexpectedly strong psychedelic trip. (the definition of a NAKED LUNCH). Alice is crowned queen, and everyone dances around, and chokes her and generally carries on like a combination of the FREAKS and BLUE ANGEL wedding dinners and the entirety of Allendro Jodorowsky's canon, boiled and distilled into one black and white raging fever dream bad trip childhood cold sweat delirium tremens nightmare moment. And everywhere we look, things change--the more we stare the more something grows or shrinks. Our gaze, in a sense, makes monsters. Is this not how 'reality' passes itself off as concrete?
Bringing as he does the same sense of deadpan fluid riffing absurdity that made his MILLION DOLLAR LEGS and DIPLOMANIACS scripts so pitch-Paramount perfect, I'm not sure if adapter Mankiewicz ever tried mescaline or reefer or anything, but I wouldn't be surprised if he had. For he's aces at nailing the freestyle way staring at something long enough turns it into something else, or saying any word more than once or twice renders the words themselves alive and fluid, strange and absurd. It could be the bad trip 1933 YELLOW SUBMARINE and maybe in the way it's those atop-linked European kids movie imports finally breaking through their acid-burnt bonds of language, persona and time.
It's also the perfect guide to tripping, offering the same sage counsel I used to when people started wandering towards bad places on my shit: just don't try to recapture the sense of where you just were, are, or what size you are or are meant to be or where you will wind up next. Let go of trying to judge or control anything that happens. Most of all, don't worry what those words someone spoke at you mean, don't try to nail words to the cross of meaning for they'll wiggle farther away the harder you try. Don't try to reclaim the perception of yourself and the world you had before you started to 'get off.'
And don't worry some dark corner of Wonderland is going to ensnare you, for the flux works both ways--nothing can keep you--whether you want to be kept or not--all things are transitional. Nothing can last or be returned now that you're finally loosened from the bonds of self, language, and linear time. When you wind up were you started, the old 'you' won't be there to welcome this new you anyway, no more than a spring husk of a summer cicada. So if you can let go of needing even a single string back to sanity, can throw that last breadcrumb thread into the wind and fall fall fall, then Hole-in-One, baby. You're awake for the first time again, and ready for a whole looking glass country of archetypal forces to reshape what seemed so mundane before you left. It's all real, and you were there, Uncle Gus in your patched pants, and oh Auntie Em, there's no place like home's...
in a mirror...
stared at until the illusion of its 2D space deepens inward
and you can crawl inside the min-golf windmill...
Alarm clocks hands,
probing like serpent tongues,
shan't find you there, at least til Monday.
You'll be fiiine by then.
Longtime readers note one of my graven image idols of worship is the giant Alice statue in Central Park - see Erich Kuersten: A Poet's Journey