Me, Meet Me

So I've written a new book about the quiz show scandals of the 1950s. It's called "Truth and Consequences" and you can order it here.

My publisher asked me to interview myself about the book for their website. Since I am my favorite subject, I did it, and here it is:

Q. Mystery guest, will you sign in, please?

A. Hello! My name is David Inman and I grew up watching too much television. Fortunately, I was able to parlay that into a gig as "The Incredible Inman," a nationally syndicated TV and movie trivia Q&A column that ran from 1981-2013. I've also supplied material for Turner Classic Movies hosts Ben Mankiewicz and Dave Karger, and I've written several books about movie and TV history, including Performers' Television Credits 1948-2000 and TelevisionVariety Shows. I also have a podcast, The Incredible Inman's Pop Culture Potluck, and my other writing about film and TV can be viewed at www.theincredibleinman.com.

Q. How did this project originate?

A. It began back in the pre-internet days of 1990, when I found myself at the Paley Center for Media (then the Museum of Broadcasting) in New York City. After watching a few episodes of The $64,000 Question I found myself feeling what audiences at the time must have felt -- the suspense of watching an everyday Joe/Josephine strain their memory to win a lot of money and change his/her life. The show had it all -- the dramatic roll of kettle drums, an audience full of anxious and excited people, nervous contestants and frantic family members. It seemed like high drama on a tightrope, all playing out on live TV. To see that -- and to realize that everyone watching was being bamboozled -- led to my interest in the subject.

Q. You started this in 1990? Are you a slow typist?

A. No, but life got in the way, mainly in the form of a full-time job and two children arriving within 14 months of each other. I worked on the project on and off until I retired at the end of 2022. Then I went into high gear.

Q. Was big money the only draw on these shows?

A. I don't think so. At least at the beginning, the first big quiz -- The $64,000 Question -- had an immense amount of human appeal. The contestants were simple working-class people -- a cobbler, a police officer, a grandmother -- with unusual knowledge in surprising subjects -- opera, Shakespeare and baseball, respectively. Seeing these people win big money just because of their love of and expertise in certain topics was heart-warming. It was an embodiment of the American dream and, to audiences, a kind of validation of American exceptionalism at a time when we were the world's dominant nation.  

Q. Talk more about why this particular scandal is so interesting to you.

A. The book begins in 1955, when television was a relatively new medium, and the audience had no reason to doubt the authenticity of anything they saw on that box in the living room. To say it was a less cynical time is an understatement, and there was an unspoken trust between those who watched TV and those who produced TV. Nowadays, television practically defines cynicism. We have no reason whatsoever to believe anything billed as "real." We have been fooled many, many times before. Not so in 1955. 

Q. Anything else?

A. I've always been interested in the relationship between art and commerce, and the staged, fake "art" on these shows was directly ordered by "commerce" -- the sponsor -- in order to increase ratings and thereby sales. This was in the days of unprecedented sponsor influence, when a sponsor bought an entire block of time -- a half-hour or an hour -- and totally dominated the production of the program, network be damned. The fall of the quiz shows played a role in ending that domination.

Q. Do you find anyone or anything to admire in this book?

A. I have a great deal of sympathy for Charles Van Doren, who was probably the best-known -- and therefore, most notorious -- of the quiz contestants. He was a genuine scholar and an associate professor at Columbia University at the time. He later admitted being fed answers and being coached on how to respond during his time on Twenty-One. He justified it to himself because he believed he was championing the cause of teaching and education, and he received many viewer letters attesting to that fact. Today, we live in an age of widespread shamelessness, of celebrity redemption arcs, of bad behavior milked for more air time. After Charles Van Doren's scandal was discovered and he confessed before a congressional subcommittee, he had the sense of honor -- the decency? -- to just disappear from public life. When he was offered $100,000 to be a consultant on the 1994 film Quiz Show, about the scandal, he refused to participate.

Q. Speaking of Quiz Show, how does this book compare to Robert Redford's film?

A. Quiz Show is a great movie but it only covers one aspect of the quiz scandals. It doesn't deal at all with the chicanery behind the scenes of the original rigged quiz, The $64,000 Question, and its spinoff, The $64,000 Challenge. On those two shows, Charles and Martin Revson -- the men behind the sponsor, Revlon -- ruled with iron fists, decreeing which contestants succeeded and which failed. In the book we go into all-encompassing detail on what happened on those shows and on Twenty-One, where contestants were literally rehearsed on how to provide pre-arranged answers.

Q. If we shouldn't believe much of what we see on TV today, what about the quiz shows? Are they are crooked as ever?

A. Ironically, they're probably more above-board than many other shows. Because of the quiz scandals, strict standards were put in place to keep everything kosher. Watch an episode of Wheel of Fortune or Jeopardy! today and you'll see a little disclaimer at the end proclaiming that anything edited out of the show had no impact on the final outcome and that, in so many words, contestants received no answers in advance.

Q. Describe your book as a Jeopardy! question and answer.

A. "David Inman's book begins in a producer's Park Avenue study and ends in a Washington D.C. congressional hearing room, with lives and careers destroyed along the way due to Madison Avenue chicanery."

"What is Truth and Consequences: The Quiz Show Scandals of the 1950s and Their Aftermath"?
         

My New Book

The biggest television drama of the late 1950s wasn't a romance, or a western, or a cop show. It was the TV quiz-show scandals -- deception on a grand scale that played out on a small screen. After contestants became beloved celebrities, the nation learned that all was not as it seemed -- that many of them went on the air already knowing the questions they would be asked, the answers to those questions, and how to "perform" when answering them on the air for maximum dramatic effect. A story that began in a producer's study on Park Avenue ended in a congressional hearing room in Washington, D.C. Along the way careers were wrecked and reputations were ruined. My book TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCES is a all-encompassing look at the people involved, the chicanery behind the scenes and the Madison Avenue Mad Men who enabled it.

To read an excerpt, click here.

To buy the book from the publisher, click here.

 

Pre-Code vs. Post-Code: "State's Attorney" and "Criminal Lawyer"

The 1932 film "State's Attorney" and its 1937 remake, "Criminal Lawyer," are based on the same story by Louis Stevens.

But in the hands of different screenwriters working under different production codes -- and performed by lead actors with distinctively different styles -- you get two, well, different movies.

Stevens's story is about a flamboyant attorney who's the mouthpiece for a big-city gangster. Thanks to the gangster's influence, the attorney becomes the chief prosecutor and starts dreaming of the governorship. But then the gangster commits murder, and, thanks to the love of a good woman, the attorney risks the wrath of his biggest backer -- not to mention his life -- to see that justice is done.

Both films follow that plot. In the 1932 film, John Barrymore plays the attorney, named Tom Cardigan. In the 1937 film, Lee Tracy plays the attorney, named Barry Brandon.

The screenplay for the Barrymore film, "State's Attorney," was written by Rowland Brown and Gene Fowler. Brown was responsible for some tough, notable pre-code movies, including "Hell's Highway" and "Doorway to Hell." Fowler was a longtime Barrymore crony -- he kept vigil at Barrymore's deathbed and later wrote the Barrymore biography "Good Night, Sweet Prince."

So the character of Cardigan is very much colored by what seems like Barrymore himself -- a wisecracking blend of impishness and melancholy, with plenty of boozing thrown in. Barrymore slides from comedy to drama with great grace and style. He doesn't look like he's acting, which is the best kind of acting.

The Tracy film, "Criminal Lawyer," is likewise heavily colored by its leading man, which isn't necessarily a good thing.

Tracy's screen persona was that of a fast-talking operator who was often just this side of being a con artist. Barrymore knew how to let silence work for him; with the characters Tracy played, there aren't any moments of silence, because to stop talking meant that the rubes were more likely to catch on to your scheme.

Beyond that, the script for "Criminal Lawyer," written by G.V. Atwater and Thomas Lennon, is scrubbed clean of spice. Sure, there's crime aplenty, but very little of that sex stuff.

Both movies begin with a party thrown by the gangster -- in the 1932 film it's Valentine "Vanny" Powers, played by William Boyd, and in the 1937 film it's Larkin, played by Eduardo Ciannelli (seen with Tracy at left).

The party is raided, and we end up at night court. In both movies, the gangster orders the attorney to sweet talk the female judge into releasing the party without bail. But the attorney is feeling contrary, so instead he makes sure the judge sets bail -- at fifty bucks a person, which the gangster grudgingly pays.

Here is where things begin to diverge.

Next up on the night court docket is a woman -- in the 1932 film she's June, played by Helen Twelvetrees; in the 1937 film it's Madge, played by Margot Grahame.

Both women have been picked up for soliciting, although in the 1932 film it's much clearer. June, in fact, works for Vanny, which means he also does some pimping on the side. But as opposed to Vanny's well-heeled patrons, she really does need help, and Cardigan jumps in. First he reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a wedding band, and slips it on June's finger. Then he stands before the judge and proceeds to pull on her heartstrings:

This is a pretty cynical scene, but Barrymore plays it completely straight and practically makes you believe him. As Brandon, Tracy isn't as conniving as Cardigan -- he doesn't carry a wedding band in his pocket. Madge is already wearing a costume jewelry ring, so he turns it so that its large setting is hidden and only the band shows. Oh, and Madge doesn't work for the gangster -- she's apparently a freelancer.

The way Cardigan cross-examines the cop who arrested June also has more of a pre-code bite. Seems the cop served a hitch in reform school, and if we don't get the point that he's a bad egg we hear that after being paroled he was sent back again for torturing a dog. In "Criminal Lawyer" we don't hear anything about that.

In both movies, the attorney ends up taking the woman back to his place. Cardigan gently removes June's coat and pours her a drink, and she asks him what he wants for breakfast in the morning. Brandon, on the other hand, wastes no time in getting Madge an apartment in his building. No impropriety (or breakfast, for that matter) here! June is pretty clearly kept by Cardigan, but not Madge -- she goes to work in Brandon's office, where she can gaze at him longingly.

Once they become chief prosecutors, both attorneys hitch their star to a headline-heavy murder case -- a housewife (named Nora Dean in the 1932 film, Nora James in 1937) is accused of killing her husband as he slept. Nora whoever contends it happened during a break-in. Both attorneys are determined to break down Nora on the stand, and the 1932 treatment is much more lurid than the 1937 one. Cardigan has the bed where the murder take place brought into the courtroom, so that the jurors can see the bloody sheets. Then he takes the murder weapon -- an iron sashweight -- and incessantly taps it on the metal bed as he questions the suspect, causing her breakdown. In the 1937 film, there are no such histrionics, and Brandon takes only about five seconds to elicit a confession from Nora.

Romantic rivals rear their ugly heads in both movies in the form of the spoiled daughter of a political kingmaker. In the 1932 film it's Jill Esmond as Lillian, who purrs lines like "to me there's something thrilling about a woman killing for love." She's hot to trot for Cardigan, who willingly (if drunkenly) marries her to ensure his political success, even if it means shafting June. Her 1937 film equivalent, Betty, played by Betty Lawford (Peter's cousin), is kind of wan, and she shanghais Brandon into marrying her.

In both movies, however, the woman's character is quickly disposed of because the attorneys quickly have second thoughts, and because the women have eager suitors waiting in the wings. And as luck would have it, both suitors are played by actors with tangential relationships to Astaire-Rogers musicals.

In the 1932 version, Lillian is wooed by Alvarez, played by Raul Roulien, who would also play Gene Raymond's rival for Dolores Del Rio's affections in "Flying Down to Rio." In the 1937 film, Brandon's romantic rival is Bandini, played by Erik Rhodes (left), the comic actor best known as the Italian gigolo in "The Gay Divorcee" and "Top Hat."

There's a scene in both movies where the attorney meets with the suitor and lets him know that he's cutting the daughter loose. In the 1937 film, it's done with lots of mugging from Rhodes, and in the 1932 version it's done over a glass of saline laxative -- see for yourself:

 

 

The dramatic climax of both movies comes when the gangster goes on trial for murdering a rival ("Bird Legs" Duffy in the 1932 film and "Bird Dog" Duffy in the 1937 film, if you must know). The murder was witnessed by June/Madge, but she won't talk for fear the gangster will harm Cardigan/Brandon. In the 1932 version, there's an even stronger reason for Cardigan to back off from prosecution -- he himself was a burglar and served time in reform school.

And the ending, the same in both movies, is what you'd expect for that time -- the attorney walks out of the courtroom with his self-respect intact, along with the woman who stood with him through thick and thin.

We'll close with one more moment from the Barrymore movie -- a drunken conversation between Cardigan and a carriage driver where Cardigan is plinking out the wedding march on a series of half-full glasses of beer:

"Silver Streak," or Train Man

The star of the 1934 film "The Silver Streak" isn't first-billed Sally Blane, or even male lead Charles Starrett.

It's the future.

Specifically, it's the future in the form of the Pioneer Zephyr, a streamlined diesel train here called the Silver Streak. But incidental roles in the movie are played by the Century of Progress International Exposition, also known as the 1933-34 Chicago World's Fair; by Boulder Dam (now known as Hoover Dam), at that point the nation's largest construction project; and even by the recent development of the iron lung.

All these projects sent the same message to depression-weary America -- that prosperity was connected to innovative engineering and improved infrastructure.

As a film, "The Silver Streak" sends a much simpler message -- work hard, be handsome, develop a streamlined train, and you end up winning Loretta Young's sister. But it's a fast-moving B movie that's very much a product of its time, with lots of cool location footage of the Zephyr, the Chicago World's Fair and Boulder Dam (with real workers in bit parts).

We begin in the offices of the Stuffy Old White Guy Railroad, run by B.J. Dexter (William Farnum). Passenger revenues are off, and Dexter's assistant Allan (Hardie Albright), who is also his son, supports a plan for a new, more efficient streamlined train developed by lantern-jawed Tom Caldwell (Starrett). Caldwell pitches his idea to a skeptical board of directors:  

Caldwell is thrown out by the seat of his blueprints, but he has another booster -- Dexter's daughter, Ruth (Blane, Young's real-life sister). She approaches a locomotive manufacturer on Tom's behalf, and before you can say "Amtrak," the Silver Streak is ready for its maiden run.

The elder Dexter and Ruth are on board, but things don't go as planned -- there's an engineering glitch:

(Dig that 1934 streamlined Chrysler Airflow on the road, by the way.)

Naturally, instead of spending a little more time figuring what's wrong with the Silver Streak, the decision is made to scrap the whole project and put in on display at the fair in Chicago. Tom tells off Dexter, and he and Ruth break up.

A few weeks later, Tom has figured out the engineering problem, but the railroad management would prefer to keep the train as the world's largest paperweight.

Meanwhile, Allan Dexter is leaving the family railroad because of his father's refusal to be innovative. This leads to a nice scene where the elder Dexter puffs his stogie like a locomotive and reminisces about trains of the past:

Allan Dexter goes to work at the dam in Nevada. Turns out that the men on the project are coming down with infantile paralysis, and no sooner does Allan get there than he passes out. Ruth has come to see him, but that's not enough -- he needs an iron lung immediately. Father Dexter is beside himself -- how to get an iron lung cross country toot suite? If only there was some sort of really fast train to take it!

The last third of "The Silver Streak" is all about the 100 mile-an-hour overnight race from Chicago to Las Vegas. Edgar Kennedy, God love him, steps in as an old school co-engineer and gives us several good examples of his slow-burn takes in between thrill sequences like this:

There are lots of complications along the way, including close calls with oncoming trains, tricky curves and guys who almost don't get their handcar off the track fast enough. On board, meanwhile, Tom has to deal with hysterical passengers, an escaping murderer and, worst of all, Arthur Lake as comedy relief.

To the surprise of no one in the civilized world whatsoever, the Silver Streak makes it to Vegas, the train's future is assured, and Ruth and Tom make up.

In real life, by the way, the Pioneer Zephyr made headlines in May 1934, when it traveled from Denver to Chicago in about 13 hours, almost breaking the land speed record for that time -- and the engineer happily endorsed Camel cigarettes after his run.

And if you'd like to see the real Pioneer Zephyr, it's on permanent display at Chicago's Museum of Science and Industry.

 

Screen Capture Theatre: "Dillinger," or That Old Gangster of Mine

In the most exciting news since the introduction of the Pocket Catheter, it's time for another installment of Screen Capture Theatre! Here for your edification is the 1945 film...

This is the hard-hitting, totally true, no really story of
famous gangster John Dillinger. We first meet him on
the day he has stolen a new suit from a five year old.

 

Dillinger then holds up a candy store with a Twizzler
he has shoved into his pocket! Oh, the irony!  

(Sad trombone)

John ends up in the jug, where he starts
making new friends. 

His jolly compatriots include (left to right) Specs, Sneezy,
Romeo and Anthony Dellavorte, Certified Financial Planner.

Once John is released from prison, he does what any loyal
friend would do. He smuggles guns to his pals inside by
hiding them in a barrel of cement -- THE SAME CEMENT BEING
USED TO EXPAND THE PRISON! Oh, the irony!  

The new gang soon begins robbing banks with the vigor
of someone who is very vigorous.

 

Oh -- and Dillinger meets a young woman who will
soon play a significant role in his DOWNFALL.

 

But in the meantime, Hoosiers are in a state of terror
that will remain unequaled until the glory days of Bobby Knight!

Banks are being robbed all over Indiana, including
... El Segundo?

The fame makes Dillinger a worldwide celebrity,
but he starts to get a little unstable.

He takes up hobbies, including woodworking ...

... and model railroading.

Finally, he decides to rob a bank by using baby powder
and his gang decides it's time to move on to another
criminal mastermind. 

But the girl stays in the picture. And she starts wondering
where she's going to get some money to buy Christmas presents.

She and Dillinger decide to forget their troubles and
go to a movie theatre IT DOES TOO LOOK LIKE A
MOVIE THEATRE SHUT UP

   

He is totally inconspicuous.

 

Then, outside the theatre, Dillinger makes his fatal
mistake. He weighs himself and pays for it with a slug.

(Sad trombone.)

  

Podcast: The Miracle of "A Charlie Brown Christmas"

"A Charlie Brown Christmas" wasn't intentionally created to be timeless, but because of its simplicity and sincerity, timeless it is. Miraculously, it avoids every cliche associated with children's animation and is a perfect blending of music, words and images that clearly conveys one man's vision and philosophy -- Charles Schulz, who drew "Peanuts" from 1950 until his death in 2000.

Sources:

Schulz and Peanuts: A Biography, by David Michaelis

A Charlie Brown Religion: Exploring the Spiritual Life and Work of Charles Schulz, by Stephen J. Lind

"How 'A Charlie Brown Christmas' Almost Wasn't," Jennings Brown, ny.com, November 16, 2016

"The 'Charlie Brown Christmas' Special Was the Flop That Wasn't," Carrie Hagen, smithsonian.com, December 9, 2015  

"Ladies of Leisure," or Easel to Love

Barbara Stanwyck enters the 1930 film "Ladies of Leisure" -- and film history -- in a rowboat. The oars squeak. Her face is marked by mascara-streaked tears and she's clutching a broken dress strap. She's Kay, a party girl who just left a wild one on a yacht.

On shore is Ralph Graves as Jerry, who's also left a wild party, this one at his Manhattan penthouse. He's gone for a drive, but now he's fixing the flat tire on his Lincoln. Stanwyck climbs on shore, shivering.

Kay: How far is it to town?

Jerry: What town?

Kay: There's only one town.

So Jerry gives her a ride back to Manhattan, where the night is obliterated by blinking neon signs selling Squibb's Dental Creme and Aeolian Player Piano Rolls -- but where Kay will eventually learn to see beyond them to the stars.  

"Ladies of Leisure" isn't Barbara Stanwyck's first film, but it's the one that made her a star. It also marked the beginning of a five-picture collaboration with director Frank Capra (seen with Stanwyck at right) -- one that almost didn't happen. Capra wasn't impressed with Stanwyck at their first meeting, and she left upset. It wasn't until Capra was bawled out by Stanwyck's husband, comic Frank Fay, who urged Capra to watch an older Stanwyck screen test, that she was cast in the role.

Now back to the plot -- Jerry's an artist who's anything but starving. He lives high thanks to his family wealth -- dad runs a couple of railroads. On the ride back, Kay dozes off. While she's asleep, Jerry sees something in Kay's face -- something that leads him to use her as a model for his new painting, "Hope."

"She had a mask on, like everybody else," Jerry tells his mother, "but underneath I think she had this."

The tricky part is getting down to it while Kay is awake, and their first rocky sessions together show a bit of improvisation on Stanwyck's part:

 

Jerry knows that if Kay can get past her streetwise exterior, Hope will come through. But she's a tough nut to crack.   

Jerry: It's like a man I knew once. He was suspicious, bitter, harsh, cruel. Those things were written in his face like a map of his life. He died -- I saw him laid out. His face was a new face -- it was fine, noble. There was peace in it. He was himself again. Do you see what I mean?

Kay: No. All I get out of it is you gotta die to find yourself. Not me -- not for two dollars an hour.

Also hanging around is Jerry's upper crust fiancee (Juliette Compton). She's cool and controlling -- we know she isn't right for our hero because she calls him "Jeddy." Marie Prevost is around for comic relief as Kay's roommate and best friend. And then there's Jerry's boozy friend Bill Standish, played by the ever-welcome Lowell Sherman. He and Stanwyck are perfectly matched in the wisecrack department:

Kay (seeing Bill enter): Drunk again!

Bill: Congratulations, so am I.

Of course, Jerry eventually gets through to Kay and she lets down her defenses and becomes a perfect model. They also fall in love, in a scene that echoes the moment in Capra's "It's a Wonderful Life" when George Bailey (James Stewart) realizes in a mixture of anger and awe that he loves Mary Hatch (Donna Reed):

 

The Jerry-Kay relationship upsets Jerry's wealthy parents, and there's a father-son standoff. Jerry's mother (Nance O'Neil) visits Kay and tries to get her to break up with Jerry for his own sake, and in return mom gets the full Stanwyck:

Capra writes in his autobiography that, if she was filming an emotional scene, Stanwyck left everything on the field in the first take. And in this performance, so early in her career, she already has the ability to combine outer toughness with a sudden inner vulnerability that can tear your heart out. Sherman and Prevost perform like the pros they are. Graves, who was already a star thanks to his roles in the Capra-directed action pictures "Flight" and "Submarine," has a tough time impersonating someone with artistic temperament.

Here are the complete credits for "Ladies of Leisure."

"They Learned About Women," or Grand Slam Hams

"I'm Van!" "I'm Schenck!"
"Our music doesn't stenk!"

"They Learned About Women" was released in 1930, early enough in the evolution of talking pictures that silent film-style title cards were still used to introduce scenes -- and the leading men, who are supposed to be major league baseball players, are wearing eyeliner. But it's important because it's the only full-length talking film made by the team of Gus Van and Joseph Schenck -- Schenck died just after the movie was released.

Van and Schenck were gigantic in vaudeville -- they were a part of the Ziegfeld Follies from 1918-21 -- and their repertoire included songs like "She Knows Her Onions," "Away Down South in Heaven" and the quizzically titled "If You Want to Miss a Heaven on Earth, Stay Out of the South."

In the movie, Van and Schenck are Jerry and Jack, two guys who play baseball for the Blue Sox by day (no night games back then) and play in vaudeville at night. Their performing style was simple -- Van sang bass and Schenck harmonized on tenor while playing piano.  They did a lot of good-humored ethnic comedy numbers, usually poking fun at the Irish and Jews, such as "Dougherty Is the Name":

What plot there is to "They Learned About Women" involves a love story between Jack and Mary (Bessie Love), who are driven apart by the manipulative Daisy (Mary Doran). As if that isn't enough, the hussy also tries to split up Jerry and Jack!

In between there are several musical numbers that take place in the theatre and on the field -- although staging "Shake That Thing" in the team shower probably isn't the best choice. There's also comedy relief from Tom Dugan and Benny Rubin. Dugan would go on to play Hitler in several World War II-era movies, including Ernst Lubitsch's "To Be or Not to Be," and Rubin would become a popular comic second banana for everyone from Jack Benny to the Three Stooges. Their Irish-Jewish interplay actually echoes Van and Schenck's routine -- and as an added bonus, Dugan's character stutters.

During the early talkie era, Bessie Love was one of the busiest actresses at MGM, with a fresh, charming quality. Here's her big number in the picture, performed live on the set as far as I can tell:

You can see the full cast and production info here.

"The Silver Horde," or Alaska Me Anything

"The Silver Horde" is undoubtedly the most detailed film ever made about the process of canning salmon. Granted, there's not a lot of competition -- it's like being the world's oldest cat ballet company.

Aside from that honor, "The Silver Horde" is an interesting look at two stars early in their career -- Joel McCrea and Jean Arthur, more than a decade before they generated genuine heat onscreen in George Stevens' "The More the Merrier."

Based on a story by Rex Beach, adventure novelist and Olympic water polo player (!), "The Silver Horde" takes place in Alaska, where good guy Boyd Emerson (McCrea), who has failed at gold prospecting, takes a job at a salmon fishery run by Cherry Malotte (Evelyn Brent). Times are tough -- the business is struggling because of competition from the ruthless fish financier Fred Marsh (Gavin Gordon). Big Salmon ruins everything!

(Because of the color of their scales, large quantities of salmon are known as a "Silver Horde." End of title explanation.)

We're told that Cherry is a former "hanger-on in a men's camp," if you know what I mean and I think you do, but she has a heart of gold and she has eyes for Boyd. He, on the other hand, is unaware of Cherry's past, but he only has eyes for haughty rich girl Mildred Wayland (Arthur, seen at left).

Cherry sends Boyd to Seattle, along with longtime fisherman Balt (Louis Wolheim) and comic relief Fraser (Raymond Hatton), in pursuit of a loan to install canning equipment:

In Seattle, the rough-hewn Balt, encouraged by the streetwise Fraser, gets new clothes, a fancy hat and a manicure:

Boyd, meanwhile, is combining business with pleasure by paying a visit to Mildred, and who does he meet but Big Salmon himself:

Big Salmon puts a wrench into the works and the loan is cancelled. But Cherry comes to Seattle and works her wiles on the banker, who happens to be an old acquaintance. And while they're out clubbing, Cherry sees Boyd with Mildred.

Back in Alaska, the equipment is put into place, and there's a salmon-canning montage that's a thing of beauty:

Considering this is one of his early performances, Joel McCrea seems as relaxed as ever. But -- and this is maybe because she's playing so against type as a haughty rich girl -- Arthur is really having a hard time. Here's a scene where she tells Boyd about Cherry's past -- hoo, boy:

By contrast, as Cherry, Evelyn Brent goes to toe to toe with Arthur and summons real Stanwyck energy to her takedown. 

(Cherry's friend Queenie is played by Blanche Sweet in one of the few sound film appearances she made after a long career in silent films.)  

Here's the complete film:

"The Big House," or Slammer Time

In the 1930 film "The Big House" people are constantly dwarfed by their surroundings. The prison where most of the story takes place is full of high walls and towers but it's also claustrophobic, crammed with sweaty prisoners sleeping three to a cell and filling the courtyard like a swarm of ants.

We first see the prison from the viewpoint of a new prisoner, Kent (Robert Montgomery). The paddy wagon that transports him to the gates is overwhelmed by the structure itself in a striking opening shot:

Once he enters, Kent is systematically reduced from a normal guy to just another convict -- they're givin' him a number and takin' way his name.

Kent is there because he's been found guilty of being a standoffish prig -- oh, and also of killing some guy in a drunken car accident. His cellmates are Butch (Wallace Beery at his Wallace Beery-ist, full of childlike bluster and yet handy with a machine gun) and Morgan (Chester Morris). They urge Kent not to hang out with the prison stool pigeon -- he's the only convict who's wearing a necktie -- but Kent hopes that he can trade inside information for a reduced sentence.

"The Big House" is full of scenes that have become prison movie cliches, showing up in films from "White Heat" to "Birdman of Alcatraz" to "The Shawshank Redemption." One of the best is the mess hall riot, not just because of Beery's violent protest of the dehumanizing effects of prison, but because of the silence -- and the hopeless panorama of convict faces -- leading up to it:

Beery's character is punished for the riot by being sent to "the dungeon," but before he goes he passes his knife to Kent. Then, during a surprise search, Kent slips the knife into Morgan's jacket. As a result, Morgan, a day away from parole, also gets sent to the dungeon. After his 30-day stretch of living in darkness, Morgan fakes illness and escapes through the infirmary. While on the outside, he seeks out and falls in love with Kent's sister (Leila Hyams), and she with him. But it isn't long before Morgan is nabbed and sent back to stir.

While Morgan's been out, Butch has been planning a massive escape to take place on Thanksgiving Day, while the place is low on guards. In a witty scene taking place that morning, all the convicts end up at a church service, singing "Open the Gates (of the Temple)." Then as they all kneel in prayer, Berry starts passing guns and bullets down the row to his fellow escapees.

Morgan refuses to be involved in the break, but he won't rat on Butch, either. That task falls to Kent. When the escape turns into a standoff between the convicts and the guards, Butch blames Morgan. But he finally figures out the truth. Meanwhile, Kent seems to be melting into a puddle of sweat:

Kent is killed in the riot, and Morgan is forced to shoot Butch. But Butch forgives him just before he dies. "The Big House" ends with a focus on Morgan, who's given an early release for his role in stopping the escape and saving a guard's life. The "decent" prisoner, Kent, is revealed as a coward and a stool pigeon, and Morgan effectively takes the place of Kent within the family.

"The Big House" won an Oscar for screenwriter Frances Marion, who adapted the script from Lennox Robinson's play. It was smoothly directed by George Hill, Marion's husband at the time. It represented a career-saving role for Beery, who got the role as a result of the death of Lon Chaney, Sr., who passed away after making only one talkie, "The Unholy Three."  

Here are the complete credits.

"Children of Pleasure," or The Great Spite Way

The 1930 MGM film "Children of Pleasure" tries to whip up big-city showbiz razzle-dazzle in the manner of the same studio's Oscar-winning "The Broadway Melody" or "Chasing Rainbows," but due to a wan leading man and subpar musical numbers (including one where the dancers are dressed as brooms), the effect is more like a handful of confetti shaken out of a pant cuff by a surly headwaiter.

The leading man, Lawrence Gray, is a handsome fellow who supported Marion Davies in her first talkie, 1929's "Marianne," and who played opposite Marilyn Miller in "Sunny," one of the year's top-grossing films. But left to his own devices, Gray has little more than a smile and a shoeshine, and a mildly pleasant singing voice.

Gray plays songwriter Danny Regan, whose tunes are being whistled by every Dick and Dora along the great white way. "That's the stuff!" they say in unison. Yes, the world is Danny's oyster -- he even knows Jack Benny (playing himself)!

Danny's big hit at the moment is "A Couple of Birds (with the Same Thing in Mind)," sung in a Broadway revue by Fanny Kaye, played by May Boley. This is Boley's only musical role, which should tell you something. Her other credits include the 1930 film "Moby Dick" (as Whale Oil Rosie) and the 1939 version of "The Women" (as woman under mud pack). From its heard-it-before rhythms to its blackface chorus, "A Couple of Birds" is highly missable.

Meanwhile, back at Danny's music publishers, we meet the warm, vivacious Emma (Wynne Gibson), Danny's former vaudeville partner who secretly lurrves him as she helps him put over his songs. Alas, Danny has met Pat (Judith Wood, acting under the name Helen Johnson), a rather chilly society girl, and the big sap falls for her like a tycoon jumping off a skyscraper ledge on Black Thursday.

Then there is more plot -- we're introduced to Fanny's piano player and reluctant lover, Andy (Benny Rubin). Fanny and Andy keep popping up to banter about Andy's roving eye.

Fanny (on Andy ogling a secretary): You never looked at me like that!

Andy: You never looked like that!

A production number based upon
particulate matter.

Danny pitches his next big number, called, um, "Raisin' the Dust." And brother, it's sweeping the country! Or at least this soundstage, where the chorus girls wear broom bristles on their arms and legs and rhyme "hades" with "ladies." What fun this must have been to shoot.

At the end of the number, Fanny -- wearing a one-horned hat that makes her look like a cockeyed unicorn -- brings Danny on stage. He sees Pat in the audience and is smitten again, much to Emma's disappointment. Danny and Pat finally formally meet at a nightclub, where we also get a musical number with Lawrence Gray, Wynne Gibson and Benny Rubin.

Because I can never resist including a number that ends with a joke about "my fanny.")

Anyway, before you can say "Why in the world would you want to marry an iceberg like her?", Danny and Pat are engaged. But she's still hanging around with old flame Rod (Kenneth Thomson playing the same kind of smarmy rich guy he plays in "The Broadway Melody"). And just before the ceremony Danny overhears Pat and Rod making baby talk, with Pat telling Rod "you're Danny's understudy." So the heartbroken Danny breaks up the wedding rehearsal, giving Gray his only opportunity in the movie to display emotion that isn't expressed by a smile.

But never fear -- Danny turns to the long-suffering Emma to relieve his broken heart.

"Children of Paradise" is based on the play "The Song Writer," which author Crane Wilbur based on the courtship of Irving Berlin and heiress Ellin MacKay. The plot of the movie-play turns out differently than the Berlin-MacKay affair -- despite the strong objections of her anti-semitic father, MacKay and Berlin were married more than 60 years, until her death in 1988 (he died the next year). In a bit of poetic justice, Berlin reportedly helped his father-in-law financially when the old guy was wiped out by the 1929 crash.

As for Gray, his career faded quickly and he ended up in grade-C westerns before dropping out of show business in the mid-1930s.