If "Merton of the Movies" isn't the first spoof of Hollywood, it comes close.
Harry Leon Wilson's 1919 novel about a naive small-town clerk who goes to Hollywood with a correspondence course in film acting under his belt and not much in his head was adapted for the stage in 1922 by George S. Kaufman and Marc Connelly. It was made into a movie in 1924 (with Glenn Hunter as Merton) and again in 1947 with Red Skelton in the title role.
In between, there was another version, 1932's "Make Me a Star." The cast alone is a Who's Who of early Hollywood -- Stuart Erwin, Joan Blondell, Ben Turpin, Ruth Donnelly, Zasu Pitts and Charles Sellon. William Beaudine directs -- a guy who began his career with Mary Pickford and ended it with the Bowery Boys.
In addition, there are fleeting, almost incidental cameo appearances by the biggest stars on the Paramount lot at the time -- Gary Cooper, Tallulah Bankhead, Claudette Colbert, Maurice Chevalier, Fredric March. Jack Oakie, Charles Ruggles, Sylvia Sidney and Clive Brook, among others.
We begin in the hamlet of Simsbury, two thousand miles and a world away from Los Angeles. Merton Gill (Erwin) is a rather preoccupied clerk who works for Mr. Gashwiler (Sellon) in the local emporium. Movies are on Merton's mind constantly, particularly B-grade westerns with humorless hero Buck Benson (Dink Templeton) -- so much so that Merton is given to whispering things to the horse pulling his delivery cart like "Let's get goin', Pinto, old pal -- we gotta make Red Gap before sundown."
Unfortunately, Merton's daydreaming leads to havoc at the store, what with messed-up deliveries and such. A frustrated Mr. Gashwiler finally gives Merton the boot and California, here he comes.
Merton goes directly to Majestic Studios, home of Buck Benson. He re-christens himself as Whoop Ryder and is befriended by stuntwoman "Flips" Montague (Blondell) and the studio's hard-bitten-but-kindly switchboard operator, The Countess (Donnelly). (One of the joys of this movie is listening to Donnelly say, in that testy manner of hers, "Now listen, Whoop.")
Flips helps Merton get a walk-on in a Benson picture; he blows his chance and is fired. But he won't leave the lot because he's afraid he'll never be let back in, and it's not like he has anywhere to go -- he's been kicked out of his apartment. By the time Flips sees him again, he's been sleeping on empty sets and is slowly starving.
Flips stakes Merton to a meal and gets an idea -- because Merton is such a straight arrow, he would make a perfect parody of Buck Benson. She sells it to a Mack Sennett-like producer and filming begins. Just one problem -- Merton thinks he's making a straight picture. He hates comedies and can't figure out why the cross-eyed Ben Turpin (playing a guy named Ben) is playing his sidekick.
On the eve of the premiere, Flips feels guilty.
She's fallen for Merton -- she calls him Trouper -- and can't bring herself to tell him the truth. So he faces it himself -- a theatre full of people laughing at him. He comes back to Flip and bursts into tears.
By now you may be getting the idea that "Make Me a Star" isn't quite a romantic comedy, or a slapstick comedy, or really much of a comedy at all. And I believe at least part of the fault lies with Erwin -- he's too vulnerable as Merton. You pity him, which isn't a good look for a hero. He's also frustratingly dense and a bit pompous.
On the other hand -- and this may be accidental -- "Make Me a Star" illustrates what it takes to be a success in Hollywood: sometimes the price is that you leave your real self behind. The movie leaves us up in the air -- we don't know if Merton makes another Whoop Ryder picture or not. And we're never quite clear just what the self-assured pro Flips sees in Merton.
The 1947 remake of "Merton of the Movies" takes place during the silent era, which with its outsize personalities and exaggerated acting styles is much easier to make fun of. The way Skelton plays Merton is easier to make fun of, too -- he's a genial dope who wins a contest and comes to Hollywood. In "Make Me a Star" Merton has been dreaming of coming to Hollywood all his life, which makes his failure even more poignant. All in all, "Make Me a Star" has a wistful sadness about it, and dares to float the idea that a Hollywood career doesn't guarantee a happy-ever-after ending.
Vicki Baum's 1929 novel (and play) "Grand Hotel" was purchased by MGM, and in 1932 the studio released a film version featuring all the big shots on the lot -- Greta Garbo, John Barrymore, Joan Crawford, Lionel Barrymore and Wallace Beery, with Lewis Stone and Jean Hersholt thrown in for good measure.
Then in 1945 came "Week-End at the Waldorf," also from MGM, also based on Baum's work, featuring all the big shots on the lot -- Walter Pidgeon, Lana Turner, Van Johnson, Edward Arnold and Keenan Wynn, with Ginger Rogers (in her first film for MGM), Robert Benchley and Xavier Cugat and his orchestra thrown in for good measure.
"Grand Hotel" takes place in Berlin just before the Nazis come to power, and that setting -- along with the fact that the world seems to be closing in on several of the characters -- gives the film an air of melancholy. In typical pre-code fashion, there are several adult relationships and a cynicism that, by contrast, is almost totally missing from "Week-End at the Waldorf." World War II informs the latter film, which is understandable because it was happening at the time, but everything is covered with that slick, impenetrable MGM sheen. While "Grand Hotel" ends with a sense of disquiet, there's never really any doubt that everyone and everything in "Week-End" exists solely to steer the film toward a multitude of happy endings.
To see how vivid the contrast can be, consider the character who acts as a kind of philosophical narrator in each film -- in "Grand Hotel" it is the doctor (Stone, seen at left), whose face was horribly disfigured by a grenade during World War I. The good doctor is morose, to say the least. He haunts the lobby and is given one of the film's most famous lines: "Grand Hotel. People coming, people going. Nothing ever happens." But he's also given lines that hint at his loneliness and emotional desolation, like "A man who is not with a woman -- is a dead man."
In "Week-End at the Waldorf," on the other hand, our narrator is Randy Morton, played by Benchley. He's a superficial, silly-ass Broadway columnist who spends the whole movie worrying when his precious pooch is going to pop out pups.
Most of the characters of "Grand Hotel" are as alienated as the doctor -- Garbo plays prima ballerina Grusinskaya, whose physical and emotional exhaustion is affecting her work and draining her of life. The Baron (John Barrymore) is all hat and no cattle -- a gentleman with an empty title who resorts to petty theft to keep up appearances. The unfortunately-named Flem (Crawford) is a plucky stenographer who isn't above selling herself to get ahead. Preysing (Beery) is a bullying, hypocritical industrialist trying to set up a shady merger to save his Teutonic tush. Kringelein (Lionel Barrymore) is a lowly clerk in one of Preysing's factories, visiting the hotel for a last fling before being felled by a terminal illness. And Senf the head porter (Hersholt) is anxious because his wife is having a difficult labor offscreen.
But the real tragedy at the heart of "Grand Hotel" lies in the doomed romance between the Baron and the ballerina. They've seen each other around the hotel -- everyone has seen the Baron -- but they've never spoken.
One night, while she is performing, he slips into her vacant room to lift a string of pearls. She enters unexpectedly and he starts a slick line of patter that soon turns sincere. They Hit It Off.
In "Week-End at the Waldorf," the ballerina has been turned into unhappy actress Irene Malvern (Rogers) and the Baron has become war correspondent Chip Collyer (Pidgeon). In one of the best touches in Bella and Sam Spewack's script, their romance parallels that of Garbo and Barrymore, but with a much lighter tone -- and with lines of dialogue that even reference "Grand Hotel," not to mention a couple other MGM movies.
Chip to Irene: "I'm the Baron, you're the ballerina and we're off to see the wizard!" Irene to Chip: "Goodbye, Mr. Chip -- Collyer."
Ginger Rogers is starting to do that raised eyebrow thing that would become much more common in her later movies.
Irene isn't nearly as depressed as the ballerina, and Chip is no thief, although he's mistaken for one at first. The give-and-take between the two characters is geared more to romantic comedy than high drama, but so what? Rogers is great at romantic comedy and Pidgeon more than meets her halfway. When they end up having to pretend to be married, we just go along for the ride.
In "Grand Hotel," the ballerina and the Baron spend the night together, and he tells her his simple and cynical story.
Baron: "When I was a little boy I was taught to ride and be a gentleman. Then at school, to pray and lie. And then in the war, to kill and hide. That's all."
That is not a speech you would hear in a movie released in 1945.
The Baron and ballerina share a room -- hell, they share a bed. Hell, they may even have shared more than that!
In "Week-End at the Waldorf," Chip spends the night in Irene's suite because the house dicks think he's a thief and he has to hide out. But you can bet your bottom dollar that they stay in separate rooms, mister! They even make a big deal out of piling furniture against both sides of the door. We get it, 1940s people!
In other remake news, Lana Turner takes Crawford's role as the stenographer and Lionel Barrymore's character is played by -- Van Johnson? Yep. Turner is Bunny -- that's her name -- and Johnson is Hollis, an Air Force Captain who will soon undergo a dicey operation to remove a piece of shrapnel that's dangerously near his heart (!). Bunny dreams of a nice place on Park Avenue, while Hollis just wants to get well and go home to small-town California. Oh -- and he also is carrying a song, written by a dead war buddy, that he wants Xavier Cugat's orchestra to play. You can pretty much guess what happens there.
Bunny, meanwhile, is torn between Hollis and the shiny things dangled in front of her by Edley (Arnold), an unscrupulous entrepreneur. And Wynn is a cub reporter snooping on Edley's shady doings.
Nice interacting there. Baron.
In the 1932 film, the plot threads are much more intermingled than in the 1945 film. The Baron, in fact, pretty much interacts with every character in the movie, and he is the real heart of "Grand Hotel." His death at the end of the film is genuinely affecting, devastating the ballerina, who loved him, and Kringelein, the odd duck whom the Baron befriended while everyone else dismissed him. The last indication of the Baron is his beloved dachshund, left behind to be cared for by the staff.
There's also a dog in "Week-End at the Waldorf," as we mentioned, but it's just a symbol of silly rich people. That's just one of the many reasons why "Grand Hotel" seems to have more of a heart -- even if it's a sad heart -- than its remake, which is entertaining enough, even if it has a whole lot less on its mind.
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. 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:
This is part of the Pre-Code Blogathon sponsored by Danny at Pre-Code.com and Karen at Shadows and Satin. Please visit either and/or both of them for more offerings.
The 1932 film "Love Me Tonight" lets you know you are in for something special from the very beginning:
You haven't heard a word of dialogue, but the first few moments of the film set the stage perfectly -- Paris, morning, people waking up, a friendly man jauntily walking to his tailor shop and greeting his neighbors ("Hello Mrs. Bendix! How's your appendix?").
When it comes to modern life, I'm a firm believer in what Lily Tomlin once said: "No matter how cynical you get, it's never enough to keep up." And I love the cynicism of so many pre-code movies -- I think it's a period of filmmaking that mirrors the tenor of the times like no other.
But when I watch a movie like "Love Me Tonight," I happily park my cynicism at the door. It doesn't come easily to me, but the movie deserves sincere adjectives that I usually use sarcastically -- "delightful," "thrilling," "enchanting." It's a witty, lovely fairy tale with a prince named Maurice and a princess named Jeanette. It's not just one of my favorite pre-code movies -- it's one of my favorite movie musicals, period.
The pairing of Maurice Chevalier and Jeanette MacDonald brings to mind what Katharine Hepburn is alleged to have said about Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers -- "he gives her class and she gives him sex" -- but in reverse. MacDonald's regal bearing (even when she wasn't playing a princess) and cultured soprano is perfectly counterbalanced by Chevalier's good humor and growly, untrained voice.
Their paths cross when Maurice pursues Charlie Ruggles as a deadbeat vicomte (French for "viscount," if you care) to his family castle, where the women -- Princess Jeanette and Countess Valentine (Myrna Loy, sexy as hell) -- are literally wasting away from lack of love. See for yourself:
Aunts in your plans of 1932.
The lord of the castle, the stern Duke (C. Aubrey Smith), keeps everyone in line, or so he thinks, and three maiden aunts (Elizabeth Patterson, Blanche Frederici and Ethel Griffies) are a Greek chorus commenting on the action. Princess Jeanette's only suitor is a hapless count played by the Hapsburg of the hapless, Charles Butterworth.
We are introduced to Princess Jeanette in one of my very favorite film moments -- the Rodgers and Hart song "Isn't It Romantic" travels from one singer to another, beginning on the lips of the hero and ending on the lips of the heroine:
This, to me, is exhilarating filmmaking -- storytelling in a style that still seems contemporary and clever. Taking a score by Rodgers and Hart consisting of songs that are spoken as well as sung, director Rouben Mamoulian worked with screenwriters Samuel Hoffenstein, Waldemar Young and George Marion, Jr. to shape the story around the music.
Truthfully, the story is the weakest part of "Love Me Tonight," but it's more than enough to carry the score and the performances. Maurice is a tailor. The viscount owes him money. He goes to the castle to get paid. Princess Jeanette is nearby, riding in a carriage and combining the lyrics of "Lover" with commands to her horse (I wish I had a clip to share with you) Maurice meets Princess Jeanette and falls in love.
She resists his advances and runs away. They meet again at the castle, where the viscount passes off Maurice as a baron. Everyone else in the castle loves Maurice as much as the princess dislikes him. How do we know? After he arrives, they all wake up the next morning singing "Mimi" -- even C. Aubrey Smith in what is undoubtedly his most joyous moment on film.
"Trust me. I'm a professional."
The princess finally comes around, falling in love with Maurice and then realizing, as he's fitting her for an impeccably-made riding habit, that he's a tailor. "Love Me Tonight" seems a little anticlimactic after that, though the plot turn does cause one character to say/sing, "I'd rather throw a bomb at her than have her wed a commoner."
Despite its atmosphere of sweet romance, "Love Me Tonight" does have its share of pre-code spice, including scenes of Loy and MacDonald in lingerie and other revealing outfits, some of which were trimmed during the movie's original release. And one raised eyebrow from Maurice Chevalier is worth a million double-entendres.
Here is the film itself (with commercials; sorry):
The personal, private, top, top super-secret diary of Nasa Springer
No boys allowed! (tee-hee)
June 12, 1932
Dear Diary:
Just got back from riding my horses across our vast Texas estate. We stopped for a water break at Dallas and then got as far as Amarillo before we turned back. Oh, and I savagely killed a rattlesnake with a whip. No wonder that whenever people refer to me, they say, "Call Her Savage"!
June 13, 1932
Dear Diary:
Did I mention I love horses? I love their smooth skin, their tight hindquarters, their bulging muscles, their sinewy legs ... and did I mention I also like boys? Oh, and also today my temper got the best of me again and I crashed a guitar over someone's head.
June 14, 1932
Dear Diary:
Father is mad at me again! All I did was bring a family of rabid possums into the house and interrupt some silly cotillion or something. Oh, and I forgot to put on underwear. The babies were so cute! The possums, I mean. But daddy was having none of it. He just gave me an angry look the way he always does, and said, "She's no daughter of mine!" And mother gave him a funny look and said, "You don't know how right you are!" Wonder what she means by that?
June 15, 1932
Dear Diary:
Well, now I'm in Chicago attending finishing school. I've been on my very best behavior, which means I have reduced my fighting to once a week. Oh, and I've met the most wonderful man! He looks just like that actor in the movies, Monroe Owsley. Except that in the movies Monroe Owsley always plays rotten cads, and this man seems great! I'm sure things will work out perfectly! P.S. I have learned enough in finishing school to know that you don't put an apostrophe in "kayos," silly Daily Express! P.P.S. I am wearing underwear more often.
June 16, 1932
Dear Diary:
I've found out that married life has its challenges, especially when your husband turns out to be a congenitally unfaithful sociopath whose brain is being eaten by syphilis. But nobody's perfect. Oh, and I am pregnant.
June 17, 1932
Dear Diary:
My baby is sick and my husband has deserted me, so in order to afford medicine I must walk the streets. I really don't have any other choice -- the only things I know how to do are ride horses and get into fights. So I went out and pretended to be very interested in a Bromo-Seltzer sign and one thing led to another. Oh, and while I was out my apartment building burned down.
June 18, 1932
Dear Diary:
You'll never believe this, but I'm wealthy again! My grandfather or whatever left me a lot of money, so I've been going out with very handsome men. I've learned to control my hot-blooded nature and I'm down to fighting only once a month. Or maybe twice. Oh, and under police orders I am allowed to eat off of only paper plates.
June 19, 1932
Dear Diary:
I have begun to seriously re-evaluate my relationships with men. What makes me such a savage around them? Why was I such a disappointment to my father? Why has my mother always had such an interest in Native American culture? What happened to those rabid possums? So many questions, diary, and so few mirrors!
June 20, 1932
Dear Diary:
What a crazy month! It's been as tempestuous as my very nature! But now I am home again in Texas because my mother has passed away. In her final words, she pointed to my father and said, "He's not your real -- " and that was it! I'll never figure out what she meant! But my lifelong friend Moonglow is here, and today we went together to the wooded glen where I have so many happy memories of whipping rattlesnakes to death. And there, diary, I asked Moonglow the question that has long been on my mind ...
Of all the actors and actresses who appeared in 1930s movies, Helen Vinson (1907-99) was certainly one of them.
Born Helen Rulfs in Beaumont, Texas, Vinson was the daughter of an oil company executive and grew up on a country estate. She attended the University of Texas, where she performed in shows, and ended up doing little theatre in Houston. This led to Broadway, a name change, and then Hollywood, where in 1932 Vinson went to work at Warner Bros.
Given her upper-class upbringing, playing the high society type came easily to Vinson. She was the opposite of streetwise Warner leading ladies like Glenda Farrell or Joan Blondell -- she was attractive in a demure way and spoke in an achingly proper manner.
One of Vinson's first films at Warner's is the majestic "I Am a Fugitive From a Chain Gang." Vinson plays Helen, who meets James Allen (Paul Muni) after his first escape from the chain gang. He has changed his identity and built himself a successful engineering career in Chicago, but he is unhappily married to the blackmailing Marie (Glenda Farrell). For once, Vinson is the attractive alternative, but when Allen tries to leave his wife, Marie turns him in to the authorities. This leads to Allen escaping from the gang yet again and returning for a brief visit with Helen in the film's powerful final scene.
"I Am a Fugitive" shows us a warmer, more attractive side of Vinson -- she actually gets to act like a human being as opposed to someone being rude to servants at a cocktail party.
But from then on, Vinson's Hollywood career largely came down to playing one of two types -- the wealthy heroine's best friend or the wealthy heroine's worst friend, the one who was always trying to steal her husband/lover.
For an example, consider 1932's "Two Against the World,"set in a world of thoughtless rich people, the Hamilton clan. Here Vinson is Corinne Hamilton Walton, a sociopathic socialite who's preoccupied with important things like gahden pahties. She's married to a rich stiff named George (Alan Mowbray at his stuffiest). But Corinne is not hap-peh; she's been having an aff-aih until her lover breaks up with her because he loves her sister Adell (Constance Bennett).
Adell Hamilton, on the other hand, has set her cap for dashing young man-of-the-people attorney David Norton (Neil Hamilton), and they bond over a lunch of baked beans at Norton's favorite greasy spoon.
Things take a dramatic turn when Adell and Corinne's brother finds a compact on the lover's bed that just happens to have the old Hamilton family crest on it. The brother thinks it belongs to Adell, but he is mistaken, and this leads to an outbreak of frantic eye contact between the two sisters.
The lover ends up getting seriously killed by Corinne and Adell's brother and, in order to save the reputation of her unfaithful sister and her guilty brother, Corinne takes the fall. But the prosecuting attorney is -- David Norton, Mr. Baked Bean of 1932!
This is most of Helen Vinson's performance in
"Two Against the World."
Considering that it's her infidelity that drives the plot, there isn't much of Vinson in "Two Against the World" -- she doesn't even get the satisfaction of shooting her ex-lover! Instead the movie centers around the love story between Adell and Norton (Hamilton was also Bennett's romantic interest in "What Price Hollywood?"). Vinson might as well wear a shirt saying, "I had an affair but all I ended up with is Alan Mowbray." It's not even clear which "two" the title is referring to -- Adell and Norton? The two sisters? The Warner brothers?
How you feel about the 1933 film "Grand Slam" will depend on how funny you find jokes about playing bridge. The film is a product of a time when the card game was the national craze.
Paul Lukas plays Peter, a mild-mannered man of Russian heritage who, everyone tells us, is a genius. He lives happily and simply as a waiter in a Russian restaurant, but one night his fiancee Marcia (Loretta Young) drags him to a bridge game. He masters the moves immediately, because he's a genius, remember? Then he ends up working at Park Avenue party, where a ritzy group including Lola (Vinson) needs a fourth for bridge. Peter steps in and his expertise makes him the life of the pah-ty:
Lola's attention leads to the breakup of Peter and Marcia, and the climax of the movie comes in a bridge match between Peter and the stuffy, self-appointed bridge expert Van Dorn (Ferdinand Gottschalk). Worldwide interest is so intense that once they start playing, time stands still!
"Grand Slam" is a stew -- a tasty one, with bits sprinkled in by Roscoe Karns (also in "Two Against the World") as a wisecracking radio announcer and our old friend Joseph Cawthorn doing his patented grouchy ethnic schtick, but still a stew.
To Vinson, who stood five feet seven inches tall, Hollywood was "an absolute sea of short men," she later told one interviewer. "Robinson, Muni, James Cagney and George Raft all had to stand on boxes when they acted with me."
The sea of short men started drying up in the late 1930s. In 1938 Vinson was in the headlines for divorcing husband Fred Perry, a British tennis champion who'd begun an affair with Marlene Dietrich. Shortly afterward she married socialite-businessman Donald Hardenbrook. Her last film role was in 1944's "The Thin Man Goes Home" and she returned to the East Coast with her husband, where she studied interior design and preferred not to look back at her film career.
Pre-code versus post-code is the difference between a Duesenberg and a Hummer, between cafe au lait and chocolate milk, between a camisole and a union suit.
Take the differences, for instance, between the 1932 film "The Crowd Roars" and the 1939 film "Indianapolis Speedway." Same story (by Howard Hawks, who also directed the first film), same setting, same characters (with different names, in some cases), even much of the same racetrack footage. By the way, want to know how to switch up your stock footage of a crowd? Just flip the image, like this:
And, since these are Warner Bros. films made in the 1930s, naturally both of them feature Frank McHugh -- playing the same character, and even with the same name. Spud. (Frank McHugh was born to play guys named Spud.)
But there's a distinct difference in the way the film's romantic relationships are portrayed, and, by extension, in the relationship between the brothers at the center of the story.
The brothers are Joe and Eddie Greer, played by James Cagney and Eric Linden in "The Crowd Roars" and Pat O'Brien and John Payne in "Indianapolis Speedway." Joe is a world-famous racing driver who drinks and carouses a little too much, tilting slightly but not totally into arrogance. Eddie is his hero-worshiping brother, who also wants to race.
In the 1939 version, Joe's reluctance to work with Eddie has a noble basis -- he wants Eddie to finish college, at Joe's expense. But after Joe leaves his hometown and his visit with Eddie to return to Los Angeles, he finds an unexpected stowaway.
In the 1932 version, Joe's reluctant to work with Eddie for two reasons -- one is because of Eddie's inexperience, but the other is that Joe doesn't want Eddie to know that he's shacking up with longtime frail Lee (Ann Dvorak). Once Eddie enters Joe's life, Joe starts giving the cold shoulder to the bewildered Lee. In "Indianapolis Speedway," by contrast, Joe and Lee (Gale Page) are already engaged, which makes their coupling a little more legitimate. When Joe gives Lee the brushoff in "Indianapolis," he makes it clear it's because he wants to tutor Eddie. In "The Crowd Roars," Lee grins and bears it, but in "Indianapolis Speedway" she gets rightfully honked off. Here are the two scenes:
But the real woman trouble in both movies comes from Lee's friend. In "The Crowd Roars," her name is Ann (Joan Blondell) and in "Indianapolis Speedway" her name is Frankie (Ann Sheridan). In both movies, she's first portrayed as bad news, and Joe doesn't want her "corrupting" his pure younger brother. In "The Crowd Roars," when Ann meets Eddie and starts showing some leg, Joe sneers, "Why don't you stand on your head while you're at it?" -- a line that's as likely to show up in "Indianapolis Speedway" as I am to grow a tail. In "Indianapolis Speedway," Frankie -- who's the roommate of Ann -- is known for feminine wiles that have driven at least one racer track wacky. (Sheridan, at the peak of her reign as Warner's "Oomph Girl," is top billed here -- and like Blondell, she is shown in the skimpiest post-code outfits possible.)
Here's how Cagney and O'Brien handle the problem of the other woman:
Even by Cagney standards, the character of Joe is wound unusually tight. His obsession with keeping Eddie from sinful entanglements and what he perceives as loose women -- playing around for me, but not for thee -- goes beyond brotherly concern and makes him seem like a hypocrite.
O'Brien portrays Joe as a little wearier -- the movie is telling us that what he needs is to settle down with a good woman, but it'll take him about 65 minutes to figure that out.
All around, in fact, the Joe in "Indianapolis Speedway" seems more human and more vulnerable. The relationship between the brothers is much warmer -- in the 1932 film, Joe dominates Eddie the way that Cagney naturally dominates the more diffident Linden. Payne, by contrast, has a stronger screen presence and makes more of an impression opposite O'Brien.
In both versions, Joe's downfall comes when, out of anger at Eddie's romance, he causes a fiery crash that kills Spud (Twice!). Joe is spooked and can't bring himself to race again, but he gravitates toward Indianapolis on the day of the 500. Eddie is racing, and when he is injured, Joe jumps back behind the wheel with Eddie as his co-driver. Guess who wins?
In the 1932 film, the reunion between the brothers isn't even played out -- Joe just jumps in the car and takes off. But in the 1939 version, there's a spoken rapprochement between the brothers, capped off when Eddie gives Joe his trademark cigar to chomp on for good luck. Guess who wins?
January 3, 1932 From: Irving Thalberg, Head of Production To: Louis B. Mayer
L.B.:
First off, thanks again for the invitation to your Herbert Hoover fundraiser tonight. As appealing as the prospect sounds of seeing the magnetic Mr. Hoover in person, I'm afraid that Norma and I have our regular bridge game with Marie Dressler and Ben Turpin and so we must reluctantly pass.
Now down to cases -- I understand that you have seen a rough cut of "Freaks" and that you have some concerns. As I have already told you, this is a very unusual film, which, granted, makes it a risky proposition for MGM. On the other hand, overall box office business is good -- so good that the grapevine reports you are getting ready to buy Mexico, which is something I'm sure Mr. Hoover can help you with. Given that, I think we can find room to release a movie that takes an artistic risk.
Now, to address your points one by one:
1. I understand that you had an encounter with John Barrymore yesterday where he described "Freaks" to you as "a delightful circus movie" just before throwing up on your shoes. I think you should take anything John says with a grain of salt, not to mention grain alcohol. If you believed John's joking description, that may account for your reaction to the movie. You bemoan the lack of animals, clowns and laughing children, but those are beside the point of the plot -- although, to make you happier, we will add a scene of Wallace Ford in a clown outfit getting hit on the head with a prop hammer by Leila Hyams.
2. You write that you hate the title of the picture, that "Freaks" is too sensational-sounding. We chose that title because that is the derogatory term given to the circus people by the evil trapeze artist. The title is ironic because the movie shows us that these people are much more than freaks. I cannot accept any of your alternative titles -- "Saw Dust," "Bareback Mountin'," "Bearded Lady for a Day," "Carnivale" or "Sideshow Mob."
3. As you point out, there are several scenes where we see armless sideshow performers who are using their feet to hold a glass of beer. Per your suggestion, we will consider switching beer to milk.
4. I am at a loss to understand your desire for musical numbers in this picture. To bring the story to a halt, as you suggest, so that the Siamese twins can sing "Me and My Shadow" or so the human torso can dance to "Clap Yo Hands" would be disastrous.
5. You express concern about the level of "violence" in the film. What mayhem there is flows naturally from the plot, and the idea of giving the sideshow folk "cuter weapons" is unacceptable.
6. Under no circumstances will I even consider your suggestion that we
should replace our male lead, Harry Earles, with Jackie Cooper. I don't
care how much Cooper made you cry in "The Champ" -- the character of
Hans is not a boy, he is a man who happens to be a midget.
Therefore I also cannot consider your other plot suggestion -- that in
the end, Hans is adopted.
7. I do agree with you that a picture of this nature requires a special publicity push, but the idea of a "Miss Freak of 1932" beauty contest at major theatres is out, as is the "Pinhead the Tail on the Donkey" competition.
In conclusion, I hope that after an interval of time you will come to appreciate this film as a unique, engrossing look at a subculture -- a group of very human people who band together to protect one of their own (Hans) from the bullying trapeze artist and her brutish lover, the strong man. I'm hearing from people all over the lot that this is one of MGM's most remarkable films, with or without Jackie Cooper, and I feel very strongly that it is ready to go as it is. All the mishegas about this picture is going to fell me at an early age, I swear.
I believe that covers all of your concerns. Give my regards to Mr. Hoover.
The 1932 film "A Successful Calamity" begins with the hero being congratulated by the President, and even though it's only Herbert Hoover, we are still supposed to be impressed.
The fellow being congratulated is Henry Wilton, international man of banking, played by, as the credits list him, Mr. George Arliss. In the early 1930s, stage legend Arliss became the "prestige" star at Warner Bros., where he had his own production unit. He formed a close relationship with Darryl Zanuck, and when Zanuck left Warner in 1933 to form Twentieth Century Pictures, Arliss went with him.
Arliss was best known for dramatic roles. He played British Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli on stage and in two films -- for his performance in the 1929 sound version he won an Academy Award.
"A Successful Calamity," on the other hand, is a domestic comedy, and Arliss brings a puckish sense of humor to his performance. Some of his deadpan comic takes are downright Charles Butterworth-y.
As we begin, Wilton is returning to his Long Island estate after a year overseas representing Uncle Sam, negotiating payment of foreign debts. He is coming home to his much younger wife (Mary Astor), two grown children (Evalyn Knapp and William Janney) and a life of dinner parties, tea time and musicales.
Wilton is excited to see his family, but he couldn't care less about the other stuff. They, on the other hand, are major dervishes in the social whirl, and Wilton feels left behind, with only the company of loyal manservant Connors (Grant Mitchell).
Wilton's wife has made many changes to the family manse, including redecorating his bedroom in a modern style that doesn't suit him, to say the least:
Connors has saved the old furniture from Wilton's bedroom and has had it placed in his own room, which is where Wilton finds refuge. He doesn't care for tea times or musicales, but he loves his wife -- they've been married only six years -- and he indulges her love of "culture" and her sponsorship of artistic types, including composer-pianist Pietro (Fortunio Bonanova, nine years before he will become Susan Alexander Kane's voice teacher in "Citizen Kane"). In this scene, Wilton withstands Pietro's recital while flanked by talkative matrons:
Night after night of dinner parties and small talk begins to wear on Wilton. He wants to spend some time with his wife and children, so he gets an idea -- he tells the family he's broke.
"I don't know," says his wife, "whether I can bear to be poor."
But wife and children gather around Wilton while keeping stiff upper lips. Son goes to Wilton's business rival to ask for a job, and lets it slip that things are bad. Daughter goes to accept the marriage proposal of her priggish ex-fiance (Hardie Albright), but ex-fiance changes his tune when he finds the Wiltons are without means:
The wife, meanwhile, leaves with her protege and she's carrying a suitcase. Are they running away together?
The movie doesn't get too worked up about this or any other question. Daughter is spared from marrying a prig and ends up with Randolph Scott, who appears for about 90 seconds. Son's confession to Wilton's business rival triggers a series of events that ends in Wilton spiriting a block of stock away from said rival and making a zillion bucks.
"A Successful Calamity" is what used to be known as a star vehicle, showcasing Mr. Arliss in a dignified, slightly stuffy way. Very little is required of him -- mostly he looks bemused while his family grapples with the possibility of poverty. And watching him act that way is fun -- not a lot of fun, but fun.
The 1932 chain gang film "Hell's Highway" is not to be confused with the video game, the AC/DC album or the Michael Landon TV series "Highway to Heaven."
No, "Hell's Highway" is a neat little film filled with what every pre-code lover lives for: Those double-take "Holy crap, did I just see that?" moments -- an exchange of spicy dialogue, a stunning visual or a contemporary viewpoint that elevates the film from the hundreds of movies that studios cranked out each year.
It's not quite on the level of "I Am a Fugitive From a Chain Gang," released about the same time. But thanks to the direction of Rowland Brown, who also co-wrote the script, "Hell's Highway" has more than its share of clever, striking set pieces.
Take this one -- it happens at the beginning at the movie, between our hero, Duke (Richard Dix) and another inmate, Matthew (Charles Middleton), also known as the preacher, who's in on bigamy charges. It's morning, and the gang members are performing their daily toilette at the local stream:
Duke: It takes a lot of ... backbone ... to keep three wives happy. Preacher: Yea, brother.
Like "I Am a Fugitive," "Hell's Highway" is nominally ripped from the headlines -- it's based on a series of deaths in Florida chain gangs caused by placing prisoners in sweat boxes. But Brown is more interested in telling us about the prisoners and showing us different sides of characters as opposed to reducing them to cliches.
Duke, for instance, is on the gang for bank robberies, something that would make him a hero to depression-era audiences. He has a plan to escape that includes Matthew the preacher. One of the prison guards, nicknamed Popeye, believes that Matthew is psychic, and Duke talks Matthew into telling Popeye's fortune while lifting his keys.
Matthew tells Popeye that his wife is fooling around, and sure enough when Popeye goes back to his house, the wife is there with a gentleman caller. The caller escapes out a window and Popeye shoots his wife. Duke has Popeye's keys and plans to escape, but at the same time his brother (Tom Brown) is brought to the camp and out of loyalty, Duke sticks around. Popeye's blames his wife's murder on the convicts who did escape; they are immediately captured and killed.
Now comes one of the movie's best scenes: the funeral of Popeye's wife, but seen through the eyes -- and the drawings -- of the inmates, while one of them sings "Frankie and Johnnie." Wonderful stuff:
There's other trouble afoot -- one of the convicts has stolen a spoon, which he is slowly, slowly filing into a knife. The stoolie mess steward lets the warden (C. Henry Gordon) know about it, and they share an interesting little game:
The warden isn't exactly a prince, but Brown also shows us his awkward side -- at night, all alone, he works on teaching himself how to play the violin.
The real bad guy in "Hell's Highway" is a
"Dear Penthouse Forum: I never thought I'd be writing to you ..."
contractor named Billings, who's ruthless in his use of convict labor to complete a highway project. He's so sold on the sweat box that he writes a fan letter to the owner. If only the convicts put into it wouldn't keep dying ....
The sweat box deaths result in a state investigation that leads to another escape. Duke is fingered as the gang leader, and strapped up for a whipping:
In the end, justice is served, Duke's brother gets paroled and the sweat box is destroyed. But the inmates still have to wear those work shirts with targets on the back -- how did the Coen brothers miss including that detail in "Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?"
On the eve of the premiere, Flips feels guilty. 
