Despite its title, Frank Capra's 1929 film "The Younger Generation" is really mainly about an old guy -- Julius Goldfish, a junk dealer from New York City's Lower East Side, played by Denmark's own Jean Hersholt. (A Dane playing a Jew -- Hollywood!)
The Goldfish family -- papa Julius, mama Tilda (Rosa Rosanova), daughter Birdie (Lina Basquette) and son Morris (Ricardo Cortez) -- are living the American dream, only, as Papa might say, it ain't so dreamy. They have moved on up, moved on up, to the Upper East Side, to a deluxe apartment in the sky-hi-hi because Morris, inheriting Papa's junk business, has become a fancy-schmancy antiques dealer and the family has moved in with him.
Based on a story by Fannie Hurst, who also gave us "Imitation of Life" and "Back Street," "The Younger Generation" has its own kind of Hurstian family heartache -- Morris dominates his family and orders them to assimilate or else! This means Papa has to dress for dinner and bathe a little more regularly than he's used to. Mama loves her new life, but Papa finds himself schmoozing with the delivery men because it reminds him of his old, simpler life.
Little by little, in fact, Papa's heritage is being taken away. Morris becomes the family's alpha male, forbidding his sister to see the struggling musician she's loved for years. Then Morris makes an announcement -- he's changed his surname to Fish. (Here we see a little jab at rival producer Sam Goldwyn, aka Sam Goldfish.) Papa and Birdie commiserate:
BOOM
And still there's more! Morris ostracizes Birdie and makes his parents think that Birdie has deserted them. As a result, Papa wastes away, a prisoner on Fifth Avenue:
But WE know differently -- that Birdie has married her musician, who's in jail for a jewel robbery, and they have a daughter:
By the time Papa finds out the truth, he has faced the final indignity -- he has become an object of embarrassment to his meshugenah son:
"The Younger Generation" is a part-talkie, and the transitions between silent and talking sequences are a little bumpy. But director Frank Capra is already demonstrating his skill in mixing heart and humor, and in peppering "The Younger Generation" with the same salt-of-the-earth types that show up in his later films. And the ending is a killer -- Morris, left alone after everyone has moved out, covers himself in Mama's shawl and suddenly looks much older in front of his massive fireplace.
Although she took a turn or two at playing bad girls -- or at least morally ambivalent girls -- early in her career, Loretta Young always seemed more comfortable in good girl roles, especially the good girl who excels in the workplace while attracting the (usually dishonorable) attentions of the boss. That's certainly the case in 1933's "Employees Entrance," where she is a sales clerk coveted by hard-driving Warren William in full douchebag mode, and in "She Had to Say Yes," released the same year, where she played a department store secretary forced to date visiting buyers.
But in at least two other movies from the same period -- 1931's "Big Business Girl" and 1932's "Weekend Marriage" -- Young plays businesswomen who rise into the executive ranks and then realize that the love of a "good" man is more important.
"Big Business Girl" begins on graduation night at Nice White Peoples' College, where Claire "Mac" MacIntyre (Young) and boyfriend Johnny (Frank Albertson) are celebrating at the local country club. Johnny is a band leader, and the group is booked on a European tour. Mac is heading for New York City, to look for a job to pay her student debt.
The only problem is, Johnny's a bit of an, um, how shall we say it? Yes, lazy imbecile. He's ready to ditch the tour and go hang out in New York with Mac.
Johnny: Why should people have to work when there are so many wonderful ways to waste time?
Mac: You're only good for two things -- making music and making love.
(We'll take your word on that last one, Mac -- please don't show us.)
Johnny finally hauls ass to Europe, and Mac hauls -- er, goes to New York. In seeking a job, she tromps the streets for weeks, or, in 1930s movie time, about five minutes. She ends up applying for a job at an ad agency run by Robert Clayton (Ricardo Cortez). And she gets it, because everyone else is gone (it's Saturday afternoon), and Clayton likes the way she takes dictation. And her legs.
Anyway, the agency has just landed a new automobile account, and Mac turns out to be very clever at writing ad copy aimed at women. She gets her own office and she's making over a hundred smackers a week:
Clayton immediately starts putting the moves on Mac, and she goodnaturedly tells him no about three thousand times.
Then, suddenly, Johnny is back in town. Mac catches a glimpse of him in her mirror while she's getting ready to go to a party at Clayton's. Maybe the mirror shot symbolizes her dual role -- as Johnny's mate and as a businesswoman. Or maybe the director just thought it was the easiest way to show that Johnny was back.
Johnny is back because he's walked away from a long-term engagement in Paris, but he's all smiles. "I don't think it's a bit funny to fail in one thing after another," Mac says, and you realize that "Big Business Girl" has done a piss-poor job of showing us just what she sees in Johnny. He pouts -- which pretty much sums up his performance for the rest of the movie -- while Mac goes to Clayton's party, and afterwards, when Clayton escorts Mac home, there's a bit of a scene, because we find out that Mac and Johnny have been secretly married all this time:
Mac ends up getting Johnny and his band a job on a radio program sponsored by the auto company, but he doesn't know she's behind it. So he's just as pouty as ever, and he's started hanging around a wealthy matron as we hear "Just a Gigolo" on the soundtrack:
We're kind of glad to see Clayton slug Johnny, but the truth is that neither guy is worth rooting for. Clayton talks Mac into getting a quickie divorce, and a hotel room tete-a-tete is set up with Joan Blondell as the woman in the case, so that Johnny can be "caught" in the act and Mac can have grounds for the split. But Mac changes her mind, Clayton is foiled, and at the end of "Big Business Girl" Mac and Johnny are together. Hooray?
But you ain't seen nothin' yet.
"Big Business Girl" is practically "The Feminine Mystique" compared to "Weekend Marriage."
This one begins with a nice plug for the studio:
In line to see the stupendous Warner Bros. film "Blessed Event," greatest picture of all time, about a Walter Winchell-type columnist played by Lee Tracy, seating at popular prices, showings around the clock, are Lola (Young) and Ken (Norman Foster), just two lovestruck kids who work in New York City. Lola wants to middle-aisle it with Ken, as Winchell used to put it, but he wants to wait until he has a better job, because, not to put too fine a point on it, working women are slovenly harlots who should be at home (choose a verb) washing, cooking, changing (choose a noun) clothes, meals, babies.
Ken gets a promotion and a chance to go to South America, but Lola wants him to stay. She gets help from her sister-in-law Agnes (Aline MacMahon), who's kept her job even though she's married to Lola's brother Jim (Roscoe Karns). Agnes instructs Lola on how to play Ken and get him to propose instead of leaving for Argentina. She writes instructions for Lola in the secretary's underground language -- shorthand -- so that Ken can't read it. And sure enough, they end up married. And Ken lets Lola keep her job -- for now.
There are two couples that are a kind of counterpoint to Lola and Ken in "Weekend Marriage." One is Agnes and Jim, another two-paycheck marriage. One of the best scenes in the movie takes place at a band concert, where Jim complains about having a wife who works outside the home:
The other couple involves Lola's friend Connie (Sheila Terry), another secretary. Her bullying brother (J. Carrol Naish) is forcing her to marry an ugly little bootlegger because "wimmin belong inna home." In the movie's most troubling scene, Lola goes home with Connie to lend her moral support in standing up to her brother. But the brother slaps Connie down -- literally and figuratively -- as Lola flinches.
So, the movie seems to be telling us, Lola could have it a lot worse. That's comforting.
Then Ken gets a cut in pay just as Lola gets a raise and a promotion, and the strains in the marriage start to show. So when Lola goes to help Connie, Ken gets mad. He goes out and gets plastered, and Lola has to bail him out of the drunk tank:
Lola is then given a choice by her boss -- move with him to St. Louis as his assistant, or lose her job in New York. Ken refuses to move anywhere just because his wife has a new job, and they split up. For the next five minutes of the movie, Lola is furiously courted by one of her firm's partners (George Brent). But when she gets word that Ken is sick back in New York, she drops Brent and returns home.
And this is where it's time for Lola to get smacked down, but good.
Ken has pneumonia, and he's being cared for by his common-law wife -- his companion in the drunk tank. Lola enters, but the doctor won't let her see him -- it'll be too upsetting, and Ken is on the verge of death. Lola protests, and the doctor unloads on her as Lola's mom nods sagely:
Doctor: Let me give you a little advice. One way or another, a man
will find a woman to look out for him not only when he's sick but when he's
well. That's something you so-called "modern girls" never seem to
count on. You talk about freedom, because you think it's something men have and
cherish. But they don't. They hate it. They get along best when they're not free. It's human nature, that's all. They need old-fashioned women looking
after their health, nagging them into caution, feeding them properly, and giving
them families to live for. A great many of these women are just as well-fitted
for business as you are, but they don't want it. They put their talents to work
instead in what people today think of as a narrow sphere. Well, I don't think
it's narrow. I think it's the most important sphere of all. Not much
recognition in it, perhaps -- no spectacular publicity -- but it's built up nations
before now, and it will build them again.
Mother: You hear that, Lola?
To add insult to injury, the doctor is played by Grant Mitchell, who excelled at playing principled types, including a Franklin Roosevelt-like workers' camp director in "The Grapes of Wrath" who offers the Joad family a few fleeting moments of happiness on their journey to California.
Then Agnes enters. Her insistence on having a job has caused she and Jim to split up.
Agnes: Give up anything. It doesn't matter. The man you love is worth all the jobs in the world.
Well.
There's just one thing to do. Lola reunites with Ken, who has rallied, and she puts on an apron.
The 1932 film "The Phantom of Crestwood" is an early example of Synergy, Great Depression Division. Hiya, little fella.
"The Phantom of Crestwood" began as a serial on NBC radio. And since NBC was a division of RCA, and since RCA was the major stockholder in RKO Radio Pictures, a showbiz shotgun marriage was arranged -- "The Phantom of Crestwood" would begin on the radio, but it would end as a movie. And there was a contest to choose the best ending to the mystery, as submitted by the great unwashed public.
The film is introduced by announcer Graham MacNamee, who was a well-known personality at the time. He was the announcer-straight man to one of radio's biggest stars, Ed Wynn, whose Tuesday night program was sponsored by Texaco. Wynn would begin each week by saying, "Tonight, Graham, the program's gonna be different." And then he would tell the same kind of jokes he told last week.
At any rate, here is a camera-shy Graham MacNamee, who definitely has a face for radio, to introduce the pitcha, with a full orchestra tremulating (a word I just now made up) in the background:
(Notice how MacNamee smoothly works in the fact that although winning story-ending entries have been chosen, they aren't being used in the movie.)
"The Phantom of Crestwood" reminds me of another RKO film from roughly the same period -- "Thirteen Women," wherein mixed-race Myrna Loy spends the whole movie killing off a group of women who ostracized her in finishing school. "Thirteen Women" is a better film, I think, with creepier visual effects, but it's the same theme -- a vengeful woman wreaking havoc on people who done her wrong.
In this case, the VW is Jenny Wren, played by Karen Morley. A high-class lady of the evening, Jenny's client book is filled with the wealthy and the powerful.
We first see Jenny at a bank in Los Angeles. It seems that the bank president, Priam Andes (H.B. Warner), is a former client. He is amazingly wealthy -- perhaps you've heard of the family mountains? The Andes fortune was made on those little chocolate mints in the green wrapper. Andes is wearing a hairpiece, so we will call him Toupee #1.
Jenny has a favor to ask of Toupee #1 -- to throw a big party for her at Crestwood, his family's ancestral home, a ranch located upstate. And she asks him to invite a bunch of his friends, who happen to be her old clients. And she's kinda sorta blackmailing him, so he says yes.
Meanwhile, a mysterious man is following Jenny. He is played by Ricardo Cortez -- or, as I like to refer to him, 1930s Stanley Tucci.
Meanwhile also, Jenny's niece (Anita Louise) has just graduated from finishing school and is coming to town with her fiancee, who also happens to be Priam Andes's nephew. Jenny invites them to the party at Crestwood.
Niece: All right, but I need some new clothes.
Jenny: You can wear some of mine.
Niece: I don't like those black things you wear.
Jenny: What a shame -- a lot of other people have IN MY PREVIOUS LIFE AS A PROSTITUTE. (I made up that last part.)
Meanwhile also also, when Jenny first visits Priam at the bank, we see Toupee #2, a fellow known as Mr. Vayne. He stares at Jenny as though he was obsessed with her. He ends up at Crestwood as well.
So now we're at Crestwood, where everyone is having jolly fun playing darts. Since this takes place in the days before safety regulations and liability laws, the darts are roughly the size of zeppelins and are tipped with icepicks.
Oh -- and Priam Andes's sister, the mannish Faith (Pauline Frederick), has also shown up. She is upset because her nephew wants to marry Jenny's sister. Like most people obsessed with family/racial/ethnic purity, she is insane.
Jenny meets with the men, all her old clients. They include rich wastrel Eddie (Skeets Gallagher) and Toupee #3, aka Senator Walcott (Robert McWade, seen at right). Jenny has called them together to announce her retirement.
Jenny: You didn't know that you'd all been gambling on the same green, did you?
Didn't know you'd been putting your chips on the same number. Didn't
know you'd been shooting craps with same dice. Didn't know you'd been playing roulette with the same ball. Didn't know you'd been
playing blackjack with the same deck. The same worn, torn, dilapidated
deck, smelling of smoke and covered with fingerprints and ... (Sorry, made up most of that
stuff again.)
Anyway, Jenny has called them together to blackmail them, and to let them know how much each of them owes her, blackmail-wise:
Jenny is taking their money and going to Europe. And why is the Wren leaving the nest? Because of a traumatic experience with a young lover. She was after him for his money, and he told her he would give up the family fortune to be with her. Jenny told him not to bother because she only wanted the cash, and he jumped off a mountain.
Outside, the wind is whipping and a storm is brewing. Jenny goes to her room and then steps onto the balcony, where she sees something weird and otherworldly -- one of her old customers in his BVDs? No, even weirder -- it is the image of the dead young lover!
And then, before you can say "Jenny Wren gets it in the neck with a dart," Jenny Wren gets it in the neck with a dart. She has been killed in a house full of suspects -- just about everyone there had reason to wish her dead, dead, dead!
Enter Ricardo Cortez with sidekicks played by Sam Hardy and George E. Stone. Turns out that he's a private dick, hired by another one of Jenny's clients to collect some incriminating letters. So he becomes the default murder investigator:
The resulting investigation and capture of the murderer is pretty standard B-movie stuff, involving hidden passageways and thunderstorms and rooms suddenly plunging into darkness. And you can't really say that the performances are all that memorable. If "The Phantom of Crestwood" stands out at all, it's because of its unique connection with a radio serial. The moral of the story: Jenny Wren tries to make bank from the wages of sin, but instead there's hell toupee.
If you're looking for differences between the 1931 and 1941 versions of "The Maltese Falcon," you can start with the hero's hands.
The hero, of course, is private dick Sam Spade, as played in the 1931 version by Ricardo Cortez and in the 1941 version by Humphrey Bogart.
Cortez has perfectly manicured nails, and in one scene he even files them. Bogart, on the other hand, keeps his hands busy by rolling his own cigarettes. We never see Bogart's nails, but it's a pretty good bet they'd be stained with nicotine, and he wouldn't be particularly concerned about it.
Their appearances fit their portrayals. Cortez plays Spade as a cock-of-the-walk -- a fun-loving, unabashed ladies man with a plush apartment and well-tailored suits. Bogart's Spade has rougher edges and a quiet assurance -- his wardrobe and his digs aren't as opulent. He doesn't feel the need to be as showy.
There are other differences between the two films, of course, as you'd expect when comparing a pre-code movie with a post-code movie. The 1931 version of Dashiell Hammett's novel is filled with attractive women and driven by sex; by 1941, sex was being kept on the down low. Violence, on the other hand, was much more acceptable, and the later version of the film has more fighting and gun play.
The story begins at the San Francisco office of Spade and Archer, private eyes. Here's how we first see Spade in the 1931 version:
No sooner does he get rid of one conquest than he starts flirting with gal Friday Effie (Una Merkel). Then comes a call from Iva Archer (Thelma Todd), the wife of Spade's partner. Spade and Iva do a little canoodling over the phone, and Spade doesn't know it, but Archer (Walter Long) is eavesdropping. The 1941 version opens with Spade in his office, alone, with no phone conversation. Enter a client (Bebe Daniels as Ruth in the 1931 version and Mary Astor as Brigid in the 1941 version), who says she wants her sister followed that night. Archer enters. When Brigid/Ruth flashes her gams and a wad of cash, Archer volunteers for the job. And he gets plugged -- it happens off screen in the 1931 version, but in the 1941 version we see Archer get it right in the gut.
Miles Archer's death leads to a funny little moment in the 1941 version -- as Bogart looks over the crime scene we see a movie poster on the wall behind him. It's for a 1937 film called "Swing Your Lady," a hillbilly musical that Bogart was forced to appear in as a Warner Bros. contractee and supposedly hated. Makes you wonder if director John Huston put it there as a joke or if it's an allusion to a murderess being hung.
In addition to Archer's death, the man Archer was supposed to follow is found shot. The cops start quizzing Spade. Cortez taunts the officers and laughs at his own witticisms. Bogart, on the other hand, delivers Sam's wisecracks with a straight face, and they're funnier that way. For instance, when Sam becomes a suspect, he jousts with the police. "How'd I shoot him?" he asks them. "I forget." Bogart says this as a throwaway line, while Cortez makes it too obvious -- he builds it up like the punch line of a joke. Bogart does much more with less -- when the cops start pressing him, he stops it with a hand on one cop's shoulder and a simple line -- "Don't crowd me, Tom."
Then comes a scene between Spade and Brigid/Ruth. The client's not telling the whole truth to Sam, and he knows it, so he has a little fun with her, in what I like to call the "you're good" scene. Here are the two versions -- judge for yourself which one plays more effectively:
Brigid/Ruth, of course, is wrapped up in the pursuit of a priceless jeweled statue of a falcon that dates to the 1500s. And there are others after the falcon as well -- seedy adventurer Joel Cairo (Otto Matieson in the 1931 version, and Peter Lorre in the 1941 version) and fat man Caspar Gutman (Dudley Digges in the 1931 version and Sydney Greenstreet in the 1941 version).
As you can see by the stills, there's no contest about which duo looks more threatening -- and more visually memorable. In terms of casting, first-time director Huston knocks the ball out of the park in the 1941 version. After years of playing two-bit bad guys, Bogart is entering his hero-matinee idol phase here. Astor is a perfect picture of prim sexuality. Lorre is appropriately creepy, and Greenstreet -- making his film debut -- is a memorable, charming villain.
Spade ends up in fights with Lorre's character and with Elisha Cook, Jr. as Gutman's gunsel Wilmer Cook. When Spade overpowers Lorre, who's come to search his office, Bogart sports a nasty smile while he's rabbit punching the guy. Here's a comparison of the Spade-Cairo fights in both films:
Later in the 1941 film, Spade overpowers Wilmer by pulling his overcoat down off his shoulders, and Wilmer gets back at Spade by kicking him when he's down
-- after he's been drugged by Gutman. In the 1931 version, there's no kicking -- Wilmer just watches as Spade passes out.
Finally, everyone ends up at Spade's apartment, waiting for the delivery of the black bird. Brigid/Ruth is holding an envelope with ten thousand-dollar bills for payment, which Spade gives back to Gutman. Gutman counts the money and one bill is missing. In the 1931 version, Spade confronts Ruth in his kitchen and has her strip to prove she hasn't got the missing bill. In the 1941 version, the incident is a symbol of a rare moment of trust between Spade and Brigid -- she tells him she doesn't have it, and he believes her. Gutman admits pocketing the bill.
Once the bird is delivered and determined to be a fake, Gutman and Cairo resume their search. Spade puts the cops on their trail, but he also has to deal with the fact that the woman he loves has killed his partner. In the 1931 version, the confrontation is filmed as the same leisurely pace as the rest of the film, and in the same wide shots. Huston, on the other hand, knows that this is the emotional heart of the picture and films it in tight, intense closeups:
The 1931 version ends with a sympathetic Sam visiting Ruth in jail with "good news" -- he's been made chief investigator of the District Attorney's office. Huh?
The 1941 version, on the other hand, builds to an unforgettable climax -- Sam describing the bird as "the stuff that dreams are made of" and Brigid behind the bars of an elevator door, foreshadowing the bars she'll soon be behind, with a possible death sentence. Swing your lady, indeed.
Of all the actors who appeared in movies during the 1930s, Monroe Owsley (1900-37) was certainly one of them.
In various films, he appeared opposite the likes of Gloria Swanson, Clara Bow, Bette Davis, Kay Francis, Barbara Stanwyck and Margaret Sullavan, leading critics to exclaim, "Who is that guy who always plays schmoes opposite Gloria Swanson, Clara Bow, Bette Davis, Kay Francis, Barbara Stanwyck and Margaret Sullavan?"
Alas, someone has to play the schmoe. And Monroe Owsley, not to be confused with Marilyn Monroe, was pretty good at it. He played conceited schmoes, selfish schmoes (say that three times fast), gigolo schmoes, cowardly schmoes, greedy schmoes and psycho schmoes.
In fact, if you're watching a pre-code movie where a heroine is starting to find true happiness, and some nogoodnik comes along to blackmail her, threaten her or otherwise weigh her down like an anchor made of hair pomade, old spats and neediness, chances are it'll be Monroe Owsley.
In the interest of giving you the full Owsley, here's how he appears at the beginning of 1933's "The Keyhole":
He's a blackmailer, and the blackmailee is Kay Francis. He's the old vaudeville partner who tried to lower her curtains, if you know what I mean. She's married to a rich guy who doesn't know about her past, and Owsley's being all Monroe Owsley-ish about it, talking blackmail and such. So Francis goes to Cuba for a quickie divorce from Owsley. Her rich husband doesn't know what's going on, and thinks Francis is being unfaithful to him, so he hires detective George Brent to follow her. In the climax, they all meet in Francis's hotel room:
Fortunately, Owsley has the decency to fall off the side of the hotel and get killed, thereby ridding Francis of her problem.
In "Ten Cents a Dance," a 1931 film directed by Lionel Barrymore (!), Owsley is another kind of problem entirely. He's Eddie, a mild-mannered sort who lives in the same apartment building as taxi dancer Barbara (Barbara Stanwyck). She feels sorry for Eddie and takes him under her wing, but she has another admirer -- decent rich guy Bradley Carlton (Ricardo Cortez). He gives her $100 just to talk to her, and when she finds that Eddie is about to be evicted, she gives him the c-note. This is how we know she is extremely decent, and he is a needy schmoe.
Barbara ends up marrying Eddie, who in turn ends up being selfish, neglectful and snobbish -- he's like a member of the one percent without any money:
Actually, he does have money, but only because he embezzled it from his boss, who happens to be RICARDO CORTEZ. Stanwyck goes to Cortez to ask for a loan to keep Owsley out of jail, and he gives it to her, and instead of being grateful, Owsley ... well, you can guess. Owsley just disappears at the end of this one instead of falling off the side of a building, and that's too bad.
For full credits for "The Keyhole," click here. For full credits for "Ten Cents a Dance," click here.
In "Thirteen Women" (1932), Myrna Loy is Ursula Georgi, a beautiful but mysterious mixed-race woman who uses hypnosis, astrology and an exploding toy ball to rid herself of the wealthy schoolmates who ostracized her because of her lineage.
"My eyes are up here, sport."
Talk about carrying a grudge.
Based upon a novel by Tiffany Thayer, who must have been the Jackie Collins of his day, "Thirteen Women" is lurid stuff that involves murder, madness and suicide.
You see, Ursula has been planning her revenge for years, do you hear? YEARS! So she seduces an astrologer who is putting together horoscopes for all the women.
Under Ursula's spell, the astrologer sends each woman a horoscope that warns of imminent death or other sorrow, and their imaginations get the better of them, leading to scenes like this:
Hazel Cousins, the screamer, was played by Peg Entwhistle. Shortly after this movie was released, she committed suicide by jumping from the giant HOLLYWOOD sign.
Anyway, back to the plot. When the astrologer outlives his usefulness, he is dealt with as well:
The one classmate who isn't unnerved by the predictions is Laura
Stanhope (Irene Dunne), probably because, based on the looks of her
house, servants and chauffeur, she has a zillion dollars. Ricardo
Cortez, who resembles a 1932 version of Stanley Tucci, is the detective
on the case.
"I'm sorry we made your life a living hell, Asian Myrna Loy,
but we were just kids! Bygones!"
Because she can't unnerve Laura, Ursula targets Laura's son by giving him an exploding ball for his birthday, which leads to a chase through a newly-paved Beverly Hills just on the verge of bursting with bungalows. I live for this kind of Southern California location shooting, especially in movies of the early '30s:
Actually, there are only 11 women in "Thirteen Women," but if you want to get technical about it, you should probably just watch another movie. What makes "Thirteen Women" so much fun is Loy's performance as the exotic temptress Ursula, just two years before she would become cast as the perfect American wife in "The Thin Man." And the movie has its own unique visual style -- check out the ending, when Ursula's hallucinations begin to haunt her and she sees the astrologer she killed:
To me, Dunne has always been more interesting in comedies rather than dramas, and in "Thirteen Women" Loy steals the spotlight -- in one scene she tries to make a classmate shoot herself through hypnosis and then achieves almost orgasmic glee when she hears the gunshot. Her role may be stereotypical, but Loy gives it her all and despite the coldness of her character, she's actually the heart of "Thirteen Women."
