Two Old-Fashioneds, For Two Old-Fashioned People: Make Way For Tomorrow (1937)

I realized as today rolled in that I had all but failed to blog this month, which I am constantly apologizing for during this semester.  It might get better in the upcoming weeks, but as it looks there is hardly any end in sight.  I even had big plans to do a Zatoichi marathon this month and that has managed to fall to the wayside.  My busy status is wholly revolving around things that I enjoy thoroughly though so it is far from a complaint and merely a reality, so for me to report back on the movies I am encountering necessitates two things to work simultaneously.  First, I have to be deeply moved in a way by such an encounter as to be determined to set aside time to write a blog about the film in question.  Second, this being profoundly moved by a film also has to occur at a time when I could still manage to set down for more than a few minutes and compose valid thoughts on the subject.  Since writing nearly half a month ago about Lilies of the Field I have seen some great stuff (Nanook of the North, Stalker and Love Jones) and I also saw some atrocities (Arcade and Broken Arrow).  I wanted to write at great length, but alas time did not allow.  In fact, Broken Arrow took me four miserable late nights to finish.  What I come to write about today is something so off the radar that had I not been fortunate to be a member of The POV Cineclub, I would likely have never encountered the work.  The film in question is Leo McCrary's Make Way For Tomorrow, a little film from 1937 that just happens to fit so delicately in the cracks between the classics of the silent era and the wonderful works of World War II America.  Were the movements altered in even the slightest of ways, this film would be completely overlooked.  While the subject matter is hardly related, I would not hesitate to assert that this has the same sort of rediscovered classic status that is afforded to The Night of the Hunter, here, however, the sentimentality runs thick only to dry up by the end and the narrative is not something that causes a viewer heart to begin racing, but, instead; to wrench in the most jarring of manners.  The open acknowledgement on the part of Yasujiro Ozu that this film was one of his major influences is no surprise, particularly given the staging and angles incorporated in this shot, never mind it possessing what might be one of the most curious breakings of the fourth wall ever committed to celluloid.

Make Way For Tomorrow centers around the Cooper family, more specifically the parents of the children who are now grown and living on their own at various locations within the United States.  The father George Cooper (Thomas Mitchell) is facing a reality wherein his old age and failing vision have led to his being less successful at bookkeeping and subsequently retiring.  Alongside George is his loving wife Lucy (Beulah Bondi) who is also dealing with aging and the inability to take care of major chores in their home, one that in the past had housed their four children, centering specifically on their oldest son Barkley (Victor Moore).  With the impending mortgage on their house becoming due George and Lucy are threatened with eviction, calling all of their children home to deliver the rather unfortunate news.  When it becomes clear that staying in the home is not an option, the two parents ask for help from their children, minus one who cannot extract herself from life in California.  While the children all attempt to save face, while also side stepping the burden of taking care of their children, Lucy ends up moving in with Barkley and his wife and daughter, while George moves in with the considerably disgruntled but nonetheless accepting daughter Anita (Fay Bainter).  While the two parents prove to throw off the tense infrastructure of the various spaces they occupy, they seem to want nothing more than to live under the same roof again, George hoping to find a job and have Lucy move in with him again, whereas Lucy attempts to be as amiable as possible to Barkley, even going so far as to help her granddaughter Rhoda (Barbara Reed) hide a burgeoning romance from her mother.  Yet, when these tense structures fall apart, it is the parents who are deemed the problem and Berkley succumbs to the reality wherein he must send his mother to a nursing home, while the family agrees that it is best for George to head to California.  Given then only a few hours of time together before what will likely be their last time together, George and Lucy spend the evening as thought it were their honeymoon all over again, completely overlooking the dinner they had planned with their children.  In the closing moments, the aged couple share a kiss and a goodbye that could give Casablanca or Brief Encounters a run for their money in melodramatic despair.

One might be a bit curious as to how a seemingly innocuous and overlooked romance/drama film from the 1930's could even begin to reflect the ideal film for this genre, but I will gladly put this in the same framework as Brokeback Mountain or Her, wherein it requires viewers to renavigate their understandings on how love works in film and who is allowed to be depicted in such engagements cinematically.  Indeed, if their is a more heartfelt couple in cinema than this, it is only in gradations, because where other romantic films are wrought with melodramatic sacrifice or one-sided desire, this is as intense a shared love as any and one that is delivered with such earnestness from Mitchell and Bondi respectively.  A 1930's romantic film is usually signified by its over-the-top performative elements, but the subtlety and simplicity at play here work wonders for the narrative arch as a whole.  The struggle here is not one of unseen forces (sickness, war or Shakespearean rivalries) which create an insurmountable barrier, but a unwillingness on the part of a few children to return the care and love their parents directed at them, assuming this entitlement to go on forever.  Indeed, as George carefully observes, it is at after the age in which it is alright to tuck them into bed that things get complicated, because while they still expect that sort of guidance, care and aid, their gratefulness will have either manifested itself or completely gone to the wayside, and in the case of the Cooper children it is decidedly the latter.  Even Rhoda who is capable of exploring the world of romance, is only able to do so out of the kindness of her grandmother, who is later exploited and blamed when Rhoda attempts to elope with an older man.  As such, when the two elderly parents are finally able to enjoy their last day together, the romance swells and the world suddenly seems wholly in their favor, between car rides and free cocktails the two receive more than they had hoped for and certainly everything the viewers had desired for the couple, making the fourth wall moment all the more curious, because it is as though the viewer is willing that kiss and George and Lucy break the fourth wall to remind viewers that it is their story.  It takes Linda Williams's notion of genre, gender and excess to its most...excessive, all the while blowing the lid off of presumptions about cinema of the particular era.

Key Scene:  The almost kiss and the turn to camera is so unusual that it takes the best scene, although Lucy on the phone during the bridge game is also quite good.

The Criterion disc looks about as well as a film from 1937 could hope to and frankly it is so overlooked that any love directed towards it could only aid a better transfer in the future.  Buy it accordingly.

Pay No Attention To The Man Behind The Curtain: The Wizard Of Oz (1939)

I have on occasion tackled some of the grander works in cinema, hoping to shed some semblance of light upon their established state as classics.  Usually, I flail to come up with anything profound or new to offer to the equation or spend much of my time convincing those who read this blog that revisiting this work is well worth their time, particularly since things like King Kong and Singin' In The Rain are often overlook primarily because both moderate film fans and cinephiles alike think they know the film and do not bother to engage with it in any way.  Other works like Citizen Kane or 2001: A Space Odyssey are constantly reproached because while you do know how great the film if, it always manages to be considerably better upon the second, third or tenth encounter.  These are the films that grow as one grows in their ability to understand and consume film.  I would not suggest that this is impossible for the other films already mentioned but it works on a different layer.  I would absolutely place The Wizard of Oz with the likes of Citizen Kane or 2001: A Space Odyssey, particularly since I knew going in that it was already a phenomenal work one that captivated me as a young child and at that point in time the film was only 60 years old or so.  Now reaching its 75th anniversary, the stunning bluray upgrade I was able to watch affords it a new layer of interpretation, engagement and genuinely equal cinematic escapism as the work, undoubtedly, did when first in theaters.  Like Citizen Kane the narrative here is so precise and honed that even in its surprising brevity it manages to sweep viewers into the real and the fantastical simultaneously and much like 2001, the cinematic achievements both in scope and execution lead even an expert in cinematic trickery to wonder exactly how such shots were attained.  It is a concoction of perfection that exists in a space of maybe ten or twenty films to date, thus helping to explain its wide influence and adoration from noted cult directors to art house cinephiles with pretentious palettes.  Simply put to not love The Wizard of Oz is by its very extension to not love cinema itself.

The Wizard of Oz centers on the young wide-eyed Dorothy (Judy Garland) who wants nothing more than to assure the safety of her dog Toto from the animosity and outrage of a local woman who blames it for the entire downfall of society.  Despite having the love of her Auntie Em (Clara Blandick) and Uncle Henry (Charlie Grapewin) and the adoration of the local farmers, Dorothy is distraught at the possibility that one person could lead to her losing her beloved dog and flees to the outskirts of town to avoid such occurrence, there meeting Professor Marvel (Frank Morgan) a trickster who helps Dorothy to believe in the future that she will avoid such troubles.  Yet on the way home, Dorothy is caught in a tornado, one that knocks her unconscious and leads her on a trip via her house to a magical land full of color, munchkins and a variety of witches both good and evil, most notably The Good Witch Glinda (Billie Burke) and her counterpart The Wicked Witch of the West (Margaret Hamilton) who takes a striking resemblance to the same woman who attempted to rid Dorothy of Toto.  Informed that Dorothy might be able to return home if she follows a yellow brick road to Emerald City wherein she will find The Wizard of Oz who will be capable of helping her to return to Kansas where she belongs.  Along the way, Dorothy makes a few friends in The Scarecrow (Ray Bolger) who hopes to find himself some brains, The Tin Man (Jack Haley) looking for a heart and The Cowardly Lion (Bert Lahr) who only hopes to attain courage.  Together the group hopes to collectively find help from The Wizard.  Upon arrival they are given the spa treatment, before meeting The Wizard, a floating head projection that explains he will gladly help if the group is capable of taking down The Wicked Witch of the West and returning with her broom.  Meeting up with flying monkeys, and a variety of other trickeries at the hands of the Wicked Witch, the group is eventually successful if only by accident.  Upon returning they are initially denied aid by The Wizard, but when they discover his projection to be a false extension and merely an operation via mechanics they demand his end of the bargain.  Giving the group items that signify their desires, while offering Dorothy a ride home in his hot air balloon all seems ideal.  Although Dorothy misses the ride, only to be told by Glinda of an alternative means home via her earlier attained ruby slippers.  Upon performing the suggested task, Dorothy is able to return to Kansas where she recollects her wild experiences to a some what skeptical group, save for the seemingly knowing Professor Marvel.

There are tons of ways to talk about this film, some from purely historical approaches, while others could solely stand this up against its literary inspiration.  However, I am going to go in the same direction I always go when talking about Judy Garland films while also extending it outward to consider the whole film, and that is the notion of performed bodies.  Take for example, Dorothy herself whose femininity comes at odds with the other witches upon arrival in Oz.  Here her prettiness is a thing to be admired by the munchkins while also being vilified by the Wicked Witch who sees it in contrast to her wickedness, verified in the classic scene of her melting.  Of course, the other bodies in question include the Scarecrow who is a literal manifestation of the straw man argument of philosophy, one that is built up but really contains no tangible  or logical grounding.  The body of the scarecrow is lacking in brains, or more accurately a means with which to verify such knowledge, whereas the Tin Man wants a heart, his performance of "maleness" in that he is allegedly a man made of tin is one of hard exterior that is so lacking in the emotive as to become frozen in immobility, only made to move again by oil, which must be applied by others.  However, the most interesting character becomes The Cowardly Lion whose organic composition suggests him to be similar to human, although his cowardliness is somehow more tied to a performance of his lionesque identity.  He is expected to be brutish and mean, although he is far more demure and passive.  The certain accentuation Lahr adds to the character goes along way in suggesting the Cowardly Lion to not be cowardly per se, but non-normative in his performance of masculinity, or to go a step further one of gayness.  It is fascinating that the means with which the three bodies become reinscribed with their desires is through signifiers, one receiving a diploma and another a badge.  These are additions to their performed selves that are externalized, but not internal.  As is the case for the tin man receive a heart pendant that is also a clock, the implications this carries for what represents emotion as being temporal are astounding and fascinating, a statement that speaks to the confounding but engaging nature of the film overall.

Key Scene:  It is all good, but the actual moving onto the yellow brick road musical number has such an audacious scope and grandeur that when it succeeds, I actually felt myself gasping in amazement.  Mind you I have seen this film before, but never truly appreciated the impossibility at play.

Bluray. Get it.  NOW.

I Never Even Learned Short Division: Alexander's Ragtime Band (1938)

I would appear, at least according to IMDB, that any film that has won a an Oscar tends to get incredibly high ratings, all the more so when that film was released prior to say 1988.  While it is likely that the amount of people rating these films, are low and directly tied to those impassioned enough to go through thirties era films and make ratings erroneously high.  This is the case for the early version of Cimarron as well as films like Wings.  I go on this aside because while I am aware of quite a few films from this era that I actually adore, there seems to be something about the combination of Oscar winner plus thirties era that just do no mesh well.  Wings is not an outright terrible film, but it is not a piece of cinematic magic that having an Oscar should attain and that is certainly not the case for the musical Alexader's Ragtime Band as well.  Working from the music of Irving Berlin, it is indeed only the musical numbers that carry any weight and those elements could easily be gleaned from simply listening to the recordings detached from any moving images.  Suffice it to say, I was not impressed with Alexander's Ragtime Band and simply found much of what it had to offer a bit predictable and decidedly safe, even shooting itself in the foot further by including necessary images of performers in blackface.  I accept that this was a reality in most early musicals, but here they simply exist as background figures, not even relevant to the music at hand.  I would assume that much of the failing of Alexander's Ragtime Band comes from the director,  Henry King, attempting to use the same methodology as Busby Berkeley, wherein, lavish musical numbers were intercut with simple stories, the problem here however, is that there is no discernible rhythm for the various musical scenes and, indeed, the moments in between are often quite bland, consisting of half realized dialogue and a variety of less than fully realized acting moments.  Trust me, I wanted nothing more than to wholly embrace this film, but it simply proved to be a back drop for the swinging tunes of Berlin and the one or two moments of actually well-executed musical cinema were lost in the milieu of middle-of-the-road thirties studio mediocrity.

Alexander's Ragtime Band focuses primarily on the musical endeavors of violinist Roger (Tyrone Power) who sick of his bourgeois lifestyle seeks out solace by playing with a ragtime band at a local shipyard saloon. Along with the aid of his pianist and friend Charlie Dwyer (Don Ameche) Roger seems set to achieve moderate success playing popular tunes.  However, when the group plays one song by Irving Berlin titled "Alexander's Ragtime Band' it stirs up the frustrations of Stella Kirby (Alice Faye) a singer who had used the same song in her own repertoire.  Intervening in the performance by simply hopping on stage and sing, the combination of Roger's musicality and Stella's singing cause the audience to get ecstatic, being invited to perform an encore immediately after the show by the saloon's owner, much the the chagrin of Roger, who becomes in the moment known as Alexander and Stella who has no desire to work with the group.  Yet, the success cannot be denied and the two make amends, eventually coming to find each other very attractive, creating a burgeoning romance in the process. However, Stella is offered a lucrative solo career, which she jumps on immediately, leaving the band although promising to return for them once she accrues enough success, wherein the heartbroken Roger joins the military and works as a band leader and morale booster, although most just as a point of pride for the Army over the Marines.  Whilst away, Roger also gets married, leading to the now equally heartbroken Stella marrying Charlie in turn.  Thus the two create diverging musical lives, both with considerable success, although it is Roger and his turn as Alexander that proves slightly more productive, even attaining sold out shows at large musical halls.  Hoping to meet him one last time, not aware that he and his wife had attained a mutual divorce, she arrives at his sold out performance, only to hear him cue up "Alexander's Ragtime Band." Jumping at her chance to rekindle the flame Stella enters the music hall and is invited by Roger to join in singing.  The two share a tender embrace in the closing moments of the film.

In a variety of senses, Alexander's Ragtime Band is a film about appropriation.  In so much that it is borrowing, sometimes knowingly, other times, without awareness from other cultural institutions and points of popular reference to create a narrative anew.  This is not to be confused with say the post-modern use of reappropriation, wherein the same elements are used but to make a divergent, if not purposefully oppositional statement with the material.  Here, the most obvious appropriation comes in the way of the literal appropriation of the Irving Berlin songbook, the music in use almost arbitrary as long as it proves appropriately up temp or slowed down in regards to the point of reference in the film, it is only the title song and one other song within the film that seem to have definite relation to the larger narrative.  Indeed, even the entire sidewinding plot involving Roger's time in the military seems appropriated, as though the success of other war based musical numbers justified an entire bit about the beauty of the YMCA and waking up to walk of to war.  Sure the war element is present, but only in so much as it is meant to be a point of separation for the narrative to be resolved with unity.  The military appropriation is indeed so arbitrary to the plot as to almost feel exploitative.  I am not doubting that the intentions of the filmmaker and producers were not well-intended, but would also posit that such a wild redirection could only work as a result of it occurring right before the onset of World War II wherein all military imagery would have fell within quite strict use and regulation.  Of course, the most offensive of all appropriations comes in the unnecessary and outright exploitative use of blackface in this context.  I want to assure that I will not defend it as an institution within the classical entertainment industry, but I can accept that it was a popular medium of performance in vaudeville, here blackness as appropriated with absolutely no context, not even a racist one, although its inclusion merely for aesthetic completion and without any acknowledgement beyond this might be all the more racist.  Alexander's Ragtime Band is all about borrowing things, but none of it is done with a shred of skill.

Key Scene:  I really enjoyed the "Walking Stick" number but that is only a result of me doing a queer reading of the moment, although a completely obvious one if I do say so.

There are better thirties eras to watch than this, might I direct you towards Astaire and Rogers films.

Ol' Man River, He Just Keeps Rollin' Along: Show Boat (1936)

Appropriation is a real tricky thing in popular culture.  While music did, for obvious reasons, lift heavily from African-American folk songs and performances the result has been highly rewarding and helped to cement the likes of Duke Ellington and Billie Holiday the American collective memory.  Show Boat includes one of the most stirring musical compositions ever realized in Paul Robeson's version of "Ol' Man River," however, this is only a singular element within the larger narrative of appropriation.  Musical performances during this era, as well as decades earlier pulled quite gladly from minstrelsy and thus found no trouble performing numbers in blackface, even when there were characters within the narrative that also are clearly black themselves.  It is rare for me that the inclusion of a minstrel performance, particularly one with such intense racial elements manages to not make me hate the movie, even if its inclusion is momentary and decidedly arbitrary to the larger narrative.  However, as much as I adore Paul Robeson and even a few of the other musical numbers in this Hammerstein driven musical, it's use of minstrelsy, even if minor proves to reflect a larger issue within the narrative, one that both appropriates black culture and uses it as a stepping stone geographically to set up a narrative that focuses instead on struggles of white persons who simply want to be in love.  As showy and performative as the film may be, Show Boat manages to revert its possibilities for cinematic consideration of the layers of racial identity, by again, making race merely a part of the narrative which must be acknowledged, as opposed to being dealt with in an intense and inquisitive manner.  Employing some of the most prolific African-American actors of the time in Paul Robeson and Hattie McDaniels it is amazing that TCM has not pushed it to the forefront on its screening times, but then again this is the same company that often edited out these very performances to placate audiences not wanting to confront a problematic past.  Show Boat is both a time capsule regarding the racial indifference in Classic Hollywood, as well as an enigma as to how a film could both concern itself with passing and also pass as something completely detached from racial considerations.

Show Boat is narratively set over a forty year span, beginning with the arrival of a boat based revue to a nondescript town on the Mississippi River.  The boat The Cotton Palace is known for a variety of plays, musical numbers and even comedic bits all intended to pull upon the dreary and uneventful lives of the persons existing in the spaces.  Of course, since the space is in the antebellum South, it is also occupied by African-American workers, most notably the Queenie (Hattie McDaniel) and her husband Joe (Paul Robeson) whose backbreaking work provides the livelihood of an otherwise transitory space.  The narrative is also troubled by issues of miscegenation when the leading lady is shown to be of mixed blood and a rumor that she is married to a man who is wholly white causes them to be suspect to breaking the law.  Although the couple is capable of tricking officials into believing that they are not involved in miscegenation, it does require that they step away from the show.  In this moment, aspiring actress and daughter of the river boat captain Magnolia Hawks (Irene Dunne) is able to take the stage, only in need of a new leading man to stand next to her.  In a stroke of pure luck a wandering debonair named Gaylord Ravendal (Allan Jones) serves the part his dashing looks and genuine adoration for Magnolia proving more than enough to make their acting work.  The two quickly hit it off and eventually marry, even having a child.  It is, however, during this time that the Hawks family discovers Gaylord's past as a gambler, even committing a murder although apparently in self-defense.  Becoming a point of frustration, Gaylord and Magnolia move away to Chicago, wherein they live for a considerable amount of time off of Gaylord's gambling winnings.  Tragically, however, Gaylord hits a series of bad luck and loses almost all of his finances.  Julie (Helen Morgan) the very woman who was charged with having mixed blood has managed to remain successful, although also a bit of a lush, still managing to revive Magnolia's career when her and Gaylord part.  In the closing moments of the film, when Magnolia seems content to live a somewhat tragic life, she attends the performance of her daughter, only to have Gaylord arrive and in a show of admiration their daughter asks them to sing a duet to closeout the film, followed all to problematically by Robeson's humming of "Ol' Man River" in the closing moments of the film.

As I noted Show Boat is a performance and should certainly be considered as such.  Indeed, the opening moments of the film have the camera panning into the stage of a play, complete with the title cards as part of the diegetic world, therefore, allowing the possibility that this version of Show Boat is also a metanarrative, or a series of performances within a performance.  This includes the staging of a play as part of the larger play, an occurrence that happens on multiple times.  Take for example the song between Gaylord and Magnolia called "I Have the Room Above Her," by its physical existence it should not serve as a division as in most any apartment setting, a man whaling at the top of his lungs would cause another to hear them and likely inquiring as to why they are singing, particularly if the song is about said person listening.  Yet, assuming Show Boat to exist within a theatrical staging it allows not only Gaylord to sing such a song, but for Magnolia to provide responding melodies completely detached from an awareness that he too is singing.  It is something essentially only possible within the metaperformance.  This would make the film wildly intriguing and worth embracing where this layered performance not also extended to include issues of racial performance as well.  Indeed, the actress playing Julie is white and to suggest her as a mulatto (a person mixed race) character implies a racial performance even if only in narrative.  It is blackface, in that it denies the role to a woman of color and is made all the more an absurd performance in contrast to the blackface number led by Irenne Dunne and a series of minstrel singers and dancers.  This is all in contrast to the staging the film, at least initially, within the rural South, wherein racial elements are at their highest intensity and rather openly confronted via Robeson's singing.  Indeed, while I would never knock what Robeson is doing in this moment, his stirring rendition reflecting the confusion and frustrations at play in race relations, it becomes exploitative in the larger frame of the narrative, one whose closing embraces forgiveness to a river boat gambler, while only marginally acknowledging the previous elements of race.

Key Scene:  "I'm sick of living and scared of dying."

This film is certainly of historical importance and Paul Robeson's singing is enough to be intrigued, but, honestly, you could just watch his section on YouTube and be all the better for it without having to sit through the remainder of this frustrating film.

It's Alive...It's Alive. It's Alive!: Frankenstein (1931)

Well it was purely serendipitous, it is nonetheless fitting that my last blog post for the horror marathon this month is devoted to the phenomenal and eerie mood piece that is Universal's 1931 Frankenstein.  Coming out the same year as the company's other famous monster movie Dracula the two depict the highest ends of their genres possibilities, particularly for the era.  Both look sumptuous in their recent high definition upgrades, seeping off the screen and asking viewers to consider how and what shocks them about the cinema going experience, a rather intrusive act for a time when sound had just begun to emerge within filmmaking.  Frankenstein is most certainly on no level with its follow-up Bride of Frankenstein, however, comparisons between the two would be foolish, particularly since the later is one of the highest achievements ever reached in film.  Here under James Whale's direction the pieces of the film come together in wildly inventive and engaging ways, wholly equating to every aspect and understanding of how a film should exist on screen, combining stunning performance, inconceivably evasive lighting and cinematography and enough of a breaking away from the literary material to still provide it with a sense of permanence, while being accessible without having read the text.  It also goes without say that Boris Karloff steals the show here, sure it, as is the book, is only minimally concerned with the experiences of the monster, but the screen time he does possess, including one of the most infamous moments in cinema history are timeless and evocative, made all the more so by the crisp and cinematic new transfer.  I found myself thinking while watching the film that this work has all the audacity and cinematic inventiveness of the most recent critically-acclaimed blockbusters, taking no less a risk with technology than say Gravity, or being no less meticulous in its composition than Inception.  Yet, where in the previous two films, less so for Inception, story and genuine emotion are lost in the overt visual and psychological exploitation of the film, Frankenstein is work on a much purer and more rewarding level of reactionary filmmaking, explaining how it and many of the other Universal monster movies have managed to attain and continually retain such a degree of timelessness.

Frankenstein begins not in the story, but with an unnamed gentleman stepping through a curtain and warning audiences that the cinematic experience they are about to undertake will be unlike anything they have previously encountered, something that will both shock and terrify.  This act draws upon the theatricality of it and the medium of film in general, only to constantly push away from it once the film proper begins, with images of Henry Frankenstein (Colin Clive) and his hunch-backed assistant Fritz (Dwight Frye) prowling about a graveyard late at night in search of a recently deceased human brain, passing on a hung suicide victim due this broken neck threatening the value of the brain.  After obtaining a brain from a medical school, Henry's fiancee Elizabeth (Mae Clarke) becomes concerned with his constant involvement in experiments, thus recruiting the help of Frankenstein's old professor Dr. Waldman (Edward Van Sloan) to help deter his preoccupation with the creatures of his experiments.  Arriving at his laboratory, Waldman, Frankenstein and others discover the scientist feverishly at work attempting to reanimate a corpse that is comprised of various body parts and a brain obtained from Waldman's classroom.  Through the use of natural technology, Frankenstein is able to do so, bring to live his Monster (Boris Karloff) a barbaric beast that, nonetheless, has a considerable degree of intelligence, as well as a desire to destroy, after it is made known that the brain implanted into the monster was one of the abnormal, therefore having a much higher desire to harm.  After a tough but valiant effort to subdue the Monster, Frankenstein leaves his laboratory and promises to place all his care into preparing for his wedding, completely ignoring the presence of the Monster in favor of Elizabeth.  This choice proves foolish as the Monster eventually breaks free and begins to roam the countryside, at one point meeting a girl named Maria (Marilyn Harris) who instantly befriends the Monster, teaching him how to make flowers float in the water, but when the Monster mistakes his trick for something that can also work on Maria, the results are dire, resulting in his being chased by an angry town mob.  Frankenstein returns in an attempt to again subdue the Monster, although it proves unsuccessful and the Monster is ultimately burned to re-death in a fiery windmill grave, while a recovering Frankenstein is left to focus fully on him upcoming wedding.

The great question in literary theory since the release of Shelly's classic novel is as to what exactly Frankenstein's Monster is intended to represent and many readings have emerge from the historical approach to the outwardly psychoanalytic, all pulling from various sources and making astute and plausible arguments to its metaphor and implications.  I want to entrench myself within the camp of the late Alexander Doty and suggest that one must read the text, in particular this film, against the grain and lift from it a narrative of queer identity and its violent suppression, wherein the Monster represents the young Frankenstein attempting to draw attention to his queer desire only to have society (i.e. his father, professor and fiancee) suggest that such desires are not only bad, but literally monstrous.  Keeping this in mind then, the navigation of the Monster, whose "abnormal" brain purportedly causes him to act out differently really proves to be quite similar to humans, whose reactions to being caged up and taunted with fire would, in all likelihood, be quite similar to the frustrations of the Monster.  In this reading it is also important to remember that Frankenstein functions far differently than other horror films, first because Frankenstein is only minimally about the Monster, and second, when the Monster does emerge it is in an almost ephemeral manner, as though to be a passing reminder of some threat to others' livelihood.  This is no more obvious than in the scene when the Monster scales a wall to enter into Elizabeth's room, only to have her arise from her bed unannounced before it can strike her.  Extending the queer metaphor, the Monster is present, but Elizabeth chooses to play ignorant to the fact, instead seeking solace in heteronormative constructs, hoping that the Monster, like Frankenstein's queerness will magically disappear.  The laboratory that Frankenstein resides in becomes his safe space, adding a tense, but present, layer of the homosocial bond between himself and Fritz, one that takes on a bizarre servant master element as well.  Of course, Shelly's novel, as well as Whale's film exist in a time when homosexuality, and any non-normative sexual identity were not only socially condemned, but also deemed scientifically disturbing, so queerness in such a context must be destroyed and in the case of this film it is in the most violent and fiery of manners, moving the film into a final moment of the idyllic, emphasized by a return to natural soft lighting and a private domestic space where Frankenstein is not only the object of his fiancee's affections, but a bevy of attractive nurses as well.

Key Scene:  The Monster's encounter with Maria in all its latent tragedy still manages to be one of the most moving scenes in all of cinema.

I just picked up a great deal on the Universal Classic Monsters bluray boxset.  Keep an eye out for it to go on sale again, it is as worthy an investment as one can find.

Your Will Is Strong Van Helsing: Dracula (1931)

I am returning from what may well be my longest hiatus away from posting a blog since its inception and I feel as though a bit of explanation is necessary.  First, I am getting further into the beast that is legitimate academic scholarship on film.  Not that I do not love writing blog posts, but these are a labor of love that serve more as a space for me to toss around ideas about films I view for later reference, the fact that anybody reads the posts is added benefit, particularly when they leave wonderful and insightful commentary after doing so.  Second, I have spent almost the entirety of last week at Orphans Midwest, an amazing conference of discussions on non-commerical films and their place in social and academic discourse.  The entire event filled with prolific discussions by scholars, as well as an insane amount of rarefied screenings from Hollis Frampton outtakes to 40's era Studebaker was everything I could possibly want to spend time doing, but it was certainly daunting and very time consuming.  As such, I have decided to return this month with a similar marathon as I had last October, one focusing entirely on the genre of horror films, both in their most obvious incarnations, as well as some of their more unusual executions.  I really enjoyed this endeavor last year and managed to knock a ton of previously unseen films off of my list, as well as found myself being afforded with an opportunity to revisit some of my favorite works.  This year it will be more heavy on things that I have never seen, especially some of the real classics, but I have made room for one film that I have been meaning to revisit since it was the subject of an "informative" documentary, both on the nature of film studies and individuals' relationships with art in general.  Beginning with one of my rather large shame spots, I have decided to undertake Tod Browning's 1931 adaptation of Dracula, one of the major works in Universal Studios' long run of monster movies from the thirties, a work whose expressionist charm and chiaroscuro haunting imagery meld into a work that seems as scary, and, more importantly, timeless as its introduction over eighty years ago.

Dracula, this version at least, begins with Renfield (Dwight Frye) a solicitor organizing a visitation to through the townsfolk of Transylvania with the hopes of meeting Count Dracula (Bela Lugosi) on an urgent business manner.  Confused as to why the townsfolk are hesitant to help him in his endeavor, Renfield, nonetheless, accrues a driver to take him to Borgo Pass where he is to meet Dracula at midnight.  A series of events, including a bat-led carriage lead Renfield into a state of paranoia, one fully affirmed when he finally meets Dracula in his castle, realizing that the count is very much a vampire, using his ability of fascination to drive the unsuspecting Renfield into madness and using him as a means to transport himself to England.  Upon arrival in England, Dracula immediately takes it upon himself to find bodies with which to feed upon, including the young Mina (Helen Chandler) whom Dracula fascinates and then preys upon in her sleep, resulting in her death the following day, despite a series of unsuccessful blood transfusions.  Renfield, now housed in an insane asylum, becomes the obsession of Professor Van Helsing (Edward Van Sloan) who realizes taht after his talk of spiders and vampires, that he is clearly a victim of Count Dracula, thus leading to Van Helsing seeking out the vampire and ridding London of his violent endeavors.  Van Helsing and Dracula eventually encounter one another, wherein Dracula explains that Mina is invariably attached to his influence, suggesting that she belongs to him now through a blood bond, one affirmed by her zombie like attachment to the count.  Van Helsing, an expert in the folklore of vampires, manages to equip himself with the various paraphernalia necessary to counter Dracula's tricks and fascinations, particularly a crucifix which drives the vampire away instantaneously.  After a run-in with the still maniacal Renfield, Van Helsing is able to trap Dracula inside his coffin during the daylight, affording him an opportunity to drive a stake through the vampires body, thus freeing Mina from her possession.

Dracula is a classic work in expressionist horror, working right on the cusp of the silent era German Expressionist work, wherein the lines between darkness/light, good/evil and sanity/insanity are thinly veiled, if not entirely non-existant.  Think about basically the entirety of Dr. Caligari, wherein the narrative takes a turn, then another turn, only to be followed by another turn, just to have that all be a turn within in a turn.  Suffice it to say, it makes Inception look like child's play.  Dracula is not a convoluted plot in even the loosest of terms, indeed, it is about as straight forward as a film can be, indicative of Classic Hollywood filmmaking and much of the horror output dumped on viewers by Universal, the exception to this being any narratives involving the more complex character of Frankenstein, whose Universal film might receive in-depth focus later this month.  The choice ot make the divides rather blatant in this film, afford it a degree of study on the nature of insanity, one that suggest that much of madness might well be rooted in a reality, even if it is the result o fa truly demonic/evil presence inducing such mania.  Renfield, is certainly crazy for his preoccupation with spiders and vampires, but it is something that came after a traumatic event, not something that necessarily reflects a person being induced by inexplicable mental breakdown.  Similarly, there are clear lines drawn between good and evil that are tied to more traditional norms, which seem almost seem absurd by contemporary standards.  Take for example the rural townsfolk whose purity is tied to their proletariat nature, one that is in direct contrast to the bourgeois excess and evil of Count Dracula whose consumption of things around him, literally in the sense of bodies, make him both evil in a demonic sense, as well as in a non-capitalist context.  Indeed, the only person of wealth who is deemed morally forthright is the doctor Van Helsing, but his goodness is tied to his profession one that affords him likability and lightness, in contrast to the darkness of Dracula, making the matted style of this film with its expressionist backdrops that much more clear in its divisions.  Formulaic as they may seem by contemporary eyes, these are tropes that were then still establishing themselves, and Browning serves them up at their most pictorial.

Key Scene:  The classic scene of the line of light on Dracula's eyes when he is in the act of fascinating Mina is a point of perfection in Gothic horror.

This film gets a bit long in its last act, stopping it from being a flawless film, but it is still an exceptional work, whose classic status is without question.  Furthermore, it is available on Netflix so watching it is easy and worthwhile given its short runtime.

All These Beautiful Things That Were Destroyed...I Could Restore: The Mystery Of The Wax Museum (1933)

For the final post to the enjoyable and brilliantly put together TCM Summer Under the Stars Blogathon, I decided to go in the direction of a film I had never seen, as opposed to revisiting works for which I knew I already had a deep affinity.  This is always a gamble, considering that I could turn out not to enjoy the movie at all and would be left writing a blog for a blogathon that is anything but celebratory about the work in question.  Fortunately, The Mystery of the Wax Museum is an incredibly watchable film that manages to be one of the creepier and haunting film I have ever encounter, despite being made in 1933.  Images of melting wax faces and the chiaroscuro expressionism that generally influence the narrative of this film are some of the best of the era, existing in a wonderful middle ground between the nightmarish work of Fritz Lang and the dreary desolation of the film noir works of the forties.  Indeed, The Mystery of the Wax Museum could have gotten away on looks alone, the added enjoyment of some great acting and a relatively engaging plot make for an all around great cinematic experience.  Since this is a blogathon concerning the "Featured Star" of the day, I must give brief mention to Glenda  Farrell who is wonderful in this film and is indeed the reason this film was take upon by me, even if blindly.  Knowing very little about her (and highlighting her in the synopsis), I thought it worth mentioning  Fay Wry whose presence reminded me that she was the famous girl from King Kong, as well as in the criminally under-viewed 1932 adaptation of The Most Dangerous Game.  Along with her presence in The Mystery of the Wax Museum and a ton of other horror films, I am considering that argument that Fay Wry might be the original scream queen, or at the very least the grandmother of genre films.  Her presence in this film is decidedly within her more traditional roles, but given the manner with which bodies double and layer upon one another through wax duplications, her presence also takes on an ethereal quality, adding to the already eerie nature of the film.  The Mystery of the Wax Museum is not a grand stroke of horror through barrage, but instead; is a subtle repetition of creepy moments that come together to really leave an unsettling feeling in the viewer long after finishing, much like Dead of Night or The Blair Witch Project.  This is the ideal horror cinema.

The Mystery of the Wax Museum begins with Ivan Igor (Lionel Atwill) completing yet another work in his prized London wax museum, centering around his incredibly lifelike statue of Marie Antoinette.  His moment of happiness is quickly stifled when he is visited by his parter Joe Worth (Edwin Maxwell), who explains that the museum is proving to be a huge loss financially and that the only way to recoup the losses is to burn the entire place down for the insurance money.  Ivan attempts to stop Joe from his act but fails to do so.  The film then fast forwards twelve years to New York, where the city is receiving its own wax museum, overseen by Ivan, who must use apprentices to do his work, considering that he no longer has hands to sculpt with after they were severely damaged in the fire.  Ivan is particularly frustrated with the new work, blaming much of the trouble on hiring a recovering drug addict named Professor Darcy (Arthur Edmund Carewe) and a deaf-mute named Hugo (Matthew Betz).  Regardless, the museum is slated to open soon so Ivan pushes through with his work at full speed, even receiving a new statue in the mail whose life like qualities are quite uncanny.  Centering this female statue as the center of his exhibit as a Joan of Arc recreation, Ivan slips into a maniacal push for perfection.  Meanwhile, up and coming journalist Florence Dempsey (Glenda Farrell), while investigating a murder, comes to realize the similarities between a recently deceased woman and the new statue, as well as a similarity between a few other missing bodies and some of the other additions to Ivan's collection.  Hoping to warn others, particularly her roommate Charlotte Duncan (Fay Wray), Florence takes it upon herself to make the connection between the dead bodies and the new statues, coming into contact with a deeply entrenched bootlegging scheme in the process that is run by none other than Joe Worth.  This, however, does get the attention of the police, who agree to meet Florence at the museum a decision that proves quite fortuitous because they arrive only moments before Charlotte is to be "embalmed" by the maniacal Ivan, who believes that she will provide the final piece de resistance for his collection.  In the end, Florence saves the day with her persistence and because the film was set in the early thirties, her reward is nothing more than marriage to a man she only remotely likes.

For a film that is an early work in horror/thriller filmmaking, I did not expect to be able to pull a lot from work critically.  However, from the moment Ivan lingers on the female statues in his London museum, which cinematically are clearly played by actresses (one's who will later play characters in the narrative) it becomes clear that the film takes on a second layer of objectification of the desired body.  Objectification and looking at bodies in cinema are nothing new to theory and criticism, indeed tying most prominently to Laura Mulvey and her idea that the gaze in cinema is that of a male viewer that objectifies the woman on screen as an other.  While this theory has been reconsidered, altered and contested over the years, it, nonetheless, stands as the language used to describe the female body on display in film.  However, while these bodies are desired in the film, it is precisely the double layer of the "fake" body and the real that causes viewers to reconsider how they constitute the objectified body passively and what happens when the active body is forced into passivity, or in reverse what happens when a body, like the film's opening image of Marie Antoinette later becomes the character of Florence.  This is a wild notion of movement through a space by a body, one that is, as Mulvey would suggest, in a constant state of cinematic desire, whether to be objectified by the male gaze or longed for as a thing of cinematic beauty by the women who look at the ethereal presence of the wax versions of Wray and others.  Ivan represents a maddened version of the gaze in the diagetic world of the film, enacting his artistic objectification of bodies, both male and female, taking dead corpses, who are no longer active and proceeding to make them even less human, by making them posthumous objects of artistic desire.  The fact that Ivan himself is a crippled figure adds another layer of disability in relation to the ideal body as a point of desire and thus objectification.  In that he is no longer human, indeed relying on wax to pass as visually normal, he could be read as a vengeful disabled body that seeks "justice" upon the able-bodied individuals he encounters, housing them in a shell of wax, to deny their ability, while making his wax visage no longer the disabled figure, but that of normalcy.  This is all happening in a film from 1933, it is quite amazing that it has not gained the same level of notoriety as its counterpart from the same year King Kong.

Key Scene:  The opening fight in the London Wax Museum is really creepy, in a I might have nightmares from melting wax faces kind of way.

The DVD I have is not the greatest of version, particularly since it appears to be stuck between full colorization and black and white scenes.  Nonetheless, it is a magnificent work and well worth tracking down in an alternative format.

Finally, I would once again like to thank Jill (Sittin' On a Backyard Fence) and Michael (ScribeHard on Film) for letting me be part of this wonderful blogathon.  This last film was a great discovery and my previous revisits of Spellbound and The Blob were equally enjoyable.

There's A Rope Around My Neck Now And They Only Hang You Once: Little Caesar (1931)

If it were not for the western being probably the most identifiable in terms of recurring tropes, it would be easy to point to stylistic choices and narrative methodologies within films that one could define to be within the confines of the film noir genre.  Of course, there are some decidedly unique elements that arise almost entirely out of the genre, whether it be the femme fatale of the story, or the heavy use of shadows and other expressionist techniques to play upon the alienation and existential angst of the films less than ethical protagonists.  Yet, I am also aware that the label of "noir" can be attached to quite a few works that themselves, are not entirely of the genre, because as a friend of mine has stated, despite my constant attempts to explain to him the common tropes of noir, noir films are the one's where the guns always represent a penis.  Reductive I know, but rather poignant if I do say so myself.  Needless to say, while the film noir genre does owe its entirety to the hardboiled detective novel, it would not be the cinematic staple it has become in the film canon were it not for the decidedly engaging work of directors like Fritz Lang, who himself was making noir before the genre truly existed.  This is very much the case for director Mervyn LeRoy who directed Little Caesar along side six other films in 1931 alone.  While it is not entirely derivative of the genre, because the genre was not established, an individual with even a cursory understanding of the genre can easily pinpoint all of the tropes that would emerge within the genre, excluding one or two key elements that simply did not work within the crime thriller proper.  Indeed the moments of back alley chases and vague ethical frameworks, much like the shadows that have come to signify the noir film, creep into Little Caesar, consuming the ethical frameworks of the characters and the world they inhabit, and should anybody find themselves uncertain as to the genre making its name loudly in this film, I would only ask that you refer to every line of dialogue delivered and scowl directed by Edward G. Robinson.  In some ways, he is more the face of film noir than Humphrey Bogart could ever hope to be.

Little Caesar focuses on the movement from low-profile criminal to mob boss of one Rico (Edward G. Robinson) who would be referred to as Little Caesar, a name that gives much away in regards to plot.  Rico, a man who clearly expects to get his way, navigates the world with such a sense of guile and tenacity as to make a name for himself almost instantaneously.  Rico is very careful with who he trust in his life, placing almost all of his value in his mob pal Joe Massara (Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.), yet when Joe leaves the racket to pursue his passion in dancing, what little restraint Rico had concerning his ethics are thrown out the window.  Indeed, before Joe can leave Rico demands that he help stick up the club at where he works as a last gesture of friendship and as a means for Rico to make a considerable power grab within his own gang.  With Joe out of the picture, the other members of Rico's gang begin to question his supremacy and even take plan a hit on him, an action that Joe catches wind of and attempts to inform Rico before it occurs, but fails to do so in time.  Despite the hit still occurring, the men hired to take out Rico are less than proficient at their job and only manage to graze Rico, a mistake that leads to his immediate quest for revenge.  Of course, Rico realizes that the world of gangsterdom does have a degree of rules and responsibilities, therefore, instead of outright destroying his attackers, he decides to afford them a chance to flee in the night with an understanding that they will never step foot in the streets of Chicago again.  However, just because Rico feels it in his heart to adhere to the laws of the underworld, does not mean the same for those around him and when Joe's girlfriend comes to discover the tricky situation her lover has been placed in, she jumps at the chance to tell the police.  Rico realizing that Joe is a danger to his survival invades his home, planning to shoot him and escape himself, yet when given the opportunity, his years of friendship block his murderous intent.  Rico, now on the run from the cops fails to escape in time, instead being gunned down in a dockside warehouse, perhaps the most film noir death imaginable.

So since, I am positing this as being one of the first film noir works it is probably necessary to draw upon the ways it works within the context of the genre and the ways it counters it as well.  Firstly, the film is highly critical of moral certainty, indeed, going so far as to depict Rico not as a man who exploits the weaker in the world, an act that would become prevalent in later film noir works, perhaps most infamously involving an old woman and some stairs in Kiss of Death.  Rico does kill and harm people, but it is worth considering that the people who he attacks exist within the same seedy criminal world as he, and to a degree have forfeited a world of moral goodness involving an agreement that nobody is murdered.  As such, viewers are forced to accept Rico as the protagonist despite being a less than morally sound person, although, as noted, his bad traits are tame compared to some of the later noir works.  This moral ambiguity extends rather perfectly into another trope that emerges within Little Caesar, which is the existentialist nature of Rico as a character.  Existentialism posits that the world has no meaning, aside from that which you attach to it, therefore you are responsible only for your actions and how you navigate the world.  Rico is a prime figure in his existential outlook, indeed he navigates the world with a notable consideration for his own safety and self-advancement, so much so that his understanding of relationships all predicate themselves upon his desires.  He understands that to move through the world with a concern for the meaning others apply to their lives would mean making him weaker and less proficient in his crime boss role.  It is then interesting to consider that his ultimate demise comes when he fails to act on his own meaning and listens to the begging of Joe, whose life Rico spares in a moment of emotional shift.  These tropes are the highlights of this pre-noir masterwork,  as mentioned, it does lack a considerable femme fatale role, as does it miss a lot of the expressionist flare and psychoanalytic moments of later noir works, yet it is very much the precursor to one of the wildest of genres in all of cinema history.

Key Scene:  The close-ups during Rico's failure to murder Joe are astounding, the expressions Robinson delivers are jarringly haunting.

I was unaware that this was part of a larger box set upon my viewing of this.  I intend to grab up a copy in the upcoming weeks, it should prove well worth the investment.

Everytime You Say Cheap And Vulgar I'm Going To Kiss You: Gold Diggers of 1933 (1933)

It is really hard to fathom and era where the Hays code did not exist, or has, subsequently, influenced what is allowed in mainstream film.  Sure a lot of contemporary films through caution to the wind and deliver base jokes and bawdy humor with little concern for structure or delivery, yet this has not always been the case and in the earlier decades of film, particularly in the musical and comedy genres pushing the barriers of the  moment before strict censorship, which led to punning and backdoor sexual innuendos that simply are too wise and informed to play well on contemporary audiences.  This is one of many things that manages to make Gold Diggers of 1933 a standout work of cinema, one that is entirely a product of the escapist cinema of The Great Depression, while also being revolutionary and ahead of its time.  While I have been on record as say that the success and watchability of most of these early thirties studio films is directly a result of Busby Berkeley's mesmerizing choreography and its sumptuously engaging cinematography, there is a rather watchable, albeit, simple story involved.  Performers like Ginger Rogers and Dick Powell are electrifying, delivering a presence on celluloid that would not be replicated until Gene Kelly and and Debbie Reynolds took flight in the equally moving Singin' In The Rain.  Again, what makes a work like Gold Diggers of 1933 stand out in comparison to its later variations on the genre is that these films are referencing, if not directly commenting on their predecessor.  Between the singing in pig latin to prove that the sound was indeed synched to the image and stories of wild dreams of Broadway success, everything that has made the musical one of the staples of American cinema owes its success to this film, as well as 42nd Street which was released the same year.  As I mentioned, Gold Diggers of 1933 in all its cinematic glory is rather indicative of the era, to some degree, because I have seen a lot of films, ones with decidedly dark endings, yet the manner with which this film executes itself results in that closing number being a stark contrast so lathered in a chiaroscuro madness as to result in being one of the darker closing sequences I have seen in film, standing right up there with Godzilla's death.

Gold Diggers of 1933 focuses on a group of aspiring Broadway performers, who happen to all be women, therefore, leading to their being colloquially known by society as a group of gold diggers.  The group is led by the young and optimistic Polly (Ruby Keeler) who seems content with any role as long as she can live out her passion.  Included in the mix is the comedically inclined Trixie (Aline MacMahon) and group's torch singer Carol (Joan Blondell), as well as the member by association Fay (Ginger Rogers) who is so fixated on her success that she has no qualms stepping on the toes of those around her.  The group is disheartened when they discover that their recent Broadway revue has been cancelled due to lack of funds, almost entirely a result of the depression.  The women, defeated, return to their New York flat, hungry and hoping they can shy away from having to pay rent for yet another month.  It is not until Polly overhears the harmonic singing and piano playing from a complex across the street, where she discovers a songwriter named Brad (Dick Powell).  His talent is blatant, and, indeed, quite infectious, so much so that the girls' manager Barney Hopkins (Ned Sparks) suggest that he serve as the sole songwriter for his upcoming revue.  Brad is, at first, reluctant, due to the possibility of being seen publicly, but eventually agrees to the proposition on the grounds that Polly be allowed the female lead.  Yet, the issue of money emerges, when Barney explains that he cannot fund the endeavor fully, at which point, Brad offers a considerable amount of money should there be no questions asked about how it was obtained.  Blind with the possibilities the group agrees, although Trixie is rather suspicious and believes Brad to be a robber who has been making the rounds through the United States.  During dress rehearsals Brad is continually critical of the male lead, at which point Barney suggest that he step in, but he is still hesitant for inexplicable reasons, but on opening night when the lead falls sick, Brad steps in to save the show and the financial stability of all involved.  What unwinds is a series of revelations concerning Brad's coming from wealth and the "disgrace" of him lowering himself to the world of musical theater.  Yet, through determination and a will to prove their value the girls and Brad trick his relatives into accepting their world by default, allowing for the show to succeed without any notable hitches.  Yet, realizing the realities of war and depression in America the film closes with the sobering "Remember My Forgotten Man" as if to suggest escapism is a foolish and unhealthy endeavor.

While it would be more than feasible to talk about the censorship and degrees of escapism that are involved within this film, I am more drawn to consider the communal relationship involved with the "gold diggers" who navigate the narrative space of the work.  I choose the word commune, because there is a decided embracing of their own otherness as a result of being feminine.  Indeed, when Brad's relatives suggest that both Trixie and Carol are nothing more than lowly gold diggers who are attempting to use their looks and feminine charm to grab up men, they certainly react critically, but also use it as a moment to appropriate the situation into something that will allow them to advance by exploiting the foolish and ignorant assumptions of two white men. This is best evidenced in the hat buying scene, wherein both Trixie and Carol exploit the fears of the men for the dastardly doings of such lower-class women, while also using their sexuality to attain items.  It is a communal action that results in their self-protection from the lechery of the men while also advancing their cause as career women.  It should be noted that much of what ties the women together, aside from their gender is their equal lack in regards to economic privilege, indeed they share a communal space because it is a necessity in the high-end pricey neighborhoods of New York City.  A layer of issues do emerge then when one considers Brad's entrance (invasion) of their communal space, while it might be assumed that he is doing so on a shared class oppression, the revelation that he is indeed quite wealthy betrays this notion considerably, although his acceptance of the women's struggles and his genuine admiration for the business and, more importantly, Polly, allow him some leeway to be a progressive character.  In this reading of the community of women that are the "gold diggers" one must necessarily consider Trixie as a unique stand alone character.  In fact, I would even go so far as to suggest her to be a lesbian character, one that desires the companionship of other women on a level far more than platonic.  Indeed, masking the lesbian character in the comedic is not something unusual in media, another famous example being Sally Rogers from The Dick Van Dyke show, whose defeatist quest for a man took on layers of implications.  Considering Trixie as a lesbian figure allows for a further explanation of her defensive attitude towards the women and their engagements to the outside world, especially when Polly expresses interest in Brad, as does it explain her detached attitude towards the advances of the elderly gentlemen caller she picks up later in the film.

Key Scene:  All of the Shadow Waltz sequence, water dolly shots and neon violins alike.

This is a marvelous film, I intend to nab the entire Berkeley box set, although it is available as a stand alone DVD.

Just Get Up Off The Ground, That's All I Ask: Mr. Smith Goes To Washington (1939)

Much like Capra's other revered classic It's A Wonderful Life, there is a heavy cloud of nostalgia that covers Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, which affords it a place high on top film lists one that is hardly questioned and deservedly so, since it is nothing short of perfect.  Yet, when one considers the holy grail element of this specific film, it becomes problematic to think that given its understanding as a great American film it is often set aside for rewatching or referred to with any critical seriousness.  Sure, it gets mentioned as a joke here and there, most recently I believe in a tip of the hat to Senator Davis' epic filibuster, but it seems as though Mr. Smith Goes to Washington is not earnestly considered for its invective look at the state of American politics, one that considers the many flaws of "business as usual politics" that are run by a ton of old white guys who are purely in it for the side money they receive from maniacal tycoons with wild capitalist endeavors.  The movie I am describing sounds as though it would have come from the heart of New Hollywood, or would equally have been the product of an Aaron Sorkin script, but no, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, in all its forward looking criticism and indictment of a corrupt American legislative branch was made in 1939, some eighty odd years ago.  It is one thing to look at the civil rights movement and feel frustration at the lack of change in a fifty year period, but it is literally doubly troublesome to realize that political corruption has been a topic of condemnation within American popular culture rhetoric for almost a century, the problems of which have seemingly gotten worse.  Indeed, much like Capra's other previously mentioned Stewart vehicle, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington spends much of its time with a narrative that is bleak and seemingly lacking in any resolve, yet it is during the final moments of the film that all is saved through the good in humanity, which as idealistic as it may be is sold with such earnestness through the ever amiable acting of Jimmy Stewart and the melodramatic leanings of Capra.  Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, unlike a political film of the new era, lays on the indictment, only to suggest that even in its darkest moments, good can and should prevail.  Tragically, if anything, that is what betrays this film to a bygone era.  Were this film to be released today, it would undoubtedly fail in the face of a crippling sense of disillusionment about the American political machine.

Mr. Smith Goes to Washington begins with an announcement of rather unfortunate news regarding the loss of a senator in a non-specified Western state.  This untimely death leads a group of party politicians in a frenzy attempting to find a replacement for the senator that will not only make constituents comfortable, but will also prove to bend to the will of the powers that be, as such the "elective" body calls upon Jefferson Smith (James Stewart) a wide-eyed idealist who is most known for his community outreach regarding orphaned boys as opposed to possessing any sort of intelligence.  Initially reluctant to take up such a task, Smith realizes that such an appointment will allow him to pursue a lifelong goal of creating a national boys camp wherein both well-off and underprivileged kids can attend camp by paying whatever pocket change they can afford.  Of course, the blind sense of idealism Smith brings to the senate is quickly challenged when both the long standing legislative officials and media alike use him as a battering ram for their own self-advancement.  Nonetheless, Smith assures himself that if he is to prove successful in his position he must learn to play by the rules to the most specific details, therefore, recruiting the help of his secretary Clarissa Saunders (Jean Arthur) in the process.  Initially, Saunders is rather hesitant to aide in Smith's idealism, particularly since she is afforded financial gain by his mockery, however, when his passion captures her heart, not to mention Smith's good looks, she yields to his request and begins an equally driven attempt to pass his bill.  The bill in its seemingly innocent nature, comes up against opposition by members of his own state, whose vested interests in the wealth of a local tycoon, are challenged since Smith plans to build the camp on a creek that is home to a prospective dam.  It is at this point that the entirety of the senate turns against Smith, including his own party, tricking him into not only being absent during the voting of the bill, but also blackmailing him with false papers about the profits he would gain from such a camp being built.  Knowing that he has truth on his side, Smith pushes on engaging in a filibuster that he hopes will show not only the power of democracy, but also speak to his honesty in the situation.  While attempts are continually made to discredit Smith, one of his colleagues who was in on the corruption eventually succumbs to his own guilt and admits to Smith's honesty.  After a full twenty-four hours of expounding upon freedom and the constitution, Smith has successfully proven his case and assumedly earned the camp he greatly desired, as well as a symbol of democracy working for the people, as opposed to a singular person.

Corruption in politics is certainly not an infrequent theme in cinema, both within and American and global context, however, much as Capra considers the multiple facets of spirituality in It's A Wonderful Life, here his camera focuses on the layers of deception and indifference that result from a split-party elective body in the United States that is solely focused on assuring one's own skin through continual re-election.  The running joke throughout the film is the notion that once a politician lands a seat on the senate he is solely concerned with assuring that he keeps that position until death, the only way of which to do so is to keep his (I use the masculine because the film clearly calls attention to the problematic patriarchal element of politics) mouth shut and nod in agreement to his senior colleague.  This silencing bars any sort of idealism from sprouting within the hallowed halls of the capitol, so much so, that when a person does speak out it is met with opposition.  The idea of opposition, is not simply an attempt to discredit one's character in a ethics committee, but within the media as well, which is portrayed in an equally scathing manner.  In fact, it is the media who seem intent on maligning Smith solely for their own humor, painting him as a wild man who is coming to chop away at the absurdity of government, although to be fair at least one of those accusations proves to be true.  The corruption is further problematized when it is shown that a reputation can be ruined even before a man is allowed to defend himself, as is the case with Smith when he attempts to have his constituents speak on his behalf, only to be outpaced by a financial strong arm that controls all the media in his area.  The brilliance results not from Smith's refusal to bend to the will of corrupt power, but from the fact that it is through a small, non-profit youth paper that his truth is spoken.  This sort of grassroots moment is wonderful because it shows that with a sincere message and the zeal to deliver it one can truly accomplish things politically.  This is not the misguided frustration of an Occupy movement, or the throw money at the problem focus of big money charity-based lobbying.  It is a simple idea of speaking truth to both visible and hidden power, a pertinent message if ever one existed.

Key Scene:  For all the amazing diatribes that Stewart throws down in this movie, it is the small and rather unusual moment that involves a close-up of Smith fumbling with his hat that is the highlight of the film.  Not only is it unusual for a film of this era, it also happens to be a telling sign of his character which would evolve in assertiveness throughout, his hat and his control over it continually serving as a parallel.

Buy this movie. NOW.

For Your Awareness: The Terror Of Tiny Town (1938)

For the final installment of this month of westerns I figured I would have to go with the most absurd and nonsensical film for the coup de grace.  I have found that film in what can only be describe as a film whose very existence defies all logic, as well as all reason for demand or conventions in the cinematic structure.  Of course, it is a film that has obtained its own deserved cult status, in its genre hybridity, perhaps the most intense thus far, as well as being billed, I kid you not, as "the first all-midget western."  This movie in question is none other than The Terror of Tiny Town and as it may well suggest is not in fact about a town of miniature sets in which people diagnosed with dwarfism run through the streets, although they do indeed have miniature ponies, which is glorious in its own right.  Instead, it is a town full of little persons who navigate a western town in which everything is of normal size, begging the question as to why the title was not something like...say The Trouble in Enormous Town.  This digressions is a bit necessary on my part because I really cannot fathom what I could possibly offer to this movie that would not boil down to calling it a bit of wild exploitation, which were it not for the opening moments of the film in which an announcer warns viewers as to what they are about to watch, one could make the argument that it is actually a film that never states, again aside from credits, that it is a film about little people.  The world they occupy is entirely there own, one that assumes many of the tropes of the western, and treats the individuals as the adults they are never appropriating a childlike stature upon them and mocking their moves, which is a big surprise considering that many of the people involved within this unusual little (no pun intended) film, were first seen as the "loveable" munchkins in The Wizard of Oz.  The Terror of Tiny Town packs a pretty narrative heavy punch for only being an hour in runtime, which is rather surprising for a film that begins by embracing the wacky and bizarre nature of its very existence, of course, the narrative is by no means inventive, so much as those who are allowed to act out its scenes.

The Terror of Tiny Town as a film certainly exists within many genres, one could assume that it was to show the diversity, of what I assume to be a performing troupe that consisted entirely of little people.  As such it pulls in some decidedly comedic parts, while also forcefully included far too many musical numbers, most of which were dubbed by a terrible version of Bing Crosby.  What it does do right within the western is create a clear distinction between a decidedly evil character and his good counterparts, even going so far as to play upon the particular guile of the villain and his ability to turn rational, good-hearted individuals against each other by exploiting what is assumedly some latent capitalist greed that forces them to value their monetary possessions over any sort of friendship, a foolish frame of mind that is not counteracted until the films closing moments.  Furthermore, it includes a believable love story of a lone cowboy falling for a young woman with a wonderful singing voice, not to mention that it also includes a heightened final scene whose jump cuts to a soon to explode dynamite have a certain degree of Keaton intensity to them.  Ultimately, it becomes a question as to whether or not a viewer is able to get past the schtick of the film in that it is to be unusual because the persons occupying the narrative space are non-normative bodies, and while I would like to say I could completely detach myself, I am not that fair-minded and certainly found things humorous of which I was not proud, but I am aware and that is the best I can offer.  With that beings said I do think the film offers the possibility to create a narrative that has non-normative bodies and deals with them in a brilliant and non-exploitative way and one that is from the 1930's no less.  Therefore, while The Terror of Tiny Town has obtained cult status, it should also receive much deserved critical attention for its surprisingly revolutionary offering.

This movie is available on YouTube and is well worth at least checking out a few minutes to be aware of its existence.

For Your Awareness: The Singing Cowboy (1936)

Considering that the entirety of my family on both parents' sides grew up in Nebraska the name of Gene Autry is rather prolific, whether it be one grandfather who adores him along with every other thing offered for television in the western genre, or a cousin who is, amongst other things, a part time bull rider, with a penchant for the more lavish of western garb.  I am well aware that my knowledge of Gene Autry extends beyond simply being aware of him as the guy who made famous Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.  However, I was also foolish enough to assume that he purely existed as a radio and television personality, never really engaging to any degree with film.  When I was compiling my list of western films for this month, I decided to go all the way into the back catalogue of what Netflix had to offer within the genre, and found a set of films starring Gene Autry, The Singing Cowboy included and I knew, although it was relatively short, running just under an hour, it was a necessary addition, partly due to my desire for an expansive consideration of the genre, as well as a bit of nostalgia.  I was, however, dreading the viewing, because the ever dubious Netflix rating system assured me that I would not enjoy the film, nor did any of the middle-of-the-road ratings on other sites.  Yet, upon popping in this small gem of a film, I quickly became enamored with its charm and somewhere between the sheer musicality of Autry and the commitment to slapstick and vaudevillian humor, I found The Singing Cowboy to be thoroughly watchable and quite excellent.  Sure the film has some moments of racial performance that are less than stellar, but Autry seems to be a figure with an eye on desegregation and inclusiveness...even proving to have an ear for jazz, despite being an out and out country music star.  When one is able to step over the technological issues of the time, primarily dubbing, and the clear attempt to recreate a Shirley Temple like character, it proves to be incredibly engaging and some pretty solid filmmaking, especially considering the likely small budget and technological limitations.  Also there is something comedically brilliant about Autry, on multiple occasions, busting into a room while inexplicably still on his horse.

I hesitated to give this a full review and decided to go with "For Your Awareness" status to the post, primarily because it is a rather short film, but also because it is not a film in the most traditional sense.  The Singing Cowboy seems to exist somewhere between the radio show of Autry's early career and what would become his television serial a few years later, in fact, it really plays out like an extended episode of what one would assume to be a western show, complete with kidnapping, a villian whose presence seems well established before the film begins and a healthy dose of product placement throughout.  Where it is far less like a television western is in its continual bursting into song throughout, sometimes suiting the narrative structure, while at other times fitting more into a stage piece.  While viewers are shown Autry riding a horse in and out of pretty much every location he is rarely shown doing other "cowboy" activities, even abandoning a gun altogether, although he does possess bullets on his belt.  The cowboy image in this context is both incredibly traditionalist, in that Autry is clearly pulling from the "up by your bootstraps lone gunman" mentality for his look and ethical framework, however, given that he is a performer and a showman, he navigates the world with the desires and concerns of others in mind as well.  He understands, at least in the constructs of this film, the nature of struggle and desires to help all those in need of a hand, whether they be up and coming jazz cowboys, or a girl with a traumatic brain injury in need of surgery.  Furthermore, unlike his cowboy predecessors, he has a particularly welcoming reaction to modernity, embracing the magic of radio and what appears to be early television to get his message across, as well as the role the advanced technology can play in saving lives and, subsequently, making living easier.  Of course, this embrace could lead one to assume that Autry is somehow lessened by this reliance on the non-natural, but as his wild chase shows in the last few moments of the film, he is capable of both lounging in the comforts of a recording studio and bitting down to out run a fleeing stagecoach.  As a character, within the western framework, Autry is somewhat of an anomaly, because he is neither a gritty Wayne or a bedazzled Conway Twitty.  He is both star and simpleton a combination that likely helped him to gain such a cult following in a struggling midwest of the era.

The DVD is a must own, however, it is quite expensive and hard to come by, although it is available on Netflix and I suggest checking it out soon, especially since its length affords a viewing at pretty much any occasion.  Also Gene Autry was kind of a bad ass, even if a bit flamboyant, he managed to make being a cowboy look a quite cool.  Furthermore, he has an impressive five different stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, a feat only he has completed.