Gold Diggers of 1933 (1933) **1/2

(In honor of the great Broadway producer Florenz Ziegfeld’s 145th birthday I have reissued this post about the classic Warner Bros. musical.)

In 1933 Warner Bros. made three very successful musicals; all of which were choreographed by Busby Berkeley. I have already reviewed the two bookends, 42nd Street and Footlight Parade, so it only makes sense that I give the third (and middle one) its due: Gold Diggers of 1933. While the other two big Warner Bros. musicals of 1933 were directed by Lloyd Bacon, this one was headed by Mervyn LeRoy.

The film is based on the Avery Hopwood play, The Gold Diggers, which first appeared on Broadway in 1919. Screenwriters David Boehm and Erwin S. Gelsey adapted the story to fit the times, namely the Great Depression. If there ever was a musical about the Depression, this is it. As a matter of fact, if someone asked me who the protagonist of the film was I’d say the Depression.

It’s 1933 and times are tough everywhere, especially on Broadway. This is evidenced in the beginning of the film with the “We’re in the Money” number. Here we find Ginger Rogers in one of the tackiest costumes ever, but also very apt for the rest of the film: the idea that chorus girls are synonymous with gold diggers.

Things were great before the Depression in America and on Broadway—they were in the money! But now the Depression has set in and when you can’t pay your bills the creditors shut you down. And that’s exactly what happens to Ginger’s would-be Broadway hit. She and her four roommates are out of a job and wondering how they are going to pay the rent. Fortunately for them and their cash-starved producer (Ned Sparks) they live next door to a gifted singer and songwriter, Brad (Dick Powell), who just happens to be a millionaire. The problem is Brad can’t be “visibly” involved with the show or his family will cut him off. When the male lead goes down with a bout of lumbago, Brad has to step in which brings publicity and the wrath of his family, who believe he is being fleeced by a gold-digging woman: namely his girlfriend Polly (Ruby Keeler). Yes, Powell and Keeler are once again romantically paired in a Warner Bros. film!!! The family sends Brad’s older brother Lawrence (Warren William) and their lawyer Fanny (Guy Kibee) to investigate and buy-off Polly. This move eventually leads to the two “rescuers” finding themselves enamored with Polly’s two other gold digging roommates, Carol (Joan Blondell) and Trixie (Aline MacMahon). In the end, the only “gold digger” who doesn’t find a rich man is Fay (Rogers).

While the story is cute, it is the musical numbers that make this a highly enjoyable film. Berkeley put together four stellar numbers: the opening “We’re in the Money,” the very racy “Pettin in the Park,” the sophisticated “Shadow Waltz,” and the topical “Remember My Forgotten Man.”

Adorned in next to nothing but a few gold coins, Ginger Rogers sings “We’re in the Money” while other chorus girls dance with giant coins. This was a memorable way to begin a film and it sets up the rest of the film well. I suppose you could say Berkley launched Rogers’ musical career with this number. Yes, she was in 42nd Street, but she wasn’t the focus of any musical numbers.

“Pettin in the Park” is one of the raciest numbers I can think of from this era. Dick Powell and Ruby Keeler sing the number—Keeler also performs a stellar tap dance—while a creepy baby played by Billy Barty escapes from his stroller and harasses chorus girls. In the number a rainstorm happens, and the women go behind a screen and remove their clothes in silhouette. When they emerge they are wearing metal garments, which make it difficult for the men who want to “pet.” Thus, creepy baby finds a can opener. The number is overtly sexual and would have never been allowed only a year later when the Hays Code was put into full effect.

Powell and Keeler also sing “The Shadow Waltz.” In this number Keeler and Rogers (with a whole bevy of girls) dance around with glow-in-the-dark violins. It is visually stunning to watch, but it is not one of my favorite Berkeley numbers. Which is kind of ironic since he (and a number of the girls) almost died while making it when an earthquake hit the studio. Still, the precision in which Berkeley timed these waltzing ladies is a sight to behold.

The final number of the film is the most memorable: “Remember My Forgotten Man.” Joan Blondell sings her little heart out in this number which criticizes America for forgetting the heroes of WWI during the economic turmoil of the Depression. The number opens by parading hundreds of forgotten men across the stage as Blondell, playing a hooker, sings about the dire circumstances facing the common man. The song talks about the emasculation of men and what it not only does to them but their women as well. In my opinion, this is THE musical number of the Great Depression. The lyrics say it all:

Remember my forgotten man,
You had him cultivate the land;
He walked behind the plow,
The sweat fell from his brow,
But look at him right now!

And once, he used to love me,
I was happy then;
He used to take care of me,
Won't you bring him back again?
'Cause ever since the world began,
A woman's got to have a man;
Forgetting him, you see,
Means you're forgetting me
Like my forgotten man.

The number was inspired by the Bonus Army’s disastrous march on Washington D.C. in 1932. Over 43,000 people marched to the capitol demanding payment for WWI benefits that were promised to them in 1924. Hoover ordered the army to forcefully remove the marchers and at least two people were killed. The song is awe-inspiring and Blondell’s performance is spectacularly raw and evokes strong emotions in me every time I watch it. This number is the main reason that I watch this film every time it is shown.

Sons of the Desert (1933) **

To some the comedic antics of Laurel and Hardy is an acquired taste.  Slapstick comedy is not highbrow and reveals nothing about the true meaning of the human condition—but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t good. Take me, for example. Some of my all-time favorite films are The English Patient, Smiles of a Summer Night, The Lovers (Louis Malle’s), The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, and The Lives of Others, just to name a few—all pretty much categorized by today’s standards as highbrow. Yet, I still enjoy watching a really good slapstick or “crude” comedy. For example, if someone asked me what the 2 best films of 2009 were (can’t do 2010 because I’m poor and can’t afford to pay $10 to see a film in a theater) I’d say The Secret in Their Eyes and The Hangover. Now, if you’ve seen these two films you know that they are in totally different class categories. Still, I cried at both: one from raw emotion (guess which one) and the other from laughing so hard. So, what am I trying to say with this exceedingly long introductory paragraph? Basically this: just because a film doesn’t delve into the human psyche or reveal some inner truth about humankind, that doesn’t mean that it lacks value. That said, let us move on to Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy’s clever 1933 film, Sons of the Desert.

This was a remake of the duo’s 1930 film Be Big and was their fourth feature length film.  In it, they are members of an all-male club called the Sons of the Desert (also the later name of the duo’s fan club) who are told by their Exalted Leader (really, that’s what he’s called) that everyone in the club must swear by oath to attend the annual convention in Chicago. Ah, but Stan and Ollie have wives who aren’t the type to allow their husbands to go off on a trip like this. Of course, Ollie thinks he’s “the king of his own castle” and Stan thinks he has to do everything his wife tells him to do. However, Ollie’s wife, Sugar, no, I mean Lottie (the always funny Mae Busch), is the true ruler of the Hardy household and she wants her husband to go to the mountains with her. Her accuracy with vases, especially towards Ollie’s head, is sharp—just like her words. When Stan's duck-hunting wife Betty (Dorothy Christy) gives Stan permission to go to the convention the boys  have to come up with a plan to get Ollie there too.

The duo hatch a plan that is fool-proof—or so these two fools believe-- with the help of an idiotic veterinarian (Lucien Littlefield) posing as a medical doctor, Ollie is diagnosed as having “canus delirous” (AKA, a nervous breakdown) and prescribed a cruise to Hawaii as a cure. Mrs. Hardy can’t go on the trip with Ollie because she suffers from sea sickness, and so that means that Stan will have to go instead.

In Chicago we see the boys having a frolicking good time—along with Charley Chase, who has many laughs at their expense with the aid of a paddle and a water-squirting flower. There are scantily clad hula dancers, so in a way Ollie has seen Hawaii in some form. It turns out that Charley is Ollie’s long-lost brother-in-law and they engage in a hilariously risqué long-distance conversation with “Sugar". I especially enjoyed when Charley calls her a great organ pumper.

Thinking their ruse has worked, the boys head back to Los Angeles unaware that the cruise ship they were supposed to be on has sunk. This sets up two very entertaining scenes. The first is with a taxi driver that is pure slapstick—Stan was always the best physical comedian of the two in my opinion, and this scene showcases this, as well as his wonderful deadpan delivery. The second scene is when the boys return home and learn of the cruise ship disaster and hide from their wives in Stan’s attic. Their plan is to hide out until the rescued cruise passengers are brought to shore and then pretend they are amongst the survivors. The problem is the wives go to the cinema to get their minds off the plight of their husbands and see a newsreel of the Sons of the Desert convention in Chicago.

At one point the boys come crashing through the ceiling and find themselves hiding on the roof during a thunderstorm. They end up being apprehended by a policeman who wants to know their addresses…wait for it…to this Ollie remarks to Stan: “Here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into.” Presented to their wives, they unknowingly continue to weave some fantastic lie about how they ship-hiked after the typhoon. Basically, it is pure Laurel and Hardy.

So what makes Laurel and Hardy work? I think it is the opposites attract thing. Stan is thin, tall, honest, and calm and Ollie is short, fat, dishonest, and anything but calm. Of course, Ollie think he’s so much smarter than Stan—the exasperated looks he gives the camera at certain points throughout their films are a trademark.  And, Stan is pretty oblivious most of the time, so Ollie might have something there. Yet, it is Stan who usually gets the last laugh, as he often proves it is better to be lucky than smart. They just work well together. It isn’t life-affirming cinema, but it is entertaining. And, even if it is closing in on being 80-years-old, it is still funny.

Land Without Bread (Las Hurdes) 1933 *1/2

This 1933 documentary by Luis Bunuel is strange, but not unwatchable. Filmed in a poor region of Spain known as Las Hurdes Altas, this documentary presents the dire conditions faced by the region’s inhabitants through a surrealist lens. Hence, why I found this movie disturbingly strange at times. I just don’t know how one can effectively use surrealism to document the true hardships of a people without violating the documentarian’s unspoken code of neutrality—perhaps Michal Moore is a fan of Bunuel?

The English title of this film is Land Without Bread because bread was nowhere to be found in Las Hurdes—it had to be brought in as a luxury item. Tucked away in a mountainous region, Las Hurdes Altas has poor soil that yields very few crops. The one foodstuff they have an abundance of is honey, and even this isn’t very good—unless, of course, you want to smear a sickly jackass with it and watch bees swarm.

Like in most Bunuel films, the Catholic Church is portrayed as decadent and unmoved by the plight of the poor. Using one of his favorite cinematic tools, juxtaposition, Bunuel goes from depicting malnourished, impoverished people to showcasing the lushness of an abandoned convent.

As a completely isolated region, Las Hurdes Altas suffers from not only bodily starvation but intellectual starvation as well. There are no arts to speak of, and the people practice inbreeding, which in turn contributes to a number of mentally challenged and handicapped people. As I watched Bunuel’s portrayal of these people, I kept asking myself if he could find them why hadn’t the 20th century somehow nudged itself into this horrible place? I suppose that was Bunuel’s point: no one cared if they lived in almost medieval conditions.

I often find it difficult to believe that Bunuel came from a wealthy background. He has an almost searing hatred of everything bourgeois and traditional. In addition, his depiction of his homeland (Spain) is often extremely vitriolic. This, no doubt, contributed to his expatriation under Franco.

Under a half an hour long, Las Hurdes is a disturbing look at a people and region that time forgot. Through shocking images, such as decapitated chickens and countless shots of filth and disease, Bunuel forces his viewer to see, in his words, “hell on earth”.

Zero for Conduct (Zero De Conduite) 1933 *1/2

I am not a big fan of surrealism and this 1933 French film is pretty darn surreal.

Under 45-minutes long, this Jean Vigo film was based on his own childhood experiences in a French boarding school. Vigo examines the struggle between freedom and authority. He uses his own unique style of poetic realism to create an allegory about the way the lower rungs of society view those who hold all the power. It must have been a thinly veiled allegory, because it was quickly banned in France.

The storyline of this film about school children revolting against their teachers plays a secondary role to the visual elements presented by Vigo. At times it can be difficult to determine what is truly taking place. The children have a number of internal thoughts that are presented as happening in the external. It sometimes takes a moment to realize that what has happened is a farce. For example, when the children have their big “revolution” on the school roof and throw garbage and cans at alumnae at an alumni ceremony, it takes you a second to realize that the alumnae are just dressed up dummies—literally.

The most famous image from Zero De Conduite is the slow-motion pillow fight. With feathers slowly floating through the air, the children eerily march as though they are an army caught in a snowstorm. I must admit, this innovative shot makes this film almost bearable—almost.

Not nearly as bad as other surreal “classics”, such as Bunuel’s An Andalusian Dog and The Age of Gold(1930), Zero De Conduite just isn’t the type of film I enjoy. However, Vigo did make one surrealist film that I do like, L’Atalante (1934). Although Vigo only completed four short films before he died from blood poisoning at age 29, his work was highly influential on the French New Wave. Some critics believe that Francois Truffaut’s 400 Blows was a direct descendant of Zero De Conduite.

The Bitter Tea of General Yen (1933) **1/2

Although hailed by many film critics as director Frank Capra’s masterpiece , The Bitter Tea of General Yen is not his most popular film—that would be It’s a Wonderful Life (1946). As a matter of fact, most people wouldn’t believe this was a Capra film if they happened upon it after the opening credits. I read somewhere that Variety said this was the best von Sternberg movie von Sternberg never made and was unlike any other Capra film due to its sexuality. Quite simply, this is the most artistic film of Capra’s career. There’s a reason for this: Capra wanted an Academy Award. He believed the only way he could win one was by creating a work of art, and that’s exactly what he intended to create with The Bitter Tea of General Yen. However, Capra forgot it was 1932/33 and made a controversial picture about a taboo relationship between a Chinese warlord and a virginal, white American missionary. Alas, there was no Academy Award (not even one single nomination for the entire film). Still, he only had to wait one more year for his Oscar dream to be realized by It Happened One Night, so don’t be too sad for him.

Far from a commercial success, this film was chosen to open Radio City Music Hall in 1933. Quite a few people were disturbed as they watched Barbara Stanwyck’s character, Megan Davis, fall out of love with her missionary fiancée ( Gavin Gordon) and into love with the tyrannical, Chinese General Yen (Nils Ather). Women’s clubs across the country denounced the film and wanted it pulled from theatres. In typical Stanwyck fashion, Babs thought these people needed to get “over it”.

Adapted from a story by Grace Zaring Stone, the film takes place in the midst of a civil war in Shanghai. This is an inopportune time to have a destination wedding, but that’s why missionary Megan Davis (Stanwyck) has come to China: to marry her childhood sweetheart and fellow missionary Dr. Robert Strike (Gordon). Whilst trying to rescue orphans, the couple are separated and Megan is knocked unconscious. When she awakens she is the “guest” of General Yen (Ather) on his train car bound for his remote summer palace. General Yen suffers from a multiple personality disorder. He is a complete ruthless bastard to his underlings and enemies, and then a charming gentleman to Megan. The problem for Yen is that Megan sees both sides, which, of course, both terrifies and confuses her. Like all great Stanwyck characters, Megan is spirited and has no reservations about telling Yen he’s a psychopath. This only amuses him and he keeps her around to occasionally distract him from the fact that his own people are trying to destroy him.

The most intriguing elements of the film are Megan’s dream sequence and the poignant final scene between Megan and Yen. In the dream sequence, Megan dreams that a Chinaman/monster breaks into her bedroom (Freud, anyone?). When a masked man wearing Western clothes comes to her rescue, she unmasks him to reveal that it is Yen (who also happens to be at her bedside when she awakens from the dream). Are those 1933 gasps still being heard?

However, I think it was the final scenes between Megan and Yen that caused the most 1933 outrage. Earlier in the film Megan makes a deal with Yen to vouch for his conniving, two-timing mistress Mah-Li (Toshia Mori). If the mistress betrays him again Megan promises to give up her own life. Well, as luck would have it Mah-Li is a total slut and sells Yen out to his enemies, so Megan has to pay the piper his due. But the piper thinks her life is too high a price to pay, especially since he loves her, and he can’t have her shot. Realizing the mistake she has made, Megan gives into her feelings for Yen and decides she must now take Mah-Li’s place. Adorned in full Chinese-styled garb, Megan returns to Yen to wait on him and proclaims that she will never leave him. Ah, but what is the title of this film? The Bitter Tea of General Yen? That’s right 1933 audiences, he has poisoned his own tea, so you don’t have to worry about the white woman living happily ever after with the yellow man. Surely that was some solace to those who were repelled by Megan kissing his hand.

Overall, this is a good film. Shot primarily through filters, Joseph Walker’s cinematography creates a subdued, mystical atmosphere. In addition, both Stanwyck and Ather do superb work with their characters. Ather, especially, does a remarkable job playing the multi-layered Yen. And, Stanwyck is her usual excellent self. Her Megan has just the right mixture of spunk and innocence. Combined, they create one of the oddest and unlikely couples in Hollywood history.

Queen Christina (1933) ***

It is difficult to understand how this 1933 racy (this means erotic by 1930s standards) romantic drama ended up being a box-office failure. Here you have one of the most beautiful women in the world, Greta Garbo, playing an amorous 17th century Swedish queen who risks her crown for love. In addition, you have John Gilbert playing her tragic lover—the same John Gilbert she jilted at the altar in 1926. Anyone who read the film magazines back then surely knew Laurence Olivier was supposed to star opposite Garbo, and that it was only after her insistence that Gilbert was given the role. With so much backstory, who could resist this film? Evidently Americans who were too depressed about the Great Depression to watch a tragic romance.

Rouben Mamoulian directed this very loose with the facts historical drama. Screenwriters S.N. Behrman and H.M. Harwood obliviously didn’t read a Swedish history primer, because there are a number of glaring historical inaccuracies (ah, but it was for dramatic effect, so what the heck). The real Christina did not abdicate because of love (or the death of a lover), but because she wanted to practice Catholicism instead of state sanctioned Lutheranism. However, they did get it right when they hinted at Christina’s lesbian leanings in regards to Ebba (Elizabeth Young), her lady-in-waiting—see the mouth-to-mouth kiss they share in this film (obviously the censor was a man).

Christina ascends to the throne at a very young age after the death of her father, King Gustavus. Her regent, Lord Chancellor Oxenstierna (Lewis Stone), wants to marry her off to her cousin, Prince Charles (Reginald Owen). Prince Charles is a national war hero and highly revered by the Swedish people. But Christina could care less about Prince Charles and his endless desire to wage war (actually she has a problem with the warmongering). In the palace she has any number of consorts, namely Count Magnus (Ian Keith) and Countess Ebba. Hence, she knows she will not die an old maid, but as she proclaims a “bachelor”. Still, she is a bit hurt when Ebba tells her fiancee that the queen is too domineering. With too much court intrigue and a bit of a bruised ego, Christina finds herself yearning for a change of scenery. And, this brings her to her first meeting with the Spanish envoy, Don Antonio (Gilbert).

Traveling incognito with her trusted bodyguard, Aage (C. Aubrey Smith), she happens upon the Spanish envoy, whose carriage is stuck in the snow. After coming to Don Antonio’s assistance she suggests he spend the night at the nearest inn. This is where things get spicy. Don Antonio mistakenly thinks she’s a boy (she’s dressed like one and has a pageboy haircut), so he thinks nothing of sharing the only available room at the inn with her. Ah, but why is he strangely attracted to this young man? He soon learns when she undresses in front of a roaring fire. To say he was pleased would be an understatement. They spend the next several days locked in this room enjoying amorous endeavors under fur bedcovers. Where were the censors—in a breadline? Somehow in all of this, she forgets to mention she is the Queen of Sweden.

Instead, the queen thinks they should be properly introduced when he comes to court. Ah, the shocked look Gilbert displays in this scene is priceless. Though he feels slightly used and ridiculed, he eventually forgives her and they consort with one another at court. But there are problems looming: Don Antonio is a Catholic; Count Magnus is jealous; and, the Swedish people want her to marry Prince Charles. The people are so upset that they storm the palace and have to be subdued by the queen herself. Court Magnus is so jealous that he kidnaps Don Antonio and forces Christina to sign a passport for her lover’s return to Spain. This act leads her to abdicate the throne for love and to set her off on a journey to the frontier to meet Don Antonio. Too bad Don Antonio has been mortally wounded in a duel with Magnus—at least he waits to die in her arms. That’s something, right? She did give up a crown and kingdom for him after all, the least he could do is wait to bleed to death in front of her. Thus, this brings us to the climatic final shot (by cinematographer William Daniels) of Christina on a boat taking her slain lover home to Spain. A glowing, close-up of Garbo’s marvelous face looking out into nothingness. Yeah, I’d say this film could be considered a real downer for Depression-era Americans.

What I like about this film is how wickedly risqué it is. The dialogue is double entendre laced. The love scenes are daring and erotic (for the 1930s), and you have directly hinted at references to homosexuality. It is hard to believe this film was released in 1933. While Camille and Ninotchka are Garbo’s best films, this is her most daring. It is also the film that comes closest to resembling who Garbo was off-screen.

Duck Soup (1933) **

People have many reasons why they either like or dislike the Marx Brothers. I would not classify myself as one of their biggest fans. Yet, of all their films, this 1933 classic is most probably my favorite. Perhaps it has something to do with my being a historian—the film is a political satire of fascism. Thinking the film was a personal attack on his leadership, Mussolini banned it in Italy. But if you push the historical aside for a moment, there is one other reason why this might be my favorite Marx Bros. picture: it was the last one in which Zeppo appeared. No, he wasn’t the funniest of the four—that would be Chico, in my opinion. Yet, he had one thing the other three did not possess: he was good looking. Call me shallow, but every picture needs a little man-candy and Zeppo provided it. Somehow their pictures just weren’t the same after he went straight into retirement (there’s a pun in there, you figure it out).

This was the last film the brothers made for Paramount. It was a a box-office disaster and Paramount decided not to re-sign them. And, so off they went to MGM, where they made their two most successful films: A Night at the Opera and A Day at the Races. I suppose Paramount didn’t know what it had until it was gone…or so the cliché goes.

Ernst Lubitsch was originally slated to direct, but in the end the task fell to Leo McCarey. Good thing, too. Yes, Lubitsch was one of the greatest directors ever (see Ninotchka and To Be or Not to Be…no, I mean really see them), but had he directed there would have never been the famous mirror pantomime, which was McCarey’s idea (not an original one, since it was from an old vaudeville act and a Chaplin film, but still…). And, of course, McCarey also came up with (or recycled if you like) the title. He’d used it in an earlier Laurel & Hardy short. Today most people don’t know what duck soup is—both the film and the expression. I have more sympathy for those who aren’t familiar with old American idioms (see Ziva on N.C.I.S…really, see her on CBS Tuesdays) than I do with people who have no idea who the Marx Bros. are. For the Ziva’s out there, it’s an unaffectionate term for a sucker---just to clarify, not the type you put in your mouth, either.

The screenplay, written by Bert Kalmar and Harry Ruby, incorporates three good musical numbers that fit seamlessly into the plot: “The Country’s Goin’ to War”, “When the Clock on the Wall Strikes Ten” (sung by Zeppo), and “Just Wait ‘Til I Get Through With It”. The story is simple enough: the fictional Balkan kingdom of Freedonia is bankrupt and on the verge of revolution when Mrs. Teasdale (the always wonderful Margaret Dumont) offers to support the country with a $20 million loan. The catch? The country must be placed under new leadership—namely Rufus T. Firefly (Groucho Marx). When the ruler of neighboring Sylvania (who I imagine is played by Jeanette MacDonald even though we never see her) sends Ambassador Trentino (Louis Calhern) to the coronation he sets his sights on Mrs. Teasdale, hoping to gain control of Freedonia for himself. His initial weapon of choice is a sultry dancer, Vera Marcal (Raquel Torres), whom he wants to use to distract Firefly from matters of state…and Mrs. Teasdale.

Firefly’s political cabinet consists of his personal secretary du jour, Lt. Bob Rolland (Zeppo Marx); his silent chauffeur, Pinkie (Harpo Marx)—don’t worry, he wears a horn—; and, his Cabinet of War, Chicolini (Chico Marx). The problem is Chicolini and Pinkie are spies for Trentino—however, they are mostly a problem for Trentino as they are total incompetents. Trentino should have had Rolland as his spy, since he is the one who does the most damage to Freedonia by suggesting to Firefly that he insult Trentino to get him to retaliate and be thrown out of the country. After an exchange of insults between the two men ends with Trentino calling Firefly an “upstart” and Trentino being glove-slapped by the president, war is declared between the two countries. This sets up the best sequence of the film: the classic mirror pantomime scene.

Dispatched by Trentino to steal Freedonia’s war plans, Chicolini and Pinkie (disguised as Firefly) break into Mrs. Teasdale’s mansion and all hell breaks loose. When Pinkie tries to break into the safe “Stars and Stripes Forever” blasts through the house and brings Firefly in search of the culprit. Trying to escape detection by Firefly, Pinkie runs into a wall mirror and smashes it to pieces. What follows is a silent cat-and-mouse game between Firefly and Pinkie, as Pinkie attempts to mimic everything Firefly does at the precise same moment that he’s doing it. Highlights of this scene include the Charleston and white Panama hat—which Firefly returns to Pinkie when he drops his. The scene doesn’t end until Chicolini wanders into the “mirror” and Firefly captures him. Chicolini is promptly tried for treason, and amazingly enough, Firefly takes on the role of defense attorney.

There is only one thing that rivals the mirror pantomime scene, and that is when the four brothers perform (the only time all four appear in the same musical number) “The Country’s Going to War”. The song is a mixture of musical styles (negro spiritual, patriotic, and whatever genre you would put “Comin’ Round the Mountain” in). It is a hilarious parody of the absurdity of war. The war that follows it is also hilarious, but not as classic as the song that leads into it.

When the film came out in 1933 a lot of people were offended by the way the Marx brothers satirized government and its leaders. The Depression was engaged in a full-court press. And, two very different men had just become leaders of their respective nations: FDR and Hitler. To be American and mock democratic political leadership in the face of the rise of authoritarian governments in Germany and Italy seemed too disrespectful to some. I think if the economy hadn’t been in ruins and there weren’t crazy Fascists running around, the film’s reception might have been warmer. Alas, to use yet another cliché, Duck Soup was a victim of circumstance. Thirty years later, when yet another tumultuous event was transpiring (Vietnam), another, more appreciative, audience emerged on college campuses and in art houses. Today, Duck Soup is regarded by many as the greatest Marx Bros. film ever…and, alas, the last one with Zeppo.

She Done Him Wrong (1933) **1/2

“Why don’t you come up sometime and see me?” When this now-famous line fell from Mae West’s heavily lined lips in this 1933 film, she and Hollywood (specifically Paramount) had no idea what and whom they were inviting into their world. Laced with double entendres galore, and supported (both figuratively and literally) with overt sexuality (not to mention white slavery), this was the film that just went too far in the eyes of Catholics and the Hays Production Code. Widely ignored for the first years of its existence, the Production Code would start to be strictly enforced starting in 1934. This is why many film historians like to look at the films of 1933 to see just how far Hollywood pushed the envelope before the strict enforcement of the Code a year later (which lasted until 1968 with the MPAA ratings). This film in particular is the reason why this is the only film starring Mae West to be nominated for an Academy Award—at least it was for Best Picture.

A recreation of Mae West’s extremely popular (but scandalous) Broadway play, Diamond Lil, this was the film that catapulted West to Hollywood stardom and made her a household name. Credited with a screenwriting credit (along with John Bright and Harvey Thaw), West plays Lady Diamond Lou, a woman with a penchant for bling and handsome men—even if they are wearing Salvation Army uniforms. Director Lowell Sherman got one helluva leading dame in West—no one was better at dropping saucy one-liners and singing songs dripping with innuendo (“A Guy What Takes His Time”, “I Wonder Where My Easy Riders Gone”, and “Frankie and Johnny”).

The film takes place in the New York City Bowery in the 1890s—primarily in a rowdy saloon run by Gus Jordan (Noah Beery, Sr.). Lady Lou is the saloon’s top entertainer and Gus’s mistress. She gets her nickname Diamond Lou from all of the jewels he (and many others) bestows upon her. How can a saloon owner afford to bedeck his paramour in such glittering jewels? He’s a sleazy criminal, who runs a counterfeit ring and a white slavery racket. We are led to believe that Diamond Lou has no idea about these other industries.

Next door to the saloon is a city mission headed by Captain Cummings (Cary Grant). Strangely enough Captain Cummings isn’t really a missionary but an undercover FBI agent trying to get the goods on Gus. He uses his cover as a way to get inside the saloon—he’s there to help the sinners repent—especially Lou. Of course, Gus doesn’t like this because he doesn’t want the good captain to scare off any customers. In addition, Lou and Captain Cummings have a strange flirtation that Gus finds irritating.

The story gets set in motion after a young girl named Sally (Rochelle Hudson) tries to commit suicide, but is stopped and sent up to Diamond Lou’s room for a good talking to. Things had went wrong between Sally and a man, and thinking no man would want her anymore, she tried to off herself. When Lou tells Rita (Rafaela Ottiano), a criminal associate of Gus, about the situation Rita says she can help the girl. Of course, Lou has no idea this means Sally is going to be sold into white slavery in the Barbary Coast.

Meanwhile, we learn that Lou has more pressing issues than wronged young girls: her insanely jealous boyfriend who is in the clink. Chick Clark (Owen Moore) had to take a trip to Sing-Sing after being caught trying to steal diamonds for Lou. He likes to make sweet promises to Lou, like he’ll kill her if she cheats on him while he’s in jail. These promises become a little less sweet when he escapes from jail. In addition to this little problem, Lou’s next door eye-candy is about to be evicted for not paying rent. Her solution? One diamond bracelet for a building. And, finally, if she doesn’t already have enough on her plate, she learns from Dan Flynn (David Landau), another one of her admirers, that the law is about to come down on Gus and that the she might be implicated as well. Enough problems, yet?

Some things do work out in Lou’s favor, though. When Captain Cummings inquires about the whereabouts of Sally, he is pleased to learn that she has no idea what depravity Gus and Rita are involved in. This endears Lou to him even more, as it is obvious that he has feelings for the sultry singer. Too bad more bad things are on the way, though…

First, Lou is surprised to find Chick hiding out in her bedroom. Crazed with jealousy, not to mention fearful of the cops searching for him down in the saloon, Chick threatens to kill Lou if she doesn’t accompany him in his escape. She promises to meet him after her show.

Second, after receiving another diamond from yet another admirer, Rita’s boyfriend Serge (Gilbert Roland), Lou finds herself in a whole lot of trouble when Rita comes in. When the two women struggle, Lou accidentally stabs Rita to death and has to have her bodyguard get rid of the body.

When Lou doesn’t show up to go away with Chick, he returns to the saloon and kills Dan Flynn. This event leads to Gus, Serge, and Chick being arrested by Cummings. Lou is not pleased to learn that her missionary man is a G-Man. Oh, well, he has to “arrest” her, too. While riding to her awaiting “prison”, Lou has to give all of her diamonds to Cummings. In exchange, she gets a new diamond ring from her new jailer…Mr. Cummings. Her prison’s name: Matrimony. Interesting ending--not plausible, but still interesting.

No one will ever accuse Mae West of being a great actress. Yet, she is strangely entertaining as every mother’s worst nightmare for her son. Voluptuous and brassy, she delivers some great lines in this picture. For example, when a woman remarks to her son that Lou is a fine woman, Lou says, “one of the finest women who ever walked the streets.” Another favorite, said to Sally after her attempted suicide, “When women go wrong, men go right after them.” Because of the way she looked and sounded, West was never really given enough credit for just how clever she was. Yet, you cannot write lines like these (and countless others) and not be a bright person. I think this is what made West so dangerous to the morality police: she was just too sexually charged and intellectually bright for her time.

Without a doubt, West and the classic one-liners are the best things about this movie. Cary Grant does a passable job as Captain Cummings, but I would not call this a standout performance. This may have had something to do with the sheer force of West’s personality overpowering his screen presence. Still, it is always nice to see just how handsome he was in his late 20s.

Footlight Parade (1933) **1/2

Busby Berkeley was a field artillery lieutenant in WWI. Thus, he watched as soldiers marched in unison as they obeyed a strict cadence. No doubt this experience laid the groundwork for what would would become some of the most innovatively choreographed musical numbers in film history. Last week I wrote about Berkeley's breakout work in 42nd Street, so it is only fitting that I do a follow-up this week about his greatest musical number ever, “By a Waterfall” from Footlight Parade.

Following up his directorial success of 42nd Street, Lloyd Bacon helmed yet another backstage musical with this film. James Cagney plays Chester Kent, a down on his luck Broadway director who becomes a prologue director after talking pictures prove hugely profitable. And just what is a prologue director, you ask? Someone who puts together live stage shows to be shown in movie theaters before the main film. This is a step down for Chester. The musical comedies that he directed for Broadway were very successful, but once the “talkie” emerged his ticket sales dwindled. If this wasn’t bad enough, his wife (Renee Whitney) leaves him after she learns that his Broadway career is over. She should have stayed, because Chester and his partners, Sy Gould (Guy Kibee) and Frazer (Arthur Hohl), make their prologue enterprise a huge success. Due to this success, Chester’s main competitor decides to plant a mole in the company in order to steal Chester’s lavish production ideas. In addition to this problem, he has to worry about his underhanded partners who are shortchanging him from his hard-earned profits. What is a frazzled, creative genius to do?

Like most distracted, overworked men Chester has a woman on the spot who keeps his chaotic world in order: Nan Prescott (Joan Blondell). Dependable, loyal, and desperately in love with her boss, Nan keeps the ship afloat as Chester puts his attention everywhere but on her. One place that he sets his attention is on gold-digging actress Vivian Rich (Claire Dodd), who Nan sees right through. To say that Vivian is a piece of work would be an understatement.

When a big deal emerges with the Appolinaris’ theater company for a 40-theater contract, Chester must come up with three new shows in three days. Not willing to take a chance on his brilliant ideas leaking out to his competitor, Chester locks everyone in the studio and forbids any phone calls or outside visitors. One of the brilliant ideas Chester has is that mousy, bespectacled secretary Bea (Ruby Keeler) take off her glasses and become the star of the show. He also thinks that Scotty Blair (Dick Powell) has a nice singing voice; even if he had been forced upon him by Mrs. Gould (the outrageously funny Ruth Donnelly). Coincidentally, just like in 42nd Street, Powell and Keeler are romantically paired in this film. If working under such tight time constraints and fearing that someone will leak his ideas to his competitor aren’t enough, Chester must also try to meet Mrs. Gould’s “decency” requirements, which are monitored by her brother Charlie (Hugh Herbert).

In the end, what emerges from Chester’s creative mind are three very memorable musical numbers. The first, “Honeymoon Hotel” is performed by Powell and Keeler, who play a newly married couple who just want to enjoy their honeymoon without interruption but keep being interrupted by relatives and a creepy baby played by Billy Barty. The lyrics are very suggestive and overall the number was deemed too racy by many and was heavily cut in some local theaters.

The second act is the most spectacular (and the one that is most associated with Berkeley): “By a Waterfall.” Over 15 minutes long, this was the first on-screen aquacade. It featured 100 “bathing beauties”, costumed in swimming suits that made them appear naked, performing various aquatic acts in an 80-by-40-foot swimming pool. The pool was designed with a glass floor and glass walls, which allowed Berkeley to shoot the swimmers from every imaginable angle. The swimmers dance and form intricate, geometric patterns (which were captured by overhead kaleidoscopic shots). At the end, the swimmers form a revolving 70 ft. high wedding cake/fountain. It is the most spectacular musical number ever captured on film. Berkeley had the pool lined with glass walls and a glass floor so he could shoot the swimmers from every possible angle. No musical number has ever topped this.

The final number is one of my favorite James Cagney performances: “Shanghai Lil”—which was a nod to the 1932 film Shanghai Express (which I reviewed back in February). Told in an operatic fashion, the audience watches as a camera takes them through the waterfront bars of Shanghai. Cagney plays a tap dancing sailor looking for his lost lover Lil, a Chinese prostitute, in an opium-laced brothel. Watched today, most people don’t get the political messages that were being conveyed about American imperialism in Asia and FDR’s New Deal—especially with the image of the NRA’s Blue Eagle, which was a boost to fair wages and business competition (this Act was ruled unconstitutional by the Supreme Court in 1935). If you can get over seeing Keeler in a black wig and Chinese makeup, you’ll enjoy watching her dance number with Cagney—it is phenomenal. All told, more than 150 people performed in this number. Then unknowns John Garfield, Ann Sothern, and Dorothy Lamour appear in this sequence.

Overall, a highly entertaining musical. Cagney is at his best as the overworked Chester and Joan Blondell is her usual charming self. The supporting cast is stellar, especially Ruby Keeler and Ruth Donnelly. All of the musical numbers are great and two of them are considered among the greatest ever made.

42nd Street (1933) **1/2

In 1933, the Great Depression was steamrolling its way across the globe. Each country dealt with public morale in its own way. To put a little pep in the step of their people the Japanese pushed further into Manchuria and the Germans made Adolf Hitler their leader. In America, we decided to make musicals. Our rationale—poverty is easier to swallow if you’re being entertained by a good song and dance show. And in the end, aren’t dancing shoes more attractive than marching boots?

Had it not been for illness, Mervyn LeRoy would have directed this signature backstage musical. He was the one who developed most of the film, but had to hand the directorial reins to Lloyd Bacon after becoming ill—an on the verge of bankruptcy studio just couldn’t wait. Good thing he wasn’t too ill to suggest that then-girlfriend Ginger Rogers play Anytime Annie—her breakthrough role. In addition, this film launched the careers of Dick Powell and Ruby Keeler (Mrs. Al Jolson) and gave little-known choreographer Busby Berkley the opportunity to showcase his amazing talent. When all was said and done, Bacon did a fine job and the film was nominated for a Best Picture Oscar (it lost to Cavalcade).

Screenwriters Rian James and James Seymour adapted the Bradford Ropes novel of the same name into an acerbic, no-holds barred look at what really happens behind the curtains of Broadway. Their script opens with the announcement that producers Jones (Robert Mc Wade)and Barry (Ned Sparks) are launching a new show, Pretty Lady, starring Dorothy Beck (Bebe Daniels). Like most Broadway beauties, Dorothy owes her success to a rich benefactor; in this case, industrialist Abner Dillon (Guy Kibbee), who is financing the show. The producers choose Julian Marsh (the excellent Warner Baxter), a tyrannical, highly successful director but a newly bankrupt man thanks to the stock market crash, to run the show. Due to his unfortunate financial situation, Julian disregards the warnings of his doctor that too much stress could kill him and decides he must make the show a success—no matter what! And so the stage is set for a very contentious production of a Broadway show.

At the auditions we get a first-hand view of the backstage antics of show business. At the cattle call we meet choreographer Andy Lee (George Stone) and his girlfriend, chorus-girl Lorraine (Una Merkel). We also are introduced to the catty and sassy Anytime Annie (Rogers) and the innocent and inexperienced Peggy Sawyer (Ruby Keeler), who mistakenly walks into the men’s dressing room and sees a half-dressed Billy (Dick Powell) instead of the director. Fortunately for Peggy she makes quick friends with Billy, Lorraine and Annie and due to their “connections” she is selected for the chorus. Unfortunately for Peggy, Marsh is an exacting, chain-smoking director who likes to deliver overly-intense diatribes to his cast. I personally enjoy listening to Baxter deliver these not so inspirational speeches, but I can see where some might find them irritating.

Things soon become complicated when we learn that the show’s female lead is a two-timer, who’s cheating on the show’s backer with Pat (George Brent), her former vaudeville partner. When Marsh learns about this he asks his gangster friend Slim Murphy (Tom Kennedy) to get Pat out of the way. Meanwhile, an emasculated Pat starts to see himself as Dorothy’s “kept man” and begins to show an interest in Peggy. After taking her out to dinner one evening he is confronted and attacked by Slim Murphy. When Peggy takes him up to her room to tend to his wounds she is evicted by her landlady. With no place to stay, Pat convinces Peggy to stay at his apartment. So Peggy now spends her nights trying to help Pat get a backbone and her days trying to teach Billy how to tap dance. For those of you who don’t know, Ruby Keeler was a standout tap dancer. In the end, Pat decides to leave New York and take a job in Philadelphia—which coincidentally is where Pretty Lady has its opening test run.

Soon after performing the “You’re Getting to Be a Habit with Me” number in a full dress rehearsal (which Bebe Daniels is quite good in), Dorothy sees Peggy getting into a cab with Pat and she becomes jealously enraged. This causes her to drink way too much at her pre-opening party, which leads her to slap and insult Abner. Oh, no you didn’t! Abner now demands that Marsh replace Peggy for her insolence. Really, hours before the opening? Okay, he’ll accept an apology, but first the producers have to get Dorothy away from Pat, whom she has drunkenly called to her hotel. After hearing the producers discussing how to get rid of Pat again, Peggy tries to warn the couple. A drunken Dorothy thinks she’s there to take Pat away from her and attacks her. In this tussle Dorothy takes a tumble and severely injures her ankle. What to do?

With Dorothy obviously out of his good graces, Abner suggests Anytime Annie take her place—quick work, don’t you think? But Annie doesn’t want the part and suggests to Marsh that Peggy is the only member of the cast capable of replacing Dorothy. With only five hours left until show time, Marsh and Peggy engage in an exhaustive cram session. In the end, Marsh deems Peggy somewhat capable of playing the role and declares that the show must go on. In a somewhat moving scene, Dorothy (on crutches) goes to Peggy’s dressing room to give her blessing and to give the young ingénue some sage advice about show business: success means nothing if you aren’t happy—she’s marrying Pat and leaving show business.

With this bit of melodrama over, the curtain rises and the film becomes a full-fledged musical, but not before the most memorable lines of the film are uttered by Marsh to Peggy: “you’re going out a youngster, but you’ve got to come back a star.” Got pressure? What follows this sage declaration are three memorable Busby Berkeley choreographed numbers, the most notable being, of course, “42nd Street” but I also enjoy “Shuffle Off to Buffalo” , which is a very risqué number—fortunately the Hays Code wasn’t in effect yet. Now, Ruby Keeler was definitely not the most gifted singer, but she does a passable job of singing “42nd Street” and her tap dancing is spectacular. “42nd Street” is the final number of the show and the stylized sets are amazing and the sheer amount of bodies involved in the number baffles one’s mind. One of the standout elements of this number is when chorus members walk up a giant platform and turn at the same time to reveal skyscraper cutouts, which creates a giant New York skyline. The show is a huge success, but Marsh is so physically drained from the ordeal of putting it together that he can’t even enjoy the fruits of his labor. Isn’t that always the case?

This film set the stage for a new type of Hollywood musical and gave birth to the unmistakable Busby Berkeley production number. When people think of 42nd Street they immediately remember the spectacular images he created. In my opinion, Berkeley is the greatest choreographer in film history.

Of course, future Hollywood stars like Dick Powell, Ruby Keeler, and Ginger Rogers got their big break here. Yet, the person I always remember as the standout is Warner Baxter. He was absolutely terrific as the tyrannically-driven director. Personally, I think this was his greatest role—much better than his Oscar winning turn in In Old Arizona. For me, he and the Berkeley production numbers are what makes this such a good film.