Archive for Miss Bluebeard

Tuttle Wash-Outs

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 15, 2018 by dcairns

A CRY IN THE NIGHT (1956), starring Daisy Clover, Lars Thorwald, ‘Fats’ Murdock, Quatermass McGinty and Steve Austin’s boss. A relatively late Frank Tuttle film.

Really poor. David Dortort’s script slaloms around anything potentially interesting. And smashes into any opportunity to make the characters seem dumb or unpleasant. Unconscious misanthropy? At any rate, a psycho mother’s boy abducts a young girl and we never learn anything about his mental problems, while the cops proceed to follow a trail of lucky coincidences to allow them to crack the case while being as stupid as possible.

We begin on lover’s lane, with an intense voice-over from an uncredited Alan Ladd (Tuttle made him a star), commenting on the activities, stressing their innocence but somehow making them seem really dirty because of his Dramatic Intensity, which also makes him sound like a skeevy prowler. “Kids always have things to talk over, questions about life.”

Raymond Burr snatches teenage Natalie Wood; her cop father, dyspeptic ulcer Edmond O’Brien, teams up with her boyfriend Richard Anderson and A,N. Other Cop Brian Donlevy and they drive around desperately while sniping at each other. Eventual rescue near some kilns.

Tuttle’s great compositional skill is not in evidence, unless he’s enjoying the contrasting body types as much as I am. Burr’s large adult son character is an amusingly lumpen form to postulate next to the tiny, birdlike Wood, and the trio of O’Brien, Donlevy and Anderson create a vaudevillian panoply whenever united in the same frame. If you posed a bag of cat food, a box of cat food, and turkey leg together, you’d get roughly the same effect and twice the charisma.

Nobody is on form: the script encourages them to be the worst possible version of themselves. I love Natalie, but wouldn’t have cared if she’d ended up in a fridge here. Burr’s Lonesome Lenny routine is a screaming embarrassment. There are plenty of movies where I can forget that O’Brien was a struggling alcoholic, that Orson Welles called him “a magnificent ruin,” and that he traveled with a suitcase full of meat and light bulbs. This isn’t one. And Donlevy is equally grating and artificial: if it weren’t for him being a cuboid and O’Brien being totally shapeless, you couldn’t tell them apart.

They all drive around in a car a lot and you wish they’d give Anderson the wheel, because he only has concussion.

The best bit was the police getting a tip-off from Burr’s domineering mother because he’s out late and there’s no pie in the house.

Strangely enough, Raymond Burr dated Natalie Wood for a while.

“This one’s no good too!” declared Fiona after ten minutes of HELL ON FRISCO BAY (1955). Tuttle goes into super widescreen for this one. Stars Lucky Jordan, Dr. Clitterhouse, Tess Millay, Constable Kockenlocker, Captain Escobar and Ann Darrow. Poor Alan Ladd looks puffy and out of sorts: these movies both feel like episodes of some grisly Alcohol Watch. Edward G. Robinson is just old, but can still exude malevolence and smoke a cigar at the same time. He looks more and more like a Winsor McCay drawing, only not in blackface.

The climax scales new heights of bathos — a fist fight between Ladd and Robinson. Both are prematurely aged but Robinson, at only sixty-two, is an actual little old man. Ladd is little too, but he seems like a monster for slugging this geriatric case. Then Ladd has to do a dramatic leap and it’s a tragi-comic belly-flop. As is the film.

   

It’s just DULL. The title is good (and is the name of a fine blog). Nothing else lives up to it. Tuttle’s work is so lacking energy and impact, it’s amazing he worked again: but he did A CRY IN THE NIGHT the very next year.

Look like I have to head into his past to find stuff of value. Not only does THIS GUN FOR HIRE include a ton of marvelous noir imagery, but its opening gave Jean-Pierre Melville LE SAMOURAI. And MISS BLUEBEARD features a reel of the best bedroom farce ever shot. So he was good, very good, to begin with. I think cooperating with HUAC broke something inside. Recommendations for obscure, good Tuttle films will be gratefully received.

The Sunday Intertitle: Kick

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , on June 25, 2017 by dcairns

This is one thing I watched on Saturday — KID BOOTS, starring Eddie Cantor and Clara Bow and Billie Dove. Yes, I know, Eddie Cantor gets all the pussy.

I underrated Cantor the silent comic — he’s pretty funny here, and very agile. Director Frank Tuttle, who staged some of the best bedroom farce stuff ever in MISS BLUEBEARD (Bebe Daniels and Raymond Griffith) does a fine job with more slapstick situational stuff here. Plus Clara is gorgeous and appealing and fiery.

This is a truncated version — the one we saw in Bologna has an extra two reels, courtesy of the researches of David Stenn in the Paramount archives. He introduced the film with Kevin Brownlow and stated his view that the next generation of miraculous film rediscoveries will be those that have been lurking unrecognized in studio vaults all along.

Sample intertitles:

“Excuse me — I didn’t know you were the lady I was kicking!”

And, while Eddie and Clara are dangling from a cliff together: “I’m not in any position to ask you, but when I get on my feet, will you marry me?”

Ray’s a Laugh

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , on July 6, 2011 by dcairns

In answer to your unspoken pleas, NO, I will NOT stop banging on about the sublimely fatuous Raymond Griffith, my new comedy hero. Over at The Chiseler you can peruse my latest cannonade in salute to his conspicuous overall awesomeness.

Here’s Raymond, characteristically top-hatted in MISS BLUEBEARD, a Bebe Daniels drawing-room farce in which RG provides an ever-so-slightly broader variety of capering than those around him. Initially trying to cover up for a philandering friend, he ends up struggling with an unconscious woman, anticipating Buster Keaton’s drunken bride routine in SPITE MARRIAGE by some years.

Eleanor Keaton, who reprised that act with Buster on TV in the fifties, said of her husband, “Women were tremendously important to him, as props.” Why that’s OK, both with Keaton and Griffith? Because the comedy routines presuppose that using a woman as an inanimate object is absurd and inappropriate, therefore funny. It’s far from sexist.

Griffith’s use of a broomstick to transport the prone lady (Diana Kane, I think) does seem a little racy, though, dependent as it is upon an unspoken recognition of anatomical features not open to discussion in films of the period: buttocks.

I don’t want to end on the word “buttocks”, so here’s the lovely poster, which is in no way representative of anything that happens in the film, apart from the undeniable fact that pajamas are worn.