Archive for Warner Bros

A Night Without Casablanca

Posted in FILM, MUSIC with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 11, 2017 by dcairns

I wrote a little about this one years back (has it been years?) and so left it to nearly the end of my Marxian odyssey this time (for late-comers, I’m writing about those aspects of the Marx Bros films excluding the Marx Bros — what are usually considered the bad bits).

A NIGHT IN CASABLANCA sees the three remaining Bros at United Artists, in 1946, in a largely studio-bound version of North Africa. Plot revolves around Nazi gold and art treasures, then I imagine quite a new McGuffin. It’s probably sensible that the Marx films skipped the war years altogether (if one considers WWII from an American perspective) and refer to the Third Reich fairly obliquely here.

The film is deftly directed by Archie Mayo, with a surprising amount of fluid camera movement. It’s questionable whether a Marx Bros film NEEDS fluid camera movement, but it’s getting it regardless. And despite the limited budget keeping us in a hotel for most of the plot (when the boys escape jail and steal a plane, they crash right back into the jail again, thus saving on further sets) it looks pretty good.

No Margaret Dumont, alas, but Sig Rumann is present and incorrect as Pfferman the German. He’s a Nazi-in-hiding with a giveaway scar on his head (I’m imagining an unfortunate encounter with the Inglourious Basterds) for which he requires the camouflage of a toupee. Harpo is set up as Rusty, his put-upon underling, a role that dates back to A NIGHT AT THE OPERA and Thalberg’s unfortunate attempts to sentimentalize Harpo. Still, it means we can have lots of scenes of Sig being driven to apoplexy by Harpo and later the other brothers. And he keeps his clothes on this time. The sight of his genital cluster swaying within his long johns in A NIGHT AT THE OPERA will follow me to my mausoleum.

Sig comes complete with henchpersons, the oily Kurt and the seductive Bea. Kurt is ably played by actual German Frederick Giermann, and gets a decent sabre duel with Harpo. Giermann is one of countless fugitives from the Nazis who enjoyed a few boom years in Hollywood playing the guys he had fled. His career dries up not long after the war.

Bea is the excellent and lovely Lisette Verea, who seems to be genuinely having a ball, and is particularly good with Groucho. The nice girls in these films are always a bore, but the vamps are generally great value. Better, Verea gets to convert to the side of good, meaning she can get chased offscreen by the Bros at the end. This Romanian vixen was in just two films, the other being the 1933 version of THE GHOST TRAIN, which I bet is aces. ALL versions of THE GHOST TRAIN seem to be thoroughly entertaining.

Frank Tashlin worked on gags for this one, including Harpo’s first scene, leaning against a wall, getting moved on by a policeman (“Say, what do you think you are doing, holding up the building?”), at which point the full-sized building collapses. He may have also devised Groucho’s deleted entrance, in which his small desert hotel blows away in a sandstorm. The movie has obviously suffered quite a bit of this “tightening” — despite which Chico and Harpo’s musical numbers remain intact — numerous scenes fade-out in mid-action, or with characters opening their mouths to begin new quips. Who knows if there was gold in the lost footage? The remaining film has its longeurs, and the inelegance of the cutting does make me wonder if they snipped out the wrong bits.

Chief among the longeurs, of course, are the romantic leads, but the movie gives them short shrift, for which we can be grateful. Their names are Charles Drake and Lois Collier, and they can’t help themselves. And the script doesn’t exactly go out of its way to help them either. Of Mr. Drake, the IMDb says “No change in popularity this week,” which strikes me as beautifully apt. Collier had a much shorter career than her co-star, but most of her characters had names. This pair doesn’t get a lot of screen time — the movie actually seems to forget about them midway, and it’s a surprise when they crash back into the plot. And at least they don’t sing.

Lisette Verea does, briefly, and the number chosen, Who’s Sorry Now?, is a very good one, and it’s nice that it’s by Kalmar & Ruby, who wrote Hooray for Captain Spaulding! and Whatever It Is, I’m Against It, and who are the chief credited writers on DUCK SOUP.

Who else? Perennial bit player Paul Harvey plays Mr. Smythe, who can’t get a room in Groucho’s hotel without showing his marriage license. Mr. Harvey was born in Sandwich, Illinois, which makes me warm to him. Sig Rumann was a Hamburger — perhaps he would have bonded with the Sandwich man also.

There’s an extraordinary-looking thesp called David Hoffman as an Arab spy. And Dan Seymour as the Prefect of Police, his beard dismissed by Groucho as a terrible case of five O’clock shadow. And, we are told, Ruth Roman as a harem girl, but I failed to spot her.

The movie is a big step up from THE BIG STORE, it seems to me, and lets the Brothers be properly anarchic and only incidentally noble. Though the best bits of OPERA and RACES are up there with the best bits of anything else, I can’t help feel that the Marxes made a mistake, essentially, in signing with MGM — this movie liberates them from the Thalberg influence. The studio where they SHOULD have found a home, Warner Bros (the most brazenly Jewish, most leftie, most proletarian, and most casually vulgar studio) threatened to sue over the use of the word CASABLANCA in the title here. Groucho threatened to counter-sue over the use of their word BROTHERS.

Despite someone NEARLY saying “Round up the usual suspects” and a Groucho-Lisette riff on “You know how to whistle, don’t you?” from TO HAVE AND HAVE NOT, there’s little of Bogart here, though Groucho’s tent-like white jacket may be a clown version of Rick’s evening dress. A more actionable version could be imagined, with Groucho running a night club, Chico as a combined Dooley Wilson and Peter Lorre (“Sure I gotta the lettuce o’ transit!”) and Harpo as… hmm, not sure. Paul Henreid could play himself.

I love Ewe

Posted in FILM with tags , , , on September 21, 2016 by dcairns

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From the Frank Tashlin short I GOT PLENTY OF MUTTON (great title). A wolf wants to eat some sheep, but they are protected by a powerful ram.

The wolf dresses up as a sheep, but not just any sheep. A sexy sheep.

Rather than merely pass unobtrusively among the flock, he wants to seduce the ram, then murder him. This doesn’t go well.

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At the sight of a sheep wearing lipstick and a sarong, the ram turns into Charles Boyer — anticipating Pepe le Pew by a year. And the rest of the film turns into a blatant rehearsal for the Parisian skunk’s amours, with an added dose of homosexual panic, as the ram — whose horns uncurl, stand to attention and turn red at the sight of a sheep in a sarong — pursues the dragged-up wolf over hill and dale.

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When the desperate lupine rips off his disguise and declares, “I’m a wolf!” the ram replies “What of it, so am I!” and bays in a lustful (and kinda phallic) manner — anticipating the climactic shrug of SOME LIKE IT HOT.

The Past is Prologue

Posted in FILM, MUSIC with tags , , , , , , on May 28, 2016 by dcairns

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Marvelous Mary came round with a steak pie and was in a musical mood so we ran FOOTLIGHT PARADE. One of those films I can’t be sure I’ve ever see all the way through. I had seen the big musical numbers, for sure, but the plot, or rather plots, seemed new to me.

Warner Bros are recycling the GOLD-DIGGERS OF BROADWAY 1933 format, but they’ve made it even stranger —

Firstly, rather than a Broadway revue, showman James Cagney, having been put out of business by talking pictures (ironic casting), starts staging elaborate live prologues for movie shows (something like this really did go on in big theatres in big cities, but of course Busby Berkeley is going to offer up stuff that couldn’t staged anywhere except a movie studio).

Then, rather than showstoppers at beginning and end, this one has no real full musical numbers until the climax, where we get three back-to-back-to-front. Honeymoon Hotel and By a Waterfall both star Dick Powell and are very peculiar in the best Busby Berkeley manner — lots of creepy stuff with child-dwarf Billy Barty, and so on. It’s been pointed out that the colossal swimming pool on the latter number (where chorine meets chlorine), with its sheer ten-foot sides, would be a death-trap for any unlucky dancer whose doggie-paddle gave out on her.

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The true amazement comes with Shanghai Lil, in which Cagney, who up until now has been a vast improvement on Warner Baxter, now gets to be a vast improvement on Dick Powell too.

Of course, much of the number is a stupendous build-up to the crashing disappointment of Ruby Keeler in yellowface, clodhopping insipidly on a bartop, but we also get Cagney dancing, his body flowing like a trickle of liquid descending from his big, cocky cranium. So there’s the build-up, the astonishing pre-code detail (an opium den! racial mixing! naked girlies!) and Cagney, and the giant spectacle of it all, orbiting around the ordinary, untalented, unexciting R.K.

I did actually like Ruby in the film’s early part, where she plays a bespectacled secretary. The characterisation gives her something — character. An unfortunate example of a movie makeover robbing someone of interest rather than heightening their charm.