This is the beginning of ONE HOUR OF HAPPINESS (EINE STUNDE GLUECK, 1931), William Dieterle’s last film before leaving for Hollywood (with excellent timing, two years before the Nazis caused rather a rush in that direction). It’s terrifically charming and inventive.
But wait! Although it’s attached to the front of the file of the film I obtained, it behaves more like a trailer. And then the film has no opening credits, so I think it’s a trailer grafted on to the front of a print missing the main titles. But I can’t be 100% sure. The film is quite short — literally an hour, though not literally all happiness. Maybe the specially-shot trailer was patched on to pad the movie out? hard to be sure.
The trailer, in fact, is better than the movie (a phenomenon we’re used to) but has the same virtues: it’s quirky, ludic and highly original. We were following up our interest in Dolly Haas — though she isn’t the crazy monkey we’d enjoyed so much in GIRLS WILL BE BOYS, she’s affecting and sweet and gets a dance number. The whole film takes place in a department store at night, making it a kind of prequel to EVENING PRIMROSE. The jazz band of racist caricatures is unfortunate, and its discomfort/eeriness points to a bit of an issue with the film overall.
Dieterle, who is delightful as himself in the trailer, is a problematic leading man in the film: as in a lot of German operettafilms of the period, people who are supposed to be charming are instead creepy. The hulking Dieterle “We called him the iron stove” — Edgar Ulmer) isn’t as grotesque as his costar Harald Paulsen with his freaky corpseteeth, but when he looms forward tenderly it’s terrifying rather than reassuring.
But DO check out the trailer. I’ve left the first shot of the film proper on the end which continues the playfulness. Fans of sandy Vaseline will enjoy this odd movie: the pleasure/creep balance is way off, but it’s definitely distinctive.
Over at The Chiseler, an old piece on character actor Frank McHugh (lovingly illustrated by Tony Millionaire) has been promoted to the front page, so to celebrate I wrote another, inspired by a recent re-viewing of the Reinhardt-Dieterle MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM.
I’m always excited by quixotic attempts to reinvent the science of acting, which everyone in that film is involved in, but even more exciting is that McHugh invents a method of his own, distinct from the rest…
We came to William Dieterle’s SYNCOPATION with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation, partly explained by the fact that we’d recently watched the same director’s THE LIFE OF EMILE ZOLA (not quite as turgid as we’d feared, but mis-structured and turgid ENOUGH). This one is a history of jazz, and the unspoken question on our lips was how white it was going to be. The earlier KING OF JAZZ, magnificent two-strip abomination that it is, has precisely one mention of Africa, and then, at its climax, shows jazz being the product of America’s melting pot, with ingredients inclusing Dutch clog dancers and Scottish pipe bands, but absolutely no Black folks.
SYNCOPATION, for all the limitations of a 1942 RKO production, is much better than that! It’s totally in the mode of THE DEVIL AND DANIEL WEBSTER in terms of expressionist flavouring. TDADW was building on CITIZEN KANE’s innovations and so here we have a big screen-filling title appearing in total silence. And the credits are just a list of names of people who collaborated on the picture, “in front of” and “behind the camera!: communism!
And then we’re in Africa. The drums, of course, are beating. White traders arrive. They open a treasure chest. It’s full of — dramatic orchestral stab — MANACLES.
And now this is happening. It’s bold, I tell you.
The dissolve emphasises the compositional similarity: the box frame, the imprisoned people with their arms wrapped around their knees echo the shape of the manacles. The conditions in this ship are BETTER than in reality they would have been, but the shot is built to create an impression of horrible confinement.
J. Roy Hunt (I WALKED WITH A ZOMBIE) shot it and John Sturges cut it.
The dots are joined: we see not only where the slaves are going but what they’re going to do there. This is no Roots and that aspect of the film is now over, but I give Dieterle and writers Philip “the front” Yordan, Frank Cavett and Valentine Davies serious props for their opening.
This promising start must be betrayed as soon as possible, so the film introduces New Orleans blueblood Adolphe Menjou and his daughter. But there are two major Black characters, little trumpeter Rex Tearbone and his mother (Jessica Grayson), maid to Menjou, effective mother to his daughter. The object is to show jazz — Black people’s “trouble music” — being passed on to white musicians.
It’s somewhat to the film’s credit that the black characters stay on past the first act (and that Menjou gets essentially nothing to do), but disappointing that they’re eventually written out. And Tearbone, who grows up (from a child whose name seems not to have been recorded, despite the IMDB listing about ninety cast members) into Todd Duncan (the original stage Porgy), which means he starts out younger than the other principles and winds up older but never mind, gets no romance or particular ambitions of his own, once his mother consents to allow him his jazz career. He’s something of a Magic Negro figure… but not completely.
The little rich girl is Bonita Granville and the boy from the wrong side of the tracks is Jackie Cooper. And they’re both very sweet: she can move her shoulders skillfully to suggest piano playing (a real art) and he seems actually to be able to blow the trumpet. And the movie absolutely trashes Paul Whiteman (here Ted Browning, so his name isn’t as hideously apt as the real-life model), not quite as mercilessly as BLUES IN THE NIGHT lambasts Kay Kyser, but close. Being forced to play the same notes night after night gives Cooper a JAZZ BREAKDOWN.
The movie doesn’t have any villains, is bravely trying to string its story through the history of jazz from Dixie to swing, and it only sort-of HAS a story to string. It’s able to climax with a wholly non-diegetic performance by a jazz supergroup of Gene Krupa, Joe Venuti, Jack Jenney, Harry James, Benny Goodman and Charlie Barnet, “selected from the leaders of The Saturday Evening Post poll.” They’re all white, of course. I guess if you ask the readers of The Saturday Evening Post… but then someone at RKO has selected these guys, and we’re not allowed to know what criteria they used.
It is nice that one of the folks carrying on the baton of jazz is a girl, though the idea of Bonita having an actual career is rejected by Menjou and we hear no more of that. But she joins in on piano for the last-but-one number.
So… the movie is charming, the music is good, it excels unexpectedly in a few places, falls down predictably and grotesquely in others, and manages to stay engaging despite unresolved narrative and characters — the story of jazz, mistold and bowdlerised though it is, really is what holds it together, more than the thin but likeable characters. A whole different form of Hollywood movie, and it actually works.
Except at the box office, perhaps. Dieterle’s next employer was MGM and his next film was a hagiography of impeached president Andrew Johnson. Which I suppose I’ll have to watch.
SYNCOPATION stars Walter Burns; Perry White; Nancy Drew; Marshal Curley Wilcox; Joe Doakes; Mayor Cotton; Jimmy ‘Fergie’ Ferguson; Daniel Stone; Sheriff Bledsoe; Mr. Tuerck; and Charles Foster Kane III.
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