“WATCH THE CLOCK”

By Raymond Benson

Whether he was acting as a producer or as a director, Stanley Kramer was always at the forefront of social issues embedded within motion pictures that were ultimately entertaining and popular. He was producer of many outstanding movies during the early half of his career, and then went on to direct more high-profile Hollywood “message pictures.”

The esteemed and beloved High Noon, an “anti-western” released in 1952, was a production Kramer oversaw with his then associate Carl Foreman, who penned the screenplay. In a much publicized and analyzed split, the two men “divorced” during production of the film, mainly because Foreman was called before the House Un-American Activities Committee, admitted he had once been a member of the Communist Party, and refused to name names. Before he could be blacklisted, Foreman left the United States and moved to Britain. He agreed to have his name removed from High Noon as Associate Producer; but he still received credit for the screenplay, which may or may not have been based on a short story called “The Tin Star,” by John W. Cunningham. (Kramer had purchased the rights to the story because it had a similar premise, and he was likely covering his bases.) Astonishingly, Foreman still received an Academy Award nomination for his script, even when many of his writing colleagues in Hollywood had to use “fronts” on their work, or they couldn’t get jobs at all.

Setting aside all that drama, perhaps the real credit for the success of High Noon should go to director Fred Zinnemann, who was the up and coming talent and future two-time Oscar winner, and star Gary Cooper, who won the Oscar for Best Actor for his performance as Will Kane, the retiring marshal of the small New Mexico town of Hadleyville. The film also won for its dynamic and extremely important editing (by Elmo Williams and Harry W. Gerstad) that gave audiences the sense that they were viewing the suspenseful action in real time, and two trophies for music—the score by Dimitri Tiomkin, and for the song by Tiomkin and Ned Washington (“High Noon,” performed by Tex Ritter, although it is known in popular circles as “Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darlin’”). High Noon received nominations not only for the Screenplay, but for Director Zinnemann and for Best Picture.

Most of you know the story. Marshal Kane (Cooper) has just gotten married to Amy (Grace Kelly; never mind that she’s about 30 years younger than Cooper), when he learns that bad man Frank Miller (Ian MacDonald) has been paroled and is on his way to town to kill Kane. He will arrive on the noon train, and his three equally-bad cohorts (Lee Van Cleef in his first screen appearance; Sheb Wooley, who years later gave us the novelty song, “The Purple People Eater”; and Robert J. Wilke) are at the station waiting for him. Kane desperately attempts to round up supporters to help him fight Miller and his gang, but no one in the town will step up to support their marshal (the outstanding supporting cast includes Thomas Mitchell, Lloyd Bridges, Lon Chaney, Katy Jurado, Otto Kruger, and Harry Morgan). Cowards all. Even Amy leaves her new husband because he won’t run out on his responsibility. Meanwhile, we are made aware of every clock in the town as the ticking progresses closer to high noon. The pendulums swing, the big hands move closer to 12, and the tension mounts. Kane is left alone to face the killers…

Of course, we all know now that High Noon is an allegory for the Hollywood blacklist. It was Carl Foreman’s treatise on what was happening in Tinsel Town at the time. The townspeople, who were the marshal’s friends, turn their backs on him and leave him to “face the music” alone. John Wayne famously rejected the role of Kane when it was first offered to him, and he went on the record, along with director Howard Hawks, calling High Noon a “Commie picture.” Ironically, Gary Cooper was not in town when he was awarded his Oscar—and Wayne accepted the trophy for his pal on the night of the ceremony.

Olive Films’ spectacular Blu-ray is absolutely gorgeous in its glorious black and white. It is a new 4K restoration that is crystal clear, giving one the impression that the movie was made yesterday.

There are nice supplements included. A piece on the editing of the film illustrates how the ticking clocks are so important for the pace of the picture. Film historian Michael Schlesinger enthusiastically presents a featurette on producer Kramer. Blacklisted screenwriter Walter Bernstein and film historian Larry Ceplair talk about the Hollywood blacklist and its relation to High Noon. Anton Yelchin narrates a visual essay of rarely seen archival elements on the production history of the film. Finally, there is an original essay (on screen and in the enclosed booklet) by Sight & Sound editor Nick James, along with the theatrical trailer.

High Noon exists on Blu-ray distributed by other companies, but the Olive Films presentation is top-notch. A classic masterpiece is always worth an upgrade.

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“BOB HOPE AND SILVER BELLS”

By Raymond Benson

The 1940s and 1950s were Bob Hope’s prime decades, and many of his most popular—and arguably “good”—movies were made during these years. When he wasn’t teaming up with Bing Crosby for the Road to… pictures, he was soloing in farces in which he displayed his unquestionable talent in delivering one-liners with impeccable timing, singing alone or with a partner (usually a female costar), and sharing the “joke” with the audience through fourth wall breaking.

Hope has several classic comedies in his filmography, but just as many or more that might induce face-palming. Some are downright dumb. The Lemon Drop Kid, from 1951, is one of the better ones, although it often slips into slapstick silliness during its 91-minute runtime. This is due, in part, to the uncredited direction of Frank Tashlin, who co-wrote the screenplay (with Edmund Hartmann and Robert O’Brien). Tashlin worked for many years in cartoons, including the Looney Tunes outfit for Warner Brothers, so his approach to comedy had a similar sensibility. Sledgehammer comedic action, trick photography, and gimmicks tend to populate Tashlin’s work. The credited director of Lemon Drop is Sidney Lanfield, but Hollywood scuttlebutt asserts that Tashlin finished the picture.

The movie is based on Damon Runyon’s short story. “The Lemon Drop Kid” is Hope, of course, and although we never know his real name, everyone calls him “Kid.” He earned the moniker because he’s addicted to lemon drops, boxes of which he always carries. Kid is a con-man and swindler who illegally touts horses at the track, among other schemes. Unfortunately, he runs afoul with gangsters Moose Moran and Oxford Charlie (Fred Clark and Lloyd Nolan, respectively). His sometimes-girlfriend, Brainey (Marilyn Maxwell), is also a moll for Charlie, but one senses that her heart is more in line with the Kid. When a con goes bad and Moran loses money, he gives the Kid a deadline to come up with the dough he lost (ten grand) or it’s curtains. The Kid then begins a series of questionable money-making plots at Christmas time that involve a gang of ne’er-do-wells (played by such character actors as William Frawley, Jay C. Flippen, Tor Johnson, and others) dressed as Santa Claus, and an “old ladies home,” where his friend Nellie (Jane Darwell) is trying to reside. One memorable set piece in the final reel is Hope disguising himself as one of these old ladies and performing in drag.

There is much to admire, especially from the likes of the supporting cast, and Hope is genuinely funny and winning in the picture (in some of his movies he can be rather annoying, in this reviewer’s opinion). Perhaps the biggest legacy of The Lemon Drop Kid is the introduction of the Christmas perennial classic song, “Silver Bells” (by Jay Livingston and Ray Evans).

Kino Lorber’s new Blu-ray release looks quite good in its 1920x1080p high definition restoration. Alas, there are no supplements included with the disk.

If you like Christmas movies with laughs, or are a Bob Hope aficionado, then The Lemon Drop Kid is for you.

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“RETURN I WILL TO OLD BRAZIL”

By Raymond Benson

The fifth Bing Crosby and Bob Hope picture in the extremely popular Road to… series begins over the main titles, appropriately, with a lively instrumental rendition of the classic “Brazil,” a tune by Ary Barroso and Bob Russell. Animated stick figures representing the leads (along with Dorothy Lamour, who was the duo’s perennial co-star in all but the final Road title) dance a samba and set the tone for another globe-hopping “exotic” comedy-adventure, this time landing in Rio de Janeiro.

The Road to… series began in 1940 with Road to Singapore, which teamed the dueling popular radio personalities for the silver screen. Road to Rio continues the successful formula. Two playboys (Crosby and Hope, whose character names change with each movie, although their “characters” are always the same) find themselves traveling to some exotic locale in order to either escape a woman, gangsters, or pursue some con job, only to get mixed up in a farcical plot with an equally exotic woman (always Lamour). There are a few songs performed by both men or solo or with Lamour, comic hijinks (especially from Hope), and even some action and adventure.

This time around Crosby and Hope are big band musicians named, respectively, Scat and “Hot Lips” (because Hope’s character plays trumpet). The movie begins exactly like Road to Zanzibar—the boys are working in a traveling carnival and accidentally cause a fire that burns down the outfit. The organizers are out for blood, so they chase our hapless heroes to the Louisiana pier, where they stowaway on a ship to Brazil. On the boat, they meet Lucia (Lamour), a wealthy young woman who is controlled by her conniving Aunt Catherine (Gale Sondergaard). Catherine wants to marry Lucia to her brother, which somehow will transfer Lucia’s fortune to her because of some mysterious “papers” (the MacGuffin of the plot; they are always called “the papers” and become ludicrously significant, and yet no one knows their contents!). To get Lucia to do her bidding, Catherine uses hypnotism (apparently a faddish plot device in movies of the period). Scat and Hot Lips both fall in love with Lucia and she falls in love with first one of them and then both—just like in all the other Road to… movies. Ultimately, the goal is to rescue Lucia from the aunt and her goons.

There are funny bits, to be sure, but if one is watching the series in chronological order, Road to Rio seems a little tired. It’s as if we’ve seen it all before—which is probably intentional—but we can feel them reaching for laughs. Two highlights are the a) the musical number with the Andrews Sisters, who have a wonderful cameo; and b) the antics of the zany Wiere Brothers, Eastern European comics patterned after the Three Stooges who, in this case, play Brazilians. Look for Hope sidekick Jerry Colonna is another funny bit during the climax of the movie (“Isn’t it exciting?” he asks the audience, breaking the fourth wall).

Kino Lorber’s new Blu-ray release looks good in its 1920x1080p restoration. Alas, there are no supplements included save for trailers of other Kino Lorber releases.

Road to Rio is for fans of the Crosby-Hope series, the actors, or musical-comedies in general. The rest of the world will be amused for 100 minutes, after which they’ll forget it or likely confuse it with other Road to… titles they may have seen.

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“THE PATTY-CAKE CHRONICLES, PART THREE”

By Raymond Benson

The Bing Crosby and Bob Hope “Road to…” series began in 1940 with Road to Singapore (click here for review), a landmark musical-comedy that teamed the dueling popular radio personalities for the silver screen.

Road to Morocco continues the successful formula begun in Singapore. Two playboys (Crosby and Hope, whose character names change with each movie, although their “characters” are always the same) find themselves traveling to some exotic locale in order to either escape a woman, gangsters, or pursue some con job, only to get mixed up in a farcical plot with an equally exotic woman (always Lamour). There are a few songs performed by both men or solo or with Lamour, comic hijinks (especially from Hope), and even some action and adventure. A running gag throughout the series was a bit that Crosby and Hope did—playing “Patty-Cake, Patty-Cake,” reciting the verse and slapping their hands in front of adversaries as a distraction—and then surprising the bad guys with sudden punches, thereby starting a fight and the means to escape.

This time, Crosby and Hope are Jeff and “Turkey” (yes, that’s his nickname), who unwittingly find themselves on a life raft after the sinking of a freighter in the Atlantic. The pair wash up on the shore of Morocco, which is presented in all its stereotypical Arabic glory. Princess Shalmar (Lamour) encounters Turkey on the street and arranges for him to be “bought” from Jeff, which Turkey’s partner and friend is only too happy to oblige. It turns out the princess wants Turkey to be her first husband instead of Mullay Kasim (Anthony Quinn), who is intent on marrying Shalmar. A soothsayer has predicted that Shalmar’s first husband will die tragically after a week of marriage, and that her second husband will bring her lifelong happiness. One of the handmaidens to the princess, Mihirmah (Dona Drake) is sweet on Turkey, too, so she conspires to save him from the dastardly fate. Meanwhile Jeff wants to woo the princess himself, however, and of course Shalmar becomes enchanted with him, especially after he croons a tune.

One thing that can be said about Road to Morocco is that it is loads funnier than Singapore and contains some truly hilarious set pieces. Both Crosby and Hope are winning, charismatic performers who take full advantage of their screen time. There are more nudge-nudge-wink-wink moments in which they break the fourth wall and speak to the audience and make a few comments referring to the fact that they are indeed actors in a film. A line in one of the early song lyrics even foreshadows that they will meet “Dorothy Lamour” later in the picture!

However, as filmmaker John Landis states in the “Trailers from Hell” episode on the film that is a supplement on the disk, Road to Morocco is “cheerfully sexist and cheerfully racist”—boy, is it ever, especially the latter. It also has an uncomfortably politically incorrect sequence—albeit a funny one—in which Hope imitates a person with a developmental disability and has a speech impediment in an attempt to gain sympathy from a shop owner, except that the shop owner has the same developmental disability and speech impediment!

But, hey, this was 1942, a world war was raging, and Hollywood churned out entertainment for the masses and the troops. Morocco was also timely in that the North African campaign was starting to pick up steam when the movie was released. Social mores changed, so one must view these films within that context.

Kino Lorber’s new Blu-ray looks quite good and comes with English subtitles for the hearing impaired. There is an audio commentary by film historian Jack Theakston. Three previously issued supplements accompany the film: a short documentary on Hope and the Road pictures, with appearances by Phyllis Diller, Randall G. Mielke (author of The Road to Success), and Richard Grudens (author of The Spirit of Bob Hope)—this same extra is also included on the Road to Singapore and Road to Zanzibar disks; a short featurette on Hope on “Command Performance,” a short that went out to the troops to accompany movie screenings (different from the one included on the Zanzibar disk); the aforementioned “Trailers from Hell” episode; and a musical excerpt from the film presented as a “sing-along” with lyrics to follow. The theatrical trailer to this and other Kino Lorber titles round out the package.

Road to Morocco is good fun when viewed through the “film history” lens... and it will give you many moments of laughter.

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“DOCU-NOIR AT ITS FINEST”

By Raymond Benson

A sub-genre of film noir is that of the so-called “docu-noir,” a crime drama usually based on a true story and told as a Dragnet-style procedural. Most likely there is an omniscient voiceover narrator, a focus on the lawmen who are investigating the case, and all the other stylistic and thematic elements associated with film noir in general: starkly contrasting black and white photography, urban locations, shadows, gritty realism, angst and cynicism, and sometimes brutal violence.

Eagle-Lion Films was a British/American production company that existed for only a few years in the late 40s, disbanding in the early 50s. There was some talent involved, and they produced a variety of genres and pictures of varying quality (Powell and Pressburger’s The Red Shoes was a rare Best Picture nominee). Many of the studio’s pictures were films noir that were shot as B-movies with low budgets and barebones casts and crews. Anthony Mann directed a couple of their classic crime movies—T-Men and Raw Deal, both of which fall into the “docu-noir” category. Unfortunately, due to bad management or foresight, many of Eagle-Lion’s titles fell out of copyright and currently reside in the public domain. Hence, one can often find bargain bin, cheap knock-off DVDs and Blu-rays of these films.

Classic Flix is a company relatively new to the home video scene, and they have begun restoring and issuing some of these relics of yesteryear. He Walked by Night is a prime example of a quality presentation of an equally impressive little movie. Made in 1948, Walked is a true story loosely based on the crime spree by Erwin “Machine Gun” Walker, who shot cops and committed burglaries and armed robberies in Los Angeles in the mid-40s. In real life, Walker was arrested and sentenced to prison, but he was paroled in the 70s. This is not the ending to the story that is depicted in the film.

A young Richard Basehart portrays disturbed war veteran Roy Morgan, a habitual burglar and armed robber. When an off-duty cop on the street suspects Roy of being a burglar, he is shot and killed. The POV switches to the police, especially Lt. Marty Brennan (Scott Brady), who is based on the investigator of the true case, Captain Breen (Roy Roberts), and forensics man Lee Whitey (Jack Webb, in an early screen appearance). The story follows the police investigation juxtaposed with Morgan’s eccentric and lonely existence, and the criminal’s increasingly violent crimes. The big break comes when a stolen item is recovered by an electronics pawn dealer (Whit Bissell), who has been unwittingly fencing for Morgan.

It’s all engaging stuff, and Basehart delivers an outstanding, creepy performance as Morgan. The police procedural sequences are done well, such as when a composite drawing of the suspect is created by all the witnesses to the crimes. The climactic set piece of a chase in LA’s sewer system is exciting, atmospheric, and pure noir. Oddly, it is similar to the ending of The Third Man, which was released a year later.

Even though Alfred Werker is credited as director, the talking heads in the “making of” documentary supplement on the disk speculate that Anthony Mann stepped in to helm some of the movie. Is it one of those Christian Nyby/Howard Hawks (The Thing) or Tobe Hooper/Steven Spielberg (Poltergeist) controversies? No one seems to know. He Walked by Night, however, does contain several sequences—including the final sewer chase—that are stylistic stamps of Mann. That said, much of the credit for the picture’s success goes to celebrated noir cinematographer John Alton.

Another sidebar related to the picture is Jack Webb’s meeting and further networking with the picture’s technical adviser Detective Sergeant Marty Wynn. This led to the ultimate creation of Dragnet as a radio and television show.

Classic Flix’s new high definition restoration looks quite wonderful, a remarkable step-up from other public domain transfers that are out there. It comes with English subtitles for the hearing impaired, as well as an audio commentary by biographer and producer Alan K. Rode, and writer/film historian Julie Kirgo. Both appear in the aforementioned documentary about the making of the film, which also includes critic Todd McCarthy, cinematographer Richard Crudo, and film historian/director Courtney Joyner. There is also an image gallery with rare stills and ephemera. The package contains an impressive illustrated 24-page booklet with an essay by author Max Alvarez.

For fans of film noir, police procedurals, and gritty crime dramas, He Walked by Night is a good time at the movies.

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“LURID LOVE AND NOIR”

By Raymond Benson

Film historian Jeremy Arnold, who provides the excellent audio commentary as a supplement for the terrific Blu-ray release of Kiss the Blood Off My Hands, says the movie’s title is remarkably “lurid.” The Production Code people obviously had a problem with the title and tried to get it changed, but an appeal from up and coming star Burt Lancaster, whose newly formed production company (co-founded with Harold Hecht) made the picture, resulted in the “lurid” title staying in place.

The film does not live up to the implied sensationalism. While we do get a dark, at times brutal, and cynical piece of film noir, we also get an atypical love story at the picture’s heart.

Kiss the Blood Off My Hands, from 1948, is based on a novel by Gerald Butler, and was adapted by Ben Maddow and Walter Bernstein (one of the Hollywood Ten). The screenplay is by Leonardo Bercovici, with Hugh Gray credited as providing additional dialogue. The director, Norman Foster, had been an actor throughout the 1930s. He helmed a slew of Mr. Moto movies starring Peter Lorre, some of the Charlie Chan pictures, and several films noir in the 40s and early 50s. Foster brings a good deal of style to the proceedings with the help of cinematographer Russell Metty. It’s an impressive little picture.

The movie contains many of the signature traits associated with film noir—black and white high contrast photography, many scenes at night and/or with rain, a cynical protagonist, violence, crimes, excessive smoking and drinking, locations in seedy pubs and flats, and an urban setting. What makes Kiss the Blood unique is that it’s an American film noir production set in London (but it wasn’t filmed there aside from some second unit shots).

Bill Saunders (Lancaster) is a Canadian World War II veteran bumming around in London. He has no desire to return home, but he is lost and aimless in the UK. He also has a devil of a temper and is quick to start a fight if someone so much as looks at him funny. Heaven help you if you say something he doesn’t like—he might kill you. Which is what happens in a pub when the owner tries to kick him out so the place can close. It’s an accident, but Bill knows the police won’t take kindly to the incident. He manages to run away, but a witness, Harry Carter (played by slimy, weaselly Robert Newton) takes note. Bill hides from the police in the first open window he can slip into, and it happens to be the flat of nurse Jane Wharton (Joan Fontaine, who receives top billing). At first, of course, Jane is frightened by Bill, but he manages to ease her fear. Despite his tendency to fly off the handle, Jane falls in love with Bill, and he’s head over heels for her at first sight. Too bad he gets into a scuffle with a copper and lands in prison (a sentence that includes a vicious lashing with cat o’ nine tails). Jane waits for him, though, and once he’s out she gets him a job as a delivery driver transporting drugs. That’s when Harry steps in to blackmail Bill unless the former con will help him pull off a robbery.

What happens next would spoil the fun. Kiss the Blood is an engaging small picture with fine performances. One can see that Lancaster is still green and tends to overact, but his passion is tangible. Fontaine is always lovely and handles her role with grace and honesty. Newton, always perfect as a Cockney baddie, is suitably over the top.

There is one oopsy, though. The lorry that Bill drives during the second half of the movie is an American vehicle—the steering wheel is on the left side of the dashboard. In England, that wheel would have been on the right!

Kino Lorber’s new high definition restoration looks remarkably good. The images are clear and sharp, with the right amount of soft focus in certain scenes. The aforementioned audio commentary by Jeremy Arnold is informative and entertaining. Sadly, the only other supplements are trailers for this and other Kino Lorber releases.

Kiss the Blood Off My Hands may not sound like a date movie, but the romance noir elements of the picture are surprisingly potent. So, grab your spouse, significant other, or someone you pick up in a seedy pub and settle in for a romantically brutal experience!

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“BOB HOPE’S 10 GALLON HATS”

By Raymond Benson

Sometimes a little Bob Hope goes a long way. There’s no denying that Hope was one of the more popular comic stars of the 1940s and 50s. His star began to wane in the 60s, and then most of the Baby Boomer generation knew him as perhaps the greatest host that the Academy Awards ceremony ever had.

During Hope’s most active years, he made many solo pictures that were truly funny. He was also established as Bing Crosby’s partner in the massively successful “Road to…” movies, which arguably launched Hope’s career as a leading or co-leading man in 1940. When the scripts and direction were good, then Hope’s solo films were superb. That was not always the case.

The Paleface (1948) was co-written by Frank Tashlin (with Edmund Hartmann), who would also go on to write and direct the sequel, Son of Paleface (1952, co-written with Joseph Quillan and Robert L. Welch. Tashlin spent many years making cartoons, hopping in and out of big studios such as Warner Brothers’ Looney Tunes/Merrie Melodies unit (Tashlin made Porky Pig and other characters’ shorts), Disney Studios, and other indie animation companies. His approach to directing live action shockingly mimicked his methodology for zany cartoons. Much of Son of Paleface contains the kind of sledgehammer action, albeit accomplished with visual effects, and slapstick that is more at home with a character like Daffy Duck.

Both movies are western comedies and are among Hope’s more profitable pictures. He is often costumed in ten-gallon hats that no self-respecting cowboy would wear. For this reviewer’s money, the first title is the better of the two. It is at least grounded in some degree of reality, whereas the second film is all-out wackiness. Both movies co-star Jane Russell, who adds not only glamour to the proceedings, but also a straight-woman sensibility off of whom Hope plays quite well. It is this reviewer’s opinion that Jane Russell was underrated as a comic actress and singer/dancer.

In The Paleface, Hope is “Painless Potter,” a dentist in the Old West who is mistaken to be a federal agent by smugglers selling guns and explosives to the Indians. Calamity Jane (Russell), an outlaw herself, is hired by the government to identify and help bring down the traitors. She eventually uses Potter as cover, allowing him to marry her, so that they can travel with a wagon train and weed out the bad guys.

Son of Paleface is a sequel in that it features Hope as Potter’s grown son, “Junior” Potter, many years later—it’s still the Old West, but the modern age is just around the corner. Junior drives a jalopy (that’s actually years ahead of the time depicted in the movie). This time, Russell plays a saloon chorus girl named “Mike,” who is the civilian identity of a gold thief called “The Torch.” The Torch leads a gang of outlaws who are pursued by “Roy” (the inimitable Roy Rogers, who co-stars with his horse, Trigger—“the smartest horse in the movies,” as he is billed in the credits). Junior has come to town to find and collect his father’s stash of gold, only to find that his dad owed money to everyone. Mike uses Junior as cover, but Roy soon becomes wise to her and sets out to foil Mike, her band of robbers, and Junior, who is unwittingly caught in the middle.

The Paleface is funny and enjoyable, if embarrassingly sexist and politically incorrect by today’s standards (its treatment of Native Americans makes one want face-palm and shake a head). The director, Norman Z. McLeod, had been making comedies since the silent days, and he had helmed two of the Marx Brothers’ best titles, Monkey Business (1931) and Horse Feathers (1932). Hope has some great bits, and he also delivers the Academy Award-winning Best Song of that year, “Buttons and Bows” (by Jay Livingston and Ray Evans). The movie is decent entertainment, but there’s no question that it’s dumb.

“EXTREME FIELDS”

By Raymond Benson

If you’ve never seen what is essentially the last starring film appearance by W. C. Fields, Never Give a Sucker an Even Break (1941), then you’re missing the most extreme, surreal, and ridiculous motion picture featuring the boozy misanthropic comedian ever made.

Fields (William Claude Dukenfield) brought his vaudeville schtick to life in his films made in the 1920s and 30s and he enjoyed immense popularity until alcoholism derailed his career. He was indeed a talented man, however, and there are true comic classics among his filmography. He was often responsible for writing the initial storylines to his movies, and he used silly pseudonyms in the screen credits, such as Mahatma Kane Jeeves (“My hat, my cane, Jeeves!”) or, in the case of Never Give a Sucker, Otis Criblecoblis.

Even after the success of The Bank Dick (1940, one of Fields’ best films), Universal Studios was tiring of the actor’s antics and problems with drink. His storyline for Never Give a Sucker was roundly rejected as being too weird and absurd, and yet when the picture was nevertheless greenlit, Fields and his director, Edward Cline, used the material anyway.

The result is truly a bizarre and jaw-dropping piece of work that defies most screen comedies of the day. The film takes place on the fictional studio lot of “Esoteric Pictures,” where many known actors and comics play “themselves.” Fields is himself (called “Uncle Bill” by his niece, Gloria Jean, a teenage actress/crooner at the time who also plays herself), character actor Franklin Pangborn is a producer at the studio, Leon Errol is also a comic employed there, and so on. Fields presents his new picture idea to Pangborn, and then a series of vignettes illustrate the scenes of the movie in full costume and sets. These include when Fields falls out of an airplane window (it’s open during the flight!) and lands atop a mountain where fantasy women Ouliotta Delight Hemagloben (Susan Miller) and her mother (the inimitable Margaret Dumont!) have never seen men before. Fields sets out to marry Mrs. Hemagloben because he’s learned that she’s wealthy. After a succession of other wacky set pieces, Pangborn has had enough and fires Fields from the studio—but he is saved by his niece, who, as the studio’s hottest star, threatens to leave if her uncle is sacked. The climax is a hair-raising car chase through Los Angeles with Fields at the wheel, which can only mean trouble.

Never Give a Sucker an Even Break is cited on various W. C. Fields fan pages as one of the actor’s best movies. However, it is a mixed bag. There are comic bits that work beautifully and are extremely funny, to be sure, but there are others that are simply so dumb that one winces at how bad they are. One extended sequence without Fields involves Gloria Jean having to sing a number for producer Pangborn in the carpentry shop while workers are noisily attempting to build a set. This bit goes on way too long and ceases to be funny after the first “Shuuuttt upppp!” from Pangborn. Any of the scenes that required visual effects, such as Fields falling through the sky and bouncing repeatedly on a bed atop the Hemagloben’s “nest,” emphasizes the stupidity of the situation. And yet, there are moments that produce belly laughs. As usual, Fields’ delivery of lines are always the best parts of one of the actor’s pictures. While discussing games with one of his female costars, “beanbag” comes up. “Ah, yes, beanbag,” Fields says in his drawl, “exciting game. I once saw the world championship in Paris. Many people were killed.” Or the classic, “I was in love with a beautiful blonde once, dear. She drove me to drink. That’s the one thing I’m indebted to her for.”

Kino Lorber’s new high definition restoration looks quite good and comes with an audio commentary by film historian Eddy Von Mueller and English subtitles for the hearing impaired. A nearly-hour-long television documentary from the 1960s, Wayne and Shuster Take an Affectionate Look at W. C. Fields, provides some background and a decent overview of Fields’ career. There is also the theatrical trailer for this and other Kino Lorber releases.

If you’re a fan of W. C. Fields, then Never Give a Sucker an Even Break is a must-have. Others may want to start with more conventional Fields titles such as It’s a Gift or The Bank Dick before moving on to this near-psychedelic curiosity.

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“SEX, SAND, AND SECRETS”

By Raymond Benson

The attitudes toward sex in the U.S. in the 1950s were pent-up and frustrated, and they sat in a tinderbox. This is reflected in the cinema of the time, often overtly in noir and crime dramas, or in melodramas such as Rebel Without a Cause.

Here we have a 1955 melodrama/crime picture starring the inimitable Joan Crawford, who, in her 50s herself, still looks smashing and has no qualms against displaying in short-shorts the magnificent dancer legs she was known for throughout her career. It’s quite possible that Crawford took on this role to say to the world, “Hey, I’m still desirable, just watch me.” There is that brazen exhibitionist quality in her performance, and it suits the steamy, somewhat sordid storyline of Female on the Beach.

Crawford is Lynn Markham, a widow who visits a beach house somewhere (Florida? California?—it isn’t clear) that her deceased husband had owned and was renting to a wealthy woman named Eloise Crandell (Judith Evelyn). Lynn, who has never been to the house before, is considering selling it, so she has arranged for Crandell to move out prior to Lynn’s arrival. Little does Lynn know, but Crandell was involved in a hot love affair with beach bum and boater Drummond Hall (Jeff Chandler), and things went terribly wrong. The night before Lynn’s arrival, a drunken Crandell fell from her terrace and was killed on the sandy rocks below the house. Was Hall responsible? We don’t know. Realtor Amy Rawlinson (Jan Sterling) seems to be protecting Hall and has lied about the house, Hall’s relationship with Crandell, and the goings-on around the beach community. Oddly, Hall resides either on his boat, which is docked at the Markham peer, or with the Sorensens (Cecil Kellaway and Natalie Schafer), the elderly couple who live in the next house over and who apparently like to bilk wealthy widows with rigged card games. Despite the numerous red flags that Lynn receives, including a revealing diary left behind by Crandell and warnings from police lieutenant Galley (Charles Drake), Lynn also begins a torrid love affair with the handsome and hunky Hall… uh oh!

Joseph Pevney directs the tale from Robert Hill and Richard Alan Simmons’ screenplay with earnest passion, punctuated by a plaintive musical score (the composer is uncredited). The actors give it their all, and Crawford and Chandler have the sufficient chemistry to pull it off.

The problem with Female on the Beach is the believability of Lynn’s actions. It’s obvious that Hall is trouble from the get-go. He even arrogantly puts the moves on her against her wishes (the #MeToo movement would have had a field day with this picture if it had existed in the 1950s), and apparently “No” didn’t mean “No” in those days. After near-violent resistance on Lynn’s part, she of course succumbs to Hall’s aggressive advances and, well, enjoys it. Okay, if you say so. Additionally, once the “mystery” is resolved regarding whether Crandell died by accident, suicide, or murder, there is very little surprise attached.

Still, Female on the Beach is an entertaining potboiler that shines a light on the social mores of the day. Kino Lorber’s high definition restoration looks remarkably good in its sharp and clear widescreen black and white, with optional English subtitles for the hearing impaired. The film comes with two audio commentaries—one by the always interesting film historian Kat Ellinger, and one by film historian David Del Valle and moderated by filmmaker David DeCoteau. Supplements include an animated image gallery of promotional material, plus the theatrical trailer for this and other Kino Lorber releases.

So, get out your cocktails, turn out the lights, and snuggle up for some high temperature action and romance with Joan Crawford and Jeff Chandler; just be sure to take a few spoonfuls of suspension of disbelief.

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“THE PATTY-CAKE CHRONICLES, PART TWO”

By Raymond Benson

The Bing Crosby and Bob Hope “Road to…” series began in 1940 with Road to Singapore (click here for review), a landmark musical-comedy that teamed the dueling popular radio personalities for the silver screen.

Road to Zanzibar continues the successful formula begun in Singapore. Two playboys (Crosby and Hope, whose character names change with each movie, although their “characters” are always the same) find themselves traveling to some exotic locale in order to either escape a woman, gangsters, or pursue some con job, only to get mixed up in a farcical plot with an equally exotic woman (always Lamour). There are a few songs performed by both men or solo or with Lamour, comic hijinks (especially from Hope), and even some action and adventure. A running gag throughout the series was a bit that Crosby and Hope did—playing “Patty-Cake, Patty-Cake,” reciting the verse and slapping their hands in front of adversaries as a distraction—and then surprising the bad guys with sudden punches, thereby starting a fight and the means to escape.

In this popular sequel, Crosby is “Chuck” and Hope is “Hubert” aka “Fearless Frazier.” They work in circus sideshows with Crosby conning the populace regarding Fearless’ abilities as, first, a human cannonball, which results in a mishap that sets the entire circus ablaze. They try again at other circuses with different acts, until one day an eccentric diamond mine baron (Eric Blore) sells Chuck the deed to one of his African properties. It turns out it’s a fake, of course, so Hubert pawns the deed off to someone else, who insists—with threatened violence—that the duo lead them to the mine. The boys escape and hastily board a boat bound for Africa (it had to happen, right?). There, they are hoodwinked by Julia (Una Merkel) to help her save her roommate Donna (Lamour) from “slave traders,” when in fact it’s a con between Julia, Donna, and the slave traders to split the proceeds, repeatedly, from unsuspecting buyers. This leads to a safari across Africa with Chuck, Hubert, Donna, and Julia on the way to fame and fortune, when, in reality, the purpose is to reunite Donna with a man to whom she’s engaged. Of course, Chuck and Donna fall in love, Hubert at one point believes it’s he that she’s fallen for, and there is a threesome, and sometimes a little foursome, romantic entanglement. The climactic sequence involves the boys being separated by the safari and captured by hostile, Tarzan-style natives, who plan to first pit Hubert/Fearless against a gorilla (an actor in a suit) to prove the boys are gods; failing that, the boys will be eaten by the tribe.

Each “Road” picture is something of a spoof of a specific Hollywood genre. In this case, Zanzibar is a parody of the types of jungle safari movies like Stanley and Livingstone and Tarzan titles. Every cliché in the book is thrown in and lampooned.

Like Road to Singapore before it, Road to Zanzibar is total nonsense with some musical number decoration. As it was made in 1941, Hollywood was still in the era when African-Americans were underused in productions. They only got work playing maids, butlers, porters, and… African natives. Looking at the film today, the final sequence produces some wince-inducing moments, but at least Crosby and Hope don’t darken their skin to disguise themselves as they did in Singapore.

There are funny moments, to be sure, and Hope especially was then proving to audiences that he was a superb talent. Arguably, the “Road” pictures would not have been as successful without his presence.

Kino Lorber’s new Blu-ray looks quite good and comes with English subtitles for the hearing impaired. Two previously issued supplements accompany the film: a short documentary on Hope and the Road pictures, with appearances by Phyllis Diller, Randall G. Mielke (author of The Road to Success), and Richard Grudens (author of The Spirit of Bob Hope)—this same extra is also included on the Road to Singapore disk, and a 1944 featurette on Hope on “Command Performance,” a short that went out to the troops to accompany movie screenings. The theatrical trailer to this and other Kino Lorber titles round out the package.

For fans of Hope and Crosby and of a golden era of Hollywood that had a long way to go before becoming “woke,” Road to Zanzibar has its cinema history charm.

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“TECHNICOLOR SABERS”

By Raymond Benson

Was this really a movie sub-genre? Colorful “Middle Eastern” action-comedy-adventures loosely derived from The Book of One Thousand and One Nights? Full of harem girls, saber-wielding swashbucklers, epic set pieces with beautifully designed sets and “Arabian” costumes, camels and horses and tigers, and… comedians?

The answer is, ahem, yes. During the war years of the early 1940s, Universal Pictures made several of these “exotic adventure” pictures that capitalized on the success of Britain’s Thief of Bagdad (1940). Hollywood quickly got into this act, but like the Bing Crosby and Bob Hope “Road to…” pictures, these movies set in the world of ancient Arabia were filmed on sound stages in southern California… and it shows.

The films were hugely popular at the time, but they have not aged well. We shall examine two of the more successful entries of this short-lived movement—Arabian Nights from 1942, and Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves from 1944. Each picture shared some actors and a cinematographer (W. Howard Greene). Nights was nominated for no less than four Academy Awards in the categories of Cinematography and Art Direction (both richly deserved), Sound Recording, and Score (by Frank Skinner). Ali Baba did not chart at awards season, but it is, in truth, the better picture.

The good: These are gloriously produced old Technicolor extravaganzas that show off the artistry and imagination that only Hollywood can concoct. The films are truly gorgeous, and the new high definition restorations bring out the colors with intensity (of the two, Arabian Nights looks the best, but both are visually exquisite). Secondly, the films provide some excellently choreographed action sequences such as battles between Arabs and Mongols. It’s as if the pirate film genre had migrated to the Islamic Golden Age.

But therein lies the bad. These films have almost nothing to do with the real Book of One Thousand and One Nights. They are full of stereotypes and likely blasphemous depictions of Islam. Arabic characters are played by white Hollywood actors with darkened skin makeup. If all that weren’t bad enough, way too much of each movie is played for laughs. Blatantly comic actors are cast in major roles and they stand out like broccoli in a fruit basket. Consider this: Shemp Howard plays “Sinbad” in Arabian Nights, and he acts exactly like… Shemp Howard, complete with New York accent, mugging facial expressions, and squeaky vocalizations when he’s frightened. Loud, sneezy Billy Gilbert also has a sizable role in the picture. Ali Baba is graced with the presence of none other than… Andy Devine in a supporting role as one of the Forty Thieves. Andy Devine as an Arab? He even speaks like Andy Devine in his whiny drawl, “Aw, Ali, you don’t want to marry the princess! A thousand gold coins can get you a girl in the marketplace who’s just as purdy!”

Jon Hall stars in both movies as our hero. In Arabian Nights, he’s Haroun-Al-Raschid, the brother of the caliph. He has the title role in Ali Baba. Sultry Maria Montez is also in both pictures as the love interest. In the first, she is the famous dancer, Scheherazade (although in the credits and promotional materials, this is spelled Sherazade, but the characters pronounce her name the proper way). In Ali Baba, she is Amara, the prince’s daughter. Turkish-Czech actor Turhan Bey also appears in both movies in supporting roles. The popular Indian actor Sabu is a featured performer in Arabian Nights, having emigrated to Hollywood after the success of Thief of Bagdad.

Arabian Nights is the tale of two rival brothers, Haroun and Kamar (Leif Erickson, credited as Leif Erikson), their pursuit of Scheherazade, and their quest to gain power in Arabia.

Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves is the tale of Ali, the true caliph who is in exile because Bagdad is overrun by the Mongols. He wants to reunite with his childhood sweetheart, Amara, run the Mongols out of town, and reclaim the city for the Arabs.

The eye-rolling aspects aside, one must consider the films within the context of when they were made and released. Yes, they’re silly and loads of rubbish, but in their own way they are fun and entertaining. If one can get past Shemp Howard and Andy Devine, one might have a few laughs and appreciate the scenic beauty on display in these admittedly superb presentations.

Both films come with interesting audio commentaries by film historian Phillipa Berry. The theatrical trailers for each title and others from Kino Lorber are on both disks as well.

Arabian Nights and Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, available separately from Kino Lorber, are prime examples of the Exotic Technicolor Adventure movement that Hollywood once pushed. So, grab your magic lamp, rub it a few times, sit back, and watch these vibrant burlesques with your favorite genie.

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“TWINS AND STIRRUPS”

By Raymond Benson

Okay, David Cronenberg has made some creepy-ass movies in his career, but there may not be one as icky as the 1988 Dead Ringers.

Cronenberg’s horror films seem to always deal with the human body in some grotesque fashion, whether it be mutant babies being born outside of the womb (The Brood), heads exploding (Scanners), or a man turning into an insect (The Fly)… and Dead Ringers fits the bill. It is a movie guaranteed to give women nightmares, for it’s about insane gynecologists. Identical twins, in fact. Twin gynecologists with stirrups, strange probing devices, and killer looks. Let that sink in for a moment.

Dead Ringers is somewhat based on a true story about real twin gynecologists, Stewart and Cyril Marcus, who lived and practiced in New York City in the late 60s and early 70s. They became addicted to drugs, went a little nuts, and died more or less together in a posh Manhattan apartment. A 1977 best-selling thriller novel, Twins, by Bari Wood and Jack Geasland, was loosely based on the Marcus boys, and Cronenberg’s movie takes inspiration from that as well as the lives of the real sickos (the screenplay is by Cronenberg and Norman Snider).

Jeremy Irons delivers the performance of a lifetime as the twins, here named Beverly and Elliot Mantle, and the trick photography employed by cinematographer Peter Suschitzky and the visual effects team was state of the art at the time, creating the illusion that Irons is acting with himself, or rather, another person that is his mirror image. Irons not being nominated for the Best Actor Oscar is one of the biggest robberies in Academy Award history, although he did win the honor from both the New York and Chicago Film Critics. Perhaps Academy voters found the film too disturbing.

It is.

The Mantle twins are successful gynecologists who operate a dual practice. Elliot is the more confident ladykiller, so he often sleeps with his patients. Then he, ahem, passes the women on to his brother, Beverly, who is rather shy and less outgoing. Most of the time, they do this without letting the women know what’s happening. Yes, the #MeToo movement would have had a field day with these guys. Enter actress Claire Niveau (Genevieve Bujold), who becomes a patient but is also addicted to various prescription drugs. Both twins have an affair with her, and Beverly begins to share the drugs. This leads to delusions and paranoia, and some of the nightmarish imagery that director Cronenberg presents are enough to send audience members—female and male—to the lavatory. Of course, things don’t go well for the Mantles, and it’s a downhill slide from there into typical Cronenberg tragedy.

Dead Ringers is a brilliant discourse of addiction, chauvinism, and madness, and it is arguably among Cronenberg’s best works. Irons’ performance is a wonder, and the nightmarish effects and psychological attacks on the audience easily elevate the film to a slot on “Greatest Horror Films of All Time.” It’s that good.

Shout Factory’s Blu-ray release is a 2-disk set. The first disk presents the film in the aspect ratio of 1.78:1. It looks sharp, crystal clear, and so hi-def that one might think it’s 4K (it’s not). Oddly, Shout decided to give us another version on the second disk, this time a 2K scan in the aspect ratio of 1.66:1, which, when all is said and done, isn’t much different from the other version. The marketing copy on the package claims this is Cronenberg’s preferred aspect ratio, but there is some discussion among other DVD/Blu-ray reviewers online that questions that statement. To these eyes, the second version looks slightly better, perhaps more in line with the appearance of film.

The first version comes with two audio commentaries: a previously released one with actor Irons, and a new one with William Beard, author of The Artist as Monster: The Cinema of David Cronenberg. The second version has no audio commentaries.

Supplements include new interviews with actor/artist Stephen Lack (who also starred in Scanners); actress Heidi von Palleske, who plays one of the Mantle twins’ conquests; DOP Suschitzky; and special effects artist Gordon Smith. There are also vintage interviews and featurettes (of poorer video quality) from 1988, and the theatrical trailer.

Dead Ringers is highly recommended for horror film fans, Cronenberg enthusiasts, and for devotees of good acting—the picture is worth a viewing for Jeremy Irons alone.

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“WANTED: ANGER MANAGEMENT IN BORDER TOWN”

By Raymond Benson

Sterling Hayden was often cast as the gangster, the hooligan, the nutsy general, the petty criminal with brawn but little brains… and yet here we have him as the hero of a sticky film noir from 1954 as the chief of police of an urban setting (southern California?) who loses his job because of allegations of police brutality. Hayden is perfectly cast, and this is said without sarcasm.

Naked Alibi was directed by Jerry Hopper, who made well over a dozen B-movies in the crime, adventure, western, and melodrama categories in the late 1940s to mid-50s, and then moved smoothly into television and helmed an abundance of television episodes for various long-running series into the 70s. Alibi does play like an extended episode of one of the late 50s TV crime dramas like Naked City, except with more violence, implied sex, and gritty adult themes.

Unfortunately, the picture doesn’t come off well, mainly due to the over-the-top and often histrionic performances of the main cast, and a needless aggression towards women. Poor Gloria Grahame gets slapped around numerous times, and yet she stoically barely flinches through most of the assaults. It’s not pretty.

Chief Joe Conroy (Hayden) has his eye set on pinning some robberies and ultimately a cop-murder on Al Willis (Gene Barry), a seemingly innocent, married-with-child baker who happens to get hot-headed and into fights when he drinks too much—an all too frequent habit. When no physical evidence supports Conroy’s pursuit, the now-ex-chief shadows Willis on his own, following him to “Border Town” in Mexico, where he discovers Willis is not so innocent (much of the movie was shot in Tijuana). Marianna (Grahame) is Willis’ mistress there, and he has fed her a load of bull about marrying her (and withholding the fact that he’s already married). Furthermore, Willis is associating with some criminal types there and has his own gang of cohorts. Conroy sets about wooing Marianna to his side, making several felonies stick to Willis, forcibly moving the hood back to the USA, and arresting him. Things become increasingly dangerous for Conroy and Marianna, and Willis grows progressively more psychotic.

This probably sounded decent on paper, but the execution is serviceable, at best. For one thing, Barry is miscast and spends most of the movie jumping from calmness to out of control at the drop of a hat, and it’s cause for some eye-rolling. Grahame, whom albeit looks hotter than the streets of the border town, seems bored and without energy through much of the picture. Again, the way she simply takes her beatings is another point of unbelievability. As for Hayden, he, too, could have used a stronger hand at direction, for he tends to chew the scenery at times when a little restraint would have been more effective.

Kino Lorber’s new high definition restoration is suitably and overly grainy if one likes one’s film noir in that condition. It comes with English subtitles for the hearing impaired, as well as an audio commentary by film historian Kat Ellinger. The theatrical trailer for this and other Kino Lorber titles complete the presentation.

Naked Alibi is recommended strictly for Sterling Hayden and/or Gloria Grahame fans, and for film noir completists.

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“CARD TRICKS”

By Raymond Benson

This British gem was considered a lost film until a print was somehow discovered a little over ten years ago and re-released in art houses and on home video. The Queen of Spades, from 1949, was one of only nine pictures helmed by Thorold Dickinson, a Norwegian director who worked mostly in the UK but also in Europe and Africa. He was perhaps most known for directing the original British version of Gaslight (1940), which George Cukor and MGM suppressed when they remade it as a Hollywood movie in 1944 (with Ingrid Bergman). There are some who believe Dickinson’s Gaslight is the better of the two.

Dickinson has been re-appraised in recent years by the likes of filmmakers such as Martin Scorsese and Wes Anderson, and by critics with a taste for genuine style and substance in their movies. The Queen of Spades was nominated for a BAFTA award for Best Picture in its year and is now deemed as one of the better atmospheric dramas of the supernatural, fitting nicely beside such psychological fare as The Haunting (1963).

Interestingly, Dickinson was hired as a replacement director mere days before shooting was set to commence. He replaced co-screenwriter Rodney Ackland (who wrote it with Arthur Boys), because apparently there were disagreements between Ackland and the star, Anton Walbrook, and the producer, Anatole de Grunwald (who was also a colorful character in British cinema). Dickinson did a few days of preparation and then showed up on the set on a Monday morning ready to work. The result is quite impressive.

The tale, based on an Alexander Pushkin short story, is set in St. Petersburg, Russia, in the early 1800s. This alone provides the filmmakers with a broad canvas for set design, art direction, and elaborate costumes, which are all gorgeous in glorious black and white (and it’s arguable that the movie would not have worked as well had it been in color).

Captain Herman Suvorin (Walbrook, who had appeared in several Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger productions), is a haughty, ambitious man who desires the “secret” to winning a fortune at a popular card game called “Faro.” He learns from a creepy bookseller that the aging and wealthy Countess Ranevskaya (Dame Edith Evans, in her first film role at the age of sixty!) had “sold her soul to the devil” many years ago when she learned this secret. Herman sets out to get to the countess and extract the knowledge from the old woman by any means possible, the easiest being to seduce the countess’ innocent and beautiful ward, Lizavetta (Yvonne Mitchell), and infiltrating the spooky palace through her. Meanwhile, Lizavetta is being wooed by Herman’s friend, Andrei (Ronald Howard), who is buddies with the countess’ grandson, Fyodor (a young Anthony Dawson, whom cinema fans will recognize from Dial M for Murder and Dr. No). Conflict arises between Herman and Andrei, but things really get sinister and ghostly once the captain eventually confronts the countess.

Kino Lorber’s new Blu-ray restoration shows off Otto Heller’s dreamy cinematography, and the film comes with an audio commentary by film critic Nick Pinkerton, as well as English subtitles for the hearing impaired. Supplements include a short video introduction by Martin Scorsese; a rather dry video analysis by film critic/author Philip Horne; a 1951 audio interview with Dickinson at the British Federation of Film Societies; and a 1968 audio introduction to a screening of the film by Dickinson in front of an audience. The theatrical trailer for this and other Kino Lorber releases complete the package.

The Queen of Spaces is a fascinating and moody piece of work, certainly for fans of British cinema, period drama, and things that go bump in the night.

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“NEXT STOP… HIJACK!”

By Raymond Benson

There were many motion pictures made in the 1960s, 70s, and 80s that depict New York City as a less than desirable place to be. A hell on earth full of crime, grime, sin, debauchery, drugs, gangs, and corruption. You know the titles—The Out of Towners, Midnight Cowboy, Joe, Taxi Driver…

While the portrayal may very well have been true, to a certain extent, this reviewer lived in Manhattan over a decade during the relevant years and found it to be the most exciting, vibrant, culturally potent, and beautifully stimulating environment. Not only that, the #6 IRT train (the “Pelham 1:23,” hence the title) is one this reviewer rode almost daily, so the stops, the milieu, and the atmosphere were dead-on familiarities. As some of us like to say today in the age when 42nd Street and Times Square have been “Disney-ized,” we miss the old days when New York had “character,” and we’re not talking about Elmos and Iron Men hawking photos with tourists.

One must add to the above list of New York films the marvelous thriller, The Taking of Pelham One Two Three, from 1974. Director Joseph Sargent delivered a gritty and accurate nail-biter that displayed Manhattan in its visceral authenticity, especially regarding the underground subway system, where most of the movie takes place. New York’s Transit Authority (MTA) cooperated with the filmmakers, however there is a disclaimer that they didn’t advise or take part in the story details or provide information on how the trains worked. The one condition the MTA made to allow filming in the subway was that no graffiti could be seen in the movie. At the time, graffiti was everywhere, and subway trains and stations were primary targets for the artists. Throughout the 70s and 80s, the MTA was at war with graffiti artists—it was a never-ending battle to keep the cars clean. Thus, the unmarked subway cars seen in the film are the only thing about it that could be called unrealistic.

Pelham is terrific. One unexpected element that makes it so good is the humor exhibited in the dialogue and by the superb performances of the actors, especially those playing the Transit Police and the MTA employees. The likes of Walter Matthau, Dick O’Neill, Jerry Stiller, and Tom Pedi keep the proceedings lively and entertaining.

Four armed men (Robert Shaw, Martin Balsam, Hector Elizondo, and Earl Hindman) in similar disguises (hats, overcoats, mustaches) board the #6 Downtown train, each using the pseudonym of a color (Mr. Green, Mr. Blue, etc.—nearly twenty years before Reservoir Dogs, and it is acknowledged by Quentin Tarantino that Pelham was an influence). At around 28th Street, they hijack the train, separate the front car from the rest, and park it between stations in the dark of the tunnel. They hold seventeen passengers and a conductor hostage and demand $1 million in cash from the city within one hour. Lt. Garber (Matthau) of the transit police oversees the negotiations and getting things moving. A mayor downtrodden with the flu (Lee Wallace, who uncannily resembles future New York mayor Ed Koch, although Koch was not mayor at the time the picture was made) must approve the payout, the bank must gather the dough, and the police need to deliver the bundle to the hijackers on time before they start executing hostages.

It’s the perfect example of a “ticking clock” thriller, and director Sargent, screenwriter Peter Stone (adapting from John Godey’s novel), and the actors pull it off with finesse. Another major component to the film’s success is the funky, brassy score by David Shire.

Kino Lorber’s Blu-ray restoration looks and sounds great, and it comes with an audio commentary by actor/filmmaker Pat Healy and film programmer/historian Jim Healy. Supplements include a recent interview with actor Elizondo, who provides several amusing stories about the making of the film and the other actors involved; a recent interview with composer Shire; and one with editor Jerry Greenberg. A “Trailers from Hell” episode with Josh Olson, an animated montage of stills and posters, and the original theatrical trailer round out the package.

In short, The Taking of Pelham One Two Three is a seminal “New York Movie,” a quintessential “1970s picture,” and one of the better thrillers ever made. Note: It was remade in 1998 as a TV movie and in 2009 as a theatrical film, but neither of these comes close to the power and ingenuity of the original.

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“THE LIVES OF WOMEN”

By Raymond Benson

The Group, the 1966 film directed by Sidney Lumet, is based on Mary McCarthy’s 1963 best-selling novel that broke ground by presenting the extraordinary notion that young women graduating from college in the 1930s had liberating thoughts in their heads regarding politics, independence, sex, marriage, career, and motherhood (SARCASM). In all seriousness, the novel did push the envelope, given the time it was published. It challenged the notion of the All-American Girl’s only role in society was to get married, have children, and serve her husband.

The film, which was adapted for the screen and produced by Sidney Buchman, is a reasonably faithful rendition of the novel, and, seeing that it was released in that nebulous in-between period between the demise of the Hollywood Production Code and the institution of the Movie Rating System in America, it is frank and revealing—but perhaps not enough.

What is most fascinating about the picture today are the performances by the eight leading ladies, most of whom were just arriving on the scene and would go on to bigger and better things. For example, The Group is Candice Bergen’s first screen appearance.

The time is 1933 at a fictional women’s college in New England (in the novel it is explicitly Vassar). Eight women who are close friends refer to themselves as “the Group”—there is Lakey (Bergen), the most beautiful and popular one; Dottie (Joan Hackett), the seemingly sensible one who makes some rash choices; Priss (Elizabeth Hartman), politically liberal but too submissive when contested; Polly (Shirley Knight), perhaps the most independent of the bunch; Kay (Joanna Pettet), the most materialistic and the most victimized; Pokey (Mary-Robin Redd), who we don’t get to know as well as the others; Libby (Jessica Walter), who is the most ambitious and competitive; and Helena (Kathleen Widdoes), who is perhaps the smartest one. The story follows the eight women’s lives after graduation over the rest of the decade to the beginning of World War II, mostly in and around New York City, as they date, get jobs, fall in love (or not), marry, and have children (some successfully, others not so).

Aside from a couple of exceptions, the men in their lives are portrayed as selfish, abusive, and cruel. They are played by the likes of Larry Hagman, Richard Mulligan, Hal Holbrook, James Broderick, and James Congdon. We also slightly get to know some of the girls’ parents (one father, played by Robert Emhardt, deemed as having a mental illness, insists on moving in with his daughter) and other friends.

While there is some attempt to give each of the eight ladies their “story,” the movie focuses mostly on Kay (Pettit), whose emotional range is expertly displayed throughout as she works to support her caddy, cheating husband; and Polly (Knight), who approaches her love affairs with an arm’s length attitude and is too attached to her father. On the second tier of screen time are Libby (Walter), Dottie (Hackett), and Priss (Hartman), all of whom deliver fine performances along with Pettet and Knight. Bergen’s character disappears after the first ten minutes, goes to Europe, and doesn’t return until the last act of the movie.

Sidney Lumet’s direction is assured as he moves the complicated and many-faceted storylines along—and yet the picture is too long (at 2-1/2 hours). A lot is packed into it, though, and something like this might have worked better as a three-part television mini-series. (In a way, it is Sex and the City for eight women instead of three, and in quite a different decade from that HBO show.)

Most notable about the movie is its dealing with topics not normally discussed on screen in 1966, the year it was released—birth control, mental illness, adultery, free love, liberal politics (in the 1930s, Left was LEFT!), and even lesbianism.

Kino Lorber’s new Blu-ray restoration looks quite good and comes with English subtitles for the hearing impaired. Unfortunately, there are no supplements other than the theatrical trailers for this and other Kino Lorber releases.

The Group is an interesting time capsule of a specific time in cinema history that shines a light on a particular era in American history that, in turn, examines a distinctive social class of gender-exclusive characters.

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“A MATTER OF MISCOMMUNICATION”

By Raymond Benson

The late Carl Reiner received top billing in this magnificent comedy that was released in the middle of the 1960s, when relations between the United States and the Soviet Union were tentative at best. Détente was at play, but there wasn’t much trust between the two countries. Two years after Kubrick’s Cold War black comedy, Dr. Strangelove, Norman Jewison tried his hand at a picture with a similar theme, only it was one that was much lighter in tone.

Reiner shares the movie with Alan Arkin, who made his feature film debut with his portrayal of a Russian submarine political officer, along with a marvelous supporting cast of character actors who all have comedic turns. Penned by Oscar-nominated William Rose (who had written or co-written The Ladykillers and It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World, and would win the Oscar the following year for Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner), The Russians are Coming, the Russians are Coming focuses on the conflict between a group of misplaced Soviet submariners and the panicky townsfolk of a New England island off the coast of Massachusetts after the summer tourists have left. What it’s really about, though, is communication, or rather, the lack of it, and how a series of incidents that are lost in translation might lead to misunderstandings. Director Jewison delivers that message to the audience wrapped neatly in a barrel of laughs.

Reiner is Walt Whittaker, a playwright who has spent the summer on the island with his wife (Eva Marie Saint) and two children, and the family is ready to depart. His rented house on the coast happens to be near where the Russians’ submarine accidentally runs aground. The captain (Theodore Bikel) sends Lt. Rozanov (Arkin), officer Alexei Kolchin (John Phillip Law), and seven other men to go find a boat, commandeer it, and bring it back so they can tow the sub away from the island. Things begin promisingly, and then all hell breaks loose as one mishap after another foils the Russians’ scheme. Police Chief Mattocks (Brian Keith), his deputy Norman Jonas (Jonathan Winters), and, ultimately, war veteran and head of the citizens militia, Hawkins (Paul Ford), receive conflicting reports of the “invasion” and set about investigating it in their own misguided ways (although Mattocks is indeed the sensible one). Throw in a sudden romantic attraction between Alexei and the Whittaker’s babysitter, Alison (Andrea Dromm), the antics of phone operator Alice (the splendid Tessie O’Shea), and a drunk “Paul Revere” who spends the entire film trying to catch his horse (Ben Blue), and you’ve got a recipe for a comedy classic. The climax, however, is surprisingly suspenseful when the Russians and Americans finally reach a standoff at the harbor—until an unrelated crisis occurs that shakes everyone out of the mob mentality.

The straight man role was something Carl Reiner could do well; he always brought a heightened intensity to his parts that was simultaneously boisterous and believable, and yet amusing, too. Arkin, whose dialogue is 85% authentic Russian throughout the picture, immediately proved to the world what an amazing actor he is (he received an Oscar nomination for his performance and won a Golden Globe). Winters and Ford both provide much of the insane humor. O’Shea is hilarious, especially in the scene in which she and Reiner are gagged and tied together and attempt to escape. Law, a newcomer at the time, is a striking and likeable presence, and he masters the Russian language and the accented English with aplomb.

It’s all great stuff, punctuated by Johnny Mandel’s score of American patriotic music mixed with Russian folk songs. Along with Arkin’s nomination, The Russians are Coming… was also nominated for Best Picture, Best Adapted Screenplay (Rose), and Best Editing (Hal Ashby was co-editor).

Kino Lorber’s high definition restoration looks good enough, despite some washing out of color in some places, as well as blemishes and artifacts that can be seen in some of the images. The only supplements are an informative and entertaining “making of” featurette with an interview with Jewison, and the theatrical trailer.

In short, The Russians are Coming, The Russians are Coming is grand fun, and it’s a fitting showcase for the late, great Carl Reiner.

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“A GORGEOUS NICE MESS”

By Raymond Benson and Doug Gerbino

Nobody wants the legacy of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy to disappear. Young people may have heard of the comic duo, but few have seen them these days. This is understandably disturbing to cinephiles or those of us of an older generation who have admired since childhood the genius on display when the pair performed in front of the camera. While RHI Entertainment issued a fabulous DVD set in 2011 (10 disks in the U.S.) that contained most of Laurel and Hardy’s output for Hal Roach after sound kicked in, a new Blu-ray treasure chest has just been released by MVDvisual that contains stunning restorations in high definition of a respectable number of titles.

Laurel and Hardy—The Definitive Restorations could be a holy grail for members of Sons of the Desert, the International Laurel and Hardy Society that is devoted to keeping the lives and works of Stan and Ollie before the public “and have a good time doing it.” It is also a must for anyone who has even a passing interest in the history of film comedy or film in general.

The four-disk set contains two of the duo’s most revered feature films—Sons of the Desert (1933) and Way Out West (1937) along with seventeen classic shorts released between 1927 and 1933. Two of the shorts, Berth Marks (1929) and Brats (1930) are presented twice, each with two different soundtracks—one with the original Vitaphone track and the other with the re-issued 1936 version.

Sons of the Desert might be the definitive Laurel and Hardy movie. In it, both boys must deceive their suspicious wives about attending the Shriners-like “Sons of the Desert” convention in Chicago. Of course, one lie turns into a hundred and they keep digging their holes deeper. Way Out West is a western, naturally, with the boys attempting to deliver a gold mine deed to the rightful owner, only to be hoodwinked by the villains. The picture contains the celebrated dance routine Stan and Ollie performs while the Avalon Boys sing “At the Ball, That’s All.”

All of the shorts are marvelous. The Oscar-winning The Music Box (1932) is there, plus favorites such as the two with different soundtracks, and Hog Wild (1930), Come Clean (1931), County Hospital (1932), and Busy Bodies (1933). But the shining star of the set is the long “lost” but recently found silent gem, The Battle of the Century (1927), which contains the pie fight to end all pie fights. This is a seminal work in the Laurel and Hardy canon, and it had seemed that since 1957 only three minutes of footage of the approximately twenty-minute film was thought to exist. In 1980, Leonard Maltin found the bulk of reel one in the archive of the Museum of Modern Art (what, they didn’t know they had it?). In 2015, film historian John Mirsalis discovered the complete reel two. There are still two to three minutes missing—the new set makes up for it by including stills and intertitles—but with The Definitive Restorations we now have an almost complete version on home video. The film comes with a new music track by Donald Sosin. Look for a young Lou Costello as an extra in the crowd ringside during the early boxing match sequence! In short, the inclusion of The Battle of the Century is worth the price of admission.

The restorations by Jeff Joseph/SabuCat in conjunction with the UCLA Film and Television Archive and Library of Congress are simply beautiful. The contributions by film historians, archivists, and Laurel and Hardy scholars Randy Skretvedt and Richard W. Bann can’t be understated. Bann commented to the reviewers, “I saved the nitrate film from being disposed of and gave it to UCLA. We did our own commercial restoration and preservation for the Eastern hemisphere (though 35mm fine grains were provided at cost to the Western Hemisphere copyright proprietor, which generated what you see on TCM and in the Essential Laurel and Hardy DVD box set). Once I steered the nitrate to UCLA, Jeff Joseph donated money and oversaw the institutional restoration and preservation, as well as the digital upgrade, something we did not do for Munich originally, owing to time and cost considerations, as well as because the technology was less advanced during the 1985-2002 period. I supplied the still photos for the extras, except for those which came from Oliver Hardy’s collection. I consulted on the matter of rights clearances. I loaned studio documents, pressbooks, etc., to be scanned for inclusion with the extras, and I loaned the Kodachrome print of The Tree in a Test Tube.”

The nearly nine hours of supplements are just as spectacular as the films themselves. Skretvedt and Bann share the commentary duties (Bann is on The Battle of the Century and The Music Box, while Skretvedt does the rest). The combined knowledge of these two film aficionados about the history of Laurel and Hardy and Hal Roach Studios makes the set a must-have for devotees of the boys. In addition, there are 2,500 rare photos, posters, and studio files; film and audio interviews with many of the duo’s co-workers and Sons of the Desert society attendants of the 60s; a 50s-era interview with Hardy aboard the ship sailing from England during the period depicted in the recent biopic, Stan and Ollie (and it’s amazing how much the aging Hardy resembles the made-up John C. Reilly!); a restoration from 16mm Kodachrome of the rare 1942 color short produced by the U.S. Department of Agriculture, The Tree in a Test Tube; and trailers. The interviews, mostly conducted by Skretvedt in the early 1980s, are of varying audio and visual quality. Unfortunately, when asked what the chances are of locating a print of the ultra-rare lost 1927 silent film, Hat’s Off, Bann answered, “In the words of Oliver Hardy, ‘Null and void!’ We will cover all bets for finding Hat’s Off giving 100 to 1 odds.”

This isn’t just “another nice mess” they’ve got you into, it’s a gorgeous nice mess. Laurel and Hardy—the Definitive Restorations is highly and most enthusiastically recommended.

For information about the Sons of the Desert, visit www.sonsofthedesertinfo.com. The society was founded in 1965 by John McCabe, who wrote the first true biography of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy in 1961. McCabe wanted to start an organization dedicated to the love of the duo along the lines of The Baker Street Irregulars (honoring Sherlock Holmes). McCabe had Laurel’s blessing, as long as no one referred to the society as a “fan club.” “Fan” is short for “fanatic,” and he didn’t want that. The society has been going strong with worldwide chapters—called “tents”—ever since.

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“ANOTHER CLASSIC HOLLYWOOD PROBLEM FILM?”

By Raymond Benson

Recently there was hue and cry about the new streaming service HBO Max and their decision to remove the 1939 Oscar-winning classic Gone with the Wind from their lineup because of its no-question-about-it racial stereotypes. While the intention might be admirable, there is also the danger of destroying a part of cultural history that should be studied and learned from, rather than rendering it invisible. Besides, viewers have a choice to watch a movie, unlike, say, gazing at a statue on public display that is there for all to see no matter what.

Another Hollywood classic from the same era that certainly falls into identical “problem” areas is William Wyler’s Jezebel, which earned Bette Davis her second Oscar, awarded supporting actress Fay Bainter a trophy, and was nominated for Best Picture of 1938. It, too, is set in the antebellum south (New Orleans, to be exact) a few years prior to the Civil War.

What makes Jezebel a shockingly potent film for today is that a) its protagonist, Julie Marsden (Davis) is the type of white-privileged, spoiled, and arrogant young woman who would be called a “Karen” on today’s social media for causing a scene in public; b) the obvious racial inequalities, which are inevitable when dealing with stories of the time; and c) the pandemic of yellow fever—“Yellow Jack”—is a rampant plot point, and we see many characters wearing masks!

Jezebel was rushed into production by Warner Brothers due to the huge success of the publication of Gone with the Wind and the furor over MGM’s preparations of adapting it into a film. Bette Davis was offered the lead role in Jezebel after it was clear that she wasn’t going to be cast as Scarlett O’Hara in Wind. Thus, Jezebel capitalized on the interest in Wind and was released 21 months earlier!

The story in a nutshell: Julie is staying at the plantation of her Aunt Belle (Bainter) to escape the yellow fever epidemic that has hit where she lives. She has her eyes set on banker Preston Dillard (Henry Fonda), but she has no qualms with leading on the more rakish Buck Cantrell (George Brent). After Julie causes a scandal by wearing a red dress at a ball in which all virginal, unmarried women wear only white, Preston drops her and goes north on business. Upon his return, Julie is surprised that he’s brought with him a “Yankee” wife, Amy (Margaret Lindsay). Julie continues her bad behavior, egging on Buck to insult both Preston and Amy, which leads to tragic consequences. Meanwhile, the pandemic is getting worse and the disease is encroaching on New Orleans—drastic measures are being taken to contain the outbreak, and it’s not pretty.

The cast is quite good. Bette Davis is indeed spectacular in the role, and her Oscar win is justified. For a picture released in 1938, her performance contains unusual subtlety and nuances that were not typically a component of screen acting of the era. Fonda is his reliable self, a man of principle and honor, and he always does that well. Brent is suitably smarmy and yet likable. The production is well made—director William Wyler at the time was becoming one of Hollywood’s stalwart filmmakers; this early success assured his place on the road to greater heights.

The picture’s treatment of African-American characters is exactly what one would expect from a Hollywood movie about the south as seen through the prism of 1938. Eddie Anderson (“Rochester” on The Jack Benny Show) makes an appearance as one of servants working for the family. It’s not indicated that all the black people on the plantation are slaves, but that’s what they are. In stereotypical Hollywood fashion, they are all “happy slaves,” and in fact they gather one night for a ritual sing-a-long to Julie. Yes, the scene is cringe-worthy today, but one must critique movies within the context of when they were made.

Julie’s behavior in the story may be abominable by the standards of the society portrayed in the film, but isn’t she just asserting her independence and feminism? Perhaps. Still, she does some nasty things to the men around her. This may cause some audiences to have trouble buying her sudden turn toward redemption at the film’s end.

Warner Archive’s new Blu-ray edition looks marvelous. As a straight port-over in high definition from the original DVD release, the feature comes with an audio commentary by film historian Jeanine Basinger. Supplements include a featurette on the making of the movie, a vintage musical short with Jimmy Dorsey and his Orchestra, a vintage cartoon (“Daffy Duck in Hollywood,” one of the greatest!), a promotional featurette with Davis on the Warners lot, and the theatrical trailer.

If you’re a Bette Davis fan, or an aficionado of classic William Wyler and/or Hollywood fare, then Jezebel is for you. It does act as a time capsule for a certain era in Tinsel Town, and for that alone it is a fascinating relic.

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“THE ARCHERS VS. SELZNICK = 2 MOVIES IN 1”

By Raymond Benson

Here’s an interesting lesson in filmmaking. Students of the art might learn something by watching the two different cuts of this motion picture to see what happens when a movie is edited down—especially when the original was made by bona fide artists as opposed to a slick Hollywood producer who, albeit successful, might not know everything.

David O. Selznick was a powerhouse producer and head of his own personal studio (he had, after all, produced Gone with the Wind, Rebecca, Spellbound, and many other Hollywood classics). “The Archers” were a unique British directing/writing/producing team and production company that consisted of the brilliant Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, who, for a solid decade, delivered some of the most engaging and beautifully-rendered works of cinematic art in the 20th Century. It is true that Powell and Pressburger were perhaps not as appreciated during their time as they should have been, but their work has been re-evaluated and newly appraised (by the likes of filmmakers such as Martin Scorsese, among others). Nevertheless, today there is no debating that The Archers made a handful of masterpieces between 1941 and 1951, including The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, A Matter of Life and Death, Black Narcissus, and The Red Shoes.

In 1950, Powell and Pressburger teamed up with American producer Selznick to make Gone to Earth, which was based on the 1917 novel by Mary Webb. The story takes place in the country-lands between England and Wales in the late 1800s, thereby automatically opening it up to scenic beauty and a cinematographer’s dream. Gone to Earth stars Selznick’s then-wife, Jennifer Jones, as Hazel, a free-spirited, unsophisticated and superstitious “nature girl” who has an affinity with all animals (except, significantly, dogs) and especially a wild young fox, “Foxy,” that she keeps as a pet.

Edward Marston (Cyril Cusack) is a Baptist minister new to the nearby village, and he immediately becomes smitten with Hazel. She reluctantly agrees to marry him, even though she has already met and is intrigued by the arrogant, handsome, and wealthy squire Jack Reddin (David Farrar), who lives in quite the palace-like manor, complete with a feisty servant (Hugh Griffith). Oddly, it’s implied that Edward does not consummate the marriage with Hazel. It isn’t long before she runs off to engage in (again, it’s implied) carnal passion with Jack. As expected, things don’t turn out well for Hazel.

The plot of Gone to Earth might remind viewers of David Lean’s Ryan’s Daughter, which was released twenty years later. What the earlier film has going for it is Jones, who is splendid—despite being slightly miscast, in this reviewer’s opinion—and the gorgeous Technicolor photography by Christopher Challis. This is a “mood picture,” in that it’s really all about the setting, the period, and the attitudes of the characters rather than the story.

Enter Selznick. He did to Gone to Earth what he did to Vittorio De Sica’s Terminal Station three years later. This Italian production, directed by the great Neo-Realist filmmaker and produced by Selznick, also starred Jennifer Jones (see the Cinema Retro review here). Selznick didn’t like the original film, but he had the right to recut it for the American release, which he did, turning the picture into Indiscretion of an American Wife against De Sica’s wishes.

With Gone to Earth, Selznick also infuriated the original filmmakers by deleting nearly a half hour from the 110-minute running time, adding “Overture” and “Exit Music” title cards and music, and even having shot a couple of new scenes (directed by uncredited Rouben Mamoulian). Selznick released the new version as The Wild Heart in the USA in 1952.

Neither version did very well financially or critically in their respective releases at the time, although Powell and Pressburger’s original Gone to Earth, like all The Archers’ movies, has received considerable reassessment and acclaim.

Kino Lorber’s new Blu-ray edition presents both pictures in glorious, colorful restorations, with The Wild Heart as its main feature, and Gone to Earth as a supplemental attraction. The former exhibits the better transfer, with clear, sharp imagery. The latter is almost as good, but it is obvious that it came from different source material. There are English subtitles for the hearing impaired. Each film sports an audio commentary—The Wild Heart by film historian Troy Howarth and Gone to Earth by film historian Samm Deighan. Other trailers featuring actress Jones round out the package.

Gone to Earth was the second-to-last production by Powell and Pressburger working together. It’s not in the top tier of their pictures, to be sure, but it’s still a worthwhile and fascinating pastoral meditation on life in Britain in those days. The Wild Heart serves as another example of Hollywood meddling, but an interesting study piece for filmmakers and editors.

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“POULES, MECS, AND FLICS”

By Raymond Benson

Billy Wilder’s 1963 romantic comedy, Irma la Douce, is perhaps yet another property that would go on the politically correct list of Movies That Couldn’t Be Made Today. The times were certainly different in the early 60s regarding the relationships between the sexes. This was an era when the nudge-nudge, wink-wink attitudes toward sex were assuredly male-oriented. The brilliant Wilder had always drifted toward the risqué in his pictures (The Seven Year Itch, Some Like it Hot). Irma la Douce is no exception, and some of the sequences might raise the eyebrows of the cancel culture crowd.

The entertaining Shirley MacLaine stars as the titular character (which translates to “Irma the Sweet”), a streetwalker in modern day Paris (1963, that is), who stands on Rue de Casanova along with several other poules (the French slang for these ladies of the night). The women’s mecs, or pimps, are always nearby, usually hanging out in the Café Moustache, which is run by the witty and erudite barkeep known as, naturally, Moustache (Lou Jacobi, who comes near to stealing the movie). The flics, or street cops, are in on the racket, happily accepting bribes from the mecs to keep their poules in business. Irma is the hooker with the proverbial “heart of gold” and is hugely popular, despite having a little champagne-drinking dog as a constant companion. Her mec, Hippolyte (Bruce Yarnell), is mean, controlling, and treats Irma terribly, but that is apparently what all the pimps do.

Enter beat cop Nestor Patou (Jack Lemmon), who is 2/3 honest and enthusiastic, and 1/3 very naïve. On his first day on the job, he attempts to arrest all the women, which of course gets him fired. His chief, Inspector Lefevre (Herschel Bernardi), protects the prostitution racket because, well, it’s tradition. But Nestor has met Irma in the process, and the two of them fall in love. Nestor proceeds, then, to become her mec after coming to blows with Hippolyte. Things become more complicated when Nestor has the silly idea of borrowing a large amount of money from Moustache, disguising himself as a wealthy British man, “Lord X,” and paying Irma the money simply for “conversation and companionship.” Irma then hands over the money to Nestor, which makes him look good to all the other pimps, and then Nestor repays Moustache. The scheme works… until it doesn’t.

The whole thing is farcical and hopelessly improbable, and yet Lemmon and MacLaine (and Jacobi) are so winning that one can’t help but go along for the ride. There are plenty of laughs, much bawdy humor, and tons of witty dialogue. The problem with Irma la Douce is that it is simply too long. The picture runs 2 hours and 20 minutes, and very few comedies can sustain that kind of length. A half hour could easily have been trimmed out of the movie. It’s not a fatal flaw, but one that keeps Irma from residing among the top tier of Wilder classics.

Nevertheless, MacLaine was awarded with an Oscar nomination for Best Actress for her role. She is decidedly cute, bubbly, and sassy throughout, and for most of the film she’s dressed in skimpy clothing or lingerie or not dressed at all (but there is no nudity on display). André Previn won an Oscar for his delightful musical score. The script, by Wilder and his then current collaborator, I. A. L. Diamond, is quaintly sexist and ribald, providing Lemmon with many turns of his trademark exuberance.

Interestingly, the Irma role was supposed to have been played by Marilyn Monroe, but she died before production began. What would Irma la Douce have been like with a re-teaming of Lemmon and Monroe? One can only imagine. Instead, we got the genuinely satisfactory reunion between Lemmon and MacLaine, who had made The Apartment for Wilder three years earlier.

Watch for a young James Caan in a walk-on role as an American G.I. customer of one of the poules, and yes, that’s Louis Jourdan’s voice as the narrator in the beginning sequence.

Kino Lorber’s new high definition restoration beautifully shows off Joseph LaShelle’s Oscar-nominated cinematography—the colors are rich and vivid in their widescreen glory. There are English subtitles for the hearing impaired, along with two separate audio commentaries—one by film historian Joseph McBride, author of How Did Lubitsch Do It?, and another by film historian Kat Ellinger. The theatrical trailer and other Kino Lorber release trailers and reversible sleeve artwork round out the package.

Irma la Douce is for fans of Wilder, Lemmon, and MacLaine, and for movie aficionados who can appreciate a picture within the context of when it was released. Nudge-nudge, wink-wink.

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