Gene Kelly And Fred Astaire Go Mano a Mano- Kelly’s “An American In Paris” ( 1951 )-A Film Review

Gene Kelly And Fred Astaire Go Mano a Mano- Kelly’s “An American In Paris” ( 1951 )-A Film Review

DVD Review

By Senior Film Critic Sandy Salmon

An American In Paris, starring Gene Kelly, Leslie Caron, music by George and Ira Gershwin, 1951

Someday let me give you the complete story of how a film critic gets his or her assignments from “upstairs” (unless of course that person is hard road free-lancing and is just submitting pieces to publications “on spec”). I should know after some thirty plus years of doing this type of work recently here and from many years at the American Film Gazette (where I still do on-line reviews and where I started out as that free-lancer submitting pieces “on spec” when the publication was strictly hard copy  before I was taken on as a staff member). For now though since I am on a “run” so let me say that the reason I got this assignment to review Gene Kelly’s An American In Paris (and the next one which will be on Fred Astaire’s, and Ginger Roger’s, Shall We Dance) is that the editor here, Pete Markin, had grabbed these two films via Amazon for one purpose and one purpose only-to see who was the better dancer back in the day -Kelly or Astaire. (There is not even a question of anybody today touching the hem of either’s skirt since dance kings are a rare breed and one would be hard pressed to name one male popular dancer who is even close. Whatever else our disagreements as will be noted below we agree on that point-to our collective sorrows.)

This no academic question because not only did Pete go out of his way to view both film he engaged me in a heated argument one morning in front of the water cooler when he casually laid a bombshell on me. The bombshell? After years of assuming that Fred Astaire had the title of king hell king popular dancer wrapped up he had switched his allegiance to Kelly on the sole basis of this film under review. Needless to say I had to upbraid him for both his treason and his error. And hence this “run.” So you see here is a prime example of the odd-ball ways of those high and mighty general editors in doling out the work. But to the lists.          

Maybe An American In Paris with its paper thin plotline is not the best place to critique Mister Kelly’s dancing (or acting efforts which whatever faults I find in his dancer they do not compare to his wooden glad hand acting in this role) but I did not throw down the gauntlet this time. I do not utter that term “paper thin” lightly here. Here’s the play as my predecessor and friend in this department Sam Lowell always liked to say. Kelly finds himself in Paris after the war, after World War II of which he was some of veteran of although it was probably work in a Special Services unit entertaining entertainment-starved G.I.s fresh off the front lines with his song and dance routine. Empathically not after World War I when Paris was the center of the F. Scott Fitzgerald-dubbed Jazz Age and the period when the Gershwins, George and Ira, wrote the music and lyrics for the origin concept and which given the playlist here would have been a better time frame for Kelly’s character, a guy, a regular guy, named Gerry Mulligan stew to have strutted his stuff. In gay Paree (gay in the old-fashioned sense of happy, light, and so on not today’s sexual identity usage) Gerry was doing his best to be a mediocre artist, a painter (already you can see there is a problem since the transition to dancer in each routine seems bizarre or his being an artist seems bizarre when he was at least a better dancer than artist - take your pick). He is getting nowhere fast in his humble little garret imitation of how he thinks his heroes the Impressionists suffered for their art. Finally some moneybags “art patroness” takes up his cause and easy street and high society (which is really a ruse for trying to get him to fall for her-no dice-no nice dice)

What or rather who he does fall for, falls hard for, is a little French twist with a turned up nose and who we will find out quickly is as light on her feet as Gerry is on his on the dance floor. She gives him the cold shoulder for a while mainly because she is trying to do the honorable thing for her benefactor and fiancé (and to boot Gerry’s friend too). As Gerry pulls the hammer down on the romance she softens a bit. But still no sale until the end when after this serious imaginary dance Gerry has worked himself up over recreating various paintings by his max daddy artist Impressionist artists heroes (and a couple of guys from early trends in French art) where he and Leslie trip the light fantastic she relents. Or rather her lover-benefactor seeing the writing on the wall brings her to Gerry’s doorstep. Nice guy. So you can see no way that even the best song and dance man could overcome these disservices to the Gershwins 1920s be-bop Jazz Age pieces.    

Of course this whole dispute, this tempest in a teapot, brewed up by Mister Markin is not about the qualities of the storyline but about Kelly’s dancing (and singing too but dancing is enough to chew on). On the question of pure physical energy and verve Kelly is not bad reflecting I think the hopped up (maybe drugged up) post-World War II period when everybody who had slogged through the war was in a rush to get to wherever they thought they should be going. He has all the moves if not all the grace that Fred Astaire had in his own prime. And that is really the sticking point here, the point that became clear during that seventeen minute interlude where Gerry imagined those painterly scenes from the works of his favored artists. Kelly was all arms and legs and odd-ball twists and turned but only for a few seconds during that whole “why the hell is this long scene in this film anyway except to prolong the film” did he exhibit any grace and that was when he was doing yeoman’s work lifting Ms. Caron in balletic style. How the usually level-headed Markin could have called that one of the best dance scenes he had ever seen tells a lot. Tells me he, he Mister fancy general editor has maybe been at the hash pipe too long of late. Touché    

When Women Played Rock And Roll For Keeps- The Music Of Bonnie Raiit

When Women Played Rock And Roll For Keeps- The Music Of Bonnie Raiit

[The world of on-line editors and named bloggers is actually rather small when you consider what cyberspace can allow the average ingenious citizen to do. I have been highlighting some of the conversations between long-time music critic Seth Garth and some of his growing up in Riverdale (that is in Massachusetts west of Boston) friends as he/they discuss a various older CDs which reflect a certain period in their then youth lives growing up in the late 1950s and early 1960s. Part of this latest series of sketches by me is based on information that Seth has provided comes under the sign of the Summer of Love, 1967 out on the West Coast, especially in the San Francisco and Bay area.      

I am a bit too young by about a decade to have had anything but a nodding acquaintance with the Summer of Love experience. That era’s music did not form the basis for my musical interests although I heard it around the house from older siblings but rather the music of the 1970s which when I get a little bored with book reviews or general cultural pieces I write about for various publications including this one I write some music reviews. Knowing that let me take a step back so that you will understand why I made that statement about the review world is really a small place.

As I said earlier I was a little too young to appreciate the music of the Summer of Love first hand but my eldest brother Alex was not. Had in fact gone out to the West Coast from our growing up neighborhood the Acre section of North Adamsville that summer along with a bunch of other guys that he had hung around with since highs school. He wound up staying in that area, delving into every imaginable cultural experience from drugs to sex to music, for a couple of years before heading back to his big career expectations-the law, being a lawyer. The original idea to head west that summer was not his but that of his closest friend, the late Peter Paul Markin forever known in town and by me as the Scribe (how he got that is a long story and not germane to the Seth sage). The Scribe had dropped out of college in Boston earlier in 1967 when he sensed that what Alex said he had been yakking about weekly for years that a “new breeze,” his, the Scribe’s term, was going to take youth nation (and maybe the whole nation) by a storm and headed west. A couple of months later he came back and dragged Alex and about six others back west with him. And the rest is history.             

I mean that “rest is history” part literally since earlier this year (2017) Alex, now for many years a big high-priced lawyer after sowing his wild oats and get “smartened up” as he called it once the bloom of the counter-culture they were trying to create faded had gone to a business conference out in San Francisco and while there had seen on a passing bus an advertisement for something called the Summer of Love Experience at the de Young Museum in Golden Gate Park. He flipped out, maybe some latent recoil from those long ago drugs, and spend one “hooky” afternoon mesmerized by the exhibit of poster art, hippie clothing, photographs and music. That was not all though. When he got back to Boston he contacted all the old neighborhood guys still standing who had gone out there in 1967 to put a small memoir book together. One night they all agreed to do the project, do the project in honor of the late Scribe who had pushed them out there in some cases kicking and screaming (not Alex at the time). That is when Alex, knowing that I have had plenty of experience doing such projects contacted me to edit and get the thing published. Which I did without too much trouble.    

The publication and distribution of that book while not extensive got around to plenty of people who were involved in the Summer of Love, or who knew the Scribe. And that is where Seth Garth comes in. While he was not part of the Summer of Love experience he did drift out west after college to break with his Riverdale growing up home in the early 1970s. As a writer he looked for work among the various alternative presses out there and wound up working first as a free-lancer and then as staff as a music critic for the now long defunct The Eye which operated out of Oakland then. Guess who also was working as a free-lancer there as well after he got out of the Army. Yes, the Scribe who was doing a series of articles on guys like him who had come back from Vietnam and couldn’t relate to the “real world” and had established what amounted to alternative communities along the railroad tracks and under the bridges of Southern California. So yeah it is a small world in the writing for money racket. Here is what Seth has to say right now. Zack James]     

CD Review

The Best Of Bonnie Raiit

By Zack James

Seth Garth and Jack Callahan who had been friends since highs school down in Riverdale after they returned from a whirlwind few months on the road on a magical mystery tour yellow brick road merry pranksters adventure out in California during the Summer of Love, 1967, were sitting in Jack’s, the local hang-out bar in Cambridge where the drinks were cheap and the conversation interesting, when a young woman stepped up to the small stage preparing to sing. Jack mentioned to Seth that she looked familiar, that flaming red hair a giveaway, and asked him if he could place the face. Seth who was beginning his long career as a music critic just then for The Eye whom he had contracted with when he was out in California blurted out that didn’t Jack remember seeing her, seeing Bonnie Raitt, on the Boston Common before they had taken off for California where she blew away the crowd with a cover of Down Highway 61. Jack laughed and said that he was so stoned that night that he wasn’t sure who he had heard (Seth reminding him that it had been an afternoon concert).                    

Of course Seth, as a budding music critic, expecting to ride the wave from folk to folk rock to what was now being called “acid” rock with all the strobe lights and dipping into the drug bag to bring out the right mood had done some basic research on Bonnie as an up and coming star who was riding her own wave of the new trend in having female singers lead the bands they were in. Janis Joplin, Grace Slick, Amy Kline, Nicky Adams and then her. He had found out that Bonnie had dropped out of Radcliffe a little earlier in order to pursue her musical career as a result of the success of the Boston Common concert. He also had found out that her budding virtuosity with the slide guitar had come from sitting at the feet of country blues legend Mississippi Fred McDowell. So she had a pedigree. Still she a was only starting out and grateful that Jack’s had allowed her up on the stage a couple of years earlier where she had begun to hone her skills both at presenting a professional musical veneer and connecting with the audience. So the night Seth and Jack were sitting there at the bar drinking and talking about everything under the sun Bonnie was doing “pay back.” Performing for the old crowd, performing for Jack. 

She started her first set with Hound Dog Taylor’s The Sky Is Crying and McDowell’s Highway 61 and the rest would be history. A history which is well documented in this compilation from those classics to Fairport Convention member Richard Thompson’s The Dimming of the Day.            

The Good Heist-With “The Bank Job” (2008) In Mind

The Good Heist-With “The Bank Job” (2008) In Mind

DVD Review

By Zack James

The Bank Job, starring Jason Statham, Saffron Burrows, 2008

Recently I did a short review of the film adaptation of writer con-artist’s Clifford Irving’s The Hoax about his take (remember he was a con artist and so his fast-talking-writing should be taken for what it is worth) on his con of a major publishing company over an “autobiography” of the reclusive eccentric billionaire Howard Hughes back in the early 1970s and mentioned that everybody loves a con. Everybody except the person con of course. That notion can be extended, was extended in my old working-class growing up Acre section of North Adamsville, to include high profile bank robberies. In those days the big deal was the then never solved great Brink armored car robbery of the early 1950s where it turned out one of the participants had lived in the neighborhood at one time. So when Pete Markin tagged me to do a short piece on  the film under review The Bank Job about an equally famous bank robbery in London in the early 1970 I was all in.     

Usually the genesis of a bank robbery (aside from the famous bank robber Willie Sutton’s response to the question of why he robbed banks for a living- because that was where the money was) is to grab some quick dough and split. Average stuff. In this film, based on a true story, although it is hard to separate fact from fiction according to the historical record, the motives are a little bit trickier. Oh sure the guys who are touched for the job have that motivation-have that wanting habits hunger but this one has a catch to it. See the robbery is just supposed to be a front for getting some very juicy photographs of a member of the royal family, a royal princess acting the slut. (According to my sources that part is make-believe courtesy of the thriller-crazed producers and not a bad motive at that if you hold any republican sympathies. In any case given the batch of whores, whore-mongers, homos and lesbians when that was not cool, dope fiends, junkies, sex addicts, lunatics, mad men, philanders and the like who have made up the royal family and nobility that would not be so far-fetched. And those are from the good side of the families the others’ depravity starts from there.) Maybe nowadays with 24/7/365 celebrity exposure that would be nothing for royals to bother with but back then it was enough to get certain secretive governmental agencies on the move to cover the damn thing up-to bury it deep. That was the story then anyway make of it what you will.

The whole play came about because one neighborhood working class woman, Martine, played by Saffron Burrows, who took a turn at modeling had been stopped with a hell-broth of drugs in her suitcase at the airport.  So she needed to get out from under any way she could since female prison life would quickly turn her into somebody’s honey and she would not have looked good in prison garb anyway. Fortunately she had a lover-boyfriend from MI5 who was in need of a favor. Seems that a sneaky fiery black nationalist leader, Michael X, had the vaunted photographs in question in a safety deposit box for further use-blackmail, trade for freedom, you know the rest. Also in need of a favor was Terry, played by Jason Statham, a hard-pressed auto body shop owner and small time hood. The man, men, he needed a few confederates for this caper, and the moment meet. Martine cons Terry into this fantastical notion of robbing a bank (naturally the Baker Street branch bank where the safety deposit box is located) to get out from under-to get him and his family on easy street. At first he balks but then facing a blank wall future he bites.        

In a funny way the bank job is actually not only clever planned but despite a couple of glitches and close-calls a relatively easy job done by creating a tunnel from an adjoining shop to the vaults. Beautiful. Then all hell breaks loose once the job is done and the photographs secured.  See everybody and there aunt and uncle has something to hide from all that hidden cash and jewels to a listing of all the crooked cops on a local mobsters pay-roll. Between the governmental agents, the mobsters, the cops and who knows who else Terry and his comrades are led a merry chase. But in the end the resourceful Terry works his way out of danger and is allowed to keep the ill-gotten goods and seek a new life somewhere out of fetid London. Martine blows town with her cut. The royals dodge yet another scandal and the mobster and the crooked cops take a fall, a hard fall. But the hard criminal life is not for everybody and not everybody made the grade. One gang member got wasted for not giving up his comrades. That’s the way it is down on the edge. Whatever its closeness to what really happened before, during and after this caper on Baker Street (Sherlock Holmes’ street-right) the movie was well-done           

Everybody Loves A Con Man (Or Woman)-With Richard Gere’s “The Hoax” In Mind

Everybody Loves A Con Man (Or Woman)-With Richard Gere’s “The Hoax” (2006) In Mind  

DVD Review

By Book Critic Zack James

The Hoax, starring Richard Gere, 2006

Everybody loves a con man (or at the headline states con woman as well although there tend to be fewer of them in the deep rich history of this art form). Everybody that is except the guy (or gal) being conned. That egg on the face person most definitely does not love a con although he or she gets what they deserve in my book. I have seen some beautiful work in my time. The time when Eddie Murray took some hungry greedy stockbroker for a cool million when a million was something on non-existent stock, nada. Or that time when Conrad Vedt a seemingly mild mannered non-entity took the local syndicate for five mil and got away with it (although he did spent some serious time looking over his shoulder before the coast was clear). The big one though at least the one I was close to, knew some of the players, was when Jack Kiley took down a couple of high-end Las Vegas gamblers for something like ten million all by himself. The stuff of legends. And that brings us to the film under review the rough film adaptation of writer Clifford Irving’s book about his big time literary scam of the so-called billionaire when a billion was serious money Howard Hughes “autobiography” The Hoax. (Although the thought occurs to me why would you believe what a con artist has written about himself-oh well.)  

Clifford Irving, played by Richard Gere, understood the first rule of the con-go big or don’t go at all. It is not worth the time or energy to do the con for chicken feed although I have known back in the old Acre section of my growing up town North Adamsville guys to do cons for chicken feed. A serious con like the one Irving tried to pull for a million bucks and maybe more if things had worked out on a well-known if reclusive public figure working the literary scam which meant bucking a high-end publishing company also meant possible jail time if the thing went south on him. Which in the end as everybody now knows it did dragging his wife and his closest collaborator down with him in the gutter-into jail time.       

       

Still you have to like the brass of the guy taking a shot at immortality in the con artist pantheon-a place not for the faint-hearted. First he had to get a big enough target for his appetites which seemed to narrow down to Howard Hughes for no better reason than he saw his name on a magazine cover and figured he could use that notorious reclusiveness of Hughes’ to work his magic. Of course the second rule of the con is to talk fast on your feet and be plausible which Irving did with relish starting with his agent and working up the food chain to the big-time publishing company executives. The dicey part or one of the dicey parts was that the potential publishers advised by their platoon of lawyers were going to be looking for some proof and a lot of the film dealt with working around that problem. But see the third rule of the con or maybe it really is the first rule once you get a bead on human nature as it has evolved over the last few millennia is to understand how to play to a  little greed or some vanity advantage over your competitors. Bingo here. 

The other dicey part which in the end did Irving and his compadres in was the blow-back from the super security conscious Hughes empire.  Irving almost had it made but just couldn’t work out that last kink about how to grab the dough-the fatal check-which needed to be cashed with Hughes’ name on it. Tough break. Yeah, everybody loves a con. Conrad Vedt, Jack Riley and Eddie Murray would have been proud.   

Once Again On The - 75th Anniversary (2017) Of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman’s “Casablanca” -

Once Again On The - 75^th Anniversary (2017) Of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman’s “Casablanca” -

By Bart Webber

I have spent much ink this year starting almost at the beginning of the year writing about the classic black and white film Casablanca a staple at every retro-film locale including the Brattle Theater in Cambridge, Massachusetts where I first saw it with a “hot date” back in the late 1960s. A date who did not mind going on a cheap date (hell the admission was about a dollar maybe two) when I told her what we would be seeing. (Somehow she had asked her mother about the film and so was intrigued about this hot on-screen romance during wartime between Rick and Ilsa.) That movie coupled with a quick after film stop at equally cheap Harvard Square Hayes Bickford for coffee (always an iffy proposition depending on when the stuff was brewed also iffy) and some kind of pastry that had been sitting on the stainless steel dessert shelves for who knows how long got me away without having to call “dutch treat.” Got me as well another six months of very nice dates so my memories of that gorgeous film with the six million quotable and unforgettable lines from “play it again, Sam” (Ingrid Bergman as Ilsa request to Humphrey Bogart  Rick’s main entertainment provider Dooley Wilson to play the sentimental As Time Goes By) to “We will always have Paris” (when Rick responds to Ilsa’s bewilderment that he is letting her take that last plane to Lisbon with those wicked letters of transit provided him to her husband Czech liberation leader Victor Laszlo so he  can continue to do his work against the night-takers running the world in those days) are still pristine.              

I am not the only one who is crazy for this movie since I am enclosing a link to an interview done by Terry Gross on her Fresh Air show on NPR with film historian Noah Isenberg on  the making of the classic Hollywood film in his new book, We'll Always Have Casablanca. " Needless to say when I get my greedy little hands on that item I will be reviewing it in this space. This guy has me beaten six ways to Sunday with what he knows about that film. Kudos.  

http://www.npr.org/2017/10/11/557101633/75-years-later-a-look-at-the-life-legend-and-afterlife-of-casablanca

Spanish Is The Loving Tongue-Those Sparkling Eyes Of Hers-From The World War II Rationing Vaults- Armida’s “The Girl From Monterrey” (1943)-A Film Review

Spanish Is The Loving Tongue-Those Sparkling Eyes Of Hers-From The World War II Rationing Vaults- Armida’s “The Girl From Monterrey” (1943)-A Film Review   

By Lance Lawrence

The Girl From Monterrey, starring Armida, 1943

WTF. (This is a family-friendly publication for what it is worth although we have learned from recent experience that the demographic the new site manager Greg Green, more on him in  a minute as the source of “WTF,” was trying to reach with his silly experiment of, for example, having grown women and men review cinematic portrayals of Marvel/DC comic characters like Captain America to draw the young in a cohort that doesn’t give a, ah, fig for on-line blogger-induced publications. Try Instagram brother, try Instagram as my eight-year old granddaughter could have told Greg and avoided a near civil war among the writers, young and old, and a revolt by the real readership base-the remnants, the best part of the Generation of ’68 past its flower. So WTF it is although that same eight-year old granddaughter was hip to that expression about two years ago and so we are not protecting virgin ears.) I recently reviewed a boxing film from the 1930s starring a triad of classic stars from that period like Bette Davis, Edward G. Robinson and Humphrey Bogart who went through their paces in Kid Galahad (not to be confused with the later Elvis 1960s production under the same title) with Edward G. trying finally get a champ but who if he lived would have gotten a brother-in-law plus champ despite his being overly protective of his younger sister who was crazy for the big guy.

I made a big point there of detailing my own street-fighting episodes cut short by the realization that if anything I was more a lover than a fighter but in any case not a fighter, not even a street fighter much less getting in the ring with anybody. I made the even bigger point that despite that youthful folly I never was much of a fan of boxing, of the art of the fist, of pugilism. Yet our own illustrious site manager (the same one who made me go on and on with the “dirty language” disclaimer so you know what I was up against) forced me to do the honors.

That was then but on the basis of that review, the perverse basis if you ask me of that light-headed experience he decided that I was to be at least temporarily the in-house “boxing expert” and review the film of the headline-The Girl From Monterrey. The “how” of that particular choice bears some explanation. Apparently Greg was going through the archives or had remembered from his days as editor at American Film Gazette that during World War II Hollywood, then the sole world capital for film production spewed out as much patriotic war material as was possible without destroying every film produced in that period. Somehow he latched onto this short war-induce film which featured a couple of boxers who would before the end of the film wind up in uniform and so there you have it, why I am reviewing this essentially propaganda piece.

But hold on there is a back story to that as well. This year, 2018, commemorates on November 11^th the 100^th anniversary of Armistice Day, the day when the bloody slaughter, the bloody destruction of the flower of the European youth ended (the supposed “war to end all wars” was the tag to get guys to fight the freaking thing-another WTF). A couple of stringers here, a couple of Vietnam veterans, Sam Eaton and Ralph Morris have been spear-heading the efforts, via their memberships in the anti-war Veterans for Peace group to publicize the commemoration of that event in this space. Greg’s “find” dove-tails with that commemoration since this production was a “talkie” and because few World War I film productions still exist I am the messenger.                       

Well I have stalled enough I might as well get to this short sad tale of a film which at least had the mercy of being short probably due to the rationing of chemicals for the war effort. This one started out south of the border, started in Mexico when that was not a dirty word and immigrants were welcome- to harvest the fields. Started with a spitfire, sparking eyes, Spanish is the loving tongue dancer-singer in an up-scale cantina named Lita, played by never heard of before but well-known then Armida. This feisty and short, unbelievably short so that say Alan Ladd would feel tall next to her had made it clear to management that she was not available to sit with the customers after doing her stage chores- and got bounced, or quit depending on whose story you believe, once the manager made one too many demands on her in that department. What is a girl to do though when she is bounced.  Enter younger brother Baby, a good=looking middleweight, who had quit college to enter the ring, to become a pugilist and who was raring to go in that ill-sought profession. Lita decided against all good judgment to “manage” him after a few gringo boxing promoters sitting in that cantina watching Lita go through her paces saw Baby flatten the Mexican contender who made one too many advances on Lita.

Shift scenes to New York (presumably with all papers in order and not having creeped in via a borderless wall) where Baby got some early cream puff fights working his way up the food chain. But Lita is a singer and dancer, remember that spitfire and sparkling eyes in that profession and so she found work in a nightclub where she and Baby and those nefarious promoters went go for entertainment. Lita did a number and got hired. Baby got all hung up on a gringa torch singer who probably was too big for him-too cutthroat, too wise for this sap despite his pugilistic prowess. Lita in her turn gravitated toward another good-looking middleweight, the champ, a guy named Jerry does it really matter his last name since he was nothing but a “bicycle-rider anyway, a dancer in the ring tiring out his opponent before the knock-down on canvas.      

Baby was making time with this Flossie the floosy and Lita with the chump champ while Baby worked his way up. As you can guess two good-looking middleweights are bound to crash into each other and so it goes when an American promoter gives the high sign to Flossie to get Baby to sign the contact to fight Jerry. Lita is torn but things work out well since Baby knocked Jerry on his ass for the championship and then both men show up in the uniforms of their respective countries. Ho hum. What was not ho hum was Lita’s stage presence where she sang some songs I had never heard were in the American Songbook. Check these out on YouTube the jumping Jive, Brother, Jive,  Last Night’s All Over and the title The Girl From Monterey. Yeah check those sparkling eyes as Armida goes through her paces.  

The Golden Age Of The B-Film Noir- Lloyd Bridges’ “The Big Deadly Game” (1954)

The Golden Age Of The B-Film Noir- Lloyd Bridges’ “The Big Deadly Game” (1954)

DVD Review

By Film Editor Emeritus Sam Lowell

The Big Deadly Game, starring Lloyd Bridges (Jeff’s father okay when he needed dough I guess and hit the bricks in London and Spain), Simone Silva, Hammer Productions, 1954

Recently in a review of the British film Terror Street (distributed in Britain as 36 Hours) and subsequently another British entry The Black Glove (distributed in Britain as Face The Music probably a better title since it involved a well-known trumpet player turning from searching for that high white note everybody in his profession is looking for to amateur private detective once a lady friend is murdered and he looked for all the world like the natural fall guy) I noted that long time readers of this space know, or should be presumed to know, of my long-standing love affair with film noir. Since any attentive reader will note this is my third such review of B-film noirs in the last period I still have the bug.

I went on to mention some of the details to my introduction to the classic age of film noir in this country in the age of black and white film in the 1940s and 1950s when I would sneak over to the now long gone and replaced by condos Strand Theater in growing up town North Adamsville and spent a long double feature Saturday afternoon watching complete with a stretched out bag of popcorn (or I think it is safe to say it now since the statute of limitation on the “crime” must surely have passed snuck in candy bars bought at Harold’s Variety Store on the way to the theater) some then current production from Hollywood or some throwback from the 1940s which Mister Cadger, the affable owner who readily saw that I was an aficionado who would pepper him with questions about when such and such a noir was to be featured would let me sneak in for kid’s ticket prices long after I reached the adult price stage at twelve I think it was, would show in retrospective to cut down on expenses in tough times by avoiding having to pay for first –run movies all the time. (And once told me to my embarrassment that he made more money on the re-runs than first runs and even more money on the captive audience buying popcorn and candy bars-I wonder if he knew my scam.

I mentioned in passing as well that on infrequent occasions I would attend a nighttime showing (paying full price after age twelve since parents were presumed to have the money to spring  for full prices) with my parents if my strict Irish Catholic mother (strict on the mortal sin punishment for what turned out to have been minor or venial sins after letting my older brothers, four count them, four get away with murder and assorted acts of mayhem) thought the film passed the Legion of Decency standard that we had to stand up and take a yearly vow to uphold and I could under the plotline without fainting (or getting “aroused” by the fetching femmes).

What I did not mention although long time readers should be aware of this as well was that when I found some run of films that had a similar background I would “run the table” on the efforts. Say a run of Raymond Chandler film adaptations of his Phillip Marlowe crime novels or Dashiell Hammett’s seemingly endless The Thin Man series. That “run the table” idea is the case with a recently obtained cache of British-centered 1950s film noirs put out by the Hammer Production Company as they tried to cash in on the popularity of the genre for the British market (and the relatively cheap price of production in England). That Terror Street mentioned at the beginning had been the first review in this series (each DVD by the way contains two films the second film Danger On The Wings in that DVD not worthy of review) and now the film under review under review the overblown if ominously titled The Big Deadly Game (distributed in England, Britain, Great Britain, United Kingdom or whatever that isle calls itself these Brexit days as the innocuous Third Party Risk is the third such effort. On the basis of these four viewings (remember one didn’t make the film noir aficionado cut so that tells you something right away) I will have to admit they are clearly B-productions none of them would make anything but a second or third tier rating.         

After all as mentioned before in that first review look what they were up against. For example who could forget up on that big screen for all the candid world to see a sadder but wiser seen it all, heard it all Humphrey Bogart at the end of The Maltese Falcon telling all who would listen that he, he Sam Spade, no stranger to the seamy side and cutting corners, had had to send femme fatale Mary Astor his snow white flame over, sent her to the big step-off once she spilled too much blood, left a trail of corpses, for the stuff of dreams over some damn bird. Or cleft-chinned barrel-chested Robert Mitchum keeping himself out of trouble in some dink town as a respectable citizen including snagging a girl next door sweetie but knowing he was doomed, out of luck, and had cashed his check for his seedy past taking a few odd bullets from his former femme fatale trigger-happy girlfriend Jane Greer once she knew he had double-crossed her to the coppers in Out Of The Past. Ditto watching the horror on smart guy gangster Eddie Mars face after being outsmarted because he had sent a small time grafter to his doom when prime private detective Phillip Marlowe, spending the whole film trying to do the right thing for an old man with a couple of wild daughters, ordered him out the door to face the rooty-toot-toot of his own gunsels who expected Marlowe to be coming out in The Big Sleep. How about song and dance man Dick Powell turning Raymond Chandler private eye helping big galoot Moose Malone trying to find his Velma and getting nothing but grief and a few stray conks on the head chasing Claire Trevor down when she didn’t want to be found having moved uptown with the swells in Murder, My Sweet. Those were some of the beautiful and still beautiful classics whose lines you can almost hear anytime you mention the words film noir.

In the old days before I retired I always liked to sketch out a film’s plotline to give the reader the “skinny” on what the action was so that he or she could see where I was leading them. I will continue that old tradition here (as I did with Terror Street and The Black Glove and will do in future Hammer Production vehicles to be reviewed over the coming period) to make my point about the lesser production values of the Hammer products. Lloyd Bridges is a music guy (not a trumpeter which might have given him some juices but some kind of second-string composer) who is in Spain on holiday as they say in England, Britain, the United Kingdom, or whatever when he runs into an old war buddy who seems to be in trouble. And he is since he winds up dead, very dead, for some unknown transgression. Seems that this war buddy had run afoul of an international smuggling ring centered in Spain and run by some mal hombres from the look of them and had to pay the price for his treason. Naturally clean-cut good guy Lloyd figures out what was what and the bad guys fell down, fell down hard once he put the hammer to them. Vaya con dios mal hombres.     

That is the gist of the main crime story but what this one really was about if you looked at time spent on the subject was his romance with this Spanish senorita, played by Simone Silva,  who was running a dance school, a folkloric dance school teaching the ninas how to do the old time dances and doing a pretty good job of it. So between bouts of fighting crime Lloyd was keeping company with his coy mistress.   

Better that Terror Street but not as good as The Black Glove although it can’t get pass that Blue Gardenia second tier in the film noir pantheon. Sorry Hammer.                 

Out In The Riverdale Drive-In Night-With 007 Jame Bond’s “Doctor No” (1962) In Mind-A Film Review

Out In The Riverdale Drive-In Night-With 007 Jame Bond’s “Doctor No” (1962) In Mind-A Film Review

DVD Review

By Special Guest Film Critic Bart Webber

Doctor No, starring Sean Connery, Ursala Andress, 1962

Hey, me, Bart Webber, I was the guy with the car my father’s passed down 1956 Chevy (two-toned with the classic fins that people today are ready to die if they have enough dough to grab one at some high-priced automobile auction). Usually that would mean nothing except that recently Sam Lowell, the now retired film critic in this space, called me up one night after watching, or rather re-watching after a fifty-five year hiatus, the film adaptation of Ian Fleming’s 007 James Bond thriller, Doctor No (1962) the first of what would appear to be an endless number of sequels and asked me to do a review (after he sent over the DVD for me to watch). See Sam, the Scribe, Jack, Frankie, Alex and I watched that film the first time in my car, in that 1956 Chevy two-toned, cherry red and white, at the now long gone and converted to an open air park along the river Riverdale Drive-In. (For those who don’t know what a drive-in is or are too lazy to look it up on Wikipedia that was an open air place where you went in a car to see movies on a big screen and heard through a speaker places athwart the driver’s side care window, usually a double feature and cartoon with intermissions in between to stock up on food and drink from the refreshment stand at night, the first feature starting at dusk so sometimes hard to see). A cheap way for a family or more importantly in the time frame I am speaking of cheap date with lots of promise at least starting out of foggy car windows before the night was over (and an inability to tell mother what the plot of the movie had been about.       

 

But the night I am talking about was not such a cheap date night although as usual with the gang who hung around Tonio’s Pizza Parlor some dreams of girls and foggy car windows entered into it. But mainly we were there that night to see this Doctor No film because the Scribe (the late Peter Paul Markin who was the guy who had more zany ideas than anybody else)  had, as usual read the Ian Fleming book and had heard that this guy Sean Connery who was playing the lead character 007 James Bond was very cool. Who am I kidding we went because we also heard through that same Scribe that this cool chick Ursala Andress was going  to be running around half-naked in some scenes. Hey we were sixteen, maybe seventeen years old, without dough, and most of the time dateless because of the no dough so what did you expect. If we ran into some real live girls at the refreshment stand so much the better.    

So that was where the car deal came in (and sometimes I think I got to be in the Tonio crowd because I was the only one with a car and I am sure that was the Scribe’s motivation but he is no longer around to confirm the truth of that statement. Here is how the thing played out that night and many other drive-in nights. This little con courtesy of the Scribe who was a combination saint, brain and con artist all wrapped into one explosive package. He figured out, or maybe I had better say he had heard about this scam to get into the drive-in cheap. Since those of us who lived in the Acre section of North Adamsville where Tonio’s was located were always hard pressed for dough we would listen to any scheme that would get us what we wanted. In those days before I think the drive-in theater owners got wise and started charging by the carload there used to be individual admissions. To get around this problem the Scribe suggested that a few of us, maybe three of the six who went that night hide on the floor of the back seat and in the trunk of car. That way we would only have to pay for three admissions and would have money enough for some stuff at the refreshment stand (and give us reason to go there to check out the girls. This idea always worked and I have often wondered why until one day I figured out that the ticket-taker could have given a fuck about who was in the car all he or she cared about was moving the line of cars forward.    

See though the Acre girls would do the same thing although maybe they wouldn’t throw somebody in the trunk. Beautiful right and that is where the boy-girl mingle would get started and wind up at the refreshment stand. Needless to say single daters didn’t do this, at least I never did on cheap date night. Needless to say as well that we Acre kids, boys and girls alike, had our own meeting section far away from the parents with their young kids (conversely what young parents would subject their sweet charges to the bombast of high school mad monks and sisters).   

Frankly I don’t remember what happened on the boy-girl front that night because I was enthralled by the film. I had always liked action adventure films so this was like catnip to me. Funny after a fifty-five hiatus this one unlike a couple of other later Sean Connery-starring Bond vehicles that I have watched, re-watched, does not seem dated. Certainly the theme of good guys battling evil genius bad guys who want to take over the world is as fresh as today’s headlines.

Here’s the play as Sam Lowell always likes to say when he is giving his take on the plotline. A British intelligence agent in Jamaica is missing and presumed dead and government paid killer agent James Bond, Sean Connery’s role is sent to find out why and why as well why there is some interference with the booming American rocket program then in its early stages. Once landed Bond is on the case and finds out that some serious skullduggery is happening in an off-shore island by the nefarious evil genius bad guy Doctor No and his minions. So Bond has to see what is what on that island. As it turned out this No was some kind of nuclear physics freak who had associated himself with a criminal syndicate first in Tong China and later the nefarious SPECTRE international crime organization. While discovery all this information about what was being produced on the island up pops this Honey, really a honey, nothing but a fox as we used to say played by Ursala Andress who looked just fine in skimpy bathing suits. While this pair were are playing footsies they were captured by Doctor No’s security apparatus. Bond and Honey took a beating for a while but in time-honored good guy tradition the bad guys must take a fall-and they do. No is no more. At the end Bond and Honey make their getaway on a small craft and that was that.

So you can see why I was involved in the film to the exclusion of checking out the girls at the refreshment stand that night. When we left we only had four guys since Jack and Frankie had hit pay-dirt with a couple of girls who said they were bored by the movie and had only come because their girlfriends needed to fill up their car for that cheapjack caper at the admission booth. Nice, right.      

How World War II Was Won-With Cary Grant’s “Kiss Them For Me” (1957) In Mind

How World War II Was Won-With Cary Grant’s “Kiss Them For Me” (1957) In Mind

DVD Review

By Sandy Salmon

  

Kiss Them For Me, starring Cary Grant, Jayne Mansfield, Suzy Parker. 1957

In wartime all emotions, plans, ideas are kind of pushed together and what would ordinarily be a slow-moving train turns into a supersonic airplane ride. That was certainly the case in the matter of love and marriage as the film under review of Cary Grant’s Kiss Them For Me  film adaptation of the 1945 play brings to the fore. And World War II the time frame of this cinematic effort, the time of the Generation of ‘68’s, my parents, the parents of today’s baby boomer generation was no exception. That wartime was filled with all kinds of hasty marriages some which lasted forever as in my own parents’ case and some didn’t (and some lasted forever shouldn’t have either).  (That “kiss them for me’ by the way as a symbol of the time no mere happenstance for there is a very famous photograph taken in Time Square, New York City of a sailor in a deep embrace all out kiss with some dame whom he may or may not have known, probably not, once V-E Day was declared to end the war in the European Theater).         

Of course even in a romantic comedy as here there is a need to be solemn about the dedication of those who rolled back the night-takers in the European and Pacific wars not all of them who made it and laid down their heads in some watery or mud splattered grave. Here Cary Grant and companions are gadabout Navy fliers out in the Pacific War, the part fought against the Japanese, who by daring-do get ride from Honolulu circa 1944 to San Francisco for some well-deserved shore leave. All of this done in a normal smooth as silk Cary Grant style who is a guy with a fast glib comic tongue ad who butter would not melt in his mouth. One they get into Frisco town it is party time as long as they can hold out. Of course along the way they have to deal with the fact that they are under orders to report to a medical facility over in Oakland which would and will crab their style. And along the way Cary and pals are figuring out ways to avoid that situation like the plague.    

Here’s where the love and romance if you can get it comes in. Cary is smitten by this Gwentyth, played by fetching ex-model Suzy Parker, a good-looking take her anywhere proudly red-head who probably was the dream of any service guy who wanted to settle down to a nice nest after the war. Well she is already “spoken for” by a well-heeled (and heel) war contractor who is nothing but trouble for Cary and the boys. But all Cary has to do is put on that smooth as silk charm and bingo he and she, they are an “item” all in a couple of days. Yeah, the times were like that. But in the normal patriotic twist that hot affair will have to be put on hold for the duration since the boys rejecting a soft stateside assignment head back to the danger to finish what they had started.  Not the best Cary Grant vehicle but adequate.      

[Somewhat incongruously this film also stars blonde, very blonde, 1950s busty bombshell Jayne Mansfield who was, along with Marilyn Monroe except Jayne was a step or two down in the talent category, the epitome of World War II generation guys, my father’s generation guys, idea of a highly sexual desirable woman. Unlike the iconic Marilyn who could really though Jayne played to type the “dumb bimbo” which in this film seemed out of place. Maybe she knew somebody high up in the studio but her performance detracted from the main play-that Cary charm-and in the end serious side of war despite the on-screen antics.]            

Once Again Haunted By The Question Of Questions-Who Represented The “Voice” Of The Generation Of ’68 When The Deal Went Down-And No It Was Not One Richard Millstone, Oops, Milhous Nixon

Once Again Haunted By The Question Of Questions-Who Represented The “Voice” Of The Generation Of ’68 When The Deal Went Down-And No It Was Not One Richard Millstone, Oops, Milhous Nixon

By Seth Garth

I have been haunted recently by various references to events in the early 1960s brought to mind by either seeing or hearing those references. First came one out of the blue when I was in Washington, D.C. on other business and I popped in as is my wont to the National Gallery of Art to get an “art bump” after fighting the dearies at the tail-end of the conference that I was attending. I usually enter on the 7^th Street entrance to see what they have new on display on the Ground Floor exhibition areas. This time there was a small exhibit concerning the victims of Birmingham Sunday, 1963 the murder by bombing of a well-known black freedom church in that town and the death of four innocent young black girls and injuries to others. The show itself was a “what if” by a photographer who presented photos of what those young people might have looked like had they not had their precious lives stolen from them by some racist KKK-drenched bastards who never really did get the justice they deserved. The catch here, the impact on me, was these murders and another very disturbing viewing on television at the time, in black and white, of the Birmingham police unleashing dogs, firing water hoses and using the ubiquitous police billy-clubs to beat down on peaceful mostly black youth protesting against the pervasive Mister James Crow system which deprived them of their civil rights.

Those events galvanized me into action from seemingly out of nowhere. At the time I was in high school, in an all-white high school in my growing up town of North Adamsville south of Boston. (That “all white” no mistake despite the nearness to urban Boston since a recent look at the yearbook for my class showed exactly zero blacks out of a class of 515. The nearest we got to a black person was a young immigrant from Lebanon who was a Christian though and was not particularly dark. She, to my surprise, had been a cheer-leader and well-liked). I should also confess, for those who don’t know not having read about a dozen articles  I have done over the past few years in this space, that my “corner boys,” the Irish mostly with a sprinkling of Italians reflecting the two major ethic groups in the town I hung around with then never could figure out why I was so concerned about black people down South when we were living hand to mouth up North. (The vagaries of time have softened some things among them for example nobody uses the “n” word which needs no explanation which was the “term of art” in reference to black people then to not prettify what this crowd was about.)

In many ways I think I only survived by the good graces of Scribe who everybody deferred to on social matters. Not for any heroic purpose but because Scribe was the key to intelligence about what girls were interested in what guys, who was “going” steady, etc. a human grapevine who nobody crossed without suffering exile. What was “heroic” if that can be used in this context was that as a result of those Birmingham images back then I travelled over to the NAACP office on Massachusetts Avenue in Boston to offer my meager services in the civil rights struggle and headed south to deadly North Carolina one summer on a voting drive. I was scared but that was that. My guys never knew that was where I went until many years later long after we had all gotten a better gripe via the U.S. Army and other situations on the question of race and were amazed that I had done that.         

The other recent occurrence that has added fuel to the fire was a segment on NPR’s Morning Edition where they deal with aspects of what amounts to the American Songbook. The segment dealt with the generational influence of folk-singer songwriter Bob Dylan’s The Times They Are A-Changin’ as an anthem for our generation (and its revival of late in newer social movements like the kids getting serious about gun control). No question for those who came of political age early in the 1960s before all hell broke loose this was a definitive summing up song for those of us who were seeking what Bobby Kennedy would later quoting a line of poetry from Alfred Lord Tennyson call “seeking a newer world.” In one song was summed up what we thought about obtuse indifferent authority figures, the status quo, our clueless parents, the social struggles that were defining us and a certain hurried-ness to get to wherever we thought we were going.

I mentioned in that previous commentary that given his subsequent trajectory while Bob Dylan may have wanted to be the reincarnation Plus of Woody Guthrie (which by his long life he can rightly claim) whether he wanted to be, could be, the voice of the Generation of ’68 was problematic. What drove me, is driving me a little crazy is who or what some fifty plus years after all the explosions represented the best of what we had started out to achieve (and were essentially militarily defeated by the ensuing reaction before we could achieve most of it) in those lonely high school halls and college dormitories staying up late at night worrying about the world and our place in the sun.

For a long time, probably far longer than was sensible I believed that it was somebody like Jim Morrison, shaman-like leader of the Doors, who came out of the West Coast winds and headed to our heads in the East. Not Dylan, although he was harbinger of what was to come later in the decade as rock reassembled itself in new garb after some vanilla music hiatus but somebody who embodied the new sensibility that Dylan had unleashed. The real nut though was that I, and not me alone, and not my communal brethren alone either, was the idea that we possessed again probably way past it use by date was that “music was the revolution” by that meaning nothing but the general lifestyle changes through the decade so that the combination of “dropping out” of nine to five society, dope in its many manifestations, kindnesses, good thought and the rapidly evolving music would carry us over the finish line. Guys like Josh Breslin and the late Pete Markin, hard political guys as well as rabid music lovers and dopers, used to laugh at me when I even mentioned that I was held in that sway especially when ebb tide of the counter-cultural movement hit in Nixon times and the bastinado was as likely to be our home as the new Garden. Still Jim Morrison as the “new man” (new human in today speak) made a lot of sense to me although when he fell down like many others to the lure of the dope I started reappraising some of my ideas -worried about that bastinado fate.  

So I’ll be damned right now if I could tell you that we had such a voice, and maybe that was the problem, or a problem which has left us some fifty years later without a good answer. Which only means for others to chime in with their thoughts on this matter.