Taking a little Flack

In June of last year, Curt Ladnier—a member-in-good-standing of the Thrilling Days of Yesteryear faithful—needed a few episodes of TV’s The Thin Man for his collection and proposed a swap: the first five installments of the Peter Lawford-Phyllis Kirk boob tube version for some rare episodes of The Lone Wolf, a syndicated 1954-55 TV series based on the literary sleuth created by Louis Joseph Vance.  (The character appeared in a slew of B-movie mysteries—many of them with legendary silver screen cad Warren William as L.W.—and a 1948-49 radio series with Gerald Mohr…who also tackled the role in a handful of the films.)  The TV Wolf starred Louis Hayward and since I hadn’t sampled it I was only too happy to help Br’er Curt out.  We have since that time swapped many e-mails; he’s currently working on a DVD project capturing those episodes of The Felony Squad that I had to give up when we reluctantly jettisoned getTV from our DISH programming.

Curt is the proprietor of In Search of Jack Boyle: On the Trail of Boston Blackie’s Forgotten Creator—the title is self-explanatory—and he also blogs at Maljardin: Musings From the Desmond Crypt, a site dedicated to the cult horror TV series Strange Paradise.  He asked me if I would be amenable to hosting a guest review of the DuMont sitcom Colonel Humphrey Flack, and I welcomed the idea with open arms; TDOY has featured many guest pieces here in the past, from resident guest movie reviewer Philip Schweier to cub reporter Tom Stillabower.  I know you’re going to enjoy Curt’s contribution as much as I did…so without further ado, I present…Mr. Ladnier.

COLONEL HUMPHREY FLACK:

THE DUMONT NETWORK’S FABULOUS FRAUD

Audiences love a light-hearted con story.  The enormous popularity of big screen productions like The Sting and Ocean’s Eleven paved the way for such recent television successes as Leverage, Hustle, and their like.  And these series had predecessors on the small screen, from ABC’s quintessential western sharpster Maverick to NBC’s criminally short-lived The Rogues.  But ushering these series onto television’s airwaves was the grand-daddy of all comedic con artist shows, the DuMont Network’s 1953 production Colonel Humphrey Flack.

Colonel Flack, a lovable scoundrel who inhabited DuMont’s Wednesday night line-up, was a genial fraud who lived by his wits.  Possessed of an air of quality and a taste for the finer things in life, he frequented the best clubs and hotels, typically with only a few cents to his name.  Flack never let the nuisance of poverty stand in the way of his comforts, much to the consternation of his less polished – but more practical – confederate, Uthas Garvey.  But in spite of his penchant for living beyond his means, Colonel Flack was more an opportunist than a criminal.  He was gifted with an unerring knack of turning any situation to his own advantage, and the insight to realize that there was money to be had whenever others were cheating the system.  He had a professed dislike of “beastly chiselers,” whom he took every opportunity to fleece in Robin Hood fashion (pocketing a modest percentage to cover expenses). 

Colonel Flack creator Everett Rhodes Castle

Despite television’s relative infancy in 1953, Flack and Garvey were old hands at the confidence game by the time they stole onto DuMont’s schedule.  The colonel was the brainchild of magazine writer Everett Rhodes Castle, who chronicled Flack’s exploits in a dozen issues of The Saturday Evening Post between 1936 and 1946.  Castle’s yarns proved popular, and as early as the spring of 1939 his creation had already leapt from the page to the airwaves – not on radio, but on the fledgling medium of television!   Weeks ahead of the National Broadcasting Company’s general demonstration of television at the New York World’s Fair, the Colonel had already been featured as the protagonist of NBC Television’s one-shot production A Spot of Philanthropy the evening of April 13, 1939.  Loosely based on Everett Rhodes Castle’s 1938 short story of the same name, the program starred George Taylor as Colonel Flack and Michael Drake as the long-suffering Garvey (1).  This early televised effort established Colonel Humphrey Flack as one of the first characters from popular contemporary fiction ever to be adapted for television.

Despite his early foray into television, it took some time for Colonel Flack to break into radio.  He finally took his place behind the microphone on a pair of episodes of the NBC Blue series The Listening Post.  February 20, 1945 saw his debut in a dramatization of the Saturday Evening Post story “It’s All Done with Credit” (2), and the June 22, 1945 episode saw his return in “Colonel Flack and the Tender Ethic” (3).  Flack fans must have been delighted, as these stories came to life over the airwaves within days of their original magazine publications.  Three years later, the Colonel finally snared a sustaining series on network radio when the Wilbur Stark / Jerry Layton company Program Productions sold NBC a twelve-episode run of Colonel Humphrey Flack.  Premiering at 8:00 PM EST on Thursday July 3, 1947, the series was a summer replacement for either The Aldrich Family or A Day in the Life of Dennis Day (announcements from the era disagree).  Directed by Ed King, the series starred Wendell Holmes as Flack and Frank Maxwell as Garvey, in scripts written by Tom Dougall and Sheldon Stark (4).  At the close of the summer season, NBC declined to contract for further episodes, and the series folded with its September 18, 1947 broadcast.

Wendell Holmes as Colonel Flack

Also in 1947, mystery luminary Ellery Queen chose Colonel Flack for inclusion in the hardcover anthology Rogues’ Gallery: The Great Criminals of Modern Fiction.  Published under the London imprint Faber and Faber, the collection Included Everett Rhodes Castle’s 1943 tale “The Colonel Gives a Party.”  The story’s publication in Queen’s anthology marks the colonel’s only appearance between the covers of a book.  As of this writing some 70 years later, the remainder of Colonel Flack’s literary escapades remain uncollected and unreprinted. 

Undeterred by the failure of their 1947 radio production to gain traction, Stark-Layton Productions redoubled their efforts to further develop the Flack franchise.  In 1953, they sold pilots for both a proposed television series and another radio adaptation to ABC.  The television production aired under the title “Colonel Humphrey J. Flack” as the May 31, 1953 installment of Plymouth Playhouse (a.k.a. ABC Album Playhouse).  This time around, British actor Alan Mowbray stepped into the role of the colonel and Frank McHugh played Garvey, in a story about the impoverished pair embarking on an ocean cruise courtesy of tickets won in a raffle (5).  The production was rebroadcast on the West Coast two weeks later, on June 16, 1953 (6).

The radio pilot brought the Mowbray/McHugh pairing before the microphones of ABC Playhouse for that series’ June 11, 1953 broadcast, also titled “Colonel Humphrey J. Flack.”  The episode related Flack and Garvey’s plan to aid a young medical student in recovering his life savings (7).  In selling ABC pilots for both radio and television, Stark-Layton Productions probably felt they had all bases covered for the launch of a new Flack series.  But in the end, the network declined to move forward with either.

Frank Jenks (as Garvey) and Alan Mowbray (as Flack)

However, the failure of the ABC television pilot had a silver lining.  Rather than throwing in the towel on the project, Stark-Layton switched gears and pitched it to the DuMont Television Network.  The gamble scored success and, under the sponsorship of the American Chicle Company, Colonel Humphrey Flack joined DuMont’s weekly line-up on Wednesday October 7, 1953.  Alan Mowbray returned in the role of Colonel Flack, but Frank McHugh did not make the transition from the pilot.  Instead, the part of Garvey was taken up ably by veteran character actor Frank Jenks (8).  The series was well-received, with Billboard praising its “smart scripting” and the “smooth teamwork” of its principal performers.  “Here’s one show that continues to provide us with welcome relief from mayhem, cops and robbers,” was the sentiment from the television critic of The Brooklyn Daily Eagle (9).

Perhaps most pleased with Colonel Humphrey Flack was the star himself, Alan Mowbray.  Though he had portrayed a wide range of characters in hundreds of films, Mowbray feared he was best remembered for the handful of times he had played a butler.  Landing the lead in DuMont’s series changed that.  “Now I’m called ‘Colonel’ as much as I’m called Mowbray,” he confided to reporters in 1954 (10).  Even more satisfying was the remark from Flack creator Everett Rhodes Castle, who commented that he couldn’t tell where Alan Mowbray left off and Colonel Flack began (11).  “I always try to be the complete rogue,” Mowbray expounded upon his affinity for the character, “but always keep within the law.  The colonel never commits an overt act of any sort.  That’s important because so many children are watching” (12).

Children and adults alike tuned in to make Colonel Humphrey Flack a mainstay on DuMont.  The network chronicled Flack and Garvey’s escapades through 39 live weekly telecasts, eventually drawing the season to a close on July 2, 1954.  With the Colonel’s departure from the airwaves during the summer months, newspapers reported that the series was likely to move to CBS (13).  In the end, however, autumn was not to see Colonel Flack’s return to any network.  DuMont had some limited success in syndicating their kinescopes of the original 39 broadcasts to regional markets, but no further episodes of the series were put into production.  Alan Mowbray later attributed the unexpected cancellation of the show to the rise in popularity of westerns.  “We were crowded off by cowboys,” was his glib assessment (14).

With his prolonged absence from network schedules, things looked bleak for Colonel Flack’s television career.  But you can’t keep a good rogue down, and in 1958 Flack was back, when CBS Films approached Stark-Layton Productions about a revival to be marketed in first run syndication.  Sporting the almost imperceptibly tweaked title of Colonel Humphrey J. Flack, the new series went into production in the autumn of 1958, bringing Alan Mowbray and Frank Jenks back in the principal roles.  Mowbray was heartened by the fact that this revival would be shot on film, unlike the series’ earlier live incarnation on DuMont.  “Every time I went in front of those live cameras I wished I wasn’t there,” he remarked to The Detroit Free Press. “Why I didn’t collapse at the end of the season I don’t know.”  He was happy for the chance to portray Flack in a more polished filmed production -- and the prospect of residuals for subsequent reruns was also enticing.

Colonel Humphrey J. Flack hit the airwaves at the close of 1958, and was sold to major markets across the U.S.  Attracting sponsors ranging from Standard Oil to Budweiser, the 39-episode package garnered praise from Variety as “the only fresh comedy series in syndication.”  However, critical acclaim did not prevent some misconceptions from arising about the new series’ content.  Few of the filmed episodes were remakes of installments from DuMont’s earlier live production, but returning fans who tuned in to episodes such as “Saddle Sore” or “Back to the Coal Mines” may have gotten the mistaken impression that the revival series was simply an attempt to re-shoot the original 39 scripts. 

Certainly, multiple sources over the years have cited this as fact, but the idea doesn’t hold up to scrutiny.  A comparison of the titles between both series reveals very few similarities, and Alan Mowbray himself drove the final nail in this misconception’s coffin.  In a 1959 interview, he reflected on Flack’s filmed exploits in relation to the earlier live telecasts.  “We used … new stories this season, so we [still have the] old ones to dip into if our … writers can’t come up with anything.  They are our insurance policy” (15).  So Mowbray believed the DuMont scripts could be used as the basis of a subsequent season for 1959–60.

Unfortunately, even having a few dozen scripts in reserve couldn’t ensure a second season for Colonel Humphrey J. Flack, and CBS Films commissioned no further episodes after their run wrapped production in the spring of 1959.  Given that low ratings were the primary factor behind the series’ demise, fan response to the cancellation was surprisingly vocal.  When Michigan broadcaster WWJ-TV removed the show from its schedule in December 1959, a local civic group published a protest on the front page of The Detroit News and organized a letter-writing campaign to CBS Films (16).  In the end, Flack fans could take comfort in the fact that the filmed series remained available in syndication for years, but no new episodes would be produced. 

Today Colonel Flack persists primarily as a footnote in entertainment history.  His radio adventures are lost, and his print appearances languish in the yellowed pages of vintage periodicals.  A handful of kinescopes of his DuMont exploits are held by the UCLA Film Archive in California and the Paley Center for Media in New York, while his syndicated television series is now a part of the Viacom film library.  Aside from one or two isolated broadcasts, he has been absent from the airwaves for decades.  Yet despite being all but forgotten today, he blazed a trail for series ranging from It Takes a Thief to Tenspeed and Brownshoe.  And for that, God bless Colonel Humphrey Flack!

SOURCES

1.           Terrace, Vincent.  Television Specials: 5336 Entertainment Programs, 1936 – 2012 (2nd edition).  McFarland Press, 2013
2.           The Abilene Reporter-News: Abilene, Texas (February 20, 1945)

3.           The Findlay Republican Courier: Findlay, Ohio (June 22, 1945)

4.           Billboard Magazine: “Colonel Humphrey Flack” (July 19, 1947)

5.           The Cleveland Plain Dealer: Cleveland, Ohio (May 31, 1953)

6.           The San Bernardino Sun: San Bernardino, California (June 16, 1953)

7.           The Abilene Reporter: Abilene, Texas (June 7, 1953)

8.           Billboard Magazine: “Colonel Humphrey Flack (TV)” (October 17, 1953)

9.           The Brooklyn Daily Eagle: Brooklyn, New York (November 25, 1953)

10.         The Cincinnati Enquirer: Cincinnati, Ohio (June 29, 1954)

11.         The Chicago Daily Tribune: Chicago, Illinois (January 24, 1959)

12.         The Cincinnati Enquirer: Cincinnati, Ohio (June 29, 1954)

13.         The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette: Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania (June 18, 1954)

14.         The Chicago Daily Tribune: Chicago, Illinois (January 24, 1959)

15.         The Detroit Free Press: Detroit, Michigan (May 31, 1959)

16.         Broadcasting: “Flack for ‘Flack’” (December 21, 1959)

NOTES & EPHEMERA

1.           An item in the September 21, 1939 edition of The Los Angeles Times refers to NBC’s April production of A Spot of Philanthropy as part of “a series of television plays dramatizing the popular Colonel Flack stories.”  This seems spurious, as no evidence exists of further productions on NBC.
2.           The broadcasting trade publication Ross Reports on Television states that the Colonel Humphrey Flack episode aired by the DuMont Network on May 1, 1954 was titled “The Cruncher.”  However, multiple newspapers report that the episode broadcast on that date was “King Hakmir Khan.”  Ross Reports does not provide an episode title for the May 7, 1954 broadcast, so this is the probable air date for “The Cruncher.”

3.           While the show’s basic formula remained substantially the same between the DuMont series and its later syndicated incarnation, there was one significant change.  A laugh track was added to the filmed series, giving the revival a more pronounced “sitcom” feeling.
4.           Some sources state that the 1958 – 59 CBS Films series was later marketed under the alternate title The Adventures of Colonel Flack. To date, no advertisements or documentation confirming this variant title have surfaced.  However, newspaper listings do confirm that the series was aired in the New York and New Jersey areas under the title The Fabulous Fraud circa 1960, and as The Imposter in 1961.

5.           Two large archives of scripts from the DuMont Network’s Colonel Humphrey Flack are known to exist.  One is included in the Edward Jurist Papers, 1940-79 held in the UCLA library’s special collections and the other resides with the Steven H. Scheurer Collection of Television Program Scripts at the Yale University Library.

The Colonel Flack stories in THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

1.           Introducing Col. Humphrey Flack (April 25, 1936)

2.           Col. Humphrey Flack Makes Three Thousand Per Cent Net (November 21, 1936)

3.           Colonel Humphrey Flack and the Barking Overcoat (January 23, 1937)

4.           Colonel Flack and the Affair of the Countess Radeska (May 15, 1937)

5.           Clean-Up (July 24, 1937)

6.           The Colonel Builds a Backfire (November 6, 1937)

7.           The Great Christmas Sweepstakes (December 25, 1937)

8.           A Drop of Elephant Blood (March 5, 1938)

9.           A Spot of Philanthropy (November 12, 1938)

10.         The Colonel Gives a Party (May 8, 1943)
11.         It's All Done With Credit (February 17, 1945)

12.         Colonel Flack and the Tender Ethic (June 23, 1945)

13.         Colonel Flack and the Common Man (April 20, 1946)

COLONEL HUMPHREY FLACK (1953–54) episode list

1.           Art is Fleeting (October 7, 1953)

2.           Saddle Sore (October 14, 1953)

3.           The Eight-Ball and the Side Pocket [a.k.a. The Pool Table] (October 21, 1953)

4.           The Rumboldt Affair [a.k.a. The Horse Race] (October 28, 1953)

5.           title unknown (November 4, 1953)

6.           The Bucket Shop (November 11, 1953)

7.           The Missing Heir (November 18, 1953)

8.           title unknown (November 25, 1953)

9.           The Movie Racket (December 2, 1953)

10.         The Syndicate (December 9, 1953)

11.         The Inventor (December 16, 1953)

12.         African Expedition (December 23, 1953)

13.         The Flack Match (January 2, 1954)

14.         The Wildfire Fund (January 9, 1954)

15.         Prince Fahz of Baklava (January 16, 1954)

16.         The Mansion (January 23, 1954)

17.         The Department Story (January 30, 1954)

18.         The Knave of Diamonds (February 6, 1954)

19.         The Monaco Stradivarius (February 13, 1954)

20.         Do You Call This a Life? (February 20, 1954)

21.         The Flower Girl (February 27, 1954)

22.         The Latin Major (March 6, 1954)

23.         The Columnist (March 13, 1954)

24.         The Pomeranian Society (March 20, 1954)

25.         Vacation (March 27, 1954)

26.         The Swami (April 3, 1954)

27.         The Wild West (April 10, 1954)

28.         Poor Little Rich Boy (April 17, 1954)

29.         Gambling Fever (April 24, 1954)

30.         King Hakmir Khan (May 1, 1954)

31.         title unknown (May 7, 1954)

32.         Achilles Heel (May 14, 1954)

33.         The Perfume Story (May 21, 1954)

34.         Good Old Bob (May 28, 1954)

35.         Back in the Salt Mine (June 4, 1954)

36.         By the Beautiful Sea (June 11, 1954)

37.         Atlantic Crossing (June 18, 1954)

38.         Happy Birthday (June 25, 1954)

39.         The Bradley Diamond (July 2, 1954)

COLONEL HUMPHREY J. FLACK (syndicated) episode list

1.           Lady Bluebeard                                                                                                                   

2.           Colonel Flack Gets Kilt

3.           The Formula

4.           The Bank Teller

5.           Something for the Birds

6.           The Real Estate Caper

7.           Saddle Sore

8.           Colonel Flack’s Big Deal

9.           The Big Wheels

10.         The Diamond Ring

11.         Colonel Flack to the Rescue

12.         The Blackmailer

13.         The Star Maker

14.         The Treasure Hunt

15.         The Emperor’s Snuff-Box 

16.         In Flack We Trust

17.         Flack and the Maharajah

18.         Colonel Cupid

19.         Back to the Coal Mines

20.         The Hypnotist

21.         The Producer

22.         The Happy Medium

23.         The Friendship Club

24.         Colonel Flack and the Gangster

25.         Horse of Another Color

26.         Follow the Bouncing Meatball

27.         West of the Weirdos

28.         Colonel Flack and the Little Leaguers

29.         Colonel Flack’s New Muffler

30.         Garviola, the Matador

31.         Surplus

32.         The Missing Moolah

33.         Colonel Flack and the Dragon

34.         Pearls of Wisdom

35.         Spaceship Ahoy

36.         Up from the Apes

37.         The Tycoon

38.         Colonel Flack and the Counterfeiter

39.         Lo, the Etruscans

Guest Review – A Day in the Life of Dennis O’Keefe: Raw Deal (1948), The Fake (1953) and The Diamond Wizard (1954)

By Philip Schweier

Over the Memorial Day weekend, I took the time to watch a trio of crime thrillers, all starring Dennis O’Keefe. O’Keefe was a minor leading man in Hollywood who started out as an extra in the early days of talkies. He climbed through the ranks, also appearing on radio, and transitioned into television in the 1950s and ‘60s.

First of the films that I watched was Raw Deal (1948), in which he co-starred with Claire Trevor. O’Keefe plays Joe Sullivan, serving a stretch in prison on behalf of crime boss Rick Coyle (Raymond Burr). Coyle arranges to bust Joe out, but only in the hope that Joe gets gunned down by the authorities. Joe’s girl, Pat Cameron (Trevor), is waiting with the getaway car ready. With the cops hot on their heels, Joe and Pat head to the apartment of Ann Martin (Marsha Hunt), who works for the law firm working on Joe’s release. It seems Ann has developed a bit of a crush, and Joe intends to use it as leverage for help in getting out of town.

Traveling with two women enables Joe to squeak past the law and head for Crescent City, where he expects to meet up with Coyle, receive $50,000 that he’s owed, and head to South America. But Pat quickly notices Anne’s growing attachment, and begins to wonder how loyal her criminal boyfriend really is.

The film features a number of narrow brushes with the law, as well as a young Whit Bissel as the subject of a separate manhunt. Realizing he’s been betrayed, Joe decides to settle his score with Coyle before leaving the country.

Raymond Burr plays the part of crime boss Coyle to perfection. His sadistic nature slowly gives way to growing paranoia, as he fears Joe come gunning for him. Between Coyle’s growing anxiety, and Pat’s increasing jealousy, the film is an emotional thriller leading the audience to wonder how matters will eventually resolve themselves.

In The Fake (1953), O’Keefe is on the right side of the law, playing insurance investigator Paul Mitchell, who has been assigned to protect a masterpiece of art by da Vinci while it is on loan to London’s Tate Gallery. There, he meets Mary Mason (Coleen Gray), the daughter of an impoverished painter.

The da Vinci is under scrutiny due to the thefts of two other paintings, both of which were replaced by forgeries. Mitchell follows one lead after another as attempts are made to steal the da Vinci, beginning at its arrival in England. Meanwhile, he also continues to pursue Mary Mason. This romantic endeavor that is complicated when it appears her father may be involved in the art thefts.

As capers go, it’s enjoyable without trying too hard to be more than it is. It hardly ranks high on anyone’s list of mysteries, especially when one stunningly obvious clue seems to escape the notice of Mitchell and his cohorts. But it benefits from having been filmed on location in London at the Tate Gallery. Also, segments of Mussorgsky's “Pictures At An Exhibition" are used for the musical score, providing not only irony but a cheap source for music cues.

O’Keefe is once again in jolly old England for The Diamond Wizard (1954), this time as U.S. Treasury Agent Joe Dennison. He’s trailed a gang of thieves who’ve stolen a million dollars from a U.S. Treasury vault. Upon arrival, he discovers his case intersects with that of Scotland Yard Inspector McClaren (Philip Friend), who is investigating the disappearance of Dr. Eric Miller (Paul Hardtmuth), an atomic scientist. They compare notes, and Dennison discovers Miller has secretly been creating bogus diamonds, either willingly or under coercion. Their combined investigation evolves into a police procedural, as Dennison adapts his American methods to British sensibilities, while he and McClaren compete for the affections of Dr. Miller’s daughter, Marline (Margaret Sheridan).

Both The Fake and The Diamond Wizard were produced by British studios (Pax Films and Gibraltar Films, respectively), though perhaps due to its American leads, they have a more American tone. According to the IMDB, O’Keefe is credited as co-director on the Diamond Wizard, and co-authored the script under the pen-name Jonathan Rix.

While none of O’Keefe’s films stand out as exceptional thrillers or film noir, they’re pleasant diversions for those that haven’t seen them before.

Guest Review: The Blue Gardenia (1953)

By Philip Schweier

During a brief respite from the drudgery we call modern life, I had the opportunity to enjoy a few days of The Greatest Cable Channel Known to Mankind™, and stumbled across an enjoyable crime drama entitled The Blue Gardenia (1953). I suspect the title may have been inspired by the infamous Black Dahlia murder a few years prior, but having missed the first few minutes, I could be wrong.

Anne Baxter plays Norah Larkin, a young woman in love. Unfortunately, her beau is half a world away, serving in the military. But that doesn’t keep her from preparing a candle-lit dinner and creating an atmosphere of romance to enjoy his latest letter. When two people are in love, distance means nothing.

Or does it? Because no sooner does she open his latest missive than it becomes clear it’s a Dear Jane letter. It seems while serving in Korea he’s met a lovely young nurse and they’re due to be married (“Seoul mates” – there, I said it).

Shattered and emotional, she is vulnerable to a phone call from Harry Prebble (Raymond Burr), whom we later discover is a scoundrel of the first order. In a case of mistaken identity, he invites Norah out. She quickly abandons her dinner and heads off to the Blue Gardenia Club, where she meets Harry who immediately begins wooing her with its trademark corsage and a barrage of Polynesian pearl divers (the drinks, not the actual divers themselves).

This prompts the following exchange between Joe the waiter (Victor Sen Young) and our male lead, Richard Conte. Conte plays newspaper columnist Casey Mayo.

Waiter: He's a fancy man with the ladies, that Mister Prebble.

Mayo: You jealous, Joe?

Joe the Bartender: Oh no, no...I fancy men myself.

WHA-? It’s 1953. At the height of the Red Scare, I suppose certain other segments of society could let their hair down a little.

Performing a bit of fortuitous music is Nat King Cole, singing “Blue Gardenia” at the Blue Gardenia. This song later comes into play (no pun intended), when Prebble puts on the record in an attempt to seduce Norah back at his place. Believe it or don’t, he’s an artist, with plenty of cheesecake art decorating his bachelor pad (because nothing gets a girl’s engine revving like pictures of beautiful women). Prebble makes his new girl one last drink; he may have called it a rum roofie – or not.

Drunk, drugged and dazed, Norah is forced to fend off Prebble’s advances. Her head swimming, she draws the poker from the hearth, steps up to the plate and swings like Babe Ruth, shattering the mirror over the fireplace, only to collapse in a heap on the floor.

She comes to a short time later. Prebble is lying on the floor nearby, an ugly gash in his forehead. “I’m going to need a good defense attorney,” she says to herself. “Better call Perry Ma – Oh, that’s right.” Still confused, she pulls on her coat and heads out the door, leaving her shoes behind. The next day, she wakes in her bed, uncertain how she got home.

Prebble isn’t so lucky. He’s dead, his skull caved in by the fireplace poker. On the scene is newspaperman Casey Mayo and the police. Leading the forces of truth, justice and the American way is none other than George Reeves, with a cheesy mustache to conceal his true identity (Hey, if a pair of glasses will work, why not a mustache?)

Capt. Sam Haynes (Reeves) plays Inspector Henderson to Casey Mayo’s Clark Kent, and together they have only a handful of clues: A pair of women’s shoes, size 8C, a fragment of black taffeta, a blue gardenia corsage, and a record playing over and over. Immediately, they suspect one of his many girlfriends done him in and begin asking questions at his favorite haunts.

When Norah reports to her job as a telephone operator the next morning, she discovers many of her co-workers are being questioned by the police. Apparently Prebble prowled the phone company employees in search of vict – er, models. One inadvertently breaks the mirror in her compact, prompting a dim recollection of the shattered mirror the night before.

When her co-worker returns, Norah is told they’re not supposed to talk about it, and then proceeds to explain that Harry Prebble was murdered and the police are questioning his girls for leads. But she’s not supposed to talk about it. Norah is stunned, and pieces the events of the night before together. Convinced she’s responsible for Prebble’s death, she burns her taffeta dress, flies off the handle at her roommates, and generally acts in crazy fear for her life.

Mayo, meanwhile, takes a bit of sympathetic approach in his column. Even when offered a free pass to cover the next H-bomb test, Mayo wants to stick with the Prebble investigation. Knowing Prebble for the D-bag that he was, he pleads publicly for the Blue Gardenia – as the murderess has been dubbed by the press – to turn herself in. In exchange for her exclusive story, his paper will provide the best legal defense available.

Sticking close to his phone through the night, he fields several phone calls from various nutcases with dreams of notoriety. One the REAL Blue Gardenia can tell him the size shoes found at the scene. Even Capt. Haynes gets in one the act, claiming Mayo is interfering with an investigation. Nevertheless, in a moment of despair, Norah calls and provides that key to her authenticity.

She agrees to meet Mayo at an all-night diner, where she tells all she knows about her “friend” who may have killed Prebble. She completely charms Mayo, who’s so infatuated he can’t see that she’s probably the killer they’ve been looking for. She’s a sweet kid who couldn’t possibly have murdered Prebble.

The next day, greatly relieved after her chat with Mayo, Norah apologizes to her roommate Crystal (Ann Sothern) for her behavior. Crystal is more than understanding. She’s noticed Norah’s black taffeta dress is missing, along with her shoes. She agrees to go with Norah to meet Mayo.

When Mayo meets Crystal back at the diner, his first thought is she’s hard-bitten enough to have whacked Prebble, and is dismayed to see Crystal point him in Norah’s direction. But unfortunately for all concerned it’s a trap. Waiting outside is Capt. Haynes and the rest of the force. It’s only after she’s been escorted to the squad cars outside that we see Haynes credit the diner’s operator as the person who led to her capture.

While Norah suffers in the hoosegow, Mayo is convinced more than ever she’s innocent (plus he wants to convince her he wasn’t the one who ratted her out). He spearheads a fresh investigation, leading to conflicting statements that as to what song was playing when Prebble got his. Norah says it was Nat King Cole’s “Blue Gardenia,” but it was a classical piece that was on his Close ‘n Play when the cleaning lady found him.

Mayo is able to drag Haynes along on following up this flimsy clue, leading them to the music store where Prebble bought his tools of seduction. When the manager tells his shop girl the police want a word, she heads into the bathroom, where she shatters and ashtray and…

Cut to Norah being escorted by the prison matron to the bedside of said shop girl, who is in the midst of confessing that she paid Prebble a visit that night. Thinking she was there for another taste of Harry Prebble, he switched records. But she’s hoping he will help her with “her problem.” Harry loses interest quicker than you can say Roe v. Wade, focusing instead on an unfinished painting. She begins to notice the various clues that he’s not the first female he’s had in his place that night. Red-hot in anger, she uses the poker to bash his brains in.

Norah is next seen leaving police headquarters a free woman, a bouquet of flowers in hand (I don’t recall the bouquet being among her personal effects when she went in stir, but I could be wrong). Mayo is on-hand, clearly hoping to kindle a romance with the former accused murderess. And under her roommate’s tutelage, she is quick to give him the cold shoulder – but not too quick.

It’s a pleasant little piece of crime drama, written by Vera Caspary, so perhaps the female point of view is more legit than most film noirs of the era. More notable is its director, Fritz Lang. Despite Lang’s reputation among film fans, many who worked with him found him abusive and difficult. Because of this, his career in America never reached the critical success of his earlier, more artistic films.

And speaking of Metropolis, it should be noted Blue Gardenia was one of George Reeve’s final film roles before he became perpetually identified as TV’s Man of Steel. The Adventures of Superman was produced independently by Superman Inc., a subsidiary of National Comics (later known as DC Comics). The producers owned the show lock, stock and barrel, and did everything it could to keep the cast under a tight rein. There was a clause in the actors’ contracts that prevented them from taking roles that would last more than 30 days. This was a means of keeping the actors from ever cultivating more promising careers, and thereby denying them any leverage they could use against the show’s producers.

Reeves had an uncredited appearance in 1953’s From Here to Eternity, and a small part in Forever Female the same year. Otherwise, he played Superman almost until the day he died.

Guest Review: Warner Bros. Night at the Movies – The Sea Hawk (1940)

By Philip Schweier

A couple of years back I got a Kindle, and I immediately began filling it with books in the public domain (cuz I’m cheap). Among these were some swashbuckling adventures such as Captain Blood, and keeping Errol Flynn in mind, I also added The Sea Hawk, both books by Raphael Sabatini.

However, I recently got a copy of The Sea Hawk (1940) on DVD, and was surprised to learn the story is nothing like the novel. The movie is instead based on Beggars of the Sea by Seton I. Miller. Sabatini or not, it still makes for an interesting film.

In the aftermath of the success of 1938’s The Adventures of Robin Hood, The Sea Hawk attempted to reunite many of the principals. Michael Curtiz returned to direct, as well as actors Flynn and Claude Rains. Erich Wolfgang Korngold provided music once more. Olivia de Havilland and Basil Rathbone, having been featured opposite Flynn in Captain Blood (1935), chose to pass.

Flynn portrays Capt. Geoffrey Thorpe, a roguish captain whom Queen Elizabeth (Flora Robinson) employs as one of her Sea Hawks, specialized captains who form an elite group of commanders. As Don José Alvarez de Cordoba (Rains) of Spain journeys to England to assume his duties as ambassador, his ship is accosted by Thorpe’s Albatross. Of course the Albatross emerges the victor, and Don José and his niece Dona Maria (Brenda Marshall) are taken aboard to be “escorted” to England. Also taken aboard are a number of English prisoners who had been serving as rowers in the hold of the Spanish ship. Freeing these slaves justifies Thorpe’s attack on a ship flying the flag of a nation with whom England’s relations are tenuous at best.

During the voyage to England, Thorpe schmoozes Dona Maria, but she is inclined to give him the cold shoulder. By the time of their arrival, she has thawed somewhat. Nevertheless, the queen’s advisor, Lord Wolfingham (Henry Daniell), is eager to see Thorpe removed. It seems Wolfie is conspiring with Don José to undermine the queen, allowing King Phillip of Spain to conquer England.

In a private audience with the queen, Queen Elizabeth and Captain Thorpe hatch a plan to send the Albatross to Panama, the source of Spanish gold, and hijack as much gold as the ship can manage. All this wealth is intended to finance the development of the British Navy, as a means of defense. But Don Jose and Wolfingham have eyes on Thorpe, and are able to suss out from Thorpe’s chart maker his next objective. They manage to lay a trap for Thorpe and his men, which results in them being chained to oars of a Spanish galleon.

In true swashbuckling fashion, Thorpe is able to lead his men to freedom, and return to England to challenge the traitorous Lord Wolfingham. Dona Maria recognizes the treachery of her uncle, and succumbs to Thorpe’s romantic advances. The film ends with a rousing speech by Queen Elizabeth that, in 1940, could easily have been an allegory to the rising tide of war.

By 1940, some of these adventures had become old hat, especially when starring so many of the same actors. Other veterans from Robin Hood included Alan Hale and Una O’Connor, repeating the same types of roles as before.

The DVD I watched featured a “Warner Bros. Night at the Movies,” which included an intro by Leonard Maltin. I have never cared for Maltin, not since he did movie reviews for Entertainment Tonight back in the late 1970s. He’s always come across as a bit pompous to me, so I skipped the intro.

I did watch the newsreel, and the cartoon (a black and white Porky Pig episode). What I really found charming was the short, entitled Alice in Movieland, written by Ed Sullivan (yes, THAT Ed Sullivan). It chronicles the rise of a young contest winner from Nowhere, U.S.A., (played by Joan Leslie) who wins a contest for a trip to Hollywood and the chance to become a star. After bidding good-bye to her town amidst much fanfare, she journeys to Hollywood, where she is met with equal fanfare. She makes the rounds of a number of nightspots before her screen test. The crew is less interested in her, and more in getting another contest winner out the door so they can move onto the next one in time for lunch.

Nothing comes of her screen test, and on the verge of going home, she opens a letter given her by her grandmother (Clara Blandick). “Open it only when you feel you have to come home,” Gramma said. Instead of a train ticket home, Alice finds a letter, encouraging Alice to stick it out despite her frustration. It finishes with the line, “…and if you come home without making it as a star, I’ll wring your neck.” Whoa! Grandma’s showing some tough love.

Alice’s stick-to-it-iveness pays off and she soon lands a role as an extra, only to endure the hazing of her more experienced cast mates. Chief among them is the assistant director (played by Martin Burke, who was also featured in The Sea Hawk). She chews him a new one in front of the entire crew, drawing the attention of the director, who immediately puts her on the fast track to fame and fortune. As she collects her Academy Award®, she hears people shouting her name. But it’s only the porter (Clarence Muse) waking her as the train pulls into Los Angeles.

Yes, kids, like most Hollywood fables, it’s all been a dream, but not without its truth. Hopefully, it made one starry-eyed teenager think twice before journeying to Hollywood, only to become another Elizabeth Short (look her up). As for the star of the short, Joan Leslie, she enjoyed steady work in Hollywood, being featured in such films as Sergeant York and Yankee Doodle Dandy. Eventually she moved into television in the 1950s before leaving the business. In the late ‘70s/early ‘80s she returned to small roles on television shows such as The Incredible Hulk and Murder, She Wrote.

Anyone hoping for the same thrill from The Sea Hawk completes the Errol Flynn hat-trick, but anyone hoping for the same thrills as the Adventures of Robin Hood may be disappointed.

Guest Review: John Ford’s Cavalry Trilogy – Fort Apache (1948), She Wore a Yellow Ribbon (1949) and Rio Grande (1950)

By Philip Schweier

With the recent passing of classic film icon Shirley Temple, I got to thinking about any of her films I may have seen, but only one came to mind: Fort Apache (1948), in which she co-starred with Henry Fonda and John Wayne under the direction of John Ford.

It was the first entry into what has been referred to as John Ford’s “Cavalry Trilogy,” all centering on the same theme of the army out West. Though I’d come across passing mentions of the trilogy, I’ve never taken the opportunity to sit and examine the three films together.

Join me… won’t you?

John Ford’s Westerns often feature the sweeping vistas of Monument Valley, as well as various members of the legendary “John Ford Stock Company”: John Wayne, Maureen O’Hara, Victor McLaglen, Ward Bond and Harry Carey Jr., among others. The Cavalry Trilogy is no exception, beginning with Fort Apache.

Loosely based on Custer’s infamous “Last Stand,” Henry Fonda plays Lt. Col. Owen Thursday, a career officer now posted to Fort Apache, an assignment he obviously sees as woefully beneath him. But like a good soldier, he follows orders. Joining him in the transfer is his teenage daughter Philadelphia (Shirley Temple), fresh from a finishing school in Europe. She doesn’t mind the assignment to way out West; she’s just happy to be with her father.

At the stagecoach’s last stop, 35 miles from the fort, they encounter a young Lt. Michael O’Rourke (John Agar in his film debut; he and Temple were married at the time). Soon afterward, a handful of soldiers arrive to pick him up. It’s clear from the greeting that they are old family friends, played by Pedro Armendariz, Victor McLaglen and Jack Pennick. Thursday is dismayed that they haven’t been sent for him.

Arriving at the fort, Thursday is further disappointed that the party being held is not for him, but instead in honor of Washington’s Birthday. So he is informed by Capt. Kirby York. Meanwhile, young Lt. O’Rourke, fresh from West Point, is reunited with his father, Sgt. O’Rourke, played by Ward Bond in what is perhaps the most sedate family reunion ever captured on film.

I chalk it up to the overall “Irishness” of the film. Being a descendant of the Old Sod meself, I have the greatest respect for their contributions to the growth of these United States. And I’m well aware of director John Ford’s fondness for his heritage, but watching this film, one might come to believe the West was tamed largely by Sons of Erin, while others, like Lt. Col. Owen Thursday, fell victim to a combination of their own egos and Indian arrows.

Lt. O’Rourke and Philadelphia soon strike up a budding romance, until an early morning ride amidst concerns over Indian attacks requires the colonel put an end to it. At best, he tolerates the young lieutenant, mainly because he’s the only one to adhere to military decorum despite their remote posting. Most of his other officers and NCOs are much more relaxed.

When news arrives of Cochise being on the warpath, Capt. York (Wayne) and Sgt. Beaufort (Armendariz) are dispatched to seek him out in the hopes of convincing him to return peacefully to the reservation. They manage to do so, and learn the source of Cochise’s grievance is a corrupt Indian agent named Meacham (Grant Withers). Cochise and his band seem willing to discuss terms, which include Meacham’s removal.

However, Col. Thursday has other plans. With Cochise’s guard down, Thursday is all too willing take advantage of the opening to run the Indian’s to ground. York urges him not to, and is ordered to hang back with his men while the colonel and his loyal – soon to be dead – officers engage the enemy. The volume of Indians that overrun Thursday and his command is insurmountable, and York is forced to observe the massacre as it happens.

The film’s coda takes place a few years later, as reporters interview the now-Lt. Col. Kirby York regarding his heroic commander. As with a later John Wayne film, he is content to let them print the legend. Philadelphia is now married to Captain O’Rourke, though at this point in the film, Shirley Temple’s appearance seems superfluous. Her character had lost its purpose once the focus shifted to the battle between the Indians and the cavalry.

She Wore a Yellow Ribbon (1949) takes its title from the tradition of women wearing yellow ribbons in their hair to signifying their beaus being in the cavalry, as indicated in song throughout the film. The female lead, Joanne Dru, does so, but it regularly remains a question as to whom the yellow ribbon is for.

The story begins with the news of Custer’s Last Stand, or by loose association, that of Col. Thursday in Fort Apache. Everyone is anticipating a renewed Indian war, and at Fort Stark, Capt. Nathan Brittles (John Wayne) is less than a week from retirement when he is ordered out on patrol.

Sent along with him are the wife and daughter (Mildred Natwick and Joanne Dru) of the fort’s commander. Brittles assignment is to see them safely to the stagecoach station for passage east and out of harm’s way. Complicating matters are two squabbling lieutenants, Cohill and Pennell (John Agar and Harry Carey Jr.), both interested in the major’s daughter.

Ben Johnson plays Tyree, an army scout who warns the troops of the movements of the collecting Indian nations. Tyree also keeps Brittles apprised of the actions of Rynders, an Indian agent who is providing guns and ammunition to the Indians.

Brittles’ mission, which comprises much of the center of the film, ends in failure. He is forced to leave a small company under the command of Lt. Cohill behind to cover the retreat of the rest of the expedition. Returning to the fort, Brittles has one day left before his retirement. Unable to allow his final mission to end badly, he rejoins Pennell on his way to collect Cohill.

The three men lead the cavalry to rout the Indian forces in typical John Wayne fashion. Joining Wayne in the production is Victor MacLaglen as his sergeant, Quincannon. While both MacLaglen and Johnson will play characters with the same names in the follow-up, Rio Grande, it should be noted that they may or may not the same characters. I found it helpful for my own sense of continuity to watch the three films out of order, but your mileage may vary.

Rio Grande (1950) is more of a direct sequel to Fort Apache, focusing on Wayne’s character, Lt. Col. Kirby Yorke. He is now posted to the Texas frontier, frustrated by constant skirmishes with Apaches who are quick to flee across the Rio Grande beyond his reach.

Further complicating Yorke’s command is the arrival of his son Jefferson (Claude Jarman Jr.). Having just flunked out of West Point, the young man has enlisted, and by chance has been posted under his father’s command. Neither has laid eyes on the other for 15 years, and both are determined not to allow their family relation to influence their roles as soldiers. Trooper Yorke is befriended by two other recruits, Tyree (Ben Johnson) and Boone (Harry Carey Jr.).

As if this isn’t trouble enough, the estranged Mrs. Yorke arrives (Maureen O’Hara), determined to buy her son’s discharge and return with him to Virginia. Her reunion with her son has overtones of “Let me kiss it and make it better,” but to his credit, he is committed to his service.

Meanwhile, Tyree is accused of manslaughter, stemming from an incident involving an insult to his sister. He manages to escape the stockade, stealing the colonel’s horse in the process.

As Col. and Mrs. Yorke begin to renew their marriage while at the same time sparring over their son’s future, the colonel is handed a tough assignment. Gen. Sheridan (J. Carrol Naish) tasks him with crossing the Rio Grande – effectively invading Mexico – in pursuit of the Apaches, to run them down once and for all.

Tyree comes upon Col. Yorke’s troops as they head into Mexico. But the Apaches they’re in search of have captured a wagonload of children headed to the safety of Fort Bliss. Tyree has already reconnoitered the Indians’ camp, where the children are being held in an old church. He convinces Col. York a small group of men will have a better chance of rescuing them than a full-scale assault. He asks for two volunteers: troopers Boone and Yorke.

At the church, they manage to free the children, where one loud-mouth, Margaret Mary (Karolyn Grimes, best remembered as Zuzu in It’s a Wonderful Life) signals for Col. Yorke’s attack by ringing the church bell (“Get me. I’m giving out wings!”). Col Yorke is wounded in the battle, and following his recovery he witnesses the award ceremony as his son receives a commendation for his service.

This was the first of five films featuring the on-screen couple of Wayne and O’Hara. Their next project was The Quiet Man (1952), also directed by Ford. Legend has it that Republic convinced Ford to make Rio Grande to make up the money it expected to lose producing The Quiet Man, only for the latter film to become a box office hit.

Modern audiences might find the three films uneven, due to the fact they don’t form one cohesive story. But it should be remembered they were never intended as such.  All three portions of the Cavalry Trilogy were based on stories by James Warner Bellah, who would later write the screenplay for the previously-referenced The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962). The characters he crafted were often tough, heroic but often flawed; well-suited for John Wayne to flesh out on screen, especially under the master direction of John Ford.

Guest Review: Metropolis (1927)

By Philip Schweier

This is it, kids. The grandfather of all science fiction films. It may not have been the very first, but its influence is so overwhelming it can’t be avoided. Upon its release, it is reported to have cost 5 million marks, which translates to approximately $200 million in today’s dollars. The film’s run time is 153 minutes, lengthy for even modern movies. But as a silent, it was beyond epic. Most feature films of the day were an hour at the most.

It is the story of a futuristic city, split between the haves, who enjoy a life of leisure, and the have-nots, who toil away in the depths for hours on end and keep the city functioning. One day, a young woman, Maria (Brigitte Helm), brings a group of children to one of the pleasure gardens. “These are your brothers,” she tells them. The group is chased away by the authorities, but one young man, Freder (Gustav Fröhlich), is intrigued.

Freder is the son of Joh Fredersen (Alfred Abel), the architect of Metropolis, by whose design the privileged enjoy a life of luxury at the expense of those less fortunate. Freder follows Maria don into the depths of the under-city, where he witnesses first-hand the hardship and suffering of the people who make his pampered life possible. Idealistically, he approaches his father in an effort to win them some reprieve.

Fredersen is indifferent to his son’s pleas, and Freder goes so far as to return to the workers and take the place of one who collapses at his station. He sends Worker #11811 (Erwin Biswanger) to his apartment, but Slim, Joh Fredersen’s lackey, has been keeping an eye on Freder, and quickly learns of the young man’s interference. Freder later follows his fellow workers to the underground cathedral, where Maria preaches of the day when a mediator will bring the two social factions together in harmony.

Fredersen, meanwhile, pays a visit to the home of Rotwang (Rudolf Klein-Rogge), a crazed inventor. The two were once rivals for the same woman. She chose Fredersen but died in childbirth. Rotwang shows Fredersen his automaton, and the master of Metropolis schemes to have the mechanical creature take the place of the revolutionary Maria.

Rotwang follows through on Fredersen’s plan, kidnapping Maria and turning his robot into her duplicate. But the mechanical version owes more to the whore of Babylon than her altruistic namesake. Men fight duels, commit suicide, and generally go off their collective rockers in an effort to win her for themselves. The robot Maria is also tasked with stoking the fires of evolution. She encourages the workers to rebel, and effectively starve the machines, and by extension, the upper world.

Eventually, the two factions clash, but in so doing the deception is revealed. Freder challenges Rotwang in a fight atop the cathedral, and becomes the Mediator – i.e., messiah – the workers have been waiting for.

To say the film has overtones of Biblical proportions is putting it mildly. Director Fritz Lang was Jewish, though Hitler was so enamored of the film he chose to overlook the filmmaker’s Semitism. Legend has it Lang left for Paris immediately.

The film immediately began to influence those that followed, and its impact continues to ripple down through the decades. The story has become old hat by modern standards, and its age makes it easy to judge the movie as being overly long and boring. A silent film more than two and a half hours in length is a lot to foist on a modern audience. I had to watch the movie in fragments in order to maintain interest.

This particular version (on Netflix) was cobbled together from various sources, as long lost prints and negatives had been discovered in various locations over the past decade or so. Previously, audiences could only see about 60 percent of the original footage, though I can’t say very much was missing from the overall narrative.

It’s an important piece of movie history, one I recommend all film enthusiasts see, but personally I found it challenging to sit through. Though not as much as the horrible Giorgio Moroder cut of the 1980s.