B-Western Wednesdays: Partners of the Sunset (1948)

Rancher Bill Thompson (Steve Darrell) returns from a business trip to Tucson…and boy, does he have some swell news for his son Dan (Jay Kirby)!  Janice (Christine Larson), the pretty little gal at his side, is now his new mom…and no one should be surprised that Dan takes this bulletin with all the enthusiasm of a proctology exam.  It’s mostly due to Janice being old enough to be his younger sister, but that don’t make no never mind to Bill: they’re married, and if Dan doesn’t like it he can lump it.

Dan doesn’t like it, and so he vamooses from the ranch—bitter about the fact that his pop has reneged on his promise to bequeath him some of the horses they raise on their spread.  Ranch foreman Jimmy Wakely (himself) and chief-cook-and-bottle-washer “Cannonball” (Dub Taylor) ride into town in an attempt to patch things up between father and son.  Actively working against this reunion is stepmother Janice, who’s really a conniving little rhymes-with-witch out to take Bill’s fortune.  She’s assisted in this endeavor by her brother Les (Leonard Penn) …who isn’t her brother at all!  (Quel plot twist!)  The scheming pair cleverly frame Dan for his father’s murder, and it’s Jimmy (once again) to the rescue.

The fifty-three-minute length of Partners of the Sunset (1948)—and if you can figure out how that title connects with the plot of this movie, the phone lines are open—makes it just slightly longer than your run-of-the-mill episode of a typical TV western.  This doesn’t make it a terrible movie, you understand—it’s just that the overall presentation covers a lot of all-too-familiar territory.  Boyd Magers at Western Clippings gives this Jimmy Wakely programmer two stars, which seems about right…maybe I would bump it up half-a-star.  It’s painless to take, and Jimmy sings a couple of nice up-tempo ditties in It’s a Beautiful Day (Wakely sings and curries his horse as his bandmates accompany him on fiddle, guitar, and steel guitar—the way country music should be) and Press Along to the Big Corral.

The pluses in Sunset include a very good performance from Christine Larson, who’s a cut-above your usual B-Western ingénue—particularly when she’s fluctuating back-and-forth between sweet-as-apple-pie wifey and wicked stepmother.  She’s joined in her villainy by Leonard Penn (as Les, the “brother” who has difficulty keeping his hands off his sis), and between the two of them they are ruthless in their intentions to make sure Dan swings for fratricide (Les is really responsible for the vile deed, hitting Bill with one of those figurines that folks used to keep around the house for just such occasions).

You also can’t go wrong with having Dub Taylor as your sidekick if you find yourself in the occupation of singing cowboy; there’s a running gag throughout Sunset where “Cannonball” is desperately trying to catch an elusive fish (“Ol’ Smokey”) that will produce a stray chuckle or two, and Cannonball also gets some funny lines. (Jimmy: “What’s with the funny look?” Cannonball: “I always look this way!”)  The rest of the cast is dependable if not remarkable; the only name I recognized other than Wakely’s and Taylor’s was Marshall Reed, who was a regular on TV’s The Lineup (a.k.a. San Francisco Beat).  Marsh plays a bad hombre who agrees to help young Dan swipe those horses from his pa’s ranch, and winds up in a well-shot saloon donnybrook with Jimmy (well…more like Jimmy’s stuntman, Bob Woodward).  (Reed’s character connects right on Wakely’s button in one scene, which made me laugh out loud.)

Directed by master journeyman Lambert Hillyer (who helmed a previous Wakely vehicle covered in this space, 1949’s Gun Law Justice) and scripted by B-Western veteran J. Benton Cheney (I see Cheney’s credit on a lot of episodes of The Cisco Kid before I watch those Trackdown episodes I DVR off of Heroes & Icons), Partners of the Sunset is little more than a passable time-killer from one of the silver screen’s most engaging sagebrush presences...but that don’t make it all bad, as a cowpoke once explained to me.  It’s on DVD, available for purchase or rent on the Warner Archive MOD set Monogram Cowboy Collection: Volume 1.

Forgotten Noir Fridays: Pier 23 (1951)

On this week’s edition of Forgotten Noir Fridays, we return to the titular environs of San Francisco private investigator Dennis “Denny” O’Brien (Hugh Beaumont), who puts groceries on the table with a boat rental business when he’s not out shamusing.  (I’ve seen two of these movies so far—the first being the previously discussed Danger Zone [1951]—and I’ve yet to see anyone inquire about renting a boat.)  O’Brien’s first client is kindly Father Donovan (Raymond Greenleaf), a priest who hires Denny (I think O’Brien does this one pro bono, since men of the cloth rarely have any spare change rattling around in their cassocks) to intercept one Joe Harmon (Chris Drake), who’s planning to crash out of “The Rock” later that evening.  (How Harmon endures that lengthy swim goes unexplained, as you might have already guessed.)  If Father Donovan can sit Joe down for a chinwag, he can convince that little lost lamb to return to the incarcerated flock and stay on the straight-and-narrow.

O’Brien meets Harmon at a predestined spot, and the escaped con says he’ll palaver with the good Fadduh once he’s made a stop at an address…where the two men meet up with Joe’s sister Ann (Ann Savage).  Ann introduces Denny’s noggin to the business end of a heavy bit of bric-a-brac, and when our hero comes to…Joe is dead from multiple stab wounds.  The plot thickens when O’Brien learns from Father Donovan that the man he met is not Joe Harmon—but a fellow inmate named Mike Greely!

After O’Brien wraps up the Harmon affair (in less than a half-hour—damn, he’s good) he’s then hired by wrestling referee Mushy Cavelli (Johnny Indrisano) to play courier and pick up an envelope containing mucho dinero after a scheduled bout between grapplers Willie Klingle (Bill Varga) and Ape Danowski (Mike Mazurki).  (Kind of a crappy thing to do to a kid, naming him “Ape.”)  Klingle dies of a heart attack during the match, and Denny is pressed into service to investigate as to why Willie would ever be cleared to climb into the ring when everyone knew the guy had a bum ticker.

"He don't bounce no more." TDOY fave Mike Mazurki gets gumshoe Hugh Beaumont in a headlock as ubiquitous Lippert starlet Margia Dean looks on.

In the review I wrote for Danger Zone, I mentioned that it, Pier 23, and Roaring City (1951) all consisted of non-telecast episodes from a syndicated TV series based on the Jack Webb radio shows Pat Novak…For Hire and Johnny Madero, Pier 23.  (Pier 23 is the third “Denny O’Brien” entry—someone at VCI apparently issued these “co-hits” on their Forgotten Noir DVD releases out of sequence.  Roaring City will be covered in this space in future.)  Hugh Beaumont couldn’t carry Webb’s jockstrap on any given day of the week, but if you’re willing to overlook this handicap you might get a little enjoyment out of Pier 23. 

(Andrew “Grover” Leal pointed out to me on Facebook the other night that I had once written Beaumont played “TV’s saddest excuse for a father on Leave it to Beaver” in an installment of TDOY’s Crime Does Not Pay series [1940’s You, the People].  I didn’t remember being that harsh—and in my defense, Mr. Grover recalled me saying Beaumont was the worst TV dad, which was not quite the way I worded it—but the evidence clearly shows that I voiced a negative opinion of the legendary boob tube pop, and so I have no other recourse but to own it.  For the record, I don’t think Ward Cleaver was the worst—at least not while Mayberry RFD’s Sam Jones is in this contest—but Ward’s reputation as a wise patriarchal sage has been embarrassingly inflated over the years.  On a slightly related note, the Crime Does Not Pay efforts will resurface on the blog sometime next year…because I was finally able to obtain that Warner Archive MOD DVD set.  More on this as it develops.)

The chief asset of these movies is the presence of character great Ed Brophy as Professor Frederick Simpson Schicker (the movie version of Pat Novak’s “Jocko Madigan”), who gets the lion’s share of the best dialogue.  (When O’Brien asks his pal “You gonna stay drunk all your life?” Schick responds “It's all a matter of will power...I'm probably the only man in the world who intends to carry a hangover into eternity...")  Having Mazurki on hand is another check in the “plus” column (Mike kind of combines his characterizations of Moose Malloy from Murder, My Sweet and The Strangler from Night and the City for the Ape), and the movie’s noir bona fides get an assist by casting Ann Savage as a cold-blooded dame in the first of the two stories.  (We all have our favorite femme fatales in noir, but Savage is the probably the only one who could rip out the hero’s heart and munch on it like an apple.)  The supporting cast is filled out with most of the familiar Lippert faces: Richard Travis (as Lt. Bruger), Margia Dean, David Bruce, Raymond Greenleaf, Harry Hayden, etc.  Joi (billed as Joy) Lansing has a brief bit as a cocktail waitress, and the first actor to play “Runt” in the Chester Morris Boston Blackie film franchise, Charles Wagenheim, can be glimpsed as a “policy man.”

When they say "Spartan"...they ain't just whistlin' Dixie.

Lou Morheim and Herbert Margolis, who scripted many a Johnny Madero broadcast, receive story credit on Pier 23 (since most of the Madero episodes are lost to the ravages of time and neglect, I can’t confirm whether or not they recycled these plots from the radio show…though I suspect they probably did) with screenplay honors going to Julian Harmon and Victor West (the dialogue is prime Novak: “The pier was as deserted as a warm bottle of beer…”).  B-picture journeyman William A. Berke sat in the director’s chair on this one, and if you’re curious to have a look you can rent Pier 23 on Forgotten Noir Volume 9 at a ClassicFlix near you.  (Next week: the last of Volume 9’s “co-hits,” 1947’s The Case of the Baby Sitter.)

B-Western Wednesdays: Johnny Mack Brown Double Feature - Man from Sonora (1951) and Outlaw Gold (1950)

There’s a reason why I tackled two entries for this week’s edition of B-Western Wednesdays.  I put one of Johnny Mack Brown’s Monogram vehicles in the DVD player (Outlaw Gold [1950]) last week and the moment the closing credits rolled, I completely forgot what the damn thing was about.  (This sort of thing doesn’t lend itself to good film reviews, by the way.)  And I felt guilty about this—though in my defense, I didn’t make the doggone movie—because I like generally like JMB, even in his “plump” period (this wasn’t my idea—I read it from a commenter over at the [always reliable] IMDb).  Brown is just a darn likable cowpoke; I’ve reviewed one of his Monogram features here previously and mentioned this anecdote:

…by all accounts from the people with whom he worked, Brown was the epitome of the true Southern gentleman.  He made many films with … Marshall Reed, who once related to a fan at a western film convention that Johnny would always tell his cast at the wrap: “Thanks for letting me make this film with you.”

For the record, Outlaw Gold finds our hero as a U.S. Marshal assigned to investigate a robbery involving government gold from Mexico, with the help of his deputy sidekick Sandy Barker (Milburn Monsante).  In the process of their search, the two men witness Joe Martin, the editor of Latigo City’s newspaper, and his daughter Kathy (Jane Adams) bushwhacked by assailants unknown.  Pretending not to know one another, Brown (as Johnny Mack Brown—the role he was born to play!) and Sandy agree to escort the Martins back to town; Johnny Mack will ride up ahead to interview some local ranchers and deputy Sandy continues on with Kathy and the injured Martin (shot in the arm by the desperadoes).

In Latigo City, Sandy wangles a job as a printer with the Martin’s paper…and Johnny, just arriving, is around long enough to witness Joe’s assassin finish the job with a rifle from an upstairs window.  Johnny soon finds himself accused of the deed!  Not to worry, Mr. Brown is eventually cleared of any wrongdoing, leaving him and Sandy to suspect that the man (George McDormand) who seemed mighty anxious to point fingers in the first place may be involved in some shady chicanery.

I don’t want to point fingers myself…but I suspect the reason why Outlaw Gold dissipates in the memory banks after one viewing is because apart from Myron Healey’s role as an ex-con named Sonny Lang (who’s harboring a grudge against Johnny Mack)—Healey manages to bring a little shading and nuance to what could have been a one-note performance—no one in the cast of Gold is a particular standout, nor is the plot all that memorable (though there is an amusing scene where Sandy produces the fruits of his first printing job—it looks like a ransom note).  The cast of Man from Sonora (1951), on the other hand, has a bit more “oomph” even though, like Gold, the plot of the film is little more than paint-by-numbers.

Sonora puts a twist on the hero’s occupation: Johnny Mack Brown (still playing himself) is a retired lawman who loses his valued horse “Rebel” to a gang of masked hombres who have just held up a stage on its way to Silver Springs.  (One of the men had to shoot his injured horse, and that’s why he “liberated” Johnny’s steed.)  Arriving in town, Brown gets reacquainted with his old pal Frank Casey (Lyle Talbot), who’s the law in Silver Springs, and Johnny tells the sheriff about the three men who put the snatch on Rebel.  Johnny’s got a hunch that one of the outlaws, Duke Mantel (Lee Roberts), is throwing a few back in the saloon, because of his loud, distinctive laugh (the masked man who swiped Johnny’s horse had a similar guffaw).  When Johnny enters the watering hole as the guest of Ed Hooper (House Peters, Jr.), Duke and his pal Pete (John Merton) start a little trouble…and Frank is forced to lock up both Duke and Johnny.

Hooper bails Duke out—Duke works for him as one of his “peelers”—and along with banker Fred Allison (Sam Flint), informs lawman Casey that his pal Johnny must vamoose out of Silver Springs; it’s all politics, you understand—Casey’s hands are tied in the matter.  This will prove most beneficial for Johnny Mack Brown; it will give him the opportunity to drop by Hooper’s spread and look for the missing Rebel.

There are a good number of serials/B-Western veterans in Man from Sonora: I always smile whenever I see John Merton onscreen (I read somewhere that whenever an oater or chapter play was being cast they took special pains to make sure Merton was on the list because he had several mouths to feed), and he’s in his element here as one of Peters’ henchmen.  Peters’ villain is a real piece of work, cold-bloodedly gunning down John and serial hero Dennis Moore (as a bad guy!) when things start to close in on him.  Phyllis “Gypsy” Coates, who also appeared in Oklahoma Justice (1951), is the banker’s daughter and kind of sweet on Johnny (there is no kiss at the fadeout, however, because Johnny has no use for wimmin folk despite always being courtly in their presence) …though as in Justice, Coates has very little to do.  Western veteran Pierce Lyden appears briefly as a harness salesman who draws his rations early (allowing Dennis Moore to impersonate him).

Both Outlaw Gold and Man from Sonora are present and accounted for on the Warner Archive MOD set Monogram Cowboy Collection Volume 1, which is also available for rent from the good people at ClassicFlix.  This past weekend, Rancho Yesteryear was the beneficiary of a Starz/Encore/Movieplex “freeview”—and I had hoped to snag a download of The Lone Star Trail (1943), a Johnny Mack-Tex Ritter Universal B-oater that I watched on Encore Westerns back in what I jokingly call my “carefree bachelor days” (before the ‘rents and I decided to share living space).  But I wasn’t able to get it off the On Demand in time.  Bummer.the doggone thing--because   And I felt guilty about this--though  credits rolled, I completely forgot what the damn thin

B-Western Wednesdays: The Renegade Ranger (1938)

Texas Ranger Jack Steele (George O’Brien) gets an assignment from his superior, Major Jameson (Guy Usher): he’s to travel to Pecos City and bring back a woman named Judith Alvarez (Rita Hayworth), the chief suspect in the murder of wealthy rancher Sam Dunning.  Dunning’s partner, Ben Sanderson (William Royle), is the county’s tax commissioner and—not to put too fine a point on it—is crookeder than a dog’s hind leg.  Sanderson has levied high taxes on the ranchers in the area—back taxes they can’t possibly pay, and so the property owners are forced into selling their spreads to meet their financial obligations.  This is precisely what happened to Judith, and she’s formed a “gang” for the expressed purpose of being a constant spur underneath Sanderson’s saddle.

Steele’s original plan was to have fellow Ranger Larry Corwin (Tim Holt) go after Ms. Alvarez…but after seeing Larry participate in a barroom brawl, Jameson drums the youngster out of the organization.  (Unaware that Jameson witnessed the fracas, Larry is convinced that Jack ratted him out.)  In Pecos City, Steele and a Ranger named Happy (Ray Whitley) glean from some of the locals that Judith might be innocent of the Dunning killing—and when Alvarez and her gang storm Sanderson’s office to rob the jernt, a fight breaks out…prompting Jack to save Judy’s life while winding up injured in the process.  Jack is nursed back to health and decides to go undercover as one of the Alvarez Gang so that he can take its leader into custody.  The problem is: Larry has also joined Judith’s organization—and he’s threatening to reveal Steele’s real occupation.

Before dancer Rita Cansino got Anglicized by Columbia Pictures studio head Harry “White Fang” Cohn as glamour gal Rita Hayworth, the aspiring starlet did a lot of B-picture work, particularly in the Westerns arena.  She appeared alongside Tom Keene in Old Louisiana (1937), the Three Mesquiteers (Robert Livingston, Ray “Crash” Corrigan, Max “Alibi” Terhune) in Hit the Saddle (1937), and Tex Ritter in Trouble in Texas (1937)—previously seen in this space in February of 2012.  At the risk of incurring the wrath of Hayworth fans—Rita wasn’t much of an actress, but she was undeniably a presence onscreen.  She greatly impressed her Renegade Ranger co-star George O’Brien, who recalled in later years that the young ingénue took her craft very seriously, often asking for advice on how to play certain scenes during filming.  "Rita carried herself beautifully," O’Brien remembered.  "She walked and moved with such grace!  Cliché though it might be, she was poetry in motion."  Variety was also impressed with Hayworth’s turn in Ranger, opining that Rita “turns in one of the finest femme sagebrush performances seen in a long while.”  The Hollywood Reporter concurred, noting that Ms. Hayworth “is a pretty eyeful who turns in an endearing performance.”

Rita’s presence in The Renegade Ranger makes this RKO B-Western a little better than your average oater; the film was originally made in 1932 with Tom Keene as Come on Danger! (1932), and would be done a third time with that same title (minus the exclamation point) in 1942 starring Tim Holt.  So, it’s rather fortuitous that Holt appears in the O’Brien version (Holt’s first feature for RKO) as the hotheaded Larry—and to be honest, I was a lot more impressed with Tim’s acting than I was Rita’s. 

One aspect of Ranger that left me puzzled was that there didn’t seem to be any attempt to capitalize on Hayworth’s terpsichorean prowess save a slow dance she does with O’Brien in a scene where the Alvarez Gang throws a barbecue bash.  The big dance number—performed to the strains of Cielito Lindo—is executed by Cecilia Callejo, who plays Holt’s love interest in the movie.  Ray Whitley, who would play Tim’s sidekick in a few of his later starring westerns at RKO, also performs a ditty in Move Slow, Little Dogie with Ken Card and the Phelps Brothers.

Ranger features a lot of familiar B-Western faces like Monte Montague, Bob Kortman, and Tom London (homework assignment: how many Lone Ranger episodes was this guy in?), with some decent villainy from William Royle (as the despicable Sanderson) and Jim Mason (as a disgruntled rancher who’s secretly working for Sanderson).  Directed by David Howard (Trouble in Sundown) and scripted by oaters veteran Oliver Drake (from a story by Bennett Cohen), The Renegade Ranger will be of great interest to those classic film fans anxious to get a gander at the young Rita Hayworth still learning her craft.  (Ranger is available on the Warner Archive MOD compendium Tim Holt Western Classics Collection, Volume 1…even though George O’Brien is the star!)

B-Western Wednesdays: Gun Law Justice (1949)

Legendary “road agent” Hank Cardigan (Lee Phelps) receives a parole after doing his boardin’ with the warden for the past ten years…and he returns to his old stomping grounds of West Bend, determined to find a job and walk the straight-and-narrow.  But if we have learned anything from dozens of Merle Haggard songs, an ex-con is not always welcomed back into society easily—Cardigan is not having much luck on the employment front, with several West Bendians noticeably hostile to his return.  Hank gets into a barroom scuffle with a pair of rowdies, and gets an assist from Jimmy Wakely (as himself)—who works for a stage line owned and operated by Jane Darnton (Jane Adams).  

Cardigan’s former protégé Duke Corlis (I. Stanford Jolley) can take responsibility for most of the criminal activity in West Bend, and one of the men in his gang is Tom Cardigan (John James), Hank’s son.  So anxious is Duke to have Hank back in the organization (he would prove a most valuable asset) that he arranges for one of his goons, Slim Craig (Bob Curtis), to stage a hold-up at the office of Bill Thorpe (Tom Chatterton), who ends up killed in the commission of the robbery.  Once again, it’s Jimmy to the rescue—he apprehends Slim, and extracts a confession from the outlaw that Hank wasn’t involved (the sheriff [Edmund Cobb] has thrown Cardigan in the sneezer, thinking he was in on Slim’s caper).   Jimmy persuades Jane to hire Hank as a stage guard despite her reservations of having an ex-con on the payroll—as for Cardigan, his loyalty to his employer and his son will be challenged before Gun Law Justice (1949) rolls out the closing credits.

I mentioned in the write-up I did last week for Strictly in the Groove (1942) that Jimmy Wakely—the poor man’s Gene Autry—would be returning to B-Western Wednesdays soon, and here I am to make good on that threat promise.  I discussed Wakely and his career at great length in Brand of Fear (1949), a previous Wednesdays write-up in 2012, so I’ll refrain from rehashing that biography.  Fear is thought to be one of Wakely’s best oaters (maybe his very best), but in reading over what I wrote it looks as if I wasn’t too impressed with it.  I did, however, find Gun Law Justice quite engaging (Boyd Magers gives it three stars at Western Clippings).

Boyd describes Lee Phelps’ turn as reformed outlaw Hank Cardigan as “the part of a lifetime,” and I’m in solid agreement with him on that score; Phelps does an amazing job portraying a man who’s wrestled with his bad man past and is quite sincere about starting a new life.  But society has a prejudice against those who’ve done time, and particularly those individuals who despite having done their penance deserve an opportunity to demonstrate that they’ve learned from their mistakes.  Cardigan’s situation when he’s immediately accused of shooting and killing Bill Thorpe (who was prepared to give his old friend a job) is particularly poignant, and were it not for our hero (go Jimmy!) would probably be at the mercy of the justice system simply due to that previous black mark by his name.  Later in Justice, several townsfolk throw a party in Hank’s honor in an effort to change his mind about leaving West Bend (Hank thinks it’s hopeless to reform son Tom), and when he’s presented with a gun as a token of their esteem his jubilance reminds Tom of “a kid at Christmas.”

Jimmy Wakely has always reminded me of a young Bing Crosby, and while he may not have been the most gifted actor in Western films, he also had an earnestness about him that suggests a little Tim Holt thrown in for good measure.  He was one of the last of the “singing cowboys” in motion pictures, and he gets ample opportunity to do what he does best with a couple of musical numbers including the Foy Willing-penned Rose of Old Santa Fe (performed with Shelby Atchinson and Ray Whitley—Jimmy’s manager at the time).  What I liked best about the musical interludes in Gun Law Justice is that they’re unobtrusive for the most part; my gripe with the Dick Foran westerns is that the songs seem to be forced in with a shoehorn.

The supporting cast in Justice is first-class:  I. Stanford Jolley—who you may remember as “Dr. Jaffa,” one of the villains in our Serial Saturdays feature of The Black Widow (1947—I really need to finish this one of these days)—is very effective as the villainous Duke (towards the end of the film, Duke is ready to double-cross his gang like the sebaceous slug he is), and other B-Western vets like Edmund Cobb and Myron Healey are also a welcome presence.  Before Dub Taylor was Dub Taylor, he was “Cannonball” Taylor—Dub used his sidekick experience along such Western film stars as Charles Starrett, Don “Red” Barry, and “Wild” Bill Elliott to make excellent comic relief for Wakely in sixteen of Jimmy’s features, and he’s in fine form here (the running gag about whether Cannonball should be entrusted to carry a gun is most amusing).  Jane Adams is also sturdy as Jimmy’s love interest (I’ve seen Jane in any number of movies [Batman and Robin, Master Minds], but for some odd reason I remember her best as the hunchbacked nurse in 1945’s House of Dracula).

Basil Dickey wrote Gun Law Justice’s screenplay; the prolific scribe contributed to scores of Western programmers/movie serials including the previously mentioned Black Widow and three other cliffhangers that have received the blog’s Serial Saturdays treatment: The Green Hornet (1940), Riders of Death Valley (1941), and G-Men Never Forget (1948).  The man in the director’s chair was also no stranger to the world of B-oaters and chapter plays; Lamont Hillyer helmed 1943’s Batman, though he’s perhaps better known for the sequel to Dracula, Dracula’s Daughter (1936).  Both Dickey and Lambert knew how to crank ‘em out fast while making sure they entertained audiences, and Justice is an exemplary example of their work—it’s available on the Warner Archive MOD release Monogram Cowboy Collection: Volume 1 (I rented it from ClassicFlix).

B-Western Wednesdays: Moonlight on the Prairie (1935)

Cowpoke Ace Andrews (Dick Foran) and his sidekick “Small Change” Turner (George E. Stone) are in search of work after the carnival employing them hangs up its “out of business” sign (Andrews is a trick rider, Turner an “escape artist”).  Their unemployed status finds them drifting back to Ace’s old stomping grounds of Wagon Wheel Gulch…but for some of the townsfolk, Andrews is persona au gratin—he’s still a “person of interest” in the murder of Butch Roberts, a local rancher.  There was bad blood a-plenty between the two hombres—Ace threaten to kill Butch if he ever caught him mistreating a horse again—and legal shyster Buck Cantwell (Robert Barrat) seems to have a vested interest in making certain Ace checks into The Grey Bar Hotel.

Butch’s widow Barbara (Sheila Mannors) arrives in town not long afterward, with her young son Dickie (Dick Jones) in tow.  Under the terms of Butch’s will (Barbara left her husband not long after they tied the knot when she found out what a wanker he was), Dickie must live on the ranch until he’s 21 for he and his ma to inherit the place…and if the Roberts aren’t on the property by midnight (thirty days after Butch is buried) that evening, they lose everything.  Barbara can’t get anyone in town to escort her out to the ranch, but once Ace learns all the details, he volunteers his and Small Change’s services.  The two men are momentarily detained by the town sheriff (Joseph King), who throws them into the hoosegow on the orders of Cantwell.  But the lawman isn’t convinced of either man’s guilt, and doesn’t make too concerted an effort to secure the door to their cell (allowing them to escape and high-tail it out the back).

Ace and Small Change meet up with Barbara and Dickie on the way to their ranch…and though Luke Thomas (Joe Sawyer)—who’s been running the spread since Butch’s death…and bleeding it dry—does everything in his power to make sure they don’t meet the deadline (including sending a wild horse stampede their way), Ace gets Dickie on the property with two minutes to spare.  Andrews is convinced that both Luke and Buck found out about the terms of Butch’s will and dispatched Butch to the Happy Hunting Ground…and he’s able to prove it before the movie’s sixty-three-minute running time ends.

Moonlight on the Prairie (1935) was the first of fourteen westerns Richard “Dick” Foran (that’s how Foran was billed on the posters, btw) made for Warner Brothers between 1935 and 1938…and while I’ll admit I’m not much of a fan of these oaters (Foran’s warbling as “The Singing Cowboy” gets wearisome after a while) I was very entertained by Prairie.  (Boyd Magers at Western Clippings isn’t as generous as I will be—he gives Prairie two stars.)  I particularly liked how the film kicks off with the slam-bang B-Western action from the get-go, with Ace at the reins of a speeding stagecoach being attacked by outlaws.  (It’s then revealed that this is all part of his carnival act.)

George E. Stone, the character actor fondly remembered as “The Runt” in all save two of the movies in the Boston Blackie film franchise, is a wonderful asset as “Small Change” (the Roberts kid calls him “Chicken Feed,” much to my amusement).  There’s a running gag in Prairie where Small Change is always hungry (might be a tapeworm) and when Ace tells him they either don’t have time to eat or no money, he tightens his belt another notch.  Once they hit Wagon Wheel Gulch, the two men decide to raise “eating money” in a saloon by passing the hat after Ace sings Covered Wagon Days (with Small Change on guitar).  It turns out the money won’t be necessary; a friend of Ace’s offers to stake them to a twenty-pound butt steak…and Small Change eagerly awaits the first meal he’s had in days.  The problem is: he’s trying to escape from being hogtied by a few of the saloon’s barflies (he’s demonstrating his escape prowess) …and by the time he works himself free the cook has gone home for the evening!  (Small Change finally gets his chow on in a funny sequence just before the end of the picture.)

Sheila Mannors makes for a lovely leading lady, and she’s feisty as well, slapping villain Joe Sawyer (whose character of Luke Thomas is pretty much in his cups for the entirety of film) when he needs it while fending off the amorous advances of Robert Barrat’s Cantwell.  I’m not normally a champion of kid thespians as you are well familiar…but I liked Dickie Jones in this (hey—he played Henry Aldrich on radio at one time) and was chortling that his character’s name is “Dickie Roberts,” because it seems appropriate for a child star.  (Get it?  Dickie Roberts?  (Former) Child Star?  Okay, the staffer who assured me the David Spade reference would kill—off the payroll.)  Of course, I shouldn’t leave out the contributions of Foran’s noble steed “Smoke” (who even gets second billing in this!), a horse who comes to the rescue when the chips are down.  (Though Smoke is no Trigger, who probably looked up from his Advanced Math homework at his rival’s antics and just whinnied.  His homework is in Trigger-nometry, you know.  Oh, yeah…that writer is dead to me now.)

Moonlight on the Prairie is competently directed by journeyman D. Ross Lederman and scripted by William Jacobs (he adapted his story, “Boss of the Bar B Ranch”) Fortunately for me, I have only one more Dick Foran western to get through and then he’ll no doubt disappear from B-Western Wednesdays for a while (unless The Greatest Cable Channel Known to Mankind™ schedules more of them soon).  Moonlight on the Prairie is an exception to Foran’s sagebrush oeuvre, however, and it’s available on the Warner Archive MOD collection Dick Foran Western Collection.

Book Review: 11 Pre-Code Hollywood Movie Histories

I have heard your pleas, members of the TDOY faithful.  You have been clamoring for more reviews of books dealing with pre-Code motion pictures, and I am here to acquiesce to your demands.  The spotlight in the TDOY Book Club (motto: Oprah who?) today will be on Cliff Aliperti’s 11 Pre-Code Hollywood Movie Histories: Early Depression-Era Melodramas, Adaptations, and Headline Stories.

What’s that?  You say you made no such request?  Well…this is awkward.  Also a case of “tough toenails,” because I took time to read this Kindle selection, dadgummit, and…I guess we’ll just have to make the best of it.

My fellow Classic Movie Blog Association compadre Cliff Aliperti is a Lawn Guyland-based writer who trims the hedges at Immortal Ephemera, celebrating the best in 1930s cinema since 2002 (in addition to offering up nifty vintage memorabilia and collectibles).  The Immortal Ephemera brand is emblazoned on two e-books—Classic Movies Monthly #1 and #2 (a Halloween special!)—and his other published works include Helen Twelvetrees: Perfect Ingenue and Freddie Bartholomew: An Informal Biography.  However, a spending spree at the Kindle Store brought me into contact with 11 Pre-Code Hollywood Movie Histories, which I purchased at the same time as a previous tome spotlighted in this space, Sin and Vice in Black & White.

Mind you, I’m a little uncomfortable comparing both books…but I will say this: both of them would make splendid additions to your movie book library, for the simple reason that there’s no duplication in the content.  I don’t know if this was by design (“Rupe?  Cliff Aliperti here…you aren’t writing an essay on Only Yesterday, are you…?”) or just plain happenstance, but I think it’s dan-dan-dandy that it turned out that way.  Aliperti reviews a number of titles that tend to limbo underneath the pre-Code radar, notably For the Defense (1930) and Washington Merry-Go-Round (1932); on the whole, Cliff’s selections bypass better-known feature films from that era and concentrate on vehicles that are most worthy of rediscovery.

What surprised me most about 11 Pre-Code Hollywood Movie Histories is that Cliff included only one selection from his favorite performer (and beloved pre-Code cad), Warren William.  Aliperti started the first Warren William fan site in 2007, and I’m not going to lie to you—I gambled that Histories would be a little top-heavy with the Warren.  But there’s only one W.W. vehicle reviewed in the book, and it is a goody—1933’s Employees’ Entrance.  It’s an excellent essay—it might be my favorite of all the entries in the book—and despite my disagreement with Cliff’s analysis of William’s character (he sees Warren’s ruthless department store manager as a hero; my lifelong skepticism of capitalism/corporations just won’t let me embrace this) it will persuade you to see the movie in a new and challenging light.

Cliff also has novel takes on a number of movies that have been discussed here at TDOY, including Call Her Savage (1932), City Streets (1931), and The Sin of Nora Moran (1933).  He supplements the essays with colorful background material to put the films in their proper historical context, while offering up tidbits on the film’s stars and other people behind-the-scenes.  Good reviewers tantalize you into wanting to seek out those films you haven’t crossed off your “Must See Movies” list, and Aliperti’s entries on Merry-Go-Round and Only Yesterday (1933—I’ve read the book that inspired this one, but haven’t seen the silver screen version) succeed admirably in that mission.

I’m probably a bigger fan of Hell’s Highway (1932) than Cliff (though I do like how he contrasts it and the better-known I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang [1932]), mostly because I’m fascinated by the small oeuvre of Rowland Brown, who directed my favorite of all the pre-Codes, Blood Money (1933).  11 Pre-Code Hollywood Histories rounds out with essays on Show Girl in Hollywood (1930—which aired on The Greatest Cable Channel Known to Mankind™ recently), Gentleman’s Fate (1931—I’ll have to see this one the next time it makes the rounds), and Jimmy the Gent (1934—this one I did see…meh).  Cliff is also generous enough to inform the reader as to the availability of the movies on home video (the e-book was published in 2014, so there have been a few new developments on that score: City Streets is coming to MOD the first of November, which means I’ll have to retire my old Vintage Film Buff copy).

“My name is Cliff Aliperti and I write about old movies when I’m not watching them,” the author declares in a passage at the end of 11 Pre-Code Hollywood Movie Histories; an all-too-familiar mission statement of those of us who blog about classic films because it keeps us out of strip clubs.  (Okay…maybe not all of us.)  “I grew up in a house where black and white movies were every bit as good as color.”  While I wasn’t as fortunate to be raised in similar circumstances (though I don’t have time to get into that right now), it won’t escape your notice that Cliff clearly loves the movies he writes about, and his background in historical research helps immeasurably in making Movie Histories a sensational read and worthy purchase.

B-Western Wednesdays: Treachery Rides the Range (1936)

For Native Americans, the buffalo was of vital importance in the Old West.  It was a source of food, clothing, shelter, and weapons—and the relentless hunting of that wild range bovid by the white man put it perilously close to extinction.  In an effort to foment peace, the U.S. government signs a treaty with the Comanche to make it illegal for buffalo hunters to shoot the beasts on Indian lands.  Negotiating the peace is U.S. Cavalry Captain Red Colton (Dick Foran), who shares a kinship with the tribe (he’s an honorary “blood brother”) presided over by Chief Red Smoke (Jim Thorpe…All-American).  Red Smoke agrees to meet with Colonel Drummond (Monte Blue), Colton’s superior, by “the next moon,” and promises to bring both of his sons—Little Big Wolf (Carlyle Moore, Jr.) and Little Big Fox (Frank Bruno)—along for the powwow.

Back at the fort, Drummond and Colton get a visit from buffalo hunter Wade Carter (Craig Reynolds), who requests permission to hunt buffalo on Comanche lands to meet the demand for buffalo meat and pelts.  Drummond says “No dice, Chicago”; he’s determined to make sure the treaty is enforced—which doesn’t set at all well with Wade.  (When Colton tells him the last of the buffalo are on Native American land—and once the buffalo are gone, so goes the tribe—Carter whips out the familiar western film excuse that “the only good Indian is a dead Indian.”  He seems nice.)  So Carter, in tandem with bidness partner Burley Barton (Henry Otho), orders his henchmen—headed up by Monte Montague as “Nebraska Bill”—to disguise themselves as Cavalry soldiers and pay Chief Red Smoke a friendly visit.  They convince the Chief that Drummond wants a chinwag earlier than scheduled, and so the Chief’s sons journey back with the “soldiers” where they are killed along the trail.  Well, one of them is—Little Big Wolf, though wounded, manages to make his way back to the tribe and report the treachery riding the range.

Dick Foran’s (billed as “The Singing Cowboy”) third Warner Brothers western is short and sweet (it calls it a wrap after 56 minutes), and therefore it’s painless to take…but although it’s a fast-paced oater this doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a good one.  (I was kind of critical of Trailin’ West [1936] when I covered that movie earlier on the blog—Treachery Rides the Range [1936] makes West look like Citizen Kane.)  Paula Stone, who also played the love interest in West, doesn’t get a lot to do in this one other than damsel-in-distress (her character of Ruth Drummond is on her way to the fort when the Indians start putting on the war paint…and though Colton is able to stop her stagecoach from getting her to the fort, she winds up in the clutches of Carter and Barton).  Foran’s musical numbers—Ridin’ Home and Leather and Steel—are also pretty uninspiring…though director Frank McDonald does attempt to make Leather interesting by having the star perform as he rides with his fellow Cavalry soldiers.  (I kept hearing Stout Hearted Men in my head the entire time.)

One bright moment in Treachery—and I realize this will only amuse those of us who are fans of the Hal Roach comedies…so I’m guessing everyone, right?—is seeing Don “Thank you gigantically!” Barclay as one of Foran’s men, Corporal Bunce.  Colton and Bunce have to rescue Ruth Drummond from the Comanche…because Chief Red Smoke has decreed that Ruth must die to avenge the death of Little Big Wolf.  Colton gets an idea: he’ll leave Ruth and Bunce with Red Smoke while he and several members of the tribe ride off in search of the Colonel so everything can be ironed out.  Bunce reluctantly agrees to this, but tells his superior officer to be careful in that trademark fruity manner of his: “I have no desire to be parboiled by these Indians...”  (It is indeed a shame that no one thought to bring Barclay back for additional Foran oaters—though the two did work on 1937’s Black Legion.)

With a story and screenplay by future producer William Jacobs (he would also script the first and second entries in the Foran Western series, Moonlight on the Prairie [1935] and Song of the Saddle [1936]), Treachery Rides the Range is pleasant enough but doesn’t really have the “oomph” needed to be a first-rate programmer (even the villains in this one are ho-hum).  It’s available on the Warner Archive MOD DVD set Dick Foran Western Collection (though I DVR’d this one from The Greatest Cable Channel Known to Mankind™).