You’re only Young(son) once

Film historian/friend of the blog Richard M. Roberts e-mailed me back in September of this year to let me know he was working on commentary tracks for several upcoming DVD releases.  One in particular was the 1960 Robert Youngson compilation When Comedy Was King, and in my response to him I said that even though I already owned a copy of that film (I bought the Genius release of The First Kings of Comedy back in 2008, a two-fer that features King and The Golden Age of Comedy [1957]) I’d happily spring for a re-purchase since I enjoy his commentaries so much.

Here's the thing: the Genius release used 16mm prints for the transfers on their DVD.  The new DVD of When Comedy Was King benefits from “full-frame 35mm fine grains,” per RMR.  If that wasn’t enough to close the sale, the disc was going to feature several complete comedy shorts from Richard’s personal collection.  So, if you were as tempted as I am after hearing this, you’ll be pleased to know that there’s already a listing up at Amazon for this release; RMR regrets that “the boneheads there have connected it to a bunch of customer reviews for a ten year old DVD release that has nothing to do with us”—so pay no attention to those men behind the curtain, cartooners.

In addition to all this 35mm sparkliness and Richard’s great commentaries, the bodacious extras are the shorts An Elephant on His Hands (1920; with Hughie Mack & Dot Farley); Fast and Furious (1924; with Lige Conley); and Heavy Love (1926), the Ton of Fun classic previously discussed here on the blog.  The musical accompaniment is by Donald Sosin, who worked on the Kino Sally of the Sawdust release also reviewed here at TDOY.

Since Richard also told me that this release was a product of Kit Parker Films, the classic motion picture distributor responsible (in tandem with VCI) for the fine (and some not-so-fine) features showcased on Forgotten Noir Fridays here every week.  So, I naturally assumed the When Comedy Was King disc was coming out on VCI…and once again, my predilection for jumping to conclusions was my downfall.  (Nothing serious, though.  I walked if off after rubbing some dirt on it.)  KPF formed The Sprocket Vault last year to do DVD/Blu-ray distribution on their own (take that, middleman!) with movies from both their and other producers’ collections.  “You’ll find a varied collection in almost every genre ranging from the Classics, the not-so-classics, and countless hours of entertainment in-between,” boasts a November press release for King about the Vault (their release of the restored A Walk in the Sun [1945] has already earned much praise from classic film fans).  Keep an eye on TDOY, for I hope to have a review up of When Comedy Was King very soon.

Book Review: A Year at the Movies: One Man's Filmgoing Odyssey

I will hold you in suspense no longer: the reason why I did a review of Frank Conniff’s Twenty Five Mystery Science Theater 3000 Films That Changed My Life In No Way Whatsoever last week was that I purchased the Kindle edition shortly after the e-book I’m reviewing this week—A Year at the Movies: One Man’s Filmgoing Odyssey.  A Year at the Movies was penned by Conniff’s MST3K colleague Kevin Murphy, an actor-writer who was chiefly responsible for breathing life into “Tom Servo,” one of the “bots” on that cult TV series.  Kev’s book was selling for $1.99 at Amazon (thank you, BookBub) and I figured it was worth a flutter (it’s regularly $12.99); after making that purchase I spotted the Conniff book and thought: “Why not make this a double feature?”

I think Murphy has written the better book, to be frank (see what I did there).  It’s quite funny at times, and chronicles in detail an experiment Kev decided to conduct: going to the movies once a day, every day, for an entire year.  It’s a task best undertaken by professionals, because Murphy had to sit through some pretty awful movies in 2001 (the year he decided to embark on this project).  His impressions on these bits of cinematic offal often make up the laugh-out-loud portions of his book; since Warren Beatty has a new movie out, let’s look back at the last time he presented moviegoers with an example of why he should seriously consider just resting on his laurels:

“For the love of all that is holy and decent, do not see Town & Country.  Not at a theater, not on video, not on cable, satellite, or broadcast television.  Do not glance at it as it spills out from someone’s portable DVD player.  Put on an eye mask and go to sleep if it winds up on your flight.  If you are invited to dinner at your friends’ trim suburban home, grope through their personal belongings while they’re putting the sea bass and Italian eggplant on the grill; if you happen across a copy of Town & Country in their video collection, run out to the little Mexican fireplace back near the hot tub and hurl the tape in, laughing in the glow of the flame as the acrid black smoke of burning plastic ascends into the neighborhood.”

“It’s a movie about the depraved, perverse, and twisted excuses for lives that rich people lead,” Murphy writes further.  “It’s about them endlessly boinking each other.  Maybe I’m just different, but I don’t give a good healthy damn about rich people.”  Mighty proletarian of you, Kev, and I concur wholeheartedly.  In one chapter of the book (the book is separated into 52 chapters, representing each week he spent at the nabes), he has another MST3K alumnus, Mike J. Nelson, accompany him to a showing of Corky Romano…for the simple purpose of witnessing the audience suffer from its sheer awfulness:

“And please say some prayers for Peter Falk.  Peter plays Corky’s dad, a vile, bigoted yet loving mobster on his deathbed.  Now here’s a guy with a bookshelf full of awards, who’s worked with Wim Wenders, David Mamet, John Cassavettes [sic], Walter Hill; once the highest paid actor in TV history, a legend whose multifaceted career spans over half a century.

Now, at seventy-four, he does Corky Romano.

You know the risk he’s running?  He could croak tomorrow, and his obituary would have to mention that his last film was Corky Romano.  Would you want that in your obit?  It’d be worse than dying of syphillis [sic].  Think of poor Peter Sellers, whose last film was The Fiendish Plot of Dr. Fu Manchu and he never got a chance to live it down.  The lesson is to be careful in your old age, and if you are over sixty, under no circumstances do a movie starring Chris Kattan.”

(Falk, who shuffled off this mortal coil in 2011, was spared this indignity in the obits I read.)

Now—before you get the impression this is yet another book poking riotous fun at films that, in a saner world, would never promenaded before a motion picture camera, I need to tell you right off that A Year at the Movies is no such tome.  (For that, you should check out Mike Nelson’s Movie Megacheese.  Or if you’d rather read a better book [sorry, Mike—facts are stubborn things], acquire a copy of Better Living Through Bad Movies—penned by my good friends Scott Clevenger and Sheri Zollinger.  It’s not only available in Kindle form—and, as Mike “Mr. Television” Doran would say, an actual book—but an audiobook has just been released as well!)  A Year at the Movies is all about the moviegoing experience; sure, Murphy sits in a darkened theater…but that theater can be anywhere from the world’s smallest (the Terrace Theater in Timonee, New South Wales) to one entirely constructed of ice (at the Hotel de Glace, Beauport, Quebec).  Kevin channels his inner Morgan Spurlock (the Fairmont, WV who directed Super Size Me) by deciding to subsist on nothing but movie theater fare for a week (spoiler alert: it does not go well) in one chapter, and in another takes six different women (only one being his wife) to the same movie (Serendipity).

Kevin Murphy’s book is markedly superior to the one written by Mr. Conniff because his insights on going to the movies will stay with you long after you’ve returned A Year at the Movies to the bookshelf.  You’ll also get pearls of wisdom like these:

Classic movie insights: “I don’t think there’s one of us who does not see Boris Karloff as Frankenstein’s monster, or Bela Lugosi as Dracula, unless you grew up with film-school snobs for parents and you envision Max Shreck [sic] as Nosferatu/Dracula, or, if you’re still a snob, Willem Dafoe as Max Schreck as Nosferatu or if you’re simply a loser, giant-haired Gary Oldman.  And in spite of Arnold Vasloo, the Mummy still carries Karloff’s face for me.”

On IMAX: “IMAX lost a lot of dough last year, and they’ll probably lose more this year, and it may just be—not to insult anyone—because they have the coolest film format in the world and all we get to see are bears and stuff!  Even the new president of IMAX Filmed Entertainment admitted in an interview that IMAX has been famous for making three types of movies: ‘Bear movies, dolphin movies, and seal movies’.”

On Merchant-Ivory: “Which would explain why the Paris was packed with Merchant-Ivory groupies: women, alone, white, overread, educated, snobby.  The kind who own Robert Graves’s autograph and have had their picture taken with Peter O’Toole at a book signing for his latest memoir, Dear God, But When the Hell Will I Die?  I think it’s a good guess that the women who attend the Thursday matinee screening of a Merchant-Ivory film at a theater in the shadow of Trump Tower are not sneaking out of their office administrator jobs; rather, they have Constanza taking the kids to dance lessons, and they just nipped out for the hundred-dollar salad plate at Aqavit before Drummond dropped them off at the Paris for a show with the girls.”

On drive-ins: “I’m hard on summer films, because I forget that people watch them simply to be distracted and sort of entertained, and since I can do this watching a ceiling fan, I bristle at paying good money.  But the drive-in cures all that.  It’s an event, a common experience, a picnic with the television on.  The admission was only three bucks and I saw four movies, so I won’t complain.  And besides, the young woman at the ticket booth looked at me and said ‘cool car,’ so already I had won the night.”

On the puzzling popularity of The Rocky Horror Picture Show (Ivan’s note: I’ve seen the movie twice.  I don’t plan on going further than that.): “I hate The Rocky Horror Picture Show.  I never, ever liked it.  I don’t like the songs—face facts, they are all essentially the same tune, over and over again.  I don’t like the characters, except for Barry Bost-wick [sic] as Brad, who, contrary to what the audience screams, is the only cast member who is not an asshole.  I can’t stand the story, what little there is of it, as it decays into the sort of high school musical dreamland one can find oneself in if one has sucked down too much amyl nitrate.”

“Movies should be neither a waste of time nor a waste of money; that’s what television’s for.”  If you’re an individual who habitually attends movies the way they were meant to be seen—be it a single-screen revival house or what Murphy (and I) call “googolplexes”—I think you’ll cherish this book.  It’s filled with perceptive observations from a guy who made a damn good living hoisting a puppet over his head for nearly a decade.  (And no…I haven’t forgotten Professor Bobo, either.)

“Countdown for blast-off…”

Howdy, cartooners!  As promised, it’s your old pal Uncle Ivan—here again to dig some goodies out of the Thrilling Days of Yesteryear prize closet and offer up members-in-good-standing of the TDOY faithful the opportunity to win some fantabulous old-time radio swag.  This week, I’m offering up “transcribed tales of new dimensions in time and space…these are stories of the future—adventures in which you'll live in a million could-be years on a thousand may-be worlds!”

X…x…x…minus…minus…minus…one…one…one...

The history of science fiction during Radio’s Golden Age is uncomfortably lukewarm at best; sci-fi was mostly the purview of kiddie adventure shows like Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers, with the occasional presentation on horror series like Lights Out and Quiet, Please.  (There was an attempt to tackle the genre in 1941 with NBC’s short-lived Latitude Zero—but until that time, the most famous science-fiction broadcast was Orson Welles’ notorious production of “The War of the Worlds” in 1938.)  The box office success of Destination Moon in 1950 generated new interest in the sci-fi genre, and NBC tried to capitalize on this with Dimension X, which premiered over the network on April 8, 1950.

The minds behind Dimension X did their best to do right by the science-fiction genre; the key was presenting adaptations of stories that had originally been published in the pages of Astounding Science Fiction.  Works by such legendary authors as Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov, and Robert Heinlein provided the grist for scripts written by Ernest Kinoy and George Lefferts.  The problem with D-X is that NBC insisted on scheduling the program in erratic time slots (D-X disappeared from the network’s schedule for nineteen weeks in 1951)—and to add insult to injury, Dimension X had difficulty landing a permanent sponsor.  Isaac Asimov’s “Nightfall” would be the series’ final broadcast on September 29, 1951.

X-Minus One was a revival of Dimension X, premiering on April 24, 1955; in fact, the first fifteen episodes of D-X were revamped for the new series.  X-1’s run on radio was a lot longer than its predecessor’s; its last broadcast (its 126th episode) was on January 9, 1958—and there was even an attempt to bring it back during the nostalgia boom of the 1970s (with a pilot broadcast on January 27, 1973).  X-Minus One remains an exemplary illustration of sci-fi radio, dramatizing such classic tales as “Tunnel Under the World” (one of the scariest radio shows I’ve ever listened to, from the tale by Frederik Pohl), “Hallucination Orbit” (J.T. McIntosh), and “A Pail of Air” (Fritz Leiber).

I wrote the liner notes for a Radio Spirits collection of X-Minus One shows that came out in 2014: it contains some excellent broadcasts including “And the Moon Be Still as Bright” (09-22-55), “Skulking Permit” (02-15-56), and one of my personal favorites, “Lulungameena” (05-29-56).  The sixteen episodes comprise Time and Time Again (a collection with a SRP of $31.95), and I have two copies of this set to give away—perfect for either yourself or the science-fiction fan in your family.  Let us now read the rules on how to enter:

1) Send me an e-mail with “Time and Time Again” in the subject header to igsjrotr(at)gmail(dot)com.  You have until 11:59pm EST on November 26, 2016 (next Saturday) to enter.

2) Make sure you are a U.S. resident or have a U.S. mailing address.

3) If you’ve won one of the blog’s contests in the past thirty days, it’s just cricket (old boy) to maybe sit this one out to allow fellow members of the TDOY faithful a better chance of winning.

4) I will choose two winners Sunday morning of November 27th and inform the lucky persons of their tremendous good fortune.  Keep in mind that when entering, you don’t have to provide a snail-mail address…but I will need it once you receive that “Congratulations!” e-mail.

5) As always…there is no number five.

And there you have it—a chance to win a collection of some super swell radio drama and be the envy of everyone on your block.  Good luck to everyone who enters, and remember: Thrilling Days of Yesteryear is the phrase that pays!

Forgotten Noir Fridays: Mr. District Attorney (1947)

After Craig Warren (Adolphe Menjou) witnesses young attorney Steve Bennett (Dennis O’Keefe) emphatically tell fellow lawyer Longfield (Charles Trowbridge) he’ll not help defend Longfield’s crooked client, Warren offers Bennett a job in his office: Craig is district attorney, and he likes the cut of Steve’s jib.  But Steve will soon discover his new boss is a severe taskmaster, and what’s more—Warren strongly objects to Bennett’s romantic relationship with Marcia Manning (Marguerite Chapman).  The D.A. is convinced that his assistant inadvertently tipped off Marcia to the presence of a surprise witness in a case involving the company where she works as personal secretary to crime boss James Randolph (George Coulouris).  That witness, who could have provided testimony resulting in Randolph’s extended stay in the Grey Bar Hotel, has vanished into thin air…so the D.A.’s office has to settle for a lesser charge.

Warren’s suspicions about Marcia are further confirmed when he has his chief investigator Harrington (Michael O’Shea) do a little digging into her past.  You see, Marcia had complained earlier to the D.A.’s office when a picture of her appeared in the local paper identifying her as the victim of an escaped convict who shot and killed a woman in her apartment.  Obviously, it’s a case of mistaken identity…but Harrington’s investigation reveals that the reason Marcia’s mug turned up in the police files was due to an incident in Kansas City: she was accused of the murder of a man who died in a car accident, and was later acquitted of the crime.  Warren uses this information to discourage Marcia’s interest in his protégé (they are planning on getting married), and when Manning chooses to become Mrs. James Randolph Steve quits his job with the D.A.’s office in disgust.  Though he might think he’s out, Bennett is eventually pulled back in when Warren suspects Randolph is behind a scheme to lower property values with a series of traffic tie-ups—then purchase that same land at fire sale prices.

Len Doyle (Harrington) and Jay Jostyn (Mr. District Attorney)

The legendary Phillips H. Lord was the brains behind such popular radio properties as Sunday Evenings at Seth Parker’s and Gang Busters, and he added yet another hit to his production stable when Mr. District Attorney (created by former law student Edward A. Byron) premiered over the Red Network of NBC on April 3, 1939.  Inspired by real-life racket buster Thomas E. Dewey (later Governor of New York and the GOP nominee for the Presidency in 1944 and 1948), Mr. District Attorney was broadcast as a quarter-hour serial in its first few months, but it eventually expanded to a half-hour and enjoyed a lengthy run over NBC (1940-51) andNBC (1940- a lengthy run over NBC Blue (1939-40)entually expanded to a half-hour  as Seth Parker and Gang Busters, and he added NBC Blue/ABC (1939-40; 1951-52).  There was also a syndicated radio version of Mr. District Attorney (from Ziv) that aired from 1952-53.  Dwight Weist was the first actor to play Mr. D.A., then later Inner Sanctum host Raymond Edward Johnson…but it was Jay Jostyn who emoted the longest as the famous crimefighter (1940-52), even playing the role when the series appeared briefly on the small screen from 1951-52 (alternating with a boob tube version of another radio crime show, The Amazing Mr. Malone).  David Brian took over for the syndicated radio version—the character even got a first and last name by that time, Paul Garrett—and reprised the part for a brief syndicated TV version in 1954.

The 1947 Mr. District Attorney was not the first attempt to bring the popular radio series to the big screen.  Republic Pictures instituted a franchise in 1941 with Mr. District Attorney (which will be reviewed in this space sometime in future), following it up with Mr. District Attorney in the Carter Case (1941) and Secrets of the Underground (1943).  Columbia gave the aborted franchise one last chance with their 1947 release, and what distinguishes this one from the previous Republic vehicles is that the radio show’s supporting characters, Len Harrington and Miss (Edith) Miller, have been added to the mix.  (Harrington, played throughout most of the radio run by Len Doyle, is represented here [and rather amusingly] by Michael O’Shea; Miss Miller—portrayed on radio by Vicki Vola—is played in the 1947 film by TDOY fave Jeff Donnell…though sadly, she gets very little to do.)

In From Radio to the Big Screen, my Facebook compadre Hal Erickson has high praise for Adolphe Menjou, who plays the titular law official in the film, remarking that Adolphe is “seen to excellent advantage.”  I’m not as sold on Menjou as Hal, though I’ll confess that a lot of it has to do with my difficulty accepting the actor in a heroic turn (A.M. had no peer when it came to playing detestable wankers in movies like State of the Union [1948], The Tall Target [1951], and Paths of Glory [1957]).  Menjou’s D.A. isn’t quite as likable as his radio counterpart; he’s abrasive and a little on the brusque side…though I’d certainly accept the argument that a man in his position would have to be.  But Hal also notes that “this is the first picture in which the title character resumes pride of place and takes center stage, rather than being shunted to the background.”  I’ve not seen any of the previous attempts to make Mr. District Attorney a big screen success, but it seems to me that the 1947 picture is more interested in Dennis O’Keefe’s character…and I’m not interested in watching a Mr. Assistant District Attorney movie.

Still, it seems fitting to have O’Keefe on hand because he was also in the first Mr. District Attorney in 1941 (his character’s name is “P. Cadwallader Jones,” which sounds like the movie doesn’t take things too seriously), and while I can’t count myself a fan of his work he’s not too bad in this one.  I seem to have more of a tolerance for Dennis in noir films (T-Men, Raw Deal) and despite VCI/Kit Parker Films’ tagging a lot of the movies in their Forgotten Noir DVDs as entries of that film style, Mr. District Attorney comes as close as some of those I’ve watched—particularly with the participation of noir icons like George Coulouris and Steven Geray (as Berotti, a mobster in cahoots with Coulouris’ Randolph).  Marguerite Chapman makes a damn good femme fatale as the scheming Marcia Manning-Randolph (with a doozy of a demise, I might add) …even though I think the romance between her character and O’Keefe’s could have been trimmed in a few places (Mr. District Attorney runs 81 minutes—a little lengthy for a programmer).

With Columbia films, you always get a giggle out of seeing actors you recognize from Three Stooges two-reelers: Gene Roth has a quick bit as a doorman and Gino Corrado a silent cameo as—here’s a wonder—a nightclub waiter.  Ralph Morgan is also on hand as an associate of Coulouris’ who meets a horrible fate, and you’re sure to spot character faves like Cliff Clark (gloriosky—he’s a cop in this one!), Ralf Harolde, Holmes Herbert, Forbes Murray, Frank Reicher, Cy Schindell, Arthur Space, Emmett Vogan, and Frank Wilcox.  The direction by Robert B. Sinclair is competent enough, and the script (from Ian McLellan Hunter, Ben Markson, and Sidney Marshall) is solid (again, this one could have used a little additional editing to tighten it up).  I seem to have a higher opinion of the finished product than Leonard Maltin (he gives it one-and-a-half stars) because I don’t think the movie is all that terrible; the VCI disc also features an interview with Joan Lord Greenlaw (one of Phillips H.’s daughters), conducted by friend of the blog Richard M. Roberts.

Accidentally Preserved 4: Citizens on Patrol

Because I benefited from being a past supporter of Undercrank Productions’ previous Accidentally Preserved releases (and you can too, by subscribing to the e-mails)—I got to order Volume 4 before its official release this Tuesday, and at a nice discount—that’s why you’ll be reading about the DVD here at TDOY and not at ClassicFlix (though I’m sure they’ll add the title to their inventory soon).  Undercrank’s Ben Model has once again produced a splendid disc of silent rarities that have been paroled from the film vaults, with a much-valued assist from John McElwee and Greenbriar Picture Shows.

Model’s Undercrank Productions has entered into partnership with the USC Hugh M. Hefner Moving Image Archive (yes, the same Hugh M. that founded Playboy magazine), and they can also take several bows for the shorts featured on Accidentally Preserved, Volume 4.  The movies on AP4 are all from 9.5mm safety film; in 1922, the Pathé-Frères company of France introduced this film format via a company called Pathé-Baby—and what distinguished this from other formats was that the perforations were in the center of the film, between each frame.  The following year, the 9.5mm format was introduced in the United Kingdom by Pathéscope.

9.5mm film was unveiled in the U.S. in 1925…but would eventually find itself overwhelmed by the 16mm film format, which made its debut two years earlier courtesy of Kodak.  What made 9.5mm film so different—in addition to the center perforations—was that many of the silent movies had “notched” intertitles; the intertitles were printed for anywhere from 2-8 frames, with a small notch punched into the edge of one of them.  The notched frame would be caught by the projector, allowing it ample time to appear onscreen so that it could be read before moving on with the movie.  This would allow a 9.5mm release to be made with 300 feet (with no loss in image quality) compared to a 16mm release, which was comprised of 400 feet (that’s a savings of 25%!).

9.5mm film was not only used as a home-use release platform for silent/sound films—it functioned as a home movie-making format as well.  (However, I’m reasonably certain that the individuals interested in purchasing AP4 have little curiosity in the extended director’s cut of little Montmorency’s second birthday party.)  A lot of silent films that survived the ravages of time and neglect exist only because they were released to 9.5mm and some of them saw releases only in Germany, France, the UK, etc.  The selections on this DVD never saw a 16mm release in the home movie market…and in many cases, are not available in film archives on 35mm.

Here’s an example (and one of the highlights on AP4): Tides of Passion, a 1925 Vitagraph release starring Mae Marsh.  Marsh was one of the big names of early American silent cinema (known for her appearances in D.W. Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation [1915] and Intolerance [1916]), and Passion—directed by Vitagraph co-founder J. Stuart Blackton (Humorous Phases of Funny Faces)—was one of the actress’ last silent films.  This two-reel Pathescope version (released in November of 1930 as The Sea Repays) may be the only extant copy of the motion picture.

Marsh plays a woman married to a real bounder (Ben Hendricks, Jr.) who’s also a bit of a hound when it comes to cheating on his wife; after an extended stay in India with his regiment (where he found the time to engage in both fighting and whoring), Hendricks returns to his stomping grounds but is delayed when he falls overboard from a vessel.  He washes up on an island and is taken in by another woman (Laska Winter)—then he proceeds to enjoy a dalliance with her.  Hendricks’ problem is that he becomes easily bored with the women who are given the pleasure of his company, and when he finally decides to return to Marsh, Winter (who’s not down with being kicked to the curb) arranges for a series of events that result in his illness and subsequent death (serves him right, the swine).  Even in its truncated two-reel form, I found Tides a positive joy, my ClassicFlix colleague Fritzi at Movies Silently nails it when she writes that Tides “is just top notch from beginning to end.”

Since the survival of Tides of Passion is in doubt, it’s reassuring to know that a complete 35mm print (with French titles) of The Ninety and Nine (1922) does exist…though as of this writing it’s biding its time in the George Eastman Museum.  Which is a shame, because the one-reel version of the film (released in 9.5mm as Through Fire in 1930; the edition used for AP4 had spliced-in German titles, which had to be translated into English courtesy of historian Ulrich Ruedel) whets your appetite for the whole enchilada.  Colleen Moore and Warner Baxter star in a film based on a popular stage melodrama (it debuted in 1902); its reputation was such that audiences were already familiar with the source material by the time of the movie’s release by Vitagraph in 1922.  The one-reel treatment boils down Ninety and Nine’s first six reels to five minutes, allocating the rest of the time to its exciting fire-and-railroad conclusion.  Ninety and Nine’s intricate plot is summed up in a few titles before its AP4 presentation (to help those who may be confused as to what the movie is about); I won’t even begin to sum it up here.  But it does make you want to see the entire movie, which can only be a good thing.

This gentleman undoubtedly looks familiar...but you're have to speak up, 'cause he's a little hard-of-hearing.  It's Robert Dudley, immortalized as "The Weenie King" in The Palm Beach Story (1942); he plays Colleen Moore's pop in Ninety and Nine.

The previous three volumes in the Accidentally Preserved franchise concentrated on lost silent comedy treasures…and Volume 4 won’t disappoint those fans.  I was most looking forward to seeing The Wages of Tin (1925—released in 9.5mm in September 1929 as Billy the Ford Buster), because I’ve developed an interest in Glenn Tryon ever since I reviewed Lonesome (1928) for my “Where’s That Been?” column at ClassicFlix.  (I’ve been able to grab Long Pants [1926] from The Greatest Cable Channel Known to Mankind™, and I have shorts like Meet the Missus [1924] and Hold My Baby! [1925] on some Alpha Video DVDs around this jernt somewhere.)  Tin is a dandy little comedy centering on Tryon’s attempts to rent and drive a “horseless carriage” (you rarely go wrong with a Hal Roach production), and I can definitely see the Harold Lloyd similarities in star Tryon.  AP4 also introduced me to British comedian Walter Forde with Walter’s Paying Policy (1926); Forde was often described as “a British Harold Lloyd” but I don’t think I had viewed any of his work until I saw Policy (I knew Forde’s name from some of the films he directed later in his career, like Charley’s [Big-Hearted] Aunt [1940] and Gasbags [1941]).  Policy is also a treat, with some side-splitting gags in a story of Walter’s determination to sell a client insurance (he works for “Busy Bee Insurance”—“You won’t get stung!”)

Our Gang fans will delight in spotting “Pete the Pup” in the Bobby Ray comedy Meet Father (1924—released in 9.5mm as Oh, For the Noble Art in February 1932) and there’s much mirth to be enjoyed in the Ben Corbett-Pee Wee Holmes romp A Man’s Size Pet (1926—with character veteran Robert McKenzie running around in a bear suit) and ‘Morning, Judge (1926), an entry in the Carrie of the Chorus series.  (The Carrie comedies were produced by animation kings Max and Dave Fleischer in an interesting foray into live-action filmmaking, Judge is a one-reel cut-down of the original two-reeler—released in February 1938 as Chicken Cooped.)  The only comedy on AP4 that wasn’t my particular meat was Nonsense (1920), one of the early “Mermaid” comedies directed by “boy wonder” Jack White.  Nonsense does have an amusing bit set in a dance hall: a poor girl (Marvel Rea) who’s been seduced by the silver tongue of a cad (Frank J. Coleman) is forced to sing for the barflies…and her sad rendition of Home Sweet Home so moves the contingent to tears that even an individual who’s taking one of the girls upstairs for a little what-have-you is unable to complete the transaction, weeping as he comes back down the stairs.  (There’s a reason why there was an upstairs section of the Long Branch on Gunsmoke, folks.)

The hardest-working dog in show business.

John Sinnott writes at DVD Talk that AP4 is “a bit more hit-or-miss than the previous installments” (in fairness, he does speak highly of the finished product) but I have to dissent: I thought the material on this DVD was some of the strongest that I’ve witnessed in this fascinating franchise devoted to obscure and neglected silent gems.  Accidentally Preserved Volume 4 is a must purchase for devotees of silent cinema, and I guarantee you will not be disappointed.

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).

Book Review: Twenty Five Mystery Science Theater 3000 Films That Changed My Life In No Way Whatsoever

In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have plunked down $4.99 to purchase the Kindle version of Frank Conniff’s Twenty Five Mystery Science Theater 3000 Films That Changed My Life In No Way Whatsoever.  It’s not that it’s a terrible book, you understand; some of it is quite funny in parts.  But once you’ve finished, you come to the realization that you’ve just digested a tome with all the nutritional value of cotton candy.  (There is, however, a reason why I bought this book…but it won’t be revealed until next week’s review, so stay tuned to this space.)

Frank Conniff is a writer-comedian-erelybout next week.e might make you want to wait until BookBub offers it up at a sale price, like the book penned by anothe who was hired as a member of the writing staff on Mystery Science Theater 3000—the cult TV classic in which people made snarky comments during cheesy science-fiction and horror movies—in 1990, a year after the series had made the leap to national prominence on cable’s The Comedy Channel (later Comedy Central).  (MST3K had begun in 1988 as an offering on Minneapolis’ KTMA-TV.)  Conniff then demonstrated a flair for the buskin playing “TV’s Frank,” the bumbling assistant to mad scientist Dr. Clayton Forrester (Trace Beaulieu), and was eventually assigned the task of selecting the movies that would be riffed on the show.  (Conniff once stated that he would often have to sit through twenty godawful films in their entirety to find the perfect piece of odious cinematic fromage for the MST3K treatment.)

“I could try to remember all the celluloid water closets I viewed, but I don’t think my psyche could survive such a tortuous thought experiment,” Frank writes in the book’s foreword.  “So I have narrowed it down to twenty-five films.  I will talk about the effect they had on me and how those films changed my life in no way whatsoever.  I will mention a few other movies that we didn’t riff on MST3K and also talk about any other useless crap that happens to pop into my head.”  I think Conniff should have bolded and italicized that last part of the sentence; I was looking forward to reading a book where the author gives us a history on the nuts and bolts of an entertaining TV show…and instead, he seems to be addressing the audience at an open mike night.

Occasionally, Conniff offers up some entertaining anecdotes on some of MST3K’s most notorious efforts—take this section on one of the show’s legendary bad movie takedowns, Manos: The Hands of Fate (1966):

I am partly responsible for Manos: The Hands of Fate’s status as one of the most famous bad movies ever made.  Knowing this, would you feel bad if you saw a temperamental Italian guy beating me to within an inch of my life in the middle of an open fire hydrant on a New York City street during a hot summer day?  If you saw me kick my feet through a car window as I was being strangled to death, wouldn’t you feel worse for the window than you would for me, knowing that I was one of the main reasons you are aware of Manos: The Hands of Fate?

It happened one day at the Minnesota offices of MST3K in beautiful downtown Eden Prairie.  I pulled a VHS copy of Manos out of a box of screeners.  I watched it and I knew it was a film that Mystery Science Theater 3000 had to do.  My colleagues agreed with me, and the world as we know it was never the same.  In the world of cheesy movies, Manos: The Hands of Fate is my original sin, and there’s not a rosary bead long enough to atone for what I did.

Other chapters in Frank’s book included such delightful slices of Camembert as It Conquered the World (1956), The Amazing Colossal Man (1957), Santa Claus Conquers the Martians (1964), and yes, the ever-popular Mitchell! (1975).  In his section on Bride of the Monster (1955), Conniff observes of the notorious Edward D. Wood, Jr.: “Yes, his movies are what noted film theorist Sergei Eisenstein would call batshit.  They are poorly written, directed and acted.  Anything that might be taught in a school for the arts was never taught to Ed Wood.  All of his movies would get a failing grade in a film class.  Hell, they’d get a failing grade in shop class.”

The problem I had with the book is…I’m only a casual MST3K fan.  I watched the show, but at the risk of courting blasphemy, I wasn’t what you would call a dedicated disciple.  It would have been nice if Conniff had included a plot description in each of the entries (on some of them he does…but most of the time he’s depending on whether or not you remember the movie).  In one such chapter on The Girl in Lover’s Lane (1960), he decides to do an extended riff on teen sexuality—as in an observation on the squeaky-clean June Allyson: “A good actress and a delightfully wholesome screen presence, she sent a message to America that said, in essence, ‘Hey, kids, I’ll keep it sexless up here on the movie screen, so you guys can make things as sexual as possible in the theater seats’…It’s quite appropriate that The Stratton Story helped many kids get to first base.”

At the end of each chapter, there’s an amusing device known as the “F.B.I. Obscure Reference Task Force Report”—which explains to the reader what some of the pop culture references that went sailing over their heads mean.  “Did you know that The Stratton Story is a baseball film that starred Jimmy Stewart and June Allyson?  No?  Then you probably didn’t get the first base joke.”  Some of this is genuinely hysterical (like explaining who Grady Sutton was), but to be honest—if you didn’t have a working knowledge of pop culture, I question your commitment to watching MST3K in the first place.

This book will probably be best-received by the MST3K faithful—and even though I wasn’t as committed to the show like some folks I know, it did provide some hearty guffaws while I perused its chapters.  But its skimping on substance might make you want to wait until BookBub offers it up at a sale price, like the book penned by another MST3K alum which I’ll talk about next week.